A dusty Chinese town called Lhasa

Nayana Gangooly

Norbu, our Tibetan driver who drove us to Lhasa from the Nepal border, was probably sounding a warning to us when he proclaimed, “Chinese No Good!” every now and then, with an evil chuckle.

Or was it the red flags that fluttered over the simple houses lining the road leading to the capital that gave us the first clue of what we were about to get into?

Driving into the dust-filled city of Lhasa was indeed a shock after the gorgeous and untouched vistas of the Tibetan plateau. The very large and modern Chinese hotel gave us no sense of the place we romantics had come looking for.

After a long, arduous but utterly beautiful six-day journey from the border, we weren’t complaining too much the first night as a decent bed and hot shower were all we wanted.

But once we emerged refreshed, the sense of despondency returned. Especially when we realised we couldn’t read a single word of any signs on the streets of the city!

And no one who understood anything other than Chinese was available to give us directions either. A friend looking for an ATM almost gave up in tears and images of spending her life there, till she found help in the Lonely Planet guide.

Before we ventured to the ‘sights’, we were presumptuous enough to look for ‘authentic’ Tibetan fare… and were in trouble.

The few momos we managed to eat were thick dough balls and nothing like the wonderful steamy variety we spoilt Indians get in the Tibetan eateries dotting our country.

With some desperate searching, we finally managed to find a restaurant run by a Nepali who had done his schooling in Darjeeling to serve us any decent food!

The more we walked around this strange city, the more Norbu’s words came back to haunt us… Lhasa was indeed no mystical Tibetan town on the ‘roof of the world’ but in fact a ‘no good’ Chinese city. Norbu, who had used Chinese whisky when he had run out of brake oil as a lubricant for the Landrover, was turning out to be a prophet.

The romantic imagery evoked by Heinrich Harrier and other travellers to the forbidden city is gone. Lhasa today is modern China, with many roads under construction as are also malls and night clubs. The Barkhor is the only ‘original

Tibetan quarter’, with the white-washed walls of traditional homes, that remains in this capital city.

The Jokhang temple has retained some of its original features and it’s a sight to see smartly dressed Chinese tourists, just off a fast train from Beijing, gaping at the beauty of the ancient land that their country has tried so hard to obliterate.

This is a stark contrast to the poor and pious Tibetans who walk miles to prostrate themselves in front of the Jokhang, which is one of their holiest places of worship.

Modern Lhasa consists of about 70 per cent Chinese from the mainland and the few Tibetans you see are the ones selling trinkets in front of tourist sites at the Barkhor Square or the Potala Palace, including one who spoke Hindi and had spent quality time at Delhi’s Janpath.

The Potala, the summer palace, a grand, imposing and magical landmark restored with bright and garish Chinese paintwork, is nothing but a mausoleum to the lost Lamas of an ancient culture. A pretty square in front of the Potala, which used to be the meeting place for all Tibetans, is now ‘restricted entry’.

The only sense of the past is the prevailing perfume of the butter lamps that  emanates from all the monasteries, lit by the sad but constantly smiling Tibetans, trying in vain to keep their culture alive against all odds.

Why would the 14th Dalai Lama wish to come back to this very Chinese and unknown city that was once his home, we thought as we prepared to return home?

The writer is a businesswoman