Benchen and Back

by

Alex Wilding

First published 1993 by Lorenz Dobrot (Khampa Verlag)

Digital edition including German translation 2012

 Table of Contents

PREFACE TO THE DIGITAL EDITION

PREFACE

OUTWARD

FIRST STEP

CENTRAL ASIA

OVER AMDO

JYEKUNDO

BACK AND ROUND

LHASA

RETURN

ILLUSTRATIONS

Deutsche Fassung - German Version

 PREFACE TO THE DIGITAL EDITION
Let's face it, this little travelogue could do with rewriting. There are two reasons why I'm not
going to – that it would be too much work is just one. More interestingly, it would no longer be
what it is – a snapshot, a "handheld" report by an amateur with little writing experience. Stuffy
at times, certainly, but honest enough, I hope.

The genesis of the book is described in the original preface. Printing of both the English version
and its translation into German were kindly financed by Lorenz Dobrot, and as I understand it,
enough were sold for him to get his money back. Some readers even bought a copy in each
language to read in parallel!

Snow Lion briefly entertained the idea publishing it in a more professional way, this
unsurprisingly came to nothing.

Occasionally, however, I still get asked what happened to the book, so a digital version seems
the ideal solution. Many of the original photographs have been lost, mostly by the printers, so a
text-only version makes sense.

It was a thing of its time. Some things that I wrote now strike me as naive – but that was how it
was at the time. I have corrected a few spellings, a startlingly large number of misplaced
apostrophes, and one or two near-incomprehensible sentences, but that is all.

The German translation kindly prepared by the late Rosi Fuchs has not been edited at all. I
have included its text here for good measure.

I hope there is still something worthwhile to be had from it!

Alex Wilding
Tuscany
2012
 PREFACE
We'll get to crossing the Gobi desert in a bit. But first...

Eighteen years after I first met Lama Chime Rinpoche (pronounced Chee-may Rin-po-chay) and
became some sort of practicing Buddhist, I found myself with him in the lift of the Holiday Inn,
Lhasa. Quite without preamble he said "I think you could write a book about this".

Technically speaking I was not surprised to be in this situation: I was one of twenty-three of his
students who were once again experiencing a degree of luxury near the end of our pilgrimage,
officially known as China Tour C7062. We had been privileged to accompany Rinpoche on a two-
pronged visit to Tibet. On the first prong we had become probably the only westerners yet to
have been legally permitted to the area of his homeland near Jyekundo (now renamed Yushu by
the Chinese). The second prong had led to the more visited region of Tibet around Lhasa.
Tsurphu, traditional seat of the Karmapas, was included here. It seems that, by definition,
surprise cannot be a continuous state, but I believe that we all felt something very similar to
that throughout the journey. Perhaps it would be best to say that we remained in a state of
wonder. Wonder sometimes that we were in Tibet at all, wonder that we were there in the
company and under the guidance of our teacher, wonder that we had succeeded in reaching all
our important goals, and of course wonder at the things we saw and experienced.

Those who know only a little of Chime Rinpoche may well be inclined to see him as a very
modern, westernised Lama. He does not wear monks' robes, does not give empowerments, nor do
his public teachings normally seem to follow a traditional text. I am not the only one however to
hold a conviction as to what the two main reasons for this appearance are. The first is his total
rejection of pretence and hypocrisy: anyone with great illusions about their own spiritual
greatness must either suffer deflation -usually a very funny process- or must leave. So he will
not be very interested in our compassion for all sentient beings (and tomatoes) while we still
fight with or exploit our partners, families and friends. The second, not unrelated, reason is the
depth of his respect for tradition. It is eighteen years since I heard him say that if and when he
ever gives an empowerment it will be the real thing. Amongst other considerations, that means
that the recipients will have to be ready.
A consequence of this is that he rarely tells students that, for instance, they "should" perform
such-and-such a practice. The clarity and confidence of the student with regard to the practice
will have to come first. On what was, in theory, our last evening in Lhasa we had all gathered in
the Galleria bar for a number of appropriate "thank you" gestures, after which it fell to me to
accompany Rinpoche to his room. It was on the way there that he made the statement I have
already mentioned, and which I felt to be the nearest thing to an instruction I am likely to hear
from him. So I will do what I can. Of necessity it will be to a large extent personal. We were all
flooded with impressions, positive and negative, but we will have varied in the degree and kind
of response to each of these. I believe a pilgrimage to bear comparison to a piece of art: what is
objective, what would obtain full general agreement, is essential, but lies relatively near the
surface, while what is subjective and therefore most open to disagreement is in fact at the same
time the most universal. I therefore hope that if I try to share my personal impressions the
product may be of some interest, and, who knows, even perhaps some value. I apologize in
advance to those readers or fellow pilgrims who feel that I have made much of trivia and ignored
the really important.
 OUTWARD
Crossing the Gobi desert was quite easy. Even the in-flight breakfast was tolerable - much worse
were to follow. The daylight had been perfectly timed, so that we had seen the sun rising over
the mountains of Tibet, those snow-mountains of which we had all dreamed. The air was clear
enough that even from the cruising altitude of a Boeing 747 we could be appalled by the barren
vastness reeling away some miles beneath us. Now it was really happening. We were a mixed
group, about half men and half women, about half of us having English as our mother tongue
and half having German. (I put it this way to avoid giving offence to the American, Canadian
and Austrian members, even though of course the first might be flattered to be called English.
On the other hand, they might not.) Most of us had known Rinpoche for some years, although
Dawn, for instance, had only met him for her first interview seven months before.

At the start of the new year Rinpoche had emerged from a period of rest and retreat, and those
were the first interviews he had given for several months. I also saw him at that time, and had
been very interested, not to say excited, to hear what he had to say about travelling to Tibet. He
had long spoken of such a journey, but now he was saying that this year he really wanted to do
it. Eight years before this he had instituted a summer camp. Here families and individuals could
mix serious Buddhist study and practice with things such as archery or painting, and with
straightforward holiday activities like walking, swimming or gossiping in bars, in proportions
almost entirely to the taste of those concerned. This year the camp was due for the fifth time to
be held in Alsace, but Rinpoche said that this time he would not attend: he was going to Tibet,
taking some of his western students, and it had to be in July, since that was the month when the
mountains would be covered with flowers.

Now I should perhaps mention that on my first visit to Marpa House (then, 1974, known as
Kham Tibetan House, Chime Rinpoche's meditation centre near Cambridge, England) I was
lucky enough to hear a valuable lesson. The buzz was going round that Rinpoche would give a
talk after tea. However some more experienced soul said, "Take it easy - if he says he'll give a
talk after tea, it's quite certain that he will. After which tea? That's another question." The joke
was a serious one. Although, in the event, the talk was given after the tea of that very day, I
have often found it helpful to remember the principle. So it was not until two weeks after that
new year's interview, when I heard from Bridgid, then secretary of Marpa House, that his
cancellation of his teaching at the summer camp was confirmed, and that he was still talking
firmly of attempting the trip, that I metaphorically put my hand up to say "pretty please, can I
come too?" Then began seven months of hoping, as the probability of going rose jerkily but ever
upwards from "could perhaps" through "might well" and "really should" to the moment when
Tibet was seen, distantly, but with one's own eyes. Would the Chinese allow the trip at all?
Where might they allow it to go? How many would they allow? Who might be in the party? I
remember two particular landmarks in this process. The first was connected with some sadness.
Heidrun, one of our fellow students, had been killed in a traffic accident, and Rinpoche had come
to Hamburg at the beginning of May for her funeral. A half-dozen of us accompanied him to his
hotel after his arrival, and on this occasion he announced that the trip was on: the Chinese had,
at least in principle, agreed, although the numbers were to be smaller than he had first hoped. It
might only be as few as twelve. Looking at me and Rosie he said "So - we're going", and went on
to mention a few more people who were also to be in the party. This year the group would have
to be small, he said, next year maybe sixty, and eventually anyone who had a connection with
him would be able to go. Summer camp in Benchen! As the second landmark was passed I really
started to believe in the trip - this was as we received details of the flight to Beijing and the
payment instructions. Parting with money lends concreteness to such matters, so it was then
that we began also to part with more money for some of what was held to be vital equipment -
ultra-violet protective sunglasses, good sleeping bag, tough shoes comfortable enough to be worn
without break, insect repellent and other useful articles.

Two days before departure a message had been received: all were to meet in London the night
before. Where? In a Chinese restaurant near the Tottenham Court Road. Which restaurant? Ah,
that was not so clear. We were given the number of a mobile 'phone to ring on the evening when
we had reached London. Yes, it was very important. No, people who were not travelling would
not be able to be there. The last point was significant since several of us had planned to take
advantage of being in London for one evening to meet old friends. I myself was very much hoping
to meet my daughter and son, and although the condition was later changed and the "meeting"
made open, the complications nevertheless resulted in missing them. In the event it transpired
that the atmosphere of espionage was only partially valid. The restaurant was in fact very close
to Rinpoche's London flat, and it seems that he knew it by its position and appearance rather
than its name. (It must be admitted that he has trouble being precise with western names.
Twenty years after he began living near Cambridge I had occasion to see him filling in a hotel
check-in form, whereupon he turned and asked me how the town's name was spelled. I do
however suspect that, had no-one been there to help, he would in fact have got it right. One
should also bear in mind the frightful confusion caused when an attempt is made to put Tibetan
names into readable European script, as may be seen later in this document.) The purpose of the
meeting was genuinely important, although simple. In order to obtain the group's visa we had
been required to give a few personal details, profession included. Claudia, one of the Hamburg
contingent, had entered "Picture Editor". This apparently had raised last-minute alarms
amongst the Chinese authorities, and the consequence was that we were all required to sign an
agreement that no photographic or video material would be published without Rinpoche's
explicit permission.

One might be tempted to assume that an airport such as Heathrow would have some experience
in handling baggage, but it seems that this may not be so. For the best part of an hour after our
arrival from Hamburg nothing was dispensed onto any of the carousels in the retrieval hall, and
the explanation given was that the system was overloaded by an unexpected number of bags.
Perhaps they do not consult the schedules before deciding the staffing levels for any given
period. Who knows? So having sweated with our bags to arrive extra-late at the restaurant, we
staggered after the meal to Rinpoche's flat, by which time we had done enough bag-heaving and
took a taxi to the house of Bridgid's sister for our last, rather short, night. It was made a little
shorter by repair efforts, which followed from the discovery that the main zip of Rosie's tightly
and heavily loaded rucksack was already considering giving up its function. Nevertheless the
four of us who shared an early taxi to Gatwick were ready in good time, the roads were empty,
and we were near the front of the queue for check-in. I was impressed by the evidence of self-
discipline and training on the part of our check-in clerk. The temptation to simply "read" a name
on a passport, ticket, visa and passenger list in order to confirm their identity must be very
great. However, from the time taken, it was evident that our gentleman withstood this
temptation, checking instead each single letter in sequence. Gradually it became clear that all
twenty-four of us had arrived at the airport, done so in time, checked in, and pinned on the
numbered plastic badges that were effectively our individual visas.

The most awkward piece of luggage was perhaps the most important. Rinpoche had had a
picture painted, or, to be more precise, a thangka (the pronunciation is a breathy "t", not as one
might think). Until modern times the idea of a picture in a firm frame was unknown to the
Tibetans. There were murals, and plenty of them, occasionally pictures in books or on cards, but
portable pictures were painted on cloth and given a surround of silk and brocade. The whole is
suspended from a wooden pole across the top, being weighted by another at the bottom, and
although it may well then hang unmoved for years, it is possible to roll the entire assembly up
for transport. The thangka now in question was particularly large, and was being transported in
a plastic tube some two and a half metres long. It had been painted by Sherab Palden Beru, who
has long both practiced and taught a traditional style of Tibetan painting at the now well-known
and very successful Samye Ling centre in southern Scotland. Rinpoche had paid for this work
himself, and as we waited, watching it lean behind the check-in desk, he explained that taking
this picture and presenting it to Benchen, his former monastery, was for him a primary purpose
of the trip. Moments before we boarded, the tube disappeared, presumably taken by hand past
the conveyors in which it would have jammed.

Shortly after take-off I waved to Wolfgang, another of our Hamburg-based members. Now even
he had to believe that we were going. I recalled that a couple of months before I had said that I
would believe in the trip when I knew how much to pay, into what account, and at what time to
be at which airport, preferably knowing which flight-number was to be caught. He had replied
that he would only believe it when he was sat on the 'plane and heard the engines spin up. Now
at last the wondering whether could be dropped, to make room for the wondering what. What
colour would the sky be when the ground is three miles above the sea? What were the chances of
completing our itinerary, visiting Benchen, Lhasa, Tsurphu, seeing the seventeenth Karmapa?
Ato Rinpoche, an old friend of Chime's from times before tragedy overtook Tibet, had the most
recent experience, having travelled in the previous year with one westerner through East Tibet.
His opinion, in two words, was "no chance", or, more elaborately, "it'll be a miracle". It was
possible to take heart from the fact that we had already achieved what was said to be
impossible: we had, at least in principle, permission to visit Benchen. This is situated deep in
Kham, East Tibet, and has not been declared a tourist area. We were the first group ever to have
had permission to travel there. It was nevertheless very clear that our route was very
demanding, and that although we would be cooling our heels, or so we thought, in places low on
our priority list, the times planned for journeys and the margins for connections were tight.

Other yet stranger creatures crawled across the surface of this anticipation soup. It had been
only a matter of weeks since the recognition of the seventeenth Karmapa, the whole murky story
of which may never be clearly told, and much of the dust had not yet settled. Since the twelfth
century (CE) Tsurphu had been the seat of the Karmapas. Although it had been quite flattened
during the Chinese cultural revolution it has since been partially rebuilt, and the young
incarnation had been taken there. We knew that Akong Rinpoche, under whose guidance Samye
Ling has flourished, was travelling in China attempting to make arrangements for the Karmapa
to visit Rumtek (in Sikkim) for a formal enthronement, but no move was yet expected. However,
a week or so before our departure I had heard it said that the Chinese were insisting that any
westerners in Lhasa who wanted to visit Tsurphu should change a minimum of one and a half
thousand US dollars a day into Chinese money. As there are heavy restrictions on changing back
into hard currency, this would put such a visit beyond the financial reach of most of us. The
story was said to have come from Kathmandu, but it was first reliably witnessed circulating in a
certain Hamburg centre. This centre is not noted, even amongst other Buddhists following
nominally the same lineage, for the balance or accuracy of its views, as it is heavily under the
influence of the Danish Ole Nydahl. I thus remained concerned but not unduly disheartened. It
appears that the new Karmapa may have a wrathful aspect: this could come in handy.

Many Tibetans and not a few westerners feel the Karmapa to be someone of real spiritual
significance, but quite apart from this he is a very interesting figure. The Dalai Lama, presently
the fourteenth, is nowadays well known in the west, especially since he was awarded the Nobel
Peace Prize. The fact that the Dalai Lamas are considered to be the incarnations of one of the
closest students of Tsong Khapa is also quite familiar. As the ruler of the old Tibet, the Dalai
Lama is the most politically significant of such reincarnate "tulkus", but there were thousands of
others, and it was in fact the first Karmapa, Dusum Khyenpa, who began this system. Shortly
before his death he gave a letter to his closest disciple, Drogon Rechen, who is himself now
considered to have been the first of the Situ line of tulkus. This letter contained details which
were to facilitate the finding of Dusum Khyenpa's rebirth. Twelve years later the boy was born,
and in due course became recognized as the figure we now know as Karma Pakshi. It seems
likely that Marco Polo saw this Karmapa in China. Since then most of the Karmapas have left a
predictive letter with their closest disciples enabling a quicker recognition of the successor. The
sixteenth Karmapa had seen at an early enough stage how bad things would become in Tibet,
and had moved his seat from Tsurphu to Rumtek, in Sikkim. Later he was to travel widely in
the west, spreading warmth and encouragement, and sowing seeds for dharma practice as
widely as possible. I myself was privileged to see him on a number of occasions, to receive
empowerments and even a few words of personal advice about practice from him. There was, for
instance, an occasion at the then Kham Tibetan House, which coincided with thirteen years
since Chime Rinpoche began teaching in the west, an auspicious time-span. Then, as elsewhere,
he performed the Black Crown ceremony. As Tibetan ritual goes this is a quite simple affair. In
essence, after some preliminary recitation, symbolic offerings and the like, the Karmapa takes a
black hat, itself having quite an interesting history. Holding the hat on his head with one hand
he turns a crystal mala (string of one hundred and eight beads) in the other, reciting (I believe)
the mantra of Chenrezi to the accompaniment of a pair of chalings (shawm-like wind instrument
with a penetrating sound). It is a fact that many people who witnessed this ceremony, or who
had other contact with the Karmapa, found themselves subtly but deeply shaken. One may take
one's pick from the possible explanations - spiritual, mystical, psychological, sociological or plain
fantastic - the fact remains. It was now over ten years since the sixteenth Karmapa died, so not
everyone in our group had met him. For those of us who had, the possibility of meeting the
seventeenth was curiously interesting. Only a few westerners yet have had the experience of
being strongly affected by a teacher, later to be presented with a little boy as his reincarnation.

We were unloaded for half an hour in what must be one of the biggest gas-stations in the world,
otherwise known as the United Arab Emirates. Finding ourselves briefly in Arabia, with a time
showing on the clock that was neither the European time in our bodies nor the Chinese time we
were beginning to try to think in, was for most of us lightly disorientating. It was definitely
night, definitely Arabia, and presumably on the way from London to Beijing. Having calculated
that we should fly into the sunrise just as we were over Tibet, I was too excited to sleep on the
'plane. Two western films were shown, but even a subtitled Chinese film about the personal
struggles of a would-be champion wrestler was not boring enough to put me out. If I now
mention a vigorous thunderstorm over the Karakorums with lightning above and below and
with turbulence that brought a genuine need for seat-belts (assuming one wanted to come down
in one's own seat and not on the arm-rest), then the story seems to have caught up with itself.
 FIRST STEP
Beijing. My first footfall in the Far East. My first impression – no problem. An hour before
landing we had been issued with the appropriate forms to fill in – name, passport number,
money and valuables in our possession. These were no more than the forms that travellers with
nationalities outside the EEC receive when landing in England. Recalling the long slow-moving
queues of such unfortunates that one sees at British ports, it was easy to imagine that this was
the beginning of hard labour under the Chinese bureaucracy. Such an impression was quite
false. All papers were quickly glanced at, those which needed it were stamped, and we were
waved through the barriers within but a few minutes.

In the course of our progress through the airport some of us were startled by the shrill cries of a
small jumping Chinaman. Alarm was misplaced, however, for they were cries of pleasure and
recognition as he recognized Rinpoche. Amusement was also misplaced, as it transpired that he
was Wan Pei, perhaps Rinpoche's most significant high-placed contact, without whom our
projected travels in Kham would never have gained approval. Some years before, when
relationships between the British and Chinese governments were even cooler than nowadays,
Rinpoche had done him a favour, as "scholar to scholar", by giving him access to copies of old
books which were, through official channels, denied to Wan Pei. Now he had become an
important official concerned with "racial minorities", and was in fact meeting us in that official
capacity. Rinpoche introduced some of us to him, saying of myself that I was a mathematician
(electronic engineer is more precise). "Ah, 'titian, 'titian" cried Wan Pei, continuing to give out
his business card. We later heard that the Communist Party Central Committee had not wanted
to accept our proposals, but it was Wan Pei's constant nagging that had pushed it through.

Beyond the barriers we met our two guides, Jack, the national guide who was to accompany us
throughout the whole journey, and Garton, the local guide for Beijing. The Chinese guides all
have English names in addition to their real names, and this does in fact make life much easier.
It became many times apparent how great is the gulf between Chinese and European vocal
sounds. A good example is to be met in bars. Staff who have practiced for some time on the few
words necessary to take orders may well still have difficulty hearing the difference between "red
wine" and "white wine" – "wine" seemed to be easy enough, but the names of the two colours
clearly sounded almost identical to Chinese ears. As we gathered under the triangular yellow
flag, the flag that was to become so familiar over the next few days, the reality of our trip
seemed to hit Rinpoche, and he himself jumped up and down crying out "We made it, we made
it!"

Garton led the way through the steaming rain to a coach and we all fell in, fondly imagining the
showers, soft beds and long sleeps that awaited us. No such luck! Garton explained that, as we
must all be tired from our long flight, we would first eat, then go to our hotel, check in, and be
able to sleep or rest. We could do that for a generous half hour before our first look at the city.
The first meal was to be a model for many: follow the yellow flag into one of the best restaurants;
sit down at the round tables-for-eight with rotating centre; start on the first few, small savoury
dishes; open beer and mineral water; more, bigger dishes are brought; more dishes are brought,
so that dishes are stacked upon dishes; fish is brought – usually a whole carp at each table; a
basin of soup is brought; at the end a large dish of rice is brought. Then, when every belly is full
even though half the food remains uneaten, the moment of sitting back in peace is precisely the
moment when the guide pops up with the cry of "Okay, everybody, time to get back on the bus!"

The hotel frontage was slightly familiar – it was one of the best hotels, and as such it had been
shown in the in-flight advertisements for Beijing. The price of a coffee in the bar was comparable
to what would be paid in such a hotel in London, which meant that it would cost about the same
as our entire lunch. One could be entertained here by pianists, wind quartets, or even by a
(Chinese) Latin American trio. The rooms were like international hotel rooms anywhere on the
planet, with the exception that the air-conditioning (and thank heavens there was air-
conditioning) whirred and clattered as if the works for the whole hotel were in our own room.
Luggage had already been brought up to the floor, so it was possible to shower before gathering
for our first guided tour – Tiananmen Square.

Here perhaps we did experience that side of the Chinese character that has earnt them the
cliché "inscrutable". For most of us the name of Tiananmen Square is associated with what
looked like the start of a revolution, and with the shooting of many innocent people, reminding
us even of the Russian tanks rolling into Czechoslovakia to end the Prague Spring back in 1968.
One might say that it represents a dark point in the recent history of China. It was presented to
us however simply as a great national monument. It is certainly big. The surrounding buildings
are also big. China too is big. The picture of Chairman Mao mounted on the big building at one
end of the big square is another big thing. Luckily our visit was punctuated by the onset of
hammering rain, relieving the bigness as we hurried for shelter. In such rain it seemed a long
way to the edge of the square – perhaps that's because it is so big. It was in fact big enough for a
few of us to get lost at this point, and they will probably remember the wetness even more than
the bigness, which just underlines how personal reminiscences can be. We were not in China
with motives that, in the ordinary sense, would be considered political, and we were not about to
cause trouble by asking tactless questions – the success of our visit to Benchen, and the possible
effects that it would have, were too important to risk by trying to score easy points off the
guides. It was only near the end of the four days we spent in Beijing that Garton was relaxed
enough to mention that "we had some trouble a few years ago and had to have a curfew."
Rinpoche did however seem to enjoy the fact that Rosie wore a chuba, the Tibetan national
dress, here.

There were no more worthy sights in store for that day, just a coach ride to the evening meal,
during which Garton displayed his skill in the telling of jokes. We feared that all local guides
might have attended the same course on western humour, but were later relieved to find that, if
so, then they can not have been as diligent as Garton. The waiters were keen to practice their
English. I was at first uncertain as to whether "What your name – smoking?" was intended as an
admittedly justifiable criticism of the habit, but it was in fact an enquiry as to the brand of the
packet on the table. The imitations of "Benson and Hedges" and even of "Benson" were far
beyond recognition, but "London" turned out to be a word they could cope with. The tourist is
these days relatively free to move around in Beijing, and it is likely that the various quarters of
the city we were to see were, by and large, typical. The average standard of housing and
material wealth is of course lower than that of many western capitals, although the fact that
private transport is far more likely to consist of a bicycle than a car is no bad thing. We were to
see peddlers working the pavements to sell stamps or cheap sets of calligraphic brushes, but no
visible signs of desperate poverty. In comparison to major western cities the air of politeness,
consideration and friendliness between ordinary Chinese on the street was noticeable.

In the hotel bar that evening Rinpoche explained something about the trip. We all felt privileged
to be part of the band, especially knowing that others, perhaps quite a lot of others, had wanted
to be with us. Now we knew how we had been selected: we were those whom he judged could be
counted on to stand by our wish to go, but who, should the whole thing fall through, would shrug
our shoulders and laugh "yes, yes, we know this story!" Jack, our national guide, had earlier
made clear how surprised he was that we had got permission at all to visit Yushu (Yushu is the
new Chinese name for Jyekundo), and how impressed he was that the permit had been obtained
so quickly. He himself was keen to go, and it was said that he himself had played a part in
pulling the strings that made the trip possible. Rinpoche told us then of his dream. When he was
eleven years old he dreamt that he had left Tibet. He only returned after many years, and
dreamt that when he did he was accompanied by Europeans bearing Dharma texts in their
hands. (It is extremely unlikely that at that time he had ever seen a European, but had no doubt
heard of the "long-noses" from far away.) Then he saw that Benchen had been destroyed. On
waking, he told his teacher of the dream, but it remained a puzzle. This pilgrimage was in fact
his second return visit. He had, ten years previously, been able to go back, but on that occasion
he had been alone and was much more closely watched and restricted than was now expected to
be the case. So our present journey was, literally as well as figuratively, the fulfilment of a
dream.

I cannot be alone in feeling that a dream of my own was also being fulfilled, albeit only
figuratively. It was in my middle teens that I had begun poking around amongst the bookshelves
for exotic religion and philosophy in the basement of the university bookshop. I came to know
and love the smell of old books in the reference library as I followed a trail through the
fascinating, the weird and the absurd. In due course I fell under the spell of Tibet. The tales and
pictures of this land electrified my imagination as the appreciation grew that she had, for a
thousand years and more, been the treasure house where the full range of Buddhist knowledge
and practice had been preserved and cultivated. The amount of informed literature available
thirty years ago was quite limited in comparison to today, and I had no guidance, but I read
whatever I could find. Perhaps the (admittedly indiscriminate) breadth of this study helped me
not to swallow the worst of the inaccuracies quite whole. The translations of Evans-Wentz, for
instance, can kindly be described as eccentric, while "Lama" Govinda's speculations on certain
aspects of Tantric symbolism are by no means the foundations of Buddhism they claim to be.
Nevertheless inspiration poured from these and other books, and I remain deeply grateful to
those authors for leading me to Chime Rinpoche and to real contact with the Kagyu lineage. To
exercise my own feet on the ground of Tibet had not been something I had exactly expected, but
it had certainly been a dream. To do so in the company of our teacher was more than most of us
can have really expected to do.

Our room, at the top of the hotel, had a small concrete balcony. Before getting into bed I stood
there for a while feeling quite overcome. These thoughts, tiredness, the impressions of the day: it
seemed that the warm damp night outside held not only the masses of Beijing, old, young, rich
and poor but stretched out over China, Tibet, the world. My own good fortune in having not just
the opportunity of a decent life, but even being able to fill it with meaning – how amazing, how
inexplicable.

The time in Beijing was altogether busy, but the first full day was the most tightly scheduled.
Two weeks later, our aims achieved, we would have been much more prepared to say "No. Not
going. Sorreee!" At this stage we just wanted to be good boys and girls, so we allowed ourselves
to be overdosed with things to see. Glad as I am to have seen the Forbidden City and to have
been able to imagine the fear and awe it must have induced in those who were summoned there
during its working days, we reached saturation point. On coming to another mighty hall, one of
us would climb the steps and return with a report such as "Oh, it's got a throne that's bigger
than the last one but not as big as the first one." Tom bought a solar powered hat which had a
tiny electric fan built into the peak – the rest of us bought paper fans. Before lunch we also
managed to include a small temple housing a large and rather beautiful white marble Buddha,
and had seven (or was it eight?) minutes to walk around in the Bei Hai park. The park's main
feature is a lake, therein an island and thereon a chorten which, being visible from some
distance, is one of Beijing's best known landmarks. The time was not long enough to get up
there. After lunch we "did" the Temple of Heaven, showered, ate again and were, as a finale, led
to an acrobatic show. One girl seemed to be made of rubber, another had playing cards hidden
up her skirt while a third was a dab hand with a whip. The highlight was a man who stuffed
four champagne bottles up his shirt. (It was a small shirt.)

By the following day a slightly more relaxed attitude was glimmering in the mind of our local
guide. The Ming Tombs had fallen from the list of things-we-must-see, and the rearrangement
meant that we had the morning free to rest and gossip. Amongst the topics was Rinpoche's
present unpopularity with the top figures of the Karma Kagyu school. He had been firmly
keeping his distance from the politicking that had been going on at Rumtek, and had, it seems,
upset a few important people by refusing to go to some of the meetings that had been called. The
rumours that over the past few years have earnt it the nickname of Rumourtek have been so
various, so awful (they extend from embezzlement to murder) and so contradictory that only one
thing is fully clear – something there stinks. Perhaps one day the suspicions as to the root from
which these rumours grow will be clarified.

The afternoon saw us visiting the Lamaist Temple. We were given to understand that it is an
active centre of training and practice, but, although it is difficult to present any hard evidence to
the contrary, we all found this hard to believe. The smell was rather that of a manned museum,
albeit a much visited one. The statuary and paintings were nevertheless good to see.

The Great Wall was the final monument to which we were introduced. This looks exactly like it
does in the picture books, with the exception that on a normal visit such as ours it swarms with
tourists. There is, we were told, a Chinese saying that one is not grown up until one has been on
the Great Wall. If it were not for an awareness of just how vast the Chinese population really is,
one might have thought that they had all chosen the same day to achieve their majority. Apart,
that is, from the one-in-five who decided instead to go to sell T-shirts announcing that the
wearer is in this way worthy of recognition – "I climbed the Great Wall."

With our touristic duties done it was at last possible to look forward to a move closer to our goal.
Rinpoche had not himself come to the Great Wall, having spent much of the day with the
Chinese authorities, confirming and clarifying the next stages of our journey. He told us how
different things had been ten years before. Then it had been necessary to demonstrate one's
interest in and support for the communist system; now it seemed that money was a bigger issue.
The authorities had even made him a present of a book – the autobiography of the Dalai Lama!
It is not long since Tibetans were imprisoned for merely being in possession of the Dalai Lama's
picture. Most significantly, a telegram had been sent to the communist party headquarters in, as
they would say, Yushu, to the effect that they should not interfere with our visit to Benchen. In
fact we had a significant amount of money with us that had been raised for Benchen by
Rinpoche's English students, and it had been necessary to ensure that this could be given
without landing the monks in hot water. The Chinese have a wretched dual currency system.
Simply put, there are FECs for us and RMBs for them, both measured in supposedly identical
Yuan. To help prepare for the handover it had been thought wise to change as many as possible
of our FECs into RMBs, in small lots that would not attract attention. For a while I was one of
the carriers, and was walking around for a few days with an envelope in my innermost pocket
containing a thousand pounds in Chinese cash. It only made me slightly nervous.
 CENTRAL ASIA
Xining spelt shock. Beijing had been very different from any European experience, but this was
like landing on another planet. As a kid I used to read science fiction stories, and now I felt like
one of the heroes stepping out of his space-ship into the light of some distant sun. Perhaps on
space-ships the staff will also sit on boxes of Cola in the back.

Shortly after our Tupolev had taken off from Beijing the first issue to each passenger had been a
sandalwood fan; on the international flight we had all received a pair of blue socks. However, as
the 'planes were not without either heating or air conditioning we soon figured out that the fans
were in fact an emergency measure. We would know that the engines were in real trouble if it
was announced that the men should take the window seats. If things got really bad, the women
and children could then be dumped, while we fanned off to get rescue. The food was more
difficult to explain. Even the Chinese food enthusiasts amongst us could only guess at the nature
of the contents of some of the packets we were given on these internal flights.

The first strange sight was to be seen even before we landed. Xining is physically half way
across China west from Beijing, but the vast majority of Chinese live in the densely populated
east and south, so Xining stands at the edge of the enormous central Asian deserts. While the
immediate surrounds of the town are a little more fertile, the airport is some fifteen miles
outside, and coming in to land one sees, quite simply, desert. As we fell to a height of a couple of
hundred feet we saw a line out there, dark blue and red against the brown. It consisted of
people. The airport had been built three years before, but had only begun operation a few
months before our flight, since when it had as a rule been the landing place for one 'plane a
week. In point of fact this had had some bearing on our travel timetable. It had indeed been
politically appropriate to pay respects to China by visiting the sights of Beijing, but it was in any
case only possible to fly to Xining on a Friday. There was not one single spare seat on the 'plane,
and it is possible that the delay from July to August had in part been due to the need to book a
flight that still had room for a party of twenty-four. Be that as it may, the landing of an
aeroplane was evidently remarkable enough to draw a couple of hundred onlookers out of the
distance.

In Beijing we had become used to being looked at. A whole bus-load of westerners is still unusual
enough to produce a little surprise, when at a road junction it should chance to pull up next to a
local bus, to make people point, to smile and often to laugh. Here however we were stared at,
and there was no question of a smile. Blank incomprehension was the commonest expression,
perhaps mixed with shock and sometimes I suspect even a little fear. Our clothes were odd,
brown hair and pale skin were really odd, but most monstrous of all was the colour of some of
our eyes. Having blue eyes myself, I later found that if I wore my dark round sunglasses, which
in Europe might be accused of looking ridiculous (in fact they often have been), I seemed to have
less of an unsettling effect.

I do not know enough ethnology to identify them, but it seemed that many of the people of
Xining were from some of the Chinese minorities. In the course of our bussing around Beijing we
had several times passed a large hoarding which advertised the Museum of Racial Minorities.
Garton told us that there are fifty-six minorities in China, that the museum was a good one, and
that he liked to go there. The hoarding showed a number of people (presumably fifty-six) painted
standing in a wide variety of styles of dress in a group together. Smiling, of course. It reminded
me strongly of pictures I remembered from my childhood showing all the happy members of the
British Commonwealth. Some were white, some brown or black, wearing kilts, turbans, grass
skirts and other appropriate dress. They too were all smiling, all happy to be loyal subjects of the
Queen. At this end of the twentieth century the tide is flowing away from monolithic empires,
and China must fear what will happen to her – the recent history of Russia shows that if the
time has really come for an empire to collapse, it can not be stopped. The gradual translation of
the British Commonwealth from an empire to a partnership has not been without problems or
even tragedy, but I hope it is not just patriotism talking to wish for China that she can manage
an equally graceful change. Worse can happen.

According to the new Chinese way of dividing regions the "Tibet Autonomous Region" is smaller
than what has traditionally been considered as Tibet, even leaving aside the question of whether
and when the said Tibet was independent. Thus Jyekundo, traditionally and culturally deep in
east Tibet, is now counted as part of Qinghai, the region of which Xining is the capital. It was
therefore as we got on the bus that was to take us from the airport that we met Pamela, the local
guide who was to accompany us to Benchen and back. Jack had admitted that he had not
actually led a tour for three years, and in the course of the whole pilgrimage he was to impress
me as someone of exceptional intelligence. Similarly it was very clear that Pamela was no
ordinary tour guide. Hard as nails and quick with it, as it is said. Rinpoche was later to confess
to strongly ambiguous feelings about her. She was said to have previously worked for the Public
Security Bureau in Jyekundo. In other words, both Pamela and Jack had at the very least close
and high connections with the Secret Service, and had been selected as our guides in the light of
the sensitivity of our visit. As we drove to the hotel – the best hotel in Xining, of course – Pamela
explained that Qinghai is the Chinese translation of Kokonor, itself Mongolian for "Blue Sea".
The name of this famous salt lake, more than sixty miles long, brought echoes to my mind from
the travelogues I had read as I first became drawn into the magic of Tibet, and I was a bit
peeved that we would not see it.

By the standards of what was to come, Xining is not very high, just some two and a half
thousand metres above sea level, but this was high enough to make a discovery that should be
passed on to the makers of instant coffee. Throughout China it is common in hotels and guest
houses to be supplied with large thermos flasks of hot water, with which one can prepare one's
own drink. Within minutes of reaching our room I answered a knock on the door to find a young
man who gave me two such flasks with the announcement "Water hot." This was a hotel with
stars, so we were also supplied with tea bags, but decided to open the jar of instant coffee we had
brought. "Vacuum packed" is, like so many other terms, relative, and with the benefit of
experience it is easy to point out that in this case it is relative to air pressure sea level. In Xining
the pressures were in the opposite relationship, and no sooner was the jar made lidless than the
seal popped open and coffee granules spontaneously jumped out over the carpet. All part of the
learning process.

We survived this experience with enough presence of mind to take lunch before our afternoon
trip. This time we really did want to go, as the destination was Kumbum (literally "Hundred
Thousand Bodies", the name means that there really are a lot of statues and paintings of
Buddhas and Bodhisattvas). There are in fact two particularly famous Kumbums; the other one,
near Gyantse some way south west of Lhasa, is one of the most photogenic buildings in Tibet.
The Kumbum near Xining is famous as the birthplace of Tsong Khapa. The present Dalai Lama
was also born near here, so the Gelugpa connections of the area are strong.

Gelugpa means "Those of the Virtuous Way", and is one of the principal schools of Tibetan
Buddhism, being in fact politically the most important. Since the time, three hundred years ago,
when Gushri Khan lent his support to the Fifth, the Dalai Lamas have been head of the Tibetan
state. The Gelugpas place a strict emphasis on monasticism and on extensive academic learning
through specified stages. The doctrine of emptiness is central to Buddhism, and under the
influence of Tsong Khapa they developed a special interpretation of the meaning of emptiness
and of the methods for realizing it. This does not mean that both monasticism and deep learning
are not very prominent in the other schools, merely that these things are treated there on a more
individual basis.

It was apparent even as we drew near that Kumbum is much visited, and that tourism is
expected. The approach roads were lined with tiny shops selling a wide range of religious
paraphernalia. Near the entrance gate stands a new hotel, and parts of the place looked like a
building site, since so much reconstruction is now being done. I do not think that many of us had
expected much from the Lamaist Temple in Beijing, but now we were all very alert for clues as
to what was really going on here. It was our first experience of what should be a piece of real
Tibetan religious culture. As we stepped down we were quickly surrounded by peddlers, mainly
young boys, insistently offering prayer wheels, statues, necklaces, ritual drums and "change
money". Once through the main gate the peddlers were left behind, although "Hallo, change
money" popped up again and again throughout the visit.

This was the first time that Rinpoche wore his tea towel. He had previously mentioned how his
position was a little like a Palestinian in Israel, a comparison sharpened by the fact that before
the Chinese came his family had been quite powerful in the Jyekundo area. At the higher
altitudes to come the use of some sort of cloth or mask across the face is very advisable, as a help
against the dryness even more than against the dust. In this respect it functions in just the same
way as the nose itself, allowing the moisture from outward breathing to raise the humidity of
the inward breath. Can it have been purely chance that for this purpose Rinpoche had a cloth,
white with a black check, of such a style that every one of us was immediately made to think of
Palestine? Our first call was a small side temple near the entrance, where Rinpoche had several
minutes conversation with the attendant monk. It was noticeable that during the rest of the visit
no further such conversations took place, and the speculation (it can be no more than
speculation) was that, perhaps since the monk had been heard to ask Rinpoche about the Dalai
Lama, the other inhabitants had been warned off.

A few beggars dotted the main pathway through the complex, and we made our way up the hill,
turning aside from time to time to see a number of chapels and other buildings. On show were
four monks doing wood-block printing, butter sculptures in an air-conditioned display hall, and
eight young monks debating in the traditional pairs. The chapel which housed a large chorten,
itself marking the birthplace of Tsong Khapa was of course a very special place, but I was more
interested in the general impression left when all details were digested: I found Kumbum to be
primarily a museum, but one having a genuine if limited life in it. We were told that the main
assembly hall was used every morning, although large areas of it were clearly in fact unusable,
being piled with materials presumably destined for future reconstruction. The printing house
was tiny, and, since it had odd pages available to sell to the tourists, it was easier to imagine
that such was its main purpose, rather than the serious printing of texts. The desultory air of
the young debaters made it easier to imagine that this was a display to impress the tourist,
rather than a serious process of academic development. Our visit being in the daytime we were
lucky enough not to see them in operation, but the rows of coloured electric lamp bulbs which
adorned the roof edges of many of the larger buildings were an anomaly that can only have been
perpetrated with tourists in mind. But there were monks there, more than a few of them, and by
no means all were of pensionable age; and there were lay Tibetans performing prostrations,
clearly in all seriousness. We ourselves turned prayer-wheels small and large with great
enthusiasm before returning to the bus where some of us bartered a little with the indefatigable
peddlers.

I believe that if one appreciates the prayer wheel one is well on the way to an insight into many
of the special features of the kind of Buddhism that, throughout centuries, has been preserved in
Tibet. Karma and the royal rôle of the mind are key ideas for the whole of Buddhism. The first
means that through our own actions we build our own future, for every action of body, speech or
mind leaves a trace in our stream of being that must sooner or later ripen and bear fruit. The
second implies that it is through the undisciplined qualities of our mind that we experience
confusion; it is because of its poisons of greed, hatred and stupidity that our actions are poisoned
and that misery and pain are so intimately bound up with existence. With enormous good
fortune we can however, as human beings, come to see this, purify our mind and become freed
from misery. In other words we can become enlightened. Tantric practice constitutes, so to
speak, the "advanced" section of Tibetan Buddhism. It emerged in India, but although it was
transmitted to China and Japan it was nowhere so fully absorbed as in Tibet. A general feature
of tantric methods is the understanding that, whereas a glimpse of the enlightened state may be
stunning, overpowering or even frightening, it is not in fact something separate from us. It is not
something else, something out there, but is just the true nature of our own mind. There is a
continuity. If enlightenment were something which had to be built up, it would be liable to
collapse. Thus the qualities of clarity and compassion with which this state is endowed are the
same energies which normally appear as poisons, but now transformed through recognition of
the mind's true nature. If we have once been introduced to this state, at which time it might
seem like something far above us, we can gradually learn to identify with it. Because of the
continuity between enlightenment and ignorance, it is possible for its qualities to appear
crystallized in, for example, forms, sounds or gestures. In this way a group of syllables such as
the famous mantra "Om Mani Peme Hung" can be said, not just to symbolize, but actually to be,
or to incorporate, the sound of enlightened compassion. All depends on the mind of the reciter.
According to the state of this mind the mantra may embody compassion, may be a prayer, a
mere symbol, or for that matter plain gibberish. The principal method for the application of a
mantra is to recite it, within the framework of visualizations and other ritual and meditative
techniques received from one's teacher. However a mantra is not expected to work by mere
recitation a prescribed number of times; not, in other words, in the crude sense of a magical
spell. The recitation functions to soak the mind in whichever aspect of enlightenment is
associated with the mantra. This in turn means that any other method for soaking the mind in
the mantra's vibration is also a good thing: carve it on stones, paint it on rocks, print it on flags
to flutter in the wind, or even write it many times on paper, wrap the paper into a cylindrical
container, mount the container on an axle and spin it. Why not? Make small wheels on handles
and walk around spinning them, mount large fixed ones to be turned by hand as one walks by,
arrange for some to be turned by flowing water. Above all, say it and sing it, till the countryside
overflows with the sound of compassion. It's all a question of the mind.
 OVER AMDO
The night in Xining was the last luxury for some while. I remember saying, shortly before
bedtime, that I suspected that in the morning we would hear reports of bad sleep due to the
altitude. I felt that I myself was going to sleep badly, which turned out to be correct, but my own
conviction was that the cause lay quite elsewhere. Although we were still far away from the
places we had really come to see, impression overload was setting in. As I lay half dreaming, an
unstoppable stream of scenes, faces and impressions from the journey, and especially from that
day, long kept me from real sleep. At breakfast Rinpoche said that he had slept very badly too,
having felt the spirit of his father all night. This was a sobering reminder of what has happened
in Tibet: it was in Xining jail that Rinpoche's father, having been an important landowner, had
sat waiting twenty years for his death. Rinpoche however told us how on his previous visit he
had said to the authorities that they did not need to apologize for destroying his monastery and
his family, but that he wanted to see the schools, hospitals and workplaces. If they were not now
there, that would be the time when he would become angry.

There had been changes to the bus we were to use, as the one originally booked had been judged
not tough enough for what lay ahead. A tough-springed Chinese model had been substituted.
There was subdued excitement in the air while our luggage was packed, under tarpaulin and
rope nets, on the bus roof. It was in this little blue and white coach that we were about to enter
the areas where only a few outsiders have (illegally) penetrated before. As we set out we were
given a present again! A surgical mask! This time facetious speculations as to its purpose were
not needed, as they were to be used as the "extra nose" in the dry high altitude air. Natives do
not need this help so much, but even they sometimes use a cloth or leather mask.

In the morning we climbed through the back end of China. Whereas in the direction of the
airport we had seen desert, the landscape here was wetly green, with terraced fields and trees.
The villages, surrounded by walls of mud and straw, had a depressing appearance, but we were
in no position to properly judge the quality of life within them.

We drove up to the mountain mist and came to a pass that was marked both with pavilions on
either side and with microwave relay dishes. A watershed. Here we stopped for a pee break. The
spot was graced with an actual toilet, and since by that time I had learnt to recognize, alongside
the ideograms for "Beijing", "exit" and "entrance" those also for "men" and "women" I was the
first to make use of it. It was even furnished with a roof, but was otherwise quite normal,
consisting of a platform with holes, two metres beneath which a pit opened out to the hillside
below.

Pamela related to us how in the seventh century (CE) the Tibetan king Srongsten Gampo
married the Chinese Princess Wen Cheng. Her parents had given her a mirror as a reminder of
home, as she was not altogether happy about leaving the civilization she knew for such a remote
and barbaric land. When she reached this pass however she said that she was going into a new
future, that from now on Tibet was to be her home, and deliberately broke the mirror. Here, at
this pass, was the beginning of Tibet. Behind lay terraced fields – in front stretched grasslands.

Leaving was slightly delayed as our doctor, Charlie, could not at first be found. He had
discovered that yoghurt was to be bought from a small hut beside the road, and was enjoying its
consumption. This was not to be for the last time. We were yet to ascend much higher, but the
road at first led downwards, revealing a totally different landscape. It can be easily described.
One rough narrow road and a line of telegraph poles stretch out in front; if the air is clear
mountains are visible in the far, far distance; yaks, some sheep and occasional goats or horses
graze; now and again one sees the low black tents of nomads with lines of prayer flags on either
side; clouds, if there are clouds, hang in the sky as if carved from some kind of white solid. The
ground supports enormous numbers of marmots, a rodent half way between rat and rabbit,
although one must at first watch closely to spot them amongst the stones. These animals are
presumably the main foodstuff of the large birds of prey who are most easily to be seen in the
evening when they roost on every second telegraph pole. In the absence of any trees, these birds
must have been delighted by the coming of the telephone.

In pursuit of blurring the traditional distinction between the two countries, a large number of
Chinese have over the last forty years been moved into areas of Tibet, and by lunchtime we
reached a township which had been built to this end. Quite how most of the people who live
there make their living I do not know, since at first sight animal husbandry and its dependent
industries such as cheese-making are the only productive possibility, but economic research was
not part of our brief. A significant minority of the townsfolk were nevertheless Tibetan, and this
was the first time we experienced their national style of looking at strangers. Fundamentally,
they do just that – look. One senses surprise that human beings could have our appearance,
rather than shock. If, after a short while, one ventures a small smile one is generally rewarded
by grins of recognition – "It's true, they really are humans!" Inquisitiveness follows. It did not
take long before one of the women had persuaded Jackie to swap malas (the string of 108 beads
used for counting mantras). I don't know who got the better end of this bargain: perhaps both of
them profited from the added value of the unusual source of their new mala. We all stood around
the bus for some while, examining the lightly smoking wheels and generally staring from one
culture to another. We were followed into the simple restaurant, since watching beings such as
us eat was bound to be interesting. Two of the women were fascinated to examine and feel
Carol's hair. In spite of being red, I believe it was concluded that it was indeed just hair, before
the management brought the food and shooed the onlookers out.

Bright light filled the plains as we rolled and bumped the afternoon away, punctuating the
journey with pee breaks. Leaving was slightly delayed on occasion as our English monk, Tenzin,
who is something of a botanist, would wander into the distance fascinatedly taking notes about
the flora. As a rule someone would yell "Monk!" and he would appear, still scribbling on the back
of a cigarette packet. I did not then recognize the sensation, but, by the time we reached the
much smaller township where we were to eat the evening meal, the steadily increasing altitude
was beginning to take effect. One or two of us were already feeling quite bad. My own experience
was rather like having a small but hard and cold stone in my head (I had already fallen on this
description before hearing that local people describe it as being bitten by the ghosts of the
stones), although that might sound much worse than the reality.

There was no Chinese restaurant here, or if so the style of cooking was too Tibetan to serve to us
with safety. Muslim restaurants are on the other hand by no means uncommon, and we were
taken to one of these. The manager, if that term really applies, was a young man of perhaps
twenty, and as he rushed down the road to obtain extra green vegetables we waited outside. A
goat's head lying casually on the window-sill did not appetize, but our minds were taken off this
by the local horsemen, rifles slung across their backs or swords from their waists, who were keen
to pose and be photographed with us. Meanwhile the manager had returned, and the sound of a
diesel engine being started came from behind the building. Lo, there were coloured lights to
decorate the frontage! Just like in Birmingham! Inside, while the staff furiously chopped and
cut, a beverage called tea was now served. A two-inch crystal of sugar sits in the middle of the
lidded cup, the tea and other dried vegetable material is sprinkled around it, and hot water is
poured on. Some said it was delicious, but I remained thirsty. (Some still insist that it was
delicious, even having read this.)

The smoke now vigorously rising from the stove was not the only cause of the growing darkness.
Our young manager climbed onto the table to fidget in vain with the cord leading to a
fluorescent tube, jumped down again, and went outside. The coloured lights grew brighter and
the engine note rose as he opened the throttle. Coming back in, a second fidget was successful,
and we rewarded him with cheers and claps. He grinned, made a small bow and said something
before jumping down. Pamela translated: "What's the matter, haven't you seen electricity
before?"

We were by now beginning to learn that the guides' estimates of how much time a given stretch
of the journey would take were greatly less than the reality. We put this down to the Asiatic
unwillingness to bring bad news. We had already encountered a number of roadworks, most of
which meant that the bus had to leave the road and dive through a small but deep and muddy
trench. The inexperienced would think "Jeep – okay; saloon car – doubtful; bus – no thanks," but
our drivers knew what they were doing, and pulled us through every time. It was well after
midnight before we reached Maduo, in whose guest house we were to spend the night. A few dim
electric light bulbs were turned on for ten minutes while we, cold and tired, splashed over the
muddy courtyards and stumbled down concrete corridors to find rooms. It would have been nice
if we had had access to our luggage for spare clothes and sleeping bags, but to ask the drivers to
spend half an hour in the rain at that time of night unpacking, and another half hour putting it
all back early the next morning was just too much. The room had a stove, but no way of lighting
it, and a candle. Piling up all the blankets for maximum warmth, we dropped straight to sleep.
An hour later I was glad to have a clear memory of where my clothes were, as I woke up
convinced that I must soon vomit. Crossing the mud to the toilets I was reassured by the thought
that, at this high altitude, the chance that horrible creepy things, with numbers of legs that
don't bear mentioning, would be lurking in the dark around the hole was negligible. The nausea
however passed, and I was able to sleep two or three more hours before it was time to get up. It
can be imagined that in the morning I felt as if I had a hefty hangover, but as the others tottered
towards the breakfast, a breakfast that no-one could in fact stomach, it became clear that my
own state was, in relative terms, fair to average. Tom and Rinpoche were at the hospital, having
spent the night on oxygen, while Tenzin clearly should have done the same. He was obviously
suffering badly, had been violently ill through the short night, but worried mainly that he would
hold the rest of us back. Pippa, too, was in what can only be described as a bad way. At this
point it was being seriously suggested that we might have over-reached ourselves and that
perhaps we should turn back. We drove to the hospital with the idea of letting Rinpoche decide,
but he wanted us to decide. I had to abstain from the discussions. I would have been
inexpressibly disappointed had we turned back, but of course the safety of the more fragile
members of the group was much more important. At length it was decided that the seven hours-
worth of oxygen that we were able to take from the hospital should suffice, provided it was
carefully shared between the most needy.

Sometime in the late morning we passed the highest point, at something well over five thousand
metres. Like every high pass in Tibet it was marked by a cairn decorated with prayer flags; this
one, we were really glad to leave behind. I suspect that by that point Tenzin felt just about ready
to leave everything behind; he made no fuss, but the way he was holding his head was
expressive enough. Leaving from some of our pee breaks was slightly delayed, since the nicotine
addicts (I have to admit that I was one of these) still wanted to take their (should I say our?)
chance for a quick puff, but Rinpoche's urgent calls for us to get on and get lower left a number
of one-third-smoked nub ends beside the road. It is easy, given the benefit of experience, to say
that we had been a bit foolish to go quite so high so quickly. Now for the good news: as we began
to drop, the symptoms steadily, and remarkably quickly, evaporated. Along the way we stopped
at another muslim eating house for a late lunch, and the more lightly affected of us were already
feeling quite fine. Tenzin was grinning, joking, and running off in his shorts to examine flora.
The only shadow was that one or two were still suffering, but even they were, if I understood
correctly, more in a state of severe discomfort than of pain.

In the afternoon a significant change showed itself in the landscape. The high plateau belied its
endless appearance by giving way to mountains. They were more suggestive of Scotland than of
the Himalayas, even though the altitude was more fitting to the second. Trees, a few terraced
fields, houses; the few tents were decorated, and looked as if erected for festive purposes rather
than being dwellings. We had reached Kham. The sheer physical geography however was not
what excited me most. I turned to Rinpoche and said "This looks like Tibet is supposed to look
like!", to which he smiled, and answered with equal eloquence "Yes!" The difference?
Monasteries nestling against the hillside. Chortens at the heads of valleys. Local people turning
prayer wheels as they bring the yak herd home.

This part of Tibet is deeply furrowed by rivers which wind through China and decant into the
sea with thousands of miles between their mouths. The Mekong, the Yangtze, the Salween, all
run parallel to each other through this part of Tibet. Important for us was our descent to the
head waters of the Yangtze, which here was a turbulent brown knife cutting deeply into the
mountains. Yet more important was the tributary flowing in from the west. The sharp edge with
which these bluish opal waters met the Yangtze looked as if painted in immiscible colours. This
tributary was the Kuchu, flowing down from Jyekundo.
 JYEKUNDO
The Governor's Guest House is probably not the worst place to stay in Jyekundo. The indications
from the way our whole journey had been organized are that it was one of the best. The
indications from the establishment itself were somewhat more ambiguous, although we were far
too pleased to be there at all to be very concerned. On each of five concrete floors was a small
office where the keys were held. Along the corridors, which seemed always to be wet, stood pots
at regular intervals. While these pots were doubtlessly receptacles for spit and nub-ends, the
colour and odour suggested that they may also have been piss-pots. Smells, however, can
mislead, as the toilets let directly onto the corridor, their doors consisting of a cloth curtain,
variegated grey-brown, hanging from the lintel down as far as waist height. The toilets
themselves were an interesting compromise with western methods. A row of metre-high cubicles
is a common enough Chinese technique, but, instead of the normal single hole per cubicle, a tiled
trench ran transversely through the floor of the row. Now and again a welcome stream of water
would flush through the whole trench. Between "Man" and "Woman" was a wash-room where a
galvanized electric boiler produced water that was usually really hot. Its open mains breaker
buzzed and sparked continuously, but I noted with some relief that it was mounted on the
concrete external wall, thus minimizing the danger of fire. Clever, these Chinese! The room
furnishings had seen better days, but these were unlikely to have been many or long, cheaply
made as the items were. Two wash basins stood in tubular iron stands, so that the hot water
from across the corridor could be used in privacy. The bed linen was startlingly Chinese, printed
in the glaring pinks, reds and pale blues of popular taste, but did seem to be clean.
Unfortunately I failed to notice that some of the light switches here were also open, which led
Rosie to have a nasty experience later that evening. A few of the party dashed out immediately
to do shopping, but most of us simply got clean, rested, ate, chatted a little and went to bed.

The next morning brought me one of the warmest experiences of the whole trip. The early bed-
time had brought an early awakening, and by seven I was ready to explore, so left the guest-
house with no more plan than to wander a little. The main street is "new Chinese", and with all
good will can, as such, only be described as ugly. I passed the cinema and walked towards the
main junction, by which is an open square used as a market place. Looking across this square,
the badly damaged Sakya (one of the main schools of Buddhism in Tibet) monastery which
overlooks the town from high on the hill can be seen. Behind the square I could see some older
parts of the town, so took that direction and soon found myself climbing narrow paths, quite
unpaved and with water trickling down the middle. The doorways of the brown walled houses
were decorated with prayer flags, under which brown dogs lay sleeping on the brown earth,
warmed by the morning sun.

A man of middle age was standing outside his door, and as I climbed past him we went through
the recognition procedure: blank stare, curious stare, slight smile, big smiles. I continued to
climb, and soon realized that he was following close behind me. I mistakenly thought that he
was following just to see what the long-nose was going to do, and as he made no attempt to
speak I decided after a minute or two to make it easy by sitting down on a rock, and
communicating by play-act that I was out of breath. By now he had been joined by a friend, and
the two of them stood in front of me, watching. I had my mala round my wrist, and as this fell on
my observer's eye he bent forward to examine it. All that is essential for a mala are the beads,
but usually a number of other things are strung on it. Most commonly one has two short strings,
each of which has ten small rings that slide up and down and a larger ornament at the end of
each. This ornament may be in the form of a lotus, or very often is shaped as a vajra on one
string and as a bell on the other. (The vajra, often accompanied by a bell, is a form of sceptre
representing the indestructible essence of mind.) With the first one can count ten rounds of the
mala, and with the second one can multiply the count again by ten, thus counting up to ten
thousand recitations. If this is not enough it is also possible to use a little clip that can be moved
from bead to bead each time the second counter is full, and with such a "ten thousand clip" one
can count to a million before resorting to paper. Unwinding my mala from my wrist I held it out,
and as he fingered these small pieces of silverwork it became clear to him that this was not just
some mala-like ornament. It really was a Buddhist mala. Ergo, the pale-eyed stranger was in all
probability a Buddhist.

Reading these thoughts in his face, I held the mala up and counted off a few beads while reciting
"Om Mani Peme Hung". The two men smiled at each other and said something which can only
have been "Look, he's even reciting the Mani!". It is not exactly difficult to know the mani, so,
encouraged by their response, I began the long mantra of Dorje Sempa. This "hundred syllable"
mantra is the best known of the longer mantras, and is used in purification practices. Their
smiles told me that they were now convinced that I really was a Buddhist. Pointing up the hill
my new friend said something in a questioning tone about "khorwa", and I thought he meant to
ask me if I was going up to circumambulate the monastery. Luckily, I failed to communicate my
answer that it was too far. Nevertheless the three of us continued up the hill. After a minute my
acquaintance recited the first few syllables of the long mantra, I answered with a few more, then
it was his turn, my turn, and we finished together.

Climbing up and round a few more corners we came to a point where I understood what he had
meant by "khorwa". We had come to a small lhakhang (temple) which was being circled,
clockwise of course, by some fifty or more Tibetans, and my companions were on their way to join
this morning devotion. The building itself was maybe some ten metres square, dark red, with a
veranda to the front. I joined the walkers. At the back of the building was a row of prayer
wheels, and to the side a mass of mani stones, over which hung hundreds of prayer flags. Dogs
slept in most of the available hollows. A few times round the building gave time for the brown-
haired stranger to be assessed, discussed and accepted: he looked funny, he could not speak
Tibetan and seemed a little lost, but otherwise he seemed to be in order. As I came one more
time round to the front, some of the women started gesturing to me that I should go up the
veranda steps, where a rather older woman led me to the curtained door. She did three
prostrations at the step, which is normal when approaching or entering a shrine. I think it
would be an exaggeration to say that I was watched to see if I would do the same, but she was
nevertheless very pleased when I did, giving me a two-handed "thumbs up", evidently a gesture
that has gone right round the world. Then in through the curtain.

The contents of the dim interior gave me some surprise. The entire building is primarily a
housing for the biggest prayer wheel I have yet seen. Each of its handles had ropes attached so
that at busy times thirty or forty people could squeeze in and help to turn it. There was no space
on any of the side walls that was not hung with thangkas, while opposite the door the wall was
given over to an altar. The central figure was a striking Guru Rinpoche, at least twice life size,
and he was flanked by figures of Chenrezi to his right and white Tara to his left, each of which
were about one and a half times life size. Guru Rinpoche is sometimes said to have brought
Buddhism to Tibet, but that is really a bit too simple. By the late eighth century (CE) there had
already been considerable Buddhist activity. The king himself, Trisong Detsan, was a Buddhist,
and had invited important teachers such as Santarakshita. A monastery was being built at
Samye, after which the centre now in Scotland is named. There were, however, difficulties, and
Santarakshita suggested that the famous Padma Sambhava be asked to come. It was he who
dispelled the difficulties, clearing the way for Tibet to become such a stronghold of the Dharma
in the centuries to come. Since then he has been known as Guru Rinpoche, the "Precious Guru".
Not to get too involved in technicalities, one can say that Chenrezi and Tara are forms of the
Buddha: Chenrezi emphasizes compassion, and Tara emphasizes active help. Her white form is
particularly associated with long life. To one side sat a monk with a flask of water. I turned and
muttered happily for twenty minutes until at eight o'clock nearly everybody left, so I thought I
had better do the same. Outside it was dogs' breakfast time, so I made my way down to the
Guest House to get some myself. Later in the morning four of us went back, and I think we all
felt the same joy at being able to join in this exercise, religious in the simple sense, having more
to do with experiencing beauty, devotion and inspiration in a concrete and natural way than
with philosophy. (When Ato Rinpoche saw pictures of this Lhakhang he recognized the spot
straight away. He told us that it was called Mani Nama, and was considered to be an important
shrine. He related how they would ride on horses to visit it for the day.)

Having shopped for spiritual merit we then went shopping for souvenirs. We had to be careful on
meeting in the street. If we stopped and talked for more than half a minute, the crowd of
observers would grow to the point where all traffic was stopped. As Rosie and I walked down the
main street a small, bent and grimy figure, a woman I believe, came against us and in passing
pushed some paper money into Rosie's hands. How could this be? We could only speculate.

After an early lunch we set out for one of the main goals of our whole trip, Benchen, thirty miles
further up the Kuchu valley. The valley has a broad flat floor, the Pathang (Lotus Plain – the
"th" is pronounced as a breathy "t", rather like what is in the middle of "hot head"), so that the
bounding mountains reach to a wide and open sky. Further south, in the direction of Derge,
mountains at lower altitude are dressed in snow the year round, but at this season here it would
again have been easy to imagine that we were in a particularly beautiful corner of Scotland,
were it not for the depth of blue above. Moving up the Pathang we passed the rocks where Tara
herself is said to have meditated, and Rinpoche pointed out the spot where he was born. He grew
quite excited as we came to the point where, round one more bend in the valley, we would find
his home.

The monastery is classically situated, looking out from the foot of a small side-valley. It lies at
the foot of Tashi Lhatse, and above on the slopes of this mountain is the now rebuilt retreat cave
of Sangye Nyenpa, the most important of the Benchen tulkus. Way across the plain the Shiri Jao
rises abruptly, firmly dividing the Pathang from the Ledrong Tatse plain beyond. To the left
gleams a row of eight new stupas, and a few hundred yards to the right is a small village to
which Chinese people have been moved. Our visit had been unannounced, but within a few
minutes we were surrounded by more curious monks than we had expected to be living there.
The present Sangye Nyenpa tulku is in his late twenties, was born Bhutanese, and had just been
able to make his first visit to Benchen. In fact it is likely that we had passed him leaving as we
made our own way up, and it is not impossible that the authorities had had a hand in the lack of
overlap between his presence and that of Chime Rinpoche. During his visit he had ordained new
monks, so that although the official limit was thirty we found eighty or more there, and must
hope that this does not cause them any problems.

Only four of the present residents could actually remember Rinpoche. One was Bukar, the
master of ceremonies. A second, Ado Lama, had been in retreat for five years, and Rinpoche
asked one of the young monks to take a message to him, to the effect that he should come and
join us. The would-be messenger replied that it was up to Chime to go up and see Ado Lama, but
was told just to take the message that we were here. It perhaps had some impact that in
response to this reduced message Ado immediately came down.

We were taken inside the main building and led to the abbot's room, where we squeezed up
against one side while the fascinated monks stood and watched. Rinpoche was, throughout the
trip, very worried about our health, and told us "Don't eat the meat – it's seven months old.
Don't drink the tea – you'll get dysentery. Eat cookies – they are in packets!" To avoid giving
offence he then "explained" that we had all been very ill, and that we were therefore unable to
accept the kind offerings. We had come from so far away bearing gifts, and they wanted to offer
us something valuable in return. Sweet potatoes? Butter?

In the main hall we were all given seats of honour. This hall would not normally be entered by
lay people at all, yet we were made to sit down on the front rows of benches, which would as a
rule be reserved for those monks who had completed their three years' retreat. In the Kagyu
tradition the title "lama" is reserved for those who have performed this retreat. The exact
contents may vary, but this rule does at least ensure that a lama has completed a certain
amount of practice and can competently carry out certain basic religious functions. When
preceded by sufficient preparation, both theoretical and practical, it is said that it is even
possible to become fully enlightened in this short time. The rule also helps to reduce, although
unfortunately not quite eliminate, the silly phenomenon of the self-appointed lama. The gifts
were presented, and the large thangka of Zhing Chong, two protectors particularly associated
with Benchen, was unrolled and hung. We then shortly recited the practice of Chenrezi, the
embodiment of compassion, with the tunes used at Marpa House. This special moment in the
meeting between here and there brought tears to many eyes. Who was home, and who was
away? In the doorway as we left Rinpoche's hand was seized by an old lady, who herself was
overcome with tears at his return. So many years that he had had to live so far away, was he all
right, was he getting enough to eat in those foreign lands?

Outside again we looked at more of the monastery, and many photographs were taken. The
ruins of Rinpoche's house, he himself walking hand in hand with his old friend Tashi Dorje
(more often called Tado, or Senge, "Lion"), the chortens, the monks with and without the western
visitors, all were recorded on film. White scarves were given to all, including our national and
local guides. Next to the stupas is a house for a large prayer wheel which was unlocked so that
we could again push such a device round. Pictures of lamas and deities, pens and all possible
small gifts were given away. Frankly the younger monks, quite fresh and untrained as they
were, can only be described as greedy for these things. The sun was very hot, and for a while we
sat in the shade of the bus while Rinpoche talked to his old friends. My pocket Tibetan phrase
book was found to be very amusing. I never did manage to come close enough with my
pronunciation for "This is not a Polaroid camera" to be understood. Although the Tibetan lines in
the book were read by several of the monks, I am not convinced that its function was actually
understood.

To have spent significant time there, weeks or months practicing, studying and getting to know
the place would have been wonderful, but that was not our fate. As it was, it would have been
pointless to prolong our visit, so by late afternoon we made our way, with full hearts, back to
Jyekundo.
 BACK AND ROUND
We had a problem. When we had first approached Jyekundo, Rinpoche had pointed out the
house of his female cousin, and she and her husband joined us for the evening meal. This then
gave him the opportunity to disappear with his relatives while decisions over our problem were
taken: the temptation otherwise would have been for us to try to leave the decision to him,
something he often does not want.

Our next major destination was Lhasa, and technically one could describe three routes. The first
would be nominally direct, overland in a south-westerly direction. We believed that Sangye
Nyenpa had left for Lhasa and Tsurphu along this route. This possibility was really only
technical, as the roads would be too difficult, long and slow for the time available, especially in a
bus, and for this reason we had a 'plane booking from Chengdu to Lhasa. So that left the two
possible ways to reach Chengdu. The planned route was to go back the way we had come to
Xining, then with train or bus to Lanzhou, from where we were to fly south to Chengdu. There
existed however a direct road to Chengdu. Doctor Charlie was very unwilling for us to take the
first of these real options. He said in fact that he could not allow it, because there was, in his
estimation, a fifty percent probability that Tom would die should we go again to the same
altitude. We had seven hours worth of oxygen, and would be unlikely to be able to get more in
Maduo. Three of us having suffered really badly, seven hours was not a lot. The direct road had,
at first sight, everything in its favour: it was said to be beautiful, was relatively short, and, most
importantly, while it would undoubtedly climb and sink, the overall trend was continuously
down.

The matter was not, unfortunately, quite so simple. The direct route had certain dangers, not so
much in the sense of falling off the mountainside (a danger which is real enough elsewhere), but
rather a danger of being stuck due to landslides. Parts of the area concerned were potentially
very muddy, and there had been an unusual amount of rain in the recent weeks. For all its
shortness, it could be very slow, as certain sections were single track, and supplied with a
telephone at each end. If one arrived and found, so to speak, that the lights had just turned
against one, it would be necessary to wait until the oncoming traffic had come through, a process
which would take at best many hours, even, rumour had it, up to a day. There thus arose the
very possible vision of setting off in that direction, having to turn back due to landslides, and two
exhausting days later still have to go back over Amdo. It would even have been far from
impossible that we could simply get stuck in the mud, with a few tins of luncheon meat to see us
through, until either help happened to come by, or until someone walked a couple of hundred
miles to the next telephone, whichever was sooner. Then again, in favour of the original plan,
was the fact that by now we had spent several days at altitudes from 3700 metres upwards, and
must have become to some small but significant extent acclimatized. It was of course impossible
to know just how great this effect would be.

Great but apparently fruitless efforts were also being made by Pamela to find a jeep, with the
intention that the most endangered three could perhaps go over the heights at greater speed
than would be possible in the bus. In the event the decision was taken out of our hands by the
drivers, who had been gathering as much information as they could at the petrol station. There
were no observation points on the road from which news could be directly gained, but it seemed
that in fact no vehicle had come from that direction for two weeks. Light as the traffic there may
be, this was fairly conclusive evidence for a blocked road, so, come what may, the only way out
was the way we had come. The final news before we went for a worried night's sleep was that,
against the odds, a jeep had been found, so we should be ready for a very early start.

We were. The jeep was not. A group decision was taken not to get into the bus until the jeep
turned up. Had we been just two or three people we could have more easily been left with our
own problems, but one bit of leverage we had was that a group of two dozen was just too large to
be ignored. So for a few hours we just had to sit and wait, during which time we were again the
objects of much fascinated staring. The day before we had had an encounter in the street with a
monk. This encounter had also begun with a close examination of my mala, which he took and
fingered thoughtfully during our conversation. Rosie has studied Tibetan for some years, but
mainly in the context of the highly specialized and literary language of the Dharma, so she had
been very pleased to discover that, although there might be difficulties, it was possible for a
conversation to function. This same monk was showing great interest in some writing that
Jackie was doing on the guest-house steps, when he was spoken to by an older Tibetan, evidently
one who had some official status. The words must have boiled down to "Get out". The monk did
then go to the gate, but some sort of slanging match then ensued. I suspect it was then fortunate
that a teenage girl now appeared from the crowd, took the monk firmly by the arm and hustled
him rapidly off down the street, with an air of knowing what she was doing.

Meanwhile the story of the jeep had reached its climax. A local official had decided to use the one
that had been arranged the day before, and there was no question of the reversal of such a
decision. Against yet greater odds another had been found, and had even arrived outside the
hotel. A Chinese model, it was effectively unsprung and low powered. Tom, being the most
endangered, had made an inspection and concluded that the extra speed would be negligible and
the discomfort far greater. Our drivers were willing to make the journey straight through, so the
jeep was declined and the familiar bus was loaded with the remaining baggage. At the corner of
the market square was a shop, mysteriously known as the department store, and between us we
had bought it out of Seven-up as well as of pork luncheon meat. Armed with these extra
provisions we should be able to travel without concern as to where to stop and eat, so we all set
out as one group for Xining.

That, at least, was what we first thought. Before we got out of the town somebody asked
"Where's Pippa?", a question which changed our opinion. She had been quite ill as a result of
altitude and possibly food, and had, it was said, behaved in a somewhat disoriented way that
morning. Could she be lost in the town, perhaps panicking? Good sense put the brake on a
general search by all of the group – goodness only knows how long it would have taken to
reassemble – and only the guides went to look. It turned out that the fears were unfounded: she
had been happily asleep in the guest house.

The next twenty-four hours were then given over to travelling. We stopped once to eat the
luncheon meat, cookies and whatever other bits had been assembled. While we westerners
shared knives the drivers simply used a screwdriver. While travelling, they took turns to sleep
on the air-bed that was part of their kit, while the rest of us struggled as best as possible to nap
leaning against each other or against the window. In the afternoon I had a chance to experience
one of the more pleasant effects of high altitude. A Tibetan Lama who used to live in
Birmingham once told me that he felt the winters even there, let alone in Scotland, to be harder
than those in Tibet. The temperature in Tibet may be frighteningly low, but he thin dry air does
not draw so much heat from the body. So, noticing that the ground outside had become white
from hail which was not melting, I knew that the outside temperature was well below zero.
Admittedly we were in a bus and I was wearing a jacket over my T-shirt, but the bus was
unheated and the jacket wide open, yet I had not noticed any feeling of cold at all.

At three in the morning a whistling bang announced the burst of one of the rear tyres, but as the
ground at that point was soft we drove slowly for another hour to firm road. I think it took
twenty minutes at most for the two heroes to jack up the bus, take off the outer and inner
wheels, fit the spare and be ready to go again. In this time lightning flickered all around, but it
remained dry and the drivers maintained a constant stream of joking between themselves and
the guides. In the middle of the next morning we rolled once more into Xining to find that the
hotel we had used before – the best hotel in Qinghai province, let it be said, could let us have
rooms for the day. So we were able to shower, eat, rest and even nap, although not to change
clothes.

It had been planned to take the train from Xining to Lanzhou, but it seems that we had more
luggage than had initially been envisaged, so later in the afternoon we set out in two small
Japanese buses. Although more comfortable, one bus had gearbox trouble, and we missed the
rough panache of the two drivers who had taken us to Benchen and back. I had thought that the
Yangtze was brown, but in comparison to the river we now passed it was but lightly stained.
Jack told us that this was the Yellow Earth River, not to be confused with the better known
Yellow River. As the hours went by the landscape gained more signs of heavy industry, as iron
furnaces glowed in the gathering dusk, and in the late evening we reached the First Airport
Hotel, Lanzhou.

The illuminated "Restaurant" sign turned out to indicate merely the location of the building
concerned, not its operational state, and the rooms were tiny, dim and (to judge from the reports
of those who took the trouble to examine the bed-linen) not entirely clean, so many of us decided
to finish the day with a little party. We bought the entire stock of the hotel bar – three bottles of
beer – and shared it on the steps until at eleven o'clock the staff indicated that they wanted to
lock up, thus curtailing any temptation to drunken excess.

Getting on the 'plane, a little high-winged turbo-prop, was not without incident. Oddly enough
Gary, who had often been stopped and asked to explain the bag of tools he had always with him,
was not questioned, and it was not until we were seated on the 'plane that trouble began. Jack
had waited outside the hotel the night before in order to check the safe arrival of our luggage. He
had hoped that, by checking it in at the airport at that time, our places would be to an extent
secured, but in fact it was not possible to register it until the morning. Nevertheless we had got
as far as our seats when it was announced that the owner of a certain suitcase should go outside.
Looking out of the window, the case was seen to be Wolfgang's, who went to open it, had it
looked through, and was allowed back on. Why? I don't know. The next stage was a bit more
serious. The pilot now decided that the load was too great, and that not everybody with a
boarding card could in fact fly. The victim was to be Jack. Without him we would have been lost,
and it again came in handy that we were a relatively large group. The threat that if Jack was to
be left then we were all getting off, and that then twenty four foreigners would have to be dealt
with, seemed to be effective, and some other poor passengers were sacrificed in place of our
guide.

In a dog's leg flight that included a forty-minute stop in Xian we came to Chengdu. The first
restaurant with its spicy Szechwan food was as exceptionally good as Martin, the new local
guide, was bad.

"The, ah, the road, yes, ah, the road we are on, ah, now on, we are on Peoples' Road, yes, ah,
Peoples' Road." In this manner he informed us that the district to the east of Peoples' Road was
called the East District, and then went on, lest we remained in doubt, to make clear that the
district to the west of Peoples' Road was called the West District. We declined the offer of a city
tour, and remained satisfied with a view of the massive concrete statue of Chairman Mao, said
to be the last such monument still standing. To be quite fair, it is possible that Martin had had
little opportunity to practice English, and we had no occasion to complain of his organizational
ability.

The mood that evening was strange. We ate in the hotel itself, and then gradually gathered in
the bar. Rinpoche invited everyone to drink at his expense, but the mood was not light, and I can
only guess at what was on his mind from a few statements that he made around that time. He
mentioned that, before we left, he had said to his former wife that he no longer knew where his
home was; she had replied that his home was now Europe. Through his altitude sickness – he
was now saying that this was his last trip back – and through the dwindling number at Benchen
who knew him from the "old days", he had come to feel that Kham was really no longer his
home. My guess is that the realization that geography and history had conspired to make him a
lifelong exile was in fact a matter of some sadness.

Most of us were therefore a bit bleary-eyed the next morning as we made our way to the airport,
and this state did not exactly enhance our reaction when we discovered that our 'plane would not
fly. The fact that our luggage had been still in the corridor when we got up, although we had
been asked to put it out at the latest by ten the night before, should have rung warning bells.
Officially our flight was due to depart the next day, but the reputation of CAAC as "China
Airways Always Cancels" was well known to us, so no-one was prepared to count on it. Our
whole schedule was tight, and the loss of a day was serious. Should we lose tomorrow as well,
the entire possibility of visiting Lhasa and Tsurphu would be called into question. The minutes
as we sat on a wall in the car park, waiting for a bus to take us back to the hotel again, were
possibly the one time when the spirits of the group as a whole were at a low ebb. Luckily the
waste paper bins at Chengdu Airport are modelled in the form of frogs. When Rinpoche started
hopping around in a half-crouch imitating one of these no-one could help but laugh.

Not without difficulty, we persuaded the staff in the "Western Restaurant" at the hotel that the
times advertised and the presence of eaters meant that they were open for business. We got
some breakfast, and now had a whole day to use. We had however already passed by the statue
of Chairman Mao a number of times, so serious sightseeing was once again on the day's agenda.
A Buddhist in Chengdu really should visit Longchen Jingri (the giant Buddha at Leshan), but
this is several hours' ride in each direction, and our early start had already been used up. I have
seen some of Ato Rinpoche's slides of this place, and we really did miss something. However
Chengdu is a major centre for embroidery and brocade, and the two factory visits we were
offered were in fact well worth making. The master-works displayed in the embroidery
showrooms were of extraordinary fineness, but one would need very special quarters to house
them properly. In the brocade factory we had a surprise. Lamas visiting the west are quite fond
of giving away silken pictures of golden Buddhas, about six inches by eight. Here we saw the
very machine on which they were being turned out in metre wide rolls, an endless loop of
punched card turning above the machine holding the weaving program. The next loom was doing
just the same, but this one was producing green Taras, which are not so often seen. These two
made the favourite purchases in the factory shop, as all of us had the same idea of using them as
presents when we got home. Rinpoche bought about forty of each. Charlie bought a couple of silk
shirts, having shifted his interest from yoghurt. A show-piece at this factory was a loom, of long-
outdated design, which had been rebuilt and was actually being worked. Of course it was only
there as a tourist attraction – there was no claim otherwise. Its output rate is, by today's
standards, far too low, but the pattern it was producing had an almost magical shimmer, with
colours that changed with lighting angle in a striking yet subtle manner. We were able to buy a
small piece, with the plan of using it to make the ornamental squares on book covers. (Tibetan
books consist essentially of a bundle of pages, five times as wide as long, so that each side might
have just six rather long lines on it. The covers are squares of cloth, on one corner of which is a
smaller square of preferably higher quality material, to which a tape is attached which in turn is
used to fasten the book after it has been carefully wrapped.)

In the late afternoon Rosie and I had an educative experience regarding the Chinese national
character and the unwillingness to lose face. We had gone to the bar, and Rosie wanted a gin
and tonic, which was on the card in English as well as Chinese. I was thus fairly confident that
our wish had been communicated, and was answered with smiles and nods. My coffee was
brought. In no hurry, I drank it. No gin and tonic. I went again to the bar, and tried to clarify
our wish. Smiles and nods. No gin and tonic. After about half an hour during which the bar staff
had had their heads together a waitress brought a piece of paper on which was pencilled "Sorry,
waiting a minute." Slightly mollified, we waited on. Ten more minutes later I saw a member of
the hotel staff passing the window outside, waving and smiling at me as he pointed at a
cardboard box in his arms. Shortly after this the gin and tonic arrived. It was accompanied by a
brandy for me. Very decent, I thought, an apology for the lateness. When later I saw the brandy
on the bill I didn't want to lose face, so I paid for it without question.

A sensible bed-time meant that the alarm call at a quarter past four the next morning was
easier to bear than that of the previous day, and an encouraging sign was that the luggage had
indeed been taken in the night. According to plan it should have been checked in at three in the
morning. Today would be Lhasa or bust. We tried to keep calm by joking that we would quite
happily say goodbye to the luggage as long as we got through ourselves, and by reminding
ourselves that the uncertainty was all part of the process.
 LHASA
Scarcely a bush, not to speak at all of a tree, was to be seen on the hillsides as we flew down the
Lhasa valley. Outside the small terminal, the first impression was of beggars. A band of dirty
children worked the airport, stretching their black hands towards us, pleading with their eyes.
Only on their upper lips could the true colour of their skin be seen, where a stream of snot rinsed
the dirt away. There have always been beggars in Tibet, as throughout Asia, but somehow this
seemed to be different. With the tourists like ourselves passing through the Chinese staffed
airport, we sensed the sad process by which they were being made strangers in their own land.
Soon all our snacks saved from the 'plane were gone, and a few small notes of local currency too.

More than fifty miles of the Yarlung valley separates the airport from Lhasa itself. It is
remarkable, in the light of the sparse tufts of vegetation on the rocky hillsides, just how much
water flows both in the river itself and through irrigation channels which wind across the stony,
wide and flat valley floor. The highlights of this journey were a set of long-life deities painted on
the cliffs, and a yak-hide coracle. Both of these sights brought most of the cameras out.

The sight of Lhasa itself was deeply depressing. "Lhasa" means "ground of the gods", and as well
as being the capital of Tibet it was always regarded as a holy city. The Jokhang is there, housing
what could even be regarded as the most sacred image in the world, as well as the famous Potala
palace, seat of the Dalai Lamas. Pilgrims have prostrated their way, "measuring their length",
for hundreds of miles to Lhasa, or made similar progress around the city and its revered
contents. For most of our group Lhasa is a city that has lived for years in our imaginations,
whose tales we had read and with whose photographs we were quite familiar. Thus to see the
extent of the crude new building, concrete, iron and glass, at best featureless and at worst
downright ugly, was to see the meaning of the word disfigurement: the very architecture spoke
again of the alienation of the Tibetan culture in its own heartland.

In our sensitive state this disfigurement was almost too much to bear. Personally I am not
enormously impressed by the stories which are sometimes put forward as evidence for rebirth.
Many are fascinating, and I would certainly agree that some are very suggestive, but even the
best have an element of ambivalence. My own conviction is based more on the sheer
reasonableness of the principle, but this is not the place for a metaphysical essay: I mention it
because at this point it was possible to think that memories of past lives were moving a little
nearer the surface than normal. Of course we can not know.

The Holiday Inn at least did not pretend to be anything other than what it is, namely a
comfortable modern hotel. After a buffet lunch we had time to rest, and to observe that we
meant what we said. The luggage had not been seen since Chengdu, and nobody knew where it
was. Jack assured us that it was bound to be somewhere in Lhasa, but we knew that he would
not want to give us bad news. All the same, nobody was upset. We were here, and if the luggage
should follow, so much the better.

The first Lhasa visit was to the medical school, near the city centre. I found some irony in this,
as the second most noticeable landmark in Lhasa is a radio tower built on top of the only hill in
the city other than that of the Potala itself. On this hill used to stand Tibet's most important
medical college, Chakpori, of which no stone remains standing. I was thus very dubious about
what we were about to be shown, but it in fact transpired to be quite straightforward. A simple
talk about the history of the school was given by a Tibetan doctor, after which we were first
shown an important collection of medical thangkas used in the training, and then a small but
fascinating museum. A medical text written in gold ink on paper of lapis lazuli, both toners
being undoubtedly manufactured from the real substance, can only be described as exquisite.

We were then let loose. The Jokhang, generally considered the holiest temple in Tibet, was only
a couple of hundred yards away, and round it runs the Barkhor or "middle circuit". This was our
magnet. The simplest thing to do here is simply to circulate, clockwise of course. If one can
withstand the never ending calls of "Hallo, how much?" one can browse in the stalls, most of
which are selling items for religious use. Naturally enough the quality varies, and is often low,
and the prices first quoted should not been taken seriously. We gradually learnt that as a rough
guide one should think of half the quote – to come down to one third may need really hard
bargaining, but every case is different. The next day we were due to go to Tsurphu, so we wanted
some khatas, the scarves, usually white, that are given to honour lamas, dignitaries, statues and
the like. We were lucky enough to get instruction in their price after we began to look at the first
khata stall. Our negotiations were observed by an old man wearing a coolie hat, wispy beard and
accompanied by a child I took to be his grand-daughter. He soon interrupted the proceedings.
After a few words with the stall-holder, he motioned to us to follow him to another stall, which
was half way round the temple. Here he entered into fresh bargaining, and after at least ten
minutes we got exactly what we wanted, and paid a price which, if I counted correctly, was in
the region of one fifth of the initial asking. At the end of all this the stall holder grinned at our
friend, tugging at his own chin as he spoke. It seemed that "You've got a long beard" was a
compliment to our friend's bargaining skill. This was but one of the many occasions when the
good nature of the Tibetan stall-holders and street peddlers was to be noticed, for we felt that
the commercial defeat was, in its own way, enjoyed. The women merchants tended to be more
playful: some would grab you by the hand and try to pull you to their stall, attempting to
interest you in their wares by using their best English. Usually this was limited to "Hallo, how
much?" and "Di silibu" ("This is silver"), but was on occasion augmented with "I love you."

We bought souvenirs, looked and were looked at. The beggars had variety. A few bunches of lads
in dharma robes were vigorously reciting, and gave a nod of recognition if money was put in
their box. When I gave a note to one older, very loud-voiced "monk", he got up and waved it at
me, indicating that it was not enough, so I took it back and moved on. One is regularly
approached with odd offers: a statuette will be pulled out of a pocket and surreptitiously shown,
or one hears "Thangka, how much?" whispered in ones ear. I was shown a corner of a bone apron
peeping from a small sack. Had it been the genuine article, carved from human bone and used
perhaps in the rites of Kalachakra it would have been worth a fortune, but it is just as possible
that the conspiratorial approach is part of the standard technique for off-loading an imitation,
carved from cow bone last week in Nepal. Singing and dancing is always going on in the new
square to the front of the Jokhang. Often the performers are broad-faced Khampas, the men
having red braid attached to their hair and wound around their heads. The sounds were
sometimes reminiscent of African music, sometimes of Irish (Ato Rinpoche once told me that
when he first heard real Irish music he thought "Oh, that sounds almost Tibetan!").

The following day we made our visit to Tsurphu. Most of us were in presentable clothes, the bags
having indeed found their way to the hotel. The rumours emanating from the silly wing of the
European following of the Karma Kagyu had included the requirement to change inordinate
amounts of money, the possibility that the Karmapa would be sitting behind armoured glass,
and obtrusive controls by the Chinese police. None were true. While one must recognize that
China is a police state, and one in which the regulations actually enforced can change at a faster
or at a slower rate than those officially laid down, it must be said that the procedure was simple.
One gets hold of a vehicle and goes. In order to stay overnight or longer it is true that permission
is needed, but the people to whom we spoke and who had applied for such permission had
obtained it without problem.

Tsurphu is the traditional head monastery of the Karma Kagyu school. This school is perhaps
the biggest but by no means the only branch of the Kagyu, which broadly speaking can all be
traced back to Marpa the Translator. The Nyingma ("Old style") school traces its origins to Guru
Rinpoche, who holds an exceptionally high place in their system, although he is also greatly
revered by the other schools, the Kagyu, the Sakya and the Gelugpa. Some time after Guru
Rinpoche's work at Samye there was a period of severe disruption for the Dharma in Tibet, and
these other schools have their origins in the following period of renewal, therefore being called
the Sarma ("New style") traditions. Marpa, who was active in the eleventh century (CE), made
three journeys to India, bringing a number of teachings back to Tibet, two of which were of the
highest importance. These were the Mahamudra (Great Seal) which he studied under Maitripa,
and the Six Doctrines which he obtained from his root lama, Naropa.

The Mahamudra teachings concern themselves directly with the true nature of the mind. Their
central point is the recognition of that true nature, something which requires a very special
conjunction of clarity of intellect on the part of the student and realization on the part of the
lama. There is a body of associated teaching, theoretical and practical, which serves both to help
the student towards that clarity and as a guide to the main practice. The recognition itself is not
enough: practice is needed to make it real and effective. Without practice the memory of the
experience could even degenerate to a source of pride. (As a companion for the "I Climbed the
Great Wall" T-shirt, one could get one saying "I Saw the True Nature of the Mind". Please
forgive my bad taste.) The theoretical teachings are moderately concise, and a reasonably sound
grasp of the most important points could be gained in a few weeks of study, although of course a
teacher would need to have a wider knowledge.

The Six Doctrines of Naropa lead in precisely the same direction, and are considered as an
extremely powerful aid, both in developing the ability to recognize the true nature of the mind
and in the following practice for its stabilization. These doctrines concern the manipulation of
psycho-somatic energy, and as such an extremely thorough preparation is essential. In Benchen,
those lamas who were taught the Six Doctrines studied their theory for two years before
entering a three-year retreat, and only began the practice of the Six Doctrines towards the end of
those three years.

Marpa's best known disciple was the famous Milarepa. After his years with Marpa he spent
many more years practicing Mahamudra and the Six Doctrines in caves and wildernesses. His
practice of the Six Doctrines emphasized Tummo, the first of the six, which has the effect of
producing bodily warmth.

While Marpa was a well-to-do farmer and Milarepa an ascetic, Gampopa, the most important
disciple of Milarepa, was a monk, although in his early life he had been a doctor. It was
Gampopa who gave the Kagyu school an organized basis. He wrote one of its best known text
books, The Jewel Ornament of Liberation, and emphasized the direct pointing to the nature of
the mind which is central to Mahamudra. It is after Gampopa that the principal fork in the
Kagyu lineages comes: the Karma Kagyu is the transmission which now passed through
Gampopa's disciple Dusum Khyenpa, the first Karmapa, while most of the others are traced
through another disciple, Phagmo Dru. It was Dusum Khyenpa who founded Tsurphu.

The distance from Lhasa to Tsurphu is only about fifty miles, but the second half follows what is
better called a track than a road. The bus we were using in Lhasa was not big enough for all of
us, so Rinpoche and a couple of others travelled in a jeep. On the first evening he had had a hair-
cut, and those of us in the bus were surprised to see that sometime during the journey – the jeep
had been a few hundred yards in front of the bus even during the pee-breaks – he had completed
his increase in respectability by changing into a formal chuba. The road leads up a long valley
which narrows to less than a hundred yards by the time Tsurphu itself is reached. High on the
hill above the monastery is a retreat which has been used by a number of the Karmapas, most
notably by Dusum Khyenpa and by Karma Pakshi, round which large birds were wheeling. On
the hillside opposite is what looks at first like a wide set of steps going nowhere. In fact it is a
display area for the enormous thangkas that some monasteries have, and which are shown
during festivals at certain times of year. We had previously joked about the inaccurate
descriptions on the back of those Chinese post-cards which show Tibet, and it reminded us of the
one that pictured such a thangka being "aired", as if this were a measure against moths.

We did not know exactly what would happen on our arrival, and hoped that it might be possible
to meet the Karmapa on some kind of personal basis, but after some negotiation it appeared that
only Rinpoche and his servant would be allowed up. Who was his servant? The question was in
fact irrelevant, as Rinpoche had said that we were all together. The whole possibility was
therefore ruled out. We learnt that Sangye Nyenpa was here, although again we had passed him
on the road, since he had just left to pay a visit somewhere nearby. The number of people around
the complex was not large. Some were beggars, and so Rinpoche asked us to eat our hotel-packed
lunches on the bus, which under the circumstances was only decent.

The main hall may be newly rebuilt, but it did have a powerful sense of presence. Heavy pillars
shaped the darkness, while fine thangkas hung on the walls. In front of the central figure was a
small casket, within which a yet smaller casket held a statue which is one of the treasures of the
Karma Kagyu. It had been preserved in Rumtek during the worst of the troubles, and was of
Mikyo Dorje, the eighth Karmapa, who had made it himself. When it was finished, Mikyo Dorje
asked it if it was a good likeness, and the statue replied "Of course!"

Afterwards I was able to take one of the photographs obligatory for the Tibetan tourist – a yak.
As Rosie and I sat on a wall talking, we were watched by a young monk, maybe ten years old,
who squatted before us in the dust. Rosie asked him his name – "Yonten Wangchuk" was the
squeaky reply. I signalled to him my request that I would like to take his photograph. He
nodded, but as I raised the camera he stood up and backed away. Thinking that there had been a
misunderstanding I took the camera away from my face, and seeing his expectant look I then
understood. He had simply assumed the "correct" posture to be photographed, standing full-face
with the feet at an angle of one hundred and twenty degrees to one another.

Shortly before two o'clock Rinpoche had in fact had a brief introduction to the Karmapa, and the
two large incense burners on either side of the main steps were lit. Upstairs the chalings started
to play, and this was the signal for all to scurry through the entrance. It was then necessary to
go up a short set of wooden stairs, an act which may sound easy. The stairs concerned however
were narrow, steep, roughly made and lacked any form of railing, so that although they would
definitely qualify as stairs rather than as a ladder, this would be by but a short head. Add to this
a hundred Tibetans of all ages pushing like fury to get to the blessing, and you have the final
ingredient that made the short climb a slightly dangerous and for a moment frightening
experience. All bags, cameras and the like had to be left outside the room itself, and then we
entered. The queue stretched round the room. To the left a monk was collecting the white
scarves, his arms and the table beside him already heaped high. To the right another was giving
everyone a blessing cord, pieces of red wool having a knot tied by the Karmapa, which would
then be worn round the neck. Directly across was the throne, at least five feet high, on which the
incarnation sat. He was giving the blessings in the manner traditional for such important lamas:
he held a short stick, from which tassels hung, with which he touched the head of each person as
they came by. As I looked across my eyes shortly met his clear, direct gaze.

Soon the process was over and our group gathered again outside the room. Sangye Nyenpa had
returned, and we went to talk to him – his English is good – and meanwhile a constant stream of
Tibetans came for blessings. I was moved by the gratefulness with which one old and nearly
blind woman approached so that he could blow on her eyes. We were hoping to see him again, as
he was due to fly to Hong Kong, and for the first leg of this journey he was booked on the same
'plane out of Lhasa as we were.

We bumped our way back to Lhasa, and not without incident. A few miles from Tsurphu the bus
got truly stuck, having manoeuvred to avoid an oncoming vehicle. Dieter, together with Li, our
local guide for Lhasa, got out and succeeded in moving a critical rock, but in the moment of
success an extremely heavy stone got dropped on Li's finger, which caused her very severe pain
for hours, and some pain for days. At the next major bump Claudia's bag fell off the rack onto
Rosie's head, which caused Rosie to have a shock, and Claudia's camera to cease functioning.
Just before we reached the better road we passed a musical play being performed before a crowd
of local people. It seemed to be some sort of feast, and the delay while we looked at this caused Li
some anguish – she really did need some proper attention to her hand. As we approached Lhasa
we were made to pull in, because the bus was dirty, and dirty vehicles are not allowed into the
city. This meant that a compulsory spraying down was required. For a moment here Rosie could
not believe her eyes, as amongst the passengers of the lorry that was being washed in front of us
was a monk, a Tibetan, she knew from a course in Nepal. Tenga Rinpoche is another of the
Benchen tulkus, and the monk was one of his. It turned out that he was travelling with the
family of the Karmapa, whose parents were also in the lorry with their other children. The
Karmapa has been born to a poor nomad family from Kham, and it is not altogether easy to
imagine how great a change this must have made to their lives.
We were back in time to do more shopping, which was important since money had been collected
to buy a thank-you present for Bridgid. She had been secretary of Marpa house for two years,
and although she had left this position in the spring she had continued doing Rinpoche's own
secretarial work, in particular regarding the arrangements for this trip. It had been on her that
all the little but important, worrying and manifold organizational duties had fallen. A few of us
therefore took rickshaws in to the Barkhor. For a moment one can have doubts about the
properness of being pedalled around by someone who looks as if he could do with a few good
meals, but it is an honest living, and he is more likely to get those meals if he is given trade than
if he is merely pitied.

Rosie's ability to get by in Tibetan was again an enormous help. The plan was to get a rupa, a
statue of some form of the Buddha, but most of the rupas that we had seen on the open stalls
were not of a very impressive quality. Rosie asked a passing monk if he could advise us. He
began to show us the way, but when Rosie said that it should be of quite good quality he
abruptly turned round and led us in the opposite direction, to a shop which, while not exactly
hidden, could have taken us many hours to find by ourselves. Here, with his help, we
successfully negotiated for a very attractive Tara. We all shared the idea that the blessing cords
we had been given were ones that we wanted to keep for longer than the year or two that such
cords normally take to fall off, and so we also bought gaus. These are ornamented boxes,
designed to be hung around the neck, in which blessed pills, scraps of great lamas' robes or any
other assorted relics can be kept.

The next day was to be our last in Lhasa, and the program was full. I was one of the very few
who had slept through the earthquake in the night, so was mainly a listener at the breakfast
table. The quake can not have been small: a swimming pool was being built in the hotel grounds,
and I had already wondered if the tiles were being removed that morning because they had been
laid the wrong way round. The fact was that they were too badly damaged. Destination number
one was the Potala itself. On the way in and out of the centre of Lhasa we had noticed a spot
where every possible hanging point had been used for prayer flags, and we now understood that
this was the Potala's entrance. In theory, the bus was to take us most of the way up, but this
turned out to be more than the engine could handle. Perhaps it objected to being used to mount
the paths that for centuries before had only been climbed by humans and horses. We were in any
case not unhappy to use our own energy, taking care to go very slowly. The visit took some two
hours, at the end of which I felt that I had seen much that was impressive, much that was
interesting, but rather less that was moving, since in its present state the Potala is primarily a
museum. There was, for instance, a collection of several hundred statues, most of them,
considered individually, of great beauty, but stacked in rows next to one another behind chicken-
wire, and without the least attempt to set them in their traditional context. The Potala's
atmosphere is somewhere between that of a cathedral and a castle, and even within the limited
part that is open to the public it would be very easy to get lost. In many places it was necessary
to queue before descending dark and narrow staircases, then queue to get back up again.
Photographs of most of the interesting contents can easily be obtained, but I have never seen
any that gave a true impression of the enormous size of the tombs of some of the later Dalai
Lamas. Rinpoche made a very clear point of the number of schools, hospitals and the like that
could have been provided with the gold that made just one of these tombs, a point that was not
lost on Li. Into the interesting category fell the Dalai Lama's private quarters, at once both
religious and elegant. Yet some impressions were indeed moving: the chapel of Srongsten Gampo
who first began building on the site of the Potala, the stone bearing a footprint of Nagarjuna,
and the singing of the Tibetans at work on restoration, to name three.

Most of the visitors were Tibetan, many of them carrying burning butter lamps. By this means it
is possible to pour a little butter as an offering into the fixed lamp at each altar as one passes.
Some of the visitors were European tourists, and it was by the biggest of the tombs, that of the
thirteenth Dalai Lama, that we noticed with some surprise Chinese army officers, with several
pips on their shoulders, touring round with the rest of us. At one point I realized that I had been
somewhat naive, having begun to talk freely to a friendly Tibetan who asked us who we were,
who we were with, what we were doing and so forth. It is possible that he was just being
friendly, but he was in fact behaving in the classic style of the informant, and it took me a
minute before that fact dawned on me. I do not know what I could have said that would cause a
problem, but it is simply wise in such cases to say as little as possible.

On the roof Rinpoche was keen to pose for photographs, as he was later, on the roof of the
Jokhang and in the Norbu Lingka. If I may take the liberty of speaking for him, I believe that he
recognizes that the old Tibet is quite simply gone. While much that may have happened during
its passing may have been deeply wrong, nevertheless many aspects of what have gone were also
far from perfect, not least the autocracy of the central government. I suspect that these
photographs, taken in places that once were quite inaccessible, represent for him the hope and
the possibility, remote as it may be, that something better may yet develop.

Back at ground level, having stood with outstretched jackets to screen those who needed to pee,
the second visit was the Jokhang. The statue of Shakyamuni Buddha known as the Jowo is the
most important of the Jokhang's contents: "Jokhang" in fact just means "House of the Jowo". In
the past there had been those who had travelled on foot from East Tibet, even from China and
Japan, to make pilgrimage to the Jowo. The princess Wen Cheng, she who broke her mirror on
the way to marry Srongsten Gampo, had brought it as a gift from her father, the Chinese
Emperor. It had been given to China generations before, and is said to have been made during
the lifetime of the Buddha himself and to have been blessed by him. In any event, even by the
time of its arrival in Tibet, it was one of the most famous statues in the Buddhist world. Initially
a temple was built outside Lhasa to house it, and it was only later moved to its present site.
Rinpoche commented that he might make jokes by the tomb of the Dalai Lama, but about this
statue he would not. The tendency to take for granted the continued presence of something that
is easily available is widespread amongst the human race, and Rinpoche told us of a Tibetan
saying in this connection. When, let us say, a husband is treating his wife with the inattention
that can be bred from familiarity, she may tell him "not to be like a Lhasa resident with the
Jowo."

Prostrators were busy outside the main entrance to the Jokhang, as they always are. Inside
massive restoration work was going on, in spite of which the sense of devotion was intense.
Much of what is to be seen was destroyed in the cultural revolution and has since been remade,
but, remarkably, the Jowo itself was not damaged. After a few minutes here our group did in
fact get separated, but somehow we all found our way to the roof, where we took photographs of
the massive golden ornaments and of each other in front of them.

We had now experienced the high point of Lhasa, so some of us remained in the hotel while the
rest made the third visit of the day, to the Norbu Lingka, which used to be the summer residence
of the Dalai Lamas. The impression again was one of elegance. It was here that more modern
gifts such as radios had been installed, and was remarkable for the existence of a bath-tub and a
flushing toilet, which made it easy to understand why the present Dalai Lama preferred the
Norbu Lingka to the Potala. It was here that in 1959, during the events leading up to the
uprising against the Chinese, that Rinpoche had had an interview with the Dalai Lama, and he
amused us with explanations of the training he had been given beforehand. In particular he had
been drilled in the paramount importance of not looking up into the Dalai Lama's face. He had
also had some shock as he came down the stairs afterwards and met himself face to face in a full
length mirror. One of the showpieces was a golden throne which had been made earlier this
century. Rinpoche again made the point, in connection with the political intent with which the
financing collections for this throne had been made throughout Tibet, of the hospitals and
schools that could have been built instead. As an Englishman I was called specially to see the
small portrait of Hugh Richardson which is included in the mural in this throne room.

We gathered in the Galleria bar. In one corner an elderly man was carving Mani stones, which
were on sale for a mere 15 Yuan. We bought one and observed him take the money up to the bar,
where we were a little dismayed to see how small was his own cut. Rinpoche was wearing a tie,
which was unusual enough to make me ask him why. He explained that by now many of the
Tibetans knew that he was living abroad. The Chinese try to make them believe that if they
leave Tibet they can only expect to experience desperate poverty, so this was a little counter-
demonstration. The purpose of our gathering was to draw some kind of close to our pilgrimage.
Rinpoche thanked us for coming and putting up with the difficulties, so enabling his own visit.
We thanked him for giving us the chance to be here. We thanked Bridgid and gave her the rupa.
And at the close he landed me with the job of writing about the whole thing.
 RETURN
The party was not quite over. After an early start and a successful arrival at Lhasa airport, the
sequence of events can be summarized as follows: we had not got places on the 'plane; we were
on the 'plane provided five of us paid an extra 120 Yuan each for first class seats; this was done,
and we got boarding cards; we must pay the porters a 60 Yuan bribe to move the luggage; the
boarding cards were temporarily taken back; we were definitely not on the 'plane. On reading
this list one should insert appropriate periods of waiting to stretch the process out to two or
three hours. The 'plane was supposed to first come from Kathmandu, and explanatory theories
ranged from the pilot being fed up and unwilling to go further, through the pilot staying in
Kathmandu because the shopping is so much better there, up to there not having been a 'plane
from Kathmandu anyway for the last two weeks. In the meantime we found a few snacks and
small notes to give to the beggar kids, and watched the dogs, whose condition was such as to
arouse even more pity. So we returned to Lhasa, were able to book in again at the same hotel,
and whiled away a dead half-day with a last rickshaw trip to the Barkhor and the sampling of a
Yakburger in the Hard Yak Cafe. A bright point was to see that Pippa, who had been too ill to
visit Tsurphu or the Jokhang, was again back on her feet.

The schedule for the next day now looked as likely to function as a chocolate fire-guard. Starting
with a half-past-four alarm call, we had, beginning from Lhasa and ending in Hamburg, four
flights, three Chinese and one European, lined up end to end with just adequate connection
times between each. However Jack and Li had set out for the airport even earlier, and had
begun whatever machinations were called for. In due course we were given boarding cards
again, and were happy to see that Sangye Nyenpa, who, like us, had failed to leave on the
previous day, had also been issued a card for a second 'plane that was now expected to fly.

From here on my memory of the journey remains a bit blurred. Jack remained in Lhasa, which
made us feel a little unprotected. Some were of the opinion that Jack was sure that the whole
plan would go wrong, and that he wanted to avoid the unpleasantness. However it is also
possible, and I incline to this view, that by remaining on the ground within reach of a telephone
he was able to be more effective in achieving something remarkable: the 'plane from Chengdu to
Beijing was delayed a couple of hours so that we could catch it. Had this not happened, we could
not possibly have caught our flight to London. Our 'plane had to make a second landing
approach at Chengdu, so as we left the arrival hall we saw to our surprise that Sangye Nyenpa
was already there, in time to catch his own connection. Good old Martin saw us through the
meal in Chengdu and onto the Beijing 'plane, and in Beijing another guide saw us through
another meal and onto the London 'plane. Only one of us, whom I shall not name, had difficulty
finding his or her return ticket. For the last time we looked on China's two favourite posters:
"Visit China '92" and "Olympics 2000 – Beijing".

The brief stops in the United Arab Emirates and this time also in Zurich produced mixed
reactions. True, the comfort and chromium were impressive, yet alien. Without considering the
good side of Tibet, the side that had drawn us there, even Lhasa airport with its dirt, its
infuriating Chinese bureaucracy and its ten-watt light bulbs was somehow more human.

A good few friends had turned up in Heathrow to meet us all, and it was heart-warming to note
that they all had more sense than to expect us at that stage to say very much. Hurried goodbyes
were said, and those of us who were headed for Hamburg transferred to Gatwick, caught our last
connection, and fell again into the welcome of more friends. These in turn saw to it that we got
quickly, and with the minimum of effort, home, forty four hours after getting up in Lhasa. The
chocolate fire-guard had functioned.

What more is there to say? The return journey was slept off, the stomach bugs and chest
infections that most of us had collected were cured, and everything is back to normal. It will take
perhaps years to really see exactly what changes the journey has wrought, but I am sure that
they are real. For all that we spent so much of our time travelling in buses, or sightseeing the
standard tourist sights, it was much more a pilgrimage than a holiday. We have trodden the
ground of our teacher's home, been blessed by the new Karmapa even before his official
enthronement, prayed before the Jowo and gazed upon the mountains and rivers of the beloved,
sanctified and pillaged Tibet. We were there.

As a final thought, I would like to quote from Tenzin, our monk-of-the-trip. We were talking
about the fact that while it remains true that to return would be wonderful, and that there are of
course other parts of the world it would be nice to see, our hearts' deepest travel wish is in
essence fulfilled. There are shifts in perspective. It is now more an experience than a theory
that, while many of the opportunities for study and practice of the Dharma that once existed in
old Tibet are now closed, we in the West are in a position to receive a genuine transmission. We
have not only new difficulties, but also new opportunities. It is up to us to find out how to build
on them. In Tenzin's words: "Well, I'm afraid it looks like sore knees from now on."
 ILLUSTRATIONS

Chime Rinpoche in 2008 (Photo: Dave Lawson)

The prayer-wheel-house outside Jyekundo

Wall of mani-stones outside Jyekundo

Stupa at Benchen
Benchen, early 20th century, one of Alexandra David-Neels' pictures (from print by Jürgen Klossowski)

Benchen stupas, wheel-house and mani-wall

When I was in Amdo..