In its past isolation Lhasa developed mythical qualities that lent an aura of exoticism and spirituality for those entering the city for the first time. Unfortunately that time is long past. Fifty years of Chinese occupation have created, ‘surprise’, a Chinese city. The first thing you notice on leaving the train station is the gates closing up behind you by a unit of soldiers. The way behind is barred. Convoys of military trucks line the road into the city. Red flags overhead. The first thing I hear from a Tibetan’s mouth is, “this is not mainland China. Rules here are different.” Sliding through the city I notice soldiers in glass boxes at every major intersection. First morning in Lhasa I took an early morning stroll behind the hostel in the heavily Tibetan ‘Barkhor’ district. Across the street soldiers chant as they march back and forth. In the narrow winding streets schoolchildren hurry to class and adults begin to open up their stores. It’s very quiet. Around every corner groups of soldiers watch the early morning action. At this time of the day they outnumber everyone else. Their eyes follow me until I turn the corner whereupon a new set of eyes takes their place. This is the Tibetan reality. The military presence cannot be ignored. It clouds every action and movement within Lhasa.
Day 18 – Lhasa
After a heavy day of looking like a clueless tourist, I went in search of food and drink. Walking along Beijing Dong Lu (quaint name for the Lhasa’s main street), I heard loud laughter and hectoring abuses coming from a balcony above. I went up to investigate. Druze Restaurant is a classy joint with groups of well-heeled Westerners daintily picking at their food. Through the double doors out onto the balcony was a different scene. Empty bottles of Jack Daniel sit on the table. Cups are scattered. Hanging over the edge are two middle-aged and two younger males yelling in thick Aussie accents at the clueless and frightened Tibetans below.
I order some drinks and talk to the youngest one Harry, 19. He says the other young guy is his best mate and the really drunk old guy making faces and sputtering noises is his dad. The guy with long greasy locks and a Hitler stash is a friend of his father who’s hosting them in China. I become the ‘Canadian’ and am asked if I want to roast some marshmallows over a fire. I reply I wouldn’t mind except some people might object to starting a fire on the balcony. The Aussies are celebrating being able to drink after being unable to do so for a couple days due to elevation sickness. Harry tells me of his night before, hiring a taxi driver to help them pick up prostitutes and how after arguing over the price they booted the driver and drove the taxi themselves.
The father finally has some success with his hectoring. A Tibetan has given up his 50cc bike, which he takes for a spin down the main drag, weaving in and out of traffic, kicking his legs out to side for effect.
Harry comes back from an unsuccessful bathroom search in which he accidentally went into the kitchen. The kitchen he says has week-old pots stacked up and cockroaches crawling on the floor. He promptly asks me if I want to help him trash the place for keeping such dirty facilities. I politely decline. “It’s the Aussie thing to do,” he says. “Were crazy, yesterday my mate accidentally hit a soldier and I had to keep giving him smokes to keep him calm.”
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