During my first lunch break in Tibet, I wandered down the main street, now called Beijing Road, and entered the first noodle shop I saw, because I certainly didn’t want to spend the entire lunch break looking for a place to eat. I also thought it worthwhile to try a normal, cheap place that a wealthy and proud Western tourist wouldn’t likely visit.

The giggly young women behind the counter didn’t understand English, and so I pointed at a picture of something that looked vegetarian. It turned out to have a small pile of yak meat, ground up, placed on the center top. Gross! I ate the noodles and peanuts and chives and was careful not to even touch the meat with my chopsticks, while I more or less read an article in the Buddhist magazine Tricycle but paid more attention to my surroundings than to the magazine.

While I sat in the noodle shop, a total of three beggars approached me. Despite a talk in India about not giving to beggars because that’s perpetuating their lifestyle and thereby disempowering them, I gave a small bill to each beggar. I sat at a rectangular table in a far corner and simply couldn’t refuse, at least not with a clean conscience. They walked up to me while I sat in the corner, so it wasn’t like when beggars are on the street and you’re walking past them. I remembered the Jataka tale about the Bodhisattva, a previous life of the Buddha, giving to beggars no matter what and even letting people steal from him. The first beggar in the noodle shop was a filthy little girl, with dirty clothing and unkempt brown hair; I wasn’t sure whether her hair color was from malnutrition or from dirt. She pressed her palms together and looked at me with big almond-shaped eyes. She had wandered in silently, unaccompanied by any adult. The second beggar was a dirty young woman in a chupa and with a baby on her back. The third beggar was an old woman, also in traditional dress, who walked with a cane and had a circular, lined face, and she gave me a charming smile. Each beggar pressed her palms together and bowed slightly to me.

Given the individual circumstances, it seemed appropriate to give money to each of them. It was certainly a firsthand exposure to the feminization of poverty, since they were each female and I might even go so far as to say they were like a Triple Goddess: Maiden, Mother, Crone, because they covered different stages of our lifespan. Maybe they were all dakinis in disguise.

From what I’ve read about visiting Tibet, you’re expected to leave food in your bowl so that monks, nuns, or beggars can eat the leftovers (as long as they don’t mind your germs, of which I doubt they’ve ever heard). I thought of that when a couple of nuns showed up. No beggar was waiting for me to finish eating, but I left the bowl half full, with all the yak meat and the noodles and chives directly underneath it.

Kathmandu was gloomy, and it’s a polluted city in a Himalayan valley. In contrast there’s something stirring in my spirit at sight of the snow-capped mountains and gliding hawks and wind-beaten banners and prayer flags, and the Potala looming so high in the brilliant blue sky full of fluffy white clouds. It’s all so breathtaking and awe-inspiring, and it’s so easy to forget my neurotic troubles.

I think rapid heartbeat, as in high blood pressure, must be one of the symptoms of altitude sickness. Same goes for dehydration, which causes diarrhea. On the other hand, it would be more accurate to say that high blood pressure is a reaction to the high altitude, and the dehydration quite likely comes from the fact that I have to go out and buy bottles of water to drink and am therefore drinking considerably less than I would if I were in America.

2

In the afternoon, my tour guide, Gyantzing, and I visited the Jokhang Temple. In front of the temple is a huge expanse of pavement. Actually, it is rectangular slabs of what might be slate rather than ordinary cement blocks, forming a courtyard ahead of the Jokhang Temple, quite the happening place.

Pilgrims circumambulated and prostrated before the Jokhang, and some people were out shopping. You can get both your spiritual and material needs (and wants) in the same place, the Barkhor, the walkway around the Jokhang. I saw people in clothing from different regions of Tibet and a variety of prayer wheels twirling in pilgrim’s hands. In front of the temple stood a stupa-shaped stove where people burned offerings of juniper in the morning, as we had seen when we arrived at the Drepung Monastery early enough to see people pick up the green branches and place them in a stove in front of the monastery.

Inside the Jokhang is a row of Dalai Lama sculptures, all up to the Thirteenth. I also saw many photos of the Thirteenth Dalai Lama, and at least two were painted. East or West, people sometimes painted photos in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

The Jokhang’s exterior primarily dates from the seventeenth century, and we had to go inside to see seventh century woodwork, for the Jokhang dates back to when Buddhism was first introduced to Tibet. It is the oldest Tibetan Buddhist temple. Originally Buddhism in Tibet involved just the Jokhang Temple and some lay practitioners, but eventually there were seven monks. That is why temples and monasteries often have carvings of seven critters, mainly snow lions, on the façade, running horizontally over the doorways. When we entered the front door, instantly we were surrounded by seventh century woodwork in a narrow corridor; the doors and doorframes were very dark wood, and the walls were painted dark yellow and red. In an alcove were walls with old bodhisattva murals and in front of them were large-as-life papier-mâché figures that replace the originals after the so-called Cultural Revolution. Most of the sculptures were destroyed in the 1950s and ‘60s.

Inside the big main temple, now there stands an enormous Avalokiteshvara statue in the center facing the entrance, and in front of it are many long red banners, like any Tibetan prayer hall, but unlike at Drepung Monastery, this hall was clearly put to use and alive. Many dark red capes sat in rows on the low red benches, and in the center of the room were musical instruments, such as an enormous drum. On the outer walls were small, bright murals telling stories: in particular, the story of the building of the Jokhang, complete with a stupa in the center. According to this legend, the first Buddhist king threw a ring to indicate where the temple would be built and it landed in the lake. The illustration showed that wooden boards were cut and carried and set up across the lake.

Around the perimeters of the room are display cases full of statues and some documents of the seventeenth century made of that dark wood with reliefs that have been worn down over the years. Some shrine rooms had large dark wooden double doors that are chained and padlocked; they’d be open in the morning, when a big crowd is inside. These are special shrines, labeled over the doorway, and they each contain a specific theme, such as the Tsongkapa shrine, or the Avalokiteshvara shrine. Each shrine that we entered contains large and elaborate gold Tibetan sculptures wearing brocade.

At some point, I saw a skinny little grey cat walking in the aisle, and it leaped onto the wooden fence or bench that’s around the central prayer hall. Then the cat leaped up on a high Buddha throne. A cat can look at a Buddha. I’m delighted to see cats in Tibet; strangely, in India stray dogs are all over the place, but you rarely see a cat. Maybe that’s because dogs are on average so much more outgoing and needier than cats.

A particularly festive shrine is a big room with a large Avalokiteshvara. It was approximately three or four feet, and that’s while seated. This Avalokiteshvara was originally a plain sculpture but over time received donations of gold, turquoise, and coral, with the result that elaborate decoration was piled on and it now has an excessively ornate crown of gold, turquoise, and coral, with big hanging earrings and a collar to match. A bodhisattva stepping in style. Even in traditions other than Tibetan, bodhisattvas are often depicted wearing a great deal of jewelry and crowns and flowing silk sashes, showing that they are more worldly than full-blown Buddhas, since they choose to stay in this world in order to help those who are unenlightened. The sculpture also wears a colorful, patchwork or appliquéd brocade robe, like those worn by so many sculptures. Around the sides of the room are tall standing life-size bodhisattvas, of course painted gold with blue hair, and wearing patchwork brocade robes with long silk fringe.

I should mention that we climbed up on the flat rooftop of the Jokhang and looked out over the crowd that is continually circling around the temple. We had an excellent view of the entire square, so we watched not only pilgrims circumambulating the temple and in some cases spinning prayer wheels, but we also saw the merchandise booths in two long rows on either side of the square, where many people haggled. Also in front of the temple is a little space inside a stone wall, containing a very old tombstone-like stone sticking up with a message carved into it. Gyantzing mentioned that it basically says that China will never invade Tibet, and I laughed and commented on the irony. I was a bit surprised that he brought it up.

While we stood on the roof watching the crowd steadily circumambulating down below, Gyantzing said, “Many, many people circle around the temple.”

Just as he said this I saw a fluffy white little dog on a leash, and I said, “Not to mention the occasional dog.”

Like every other Tibetan Buddhist temple, the Jokhang has prominent tubular gold structures around the edges of the roof.  They are stylized “victory banners,” which seems like an odd thing if, like me, you are conscious of Buddhism’s relevance to peace and nonviolence.  However, the “victory” is the historic Buddha’s success in not giving in to the demon Mara’s temptations on that night under the Bodhi Tree.   Legend has it that Mara appeared under the tree and argued with Siddhartha Gautama and sent his beautiful daughters and eventually a demon army to distract the Buddha, but none of these distractions prevented the Buddha from reaching enlightenment.

We got back down the treacherous ladder-like stairs and parted in front of the Jokhang, where Gyantzing said I’m welcome to circumambulate the temple. I was happy to do so, having read so much about it. I walked slowly and steadily around the Barkhor, at the same pace as the pilgrims in front of me. It was a walking meditation, so I was mindful of my steps at the same time that I was gawking at my fascinating surroundings. I moved like this through a vast crowd, in lanes lined with shops and merchandise stalls.

Some merchants sold mundane things like plastic toys and flashlights, which you could get just about anywhere in the world. Others sold pictures of the Panchen Lama and other religious figures, but not illegal pictures of the Dalai Lama. They also sold Tibetan Buddhist statues and ritual tools; coral, silver, and turquoise jewelry; musical instruments for rituals; ordinary clothing such as t-shirts with the message “Yak yak yak Tibet;” and ready-made traditional Tibetan clothing such as elegant black chupas. I noticed a fabric store that contained brocade and thought I might shop there sometime, but right now I simply enjoyed the walk.

Of course, I had much more to look at than merchandise. Beyond the stalls and salespeople were the tall stone Tibetan buildings with shops on the main floor and perhaps apartments up above. Some of the people in the crowd were red-clad monks, and others were pilgrims who in many cases wore traditional dress, such as rough-looking heavy wool robes. When I reached the front of the Jokhang, its beautiful whitewashed façade was a welcome sight, and rows of pilgrims dramatically prostrated before it. I meant to circumambulate three times but only went around twice because halfway round the second time, I noticed that I was dizzy and nauseous again, so I headed back to my hotel room. Unlike in Dharamsala, where the altitude is low compared to Lhasa, I experienced two days of altitude sickness.

I only saw a total of five white people all day, and three of them were the Germans staying at this hotel. While circumambulating the Jokhang, I had just been thinking I was the only non-Asian in the whole crowd, when I briefly noticed a pair of Brits.

I’ve taken some labels off water bottles as cheap souvenirs; I think it’s sad that the labels are in Chinese, not Tibetan. It’s also sad that this major street is called Beijing Road, the most prominent street in Lhasa, and that it’s lined with Chinese-looking shops. It’s not till you get to this neighborhood, the Old Tibetan Neighborhood (like a historic landmark, something from the past), that the shops all have signs in Tibetan, in addition to Chinese. It’s not unusual to see Tibetan, Chinese, and English; for the shops around the Jokhang in particular, this is standard. It struck me as ironic to see a store that’s called “Ethnic Clothing Shop” when the “ethnic” clothing is Tibetan and is basically what you see many women wearing, in particular chupas and striped aprons.