When the Sun Shines Bright – A Serendipitous Encounter in Lhasa
It all began with a long-held university dream. After just eight days at home, I couldn't wait—and in a bit of a daze—I boarded a train to Lhasa.
I'd seen so many photos of Tibet and heard so many stories, yet I had never felt a strong urge to go. But to fulfill my little dream of traveling around China before graduation, I took a detour via Xining, stubbornly chose the hard seat again, and went to see this so-called soul-cleansing place for myself.
The scenery ahead always pulls you in, but the journey to reach it is seldom easy. After working in Beijing for half a year, I thought I'd lost the knack for all-night hard-seat travel I once had. Yet with the tight travel budget I've kept for years, you just toughen up and get through it. Maybe because of the high altitude, train tickets to Lhasa were pricey—a hard seat from Xining to Lhasa already cost 225 yuan. The greatest impression along the way was the vastness of the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau: on both sides of the train there were endless dry grasslands and rolling mountains, and we frequently glimpsed herds of yaks and flocks of sheep. Inside the carriage, the air was constantly stuffy and filled with a medley of regional dialects. Since the train originated in Chongqing, the crew spoke with a Chongqing accent, which was kind of fun to listen to.
A side note: More than eight months have slipped by since I wrote the opening of this Lhasa travelogue. I seem to have forgotten many details, but somewhere deep inside there's a dull ache, a feeling that I've lost a great deal, which steels my resolve to fill in this missing chapter. Since moving from university to work, from traveling for myself to working in tourism, I feel I've lost that knack for expressing (show-) myself. And since returning from my big trip, not only did I lose my beloved DSLR, I haven't once stepped beyond my doorstep for over half a year. No matter where I find myself now, everything I persisted through and everything I encountered is worth commemorating in some way.
Side note 2: Thinking about a trip I took a year ago, re-reading words I wrote six months ago—today I can't help but blush a little. A mere six-day journey, yet this travel diary has stretched across an entire year. I don't even know how much courage I still have to finish it. Maybe, just as I told myself half a year ago, never forget why you started. Even though I'm working now and barely travel anymore, since I've opened this journal again, I hope I can complete it. Consider this a closure for something I've procrastinated on for a year; otherwise, every time I open my entire travel collection, I feel unsettled.
I had checked the weather forecast long before—Lhasa's temperature would be between 3 and 15 degrees Celsius. When I finally stepped off the train, it felt much warmer than I'd imagined. Still, that warm sunshine against the blue sky and white clouds gave me a long-missed sense of being moved. Right after arriving, I headed straight for the hostel I'd booked—Phuntsok Kangsang Youth Hostel. The vibe there was really nice. Once I checked in, I tried to catch up on much-needed sleep, but I couldn't fall asleep; maybe it was the altitude, my head feeling slightly swollen. When I got up, a few others had returned, so we gradually got to chatting. I tagged along with two guys to grab food. We could have tried some Tibetan specialties, but according to their half-month experience in Lhasa, there was nothing particularly special. In the end we just casually ordered three dishes to fill our stomachs. Ever since arriving in Lhasa, my eyes had felt dry and gritty—still do now—and I can't figure out if it's the strong Lhasa sun, the altitude, or that sleepless hard seat last night. But today is over, and I'm not as bedraggled or overly excited as I'd imagined. My eyes can barely stay open, so it's time to sleep.
As I've gradually gone to many places, staying in hostels has become something I especially look forward to, especially in a place like Lhasa. As it turned out, even though I came alone on the train, within just a few days I met several fellow travelers and heard some pretty good stories. The days that followed were essentially the stories of those chance encounters. Apart from the Beijing guy and the soldier I'd had dinner with the day before, the first person I really got to know well was a senior from Beihang University. He checked in that evening; I'd just woken up, so we randomly chatted a bit, then made a plan to go shoot the sunrise over the Potala Palace the next day. Both students, both familiar with the Wudaokou area in Beijing, both into photography—we hit it off right away. The night before, we checked the sunrise time online. While it was still pitch black, we slipped out quietly and headed toward the Potala. The streets of Lhasa are lined not only with Tibetan restaurants but also, more than anything, Sichuan eateries. We randomly picked one and ate something that didn't taste much different from the mainland, but the prices were very steep.
By the time we arrived, many people were already circling the Potala. Our aim was clear: getting up so early just for a glimpse of that first ray of morning sunlight on the palace. We waited a short while, then the Chagpo Ri opposite the Potala opened; we hurried up, but plenty of people had already set up their tripods. Without a tripod myself, I had to improvise, leaving things to fate.
Expectations of beautiful scenery are intense, but the process can be trying. Especially for someone like me, foolishly dressed in thin clothes to come see the sunrise, it led to me spending nearly three of my Lhasa days in the hostel sipping hot water. It was only thanks to the Beihang senior's fleece jacket—otherwise, after one glance at the Potala, I might have collapsed completely and headed straight to Yunnan.
When the sun finally shone on the Potala, I didn't see the legendary "Buddha's light," but the staggered architecture, white walls and red rock exuded a certain solemnity and sacredness.
No matter how bitterly the pre-dawn wind tortured me, the moment the sun came up, I felt instantly revived. But that jump on the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau really drained a lot of my energy. Dragging my tired body, along with a vague sense of altitude sickness, I decided to go back and sleep some more, planning to visit Drepung Monastery in the afternoon.
After napping at the hostel and replenishing my spirit, the first-year grad student from Beihang and I set off for Drepung Monastery. Lhasa has many temples, and aside from Jokhang Temple, Drepung is quite famous—I vaguely recall the annual Buddha-Unveiling Festival is supposedly held here. But although Lhasa's temples vary in size and character, what truly satisfied us was simply basking in the sunshine, so any temple was fine.
Despite it being winter in Lhasa, I was charmed by Drepung's rich colors. Paired with that flawless blue sky, every random snap from the camera came out so natural and pure. Especially for someone like me who'd lived four years in the south, the blue of Lhasa felt immensely free and intoxicating.
We walked uphill along the foot of the mountain. At the entrance, we happened to bump into another friend who also worked in Beijing—and even in Qinghe, so the three of us "Beijingers" hit it off and explored together.
When it comes to temples like this, those who truly understand may have genuine insight. But for someone like me, the greatest delight was simply being able to take lots of lovely photos. Still, seeing many people praying with genuine devotion moved me. Sometimes many of us lack that kind of sincerity—myself included.
The Buddha spoke of life requiring several cycles of reincarnation.
In the distance, the sound of chanting sutras; a small dog listened quietly too.
Drepung Monastery sits halfway up the mountain. The bare, barren peaks contrasted sharply with the blue sky, giving us an impulse: if we scaled that mountain, would there be a different world on the other side?
This enormous canopy is probably used during the Buddha-Unveiling Festival.
Not just the overall colors, but every single corner was carefully designed by artisans.
It was the same as the top of the main hall at Jokhang Temple.
Prayer flags—probably the most common sight in Lhasa: red, green, blue, in short, a riot of colors. I don't know the real meaning behind prayer flags, but I'd like to think they symbolize a kind of life—colorful and vibrant.
Many monks in the monasteries refused to be photographed. Perhaps it's because there are too many people like us, facing countless lenses every day, so they've grown resentful. We actually didn't spend much time at Drepung, and went straight back to the hostel afterwards. In the evening, a group of traveling companions we'd met at the Guangming Milk Tea House made plans to get hot pot together, specifically yak-meat hot pot. The group ate and chatted with high spirits—people from Guangzhou, Henan, Hangzhou, and Lanzhou. Maybe this is part of the true essence of travel: what we yearn for isn't just beautiful scenery, but also the friends we meet along the way.
Because of a cold, plus the Beihang senior heading off to Mount Everest, I spent the entire day just watching TV dramas in the hostel, which was amusing in its own way. The most memorable thing might have been the heartfelt talk with the "Old Driver." First, about this Old Driver: I met him in the hostel, a Chengdu local who once served in the military. To be honest, I don't know who gave him that nickname, but I just went along with it. He was hilarious and seemed to be on familiar terms with everyone in the hostel. Originally, he was supposed to head to Nepal that afternoon, but his chartered driver stood him up, so he was forced to stay another day. This gave us the chance for a deep conversation. It felt like we talked about a lot; even though it was our first real chat, it didn't feel strange at all. He was actually going to Nepal to do business, planning to stay there for half a year. The other day I saw his WeChat Moments posts—still all about Nepal. So that evening, to see off the Old Driver, I went with a new friend to Lhasa's famous Nepali restaurant—Namaste. I'll tell more about this new friend in tomorrow's itinerary.
I forget what we ordered, but each of us got different dishes, and we all agreed that only one mutton something was fairly tasty.
Many might look at this and not have much appetite; anyway, we really didn't like it much.
This photo of the Old Driver will become a permanent keepsake. And this big flatbread was something we all agreed was actually rather good. That day on WeChat Moments, I wrote: "Old Driver, may you eat well in Nepal." Today I want to ask: Old Driver, how are you doing there?
By the fourth day in Lhasa, with my cold still lingering and the Beihang senior not yet back from Everest, I got up in the morning and watched TV in the hostel lobby. A friendly reminder to fellow travelers: definitely guard against catching cold, or else your Tibet trip may only amount to sunbathing in Lhasa. In the afternoon, feeling utterly bored, I decided to visit the museum—a long-standing travel habit of mine.
The museum was very much in Tibetan style, both outside and in its collections, vastly different from museums elsewhere. Still, it seems to be the second museum I've visited with strong ethnic-minority colors, after the Xinjiang Museum.
Maybe because so much time has passed, I honestly can't remember what many of the artifacts were.
Seemingly small trinkets, but all incredibly valuable.
This is the original interior of an old Tibetan dwelling. Although it looked quite humble, all the household items were fully present.
Tibetan folk villages.
Belts distinctively in Tibetan style.
This is modern Tibetan architecture. Apart from a unique layout, the bright colors and splendid Tibetan carvings truly made the building stand out.
They say museums are a window to understanding a city, and Tibet is no different. Even though I only appreciated these things on the surface, my impression of Tibet and Tibetan culture etched itself into my heart. While wandering alone, I bumped into a student working at the hostel front desk. According to the Old Driver, she was also a college student here on winter break, working part-time. Since we hadn't had a deep chat before, we just smiled at each other as we passed. I've heard quite a few students spend their holidays working part-time in Lhasa—they not only meet lots of travelers coming here, but can also explore Lhasa in their spare time. In the past, I'd seen similar opportunities in Lijiang, but never ended up doing it. Maybe back then my travel focus was on going to many places. But if given the chance and time, I'd like to try that way too: staying put in one place for a while, slowly savoring it.
Now it's time for the friend I mentioned earlier who went with the Old Driver and me to eat Nepali food to make his appearance. I can't recall exactly how we started talking, but I remember the biggest common ground: we both used Canon 70D DSLR cameras, so we naturally struck up a conversation at the hostel. His WeChat nickname was NICE—in fact, it wasn't until half a year later that I finally learned his real name on WeChat Moments. He was from Zaozhuang, Shandong, a typical tall Shandong lad. Although we didn't stay in the same room, after several nights in the same hostel we got to know each other. Plus, with the previous evening's dinner with the Old Driver, and him having joined a group yesterday to charter a car to Yamdrok Lake while the Old Driver left today, we arranged to go to Sera Monastery together, seeking the legendary sky burial site.
Sera Monastery isn't the largest among Lhasa's temples, but really, each temple has its own character. Sera's most distinctive feature is the sky burial site.
We kept walking uphill along the mountain path, but in fact, we never ended up finding the sky burial site. Along the way we even tried Baidu to see exactly where it was, but we climbed for ages and saw no trace of it. Ultimately, too exhausted, we gave up.
Looking down on Lhasa from the mountain.
The bare hillsides were almost tiring to look at, but then unexpectedly, as we descended by the outer wall, we spotted willow trees starting to sprout. It was a delightful surprise. Perhaps what Lhasa never lacks is sunshine and blue sky. If ever I feel like basking in the sun, I'd head straight there without hesitation. After climbing such a steep mountain, we were dead tired and returned to the hostel.
On the first day, after making plans with the Beihang senior to shoot the Potala sunrise, the very next day he chartered a car to Everest. So I kept putting off visiting the Potala. Today, just back from Everest, we hurried to the palace—going to the Potala the day before we both left Lhasa was rather comical.
Up close, the Potala truly lives up to its reputation, inspiring a bit of awe.
Yesterday at Sera Monastery it looked tiny, but today it appeared truly magnificent, and this was only the exterior. Photography is forbidden inside, so whatever's in there is left to the imagination.
Compared to the symmetric, orderly traditional buildings of the Central Plains, the Potala's uneven, Tibetan-style architecture also appears wonderfully poetic.
It's hard to imagine just how many people vist the Potala during peak season.
We climbed step after step of stairs. On the Potala there's a terrace, and that's where we started snapping photos like crazy.
Going up wasn't easy, and coming down wasn't either.
Behind the Potala there's a park. After descending, we didn't explore further but headed straight to Jokhang Temple on Barkhor Street.
In Lhasa, aside from taking taxis, a particularly popular mode of transport is the pedal trishaw, available at every scenic spot and convenient for getting anywhere. The two of us hired one after leaving the Potala to go to Barkhor Street.
Barkhor Street—a location that has appeared in so many movies—should be the endpoint for many cycling the Sichuan-Tibet Highway. It's just a pity I never mustered that level of courage; by the time I rode to Shanghai, I was utterly drained. But Lhasa is a dream, a dream in the heart of every cycling enthusiast, and it's the same for me.
Actually, our main purpose in coming to Barkhor Street was to eat at Makye Ame—to personally taste what exactly is so charming about a place Tsangyang Gyatso supposedly frequented so often.
We looked up online and ordered a few dishes widely considered delicious, and they were indeed quite nice.
This restaurant filled with verses by Tsangyang Gyatso—who knows how many young people have visited. Perhaps everyone who comes here, like Tsangyang Gyatso, has a tender and free heart, hoping for a place to set down a soul in need of release. For Tsangyang Gyatso, that place was Makye Ame, and for us, Lhasa is that place.
By evening, the last character I'd encounter finally appeared. In the afternoon, the Beihang senior and I were heading back, still agonizing over what to eat, when we bumped into an older guy. He too had no idea what to eat, so I recommended Namaste, where we'd been before, and off we went again. This guy was a straightforward, no-nonsense man from the Northeast, married with two kids. When we got back to the hostel and video-chatted with his young son, we said hello—both kids were adorable.
Over dinner we talked a lot: about our freedoms and frustrations as students, and about some aspects of his life. As a man with a family and career, he said chatting with us made him feel young again, which he found pretty great.
After dinner, someone mentioned that Jinma was quite lively in Lhasa at night, so this big brother offered to take us there to have a look. A bit curious ourselves, we went.
Sure enough, it was the most bustling spot in Lhasa, giving us yet another firsthand glimpse of the Tibetan people's enthusiasm. After we came back, we hung out in his room chatting for a while before turning in. Although I now hardly recall his face, that night the conversation was totally genuine. I remember I wanted to give him a pack of Lanzhou cigarettes the next day, but by then he had already hired a car to Nyingchi.
Just like when I arrived, I bought a book at the train station—Keigo Higashino's "My Wandering Youth." When I left, I wrote a note inside and left the book at the hostel. Because the title seemed to describe me perfectly: wandering, and willing. I'll end with the sentence I left in that book: May the same youth be left behind in Lhasa's warm sunshine! — Left at Phuntsok Kangsang, February 23, 2016
