Lhassa, Lhassa !
In the flickering light of the butter lamps, the peaceful statue of Buddha lies at the heart of Lhasa 's Jokhang Temple . Contrasts of shadows and light on gold, copper, turquoise and corals, heavy smell of yak butter carried by devoted pilgrims lining up in a single file toward the 'sanctum sanctum', the heart of Tibet, the temple of temples.
They flock here from everywhere, on foot, on horseback, on trucks or even prostrating in the dust, for days. And this, without interruption since 13 centuries, since a Tibetan King, barbaric and godless converted to Buddhism for the love of a princess, who came with her statues from far-away imperial China.
Outside, around the temple, the crowd, alive and chatty, prays its gods, negotiates its passage to heaven and tries to survive on a handful of barley, a piece of yak- butter ... and hope.
Lhasa ! Lhasa which myriad caravans finally reached after thousand perils, thousand nights of bitter cold on the lofty plateau, thousand invocations to the sky. Lhasa the impossible dream of countless explorers, Lhasa dominated by the vertiginous white and red façades of Potala !
After thirty years of Chinese presence, one should not look for Alexandra David Neel's Tibet or Lama Govinda's, exemplary travelers who, from caravans to caravans, from Tartaria to Mongolia , have kindled our imagination with thousand mysteries, wonders and dreams. This Tibet is dead but another one is born from its ashes, less fantastic indeed but no doubt more real. paradoxes that constitute the real heritage of Tibet from which no one comes back untouched …
Calender of Festivals
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