I was planning to give the other driver, who despite his very un-heroic look helped us through many difficult moments, a 100-yuan tip. I give the tip to our old/new driver with instructions to pass it on and he promises to do so, but obviously my level of confidence in him is not presently all that high.

Half a mile along the road we want to take is a hut out of whose window comes a rope stretching across the road. This is evidently some kind of symbolic barrier, because Dorje spends quite a while talking to the invisible presence inside the hut before the rope is finally lowered.

The first hour or so of the final leg of our journey is over the hellish dirt roads and construction sites to which we have become so accustomed, then suddenly we are on the excellent brand-new Chinese highway system. These new roads are if anything better than the ones I drive in the States, and are obviously designed for the next generation and for the phenomenal growth that is coming here.

We stop for a pee in one of many incredibly beautiful spots, the verdant valleys in the foreground leading back to vast tilted slab-mountains like a greener version of Colorado's Flatirons. I long to return with some climbing shoes, a bag of chalk, and some spare time - the slope looks easy enough to climb without a rope.

We arrive in Lhasa around 2 (passing Atisha's Samadhi without stopping). First we head for a tiny hole-in-the-wall shop on the extreme outskirts of Lhasa run by Dorje's sister, where we drop off the dried fish that Dorje bought at Lake Mansarovar. She hides it immediately and somewhat furtively, and only then returns to express her appreciation to Dorje. Then we head for the Keyri Hotel.

I am looking forward to a shower, a lie-down, and a little souvenir shopping - perhaps even getting my old room back. However, when I ask if they have a room, the Tibetan lady behind the desk looks at me as if I am completely insane. I get the same reaction at the Yak Hotel. Dorje then takes me to another hotel that he says is too expensive and out of the way but has rooms when everywhere else is full. This hotel, too, is full up, and we are starting to realize that we (or at least I) have a problem. Further research reveals that the Western tourist hotels are all full, and so are the Chinese ones. Even the funky Tibetan hotel, in a bad neighborhood, with no sign outside, that only opened last month, and that I only know about because I found it on my first visit while I myself was completely lost, is full.

After the first four or five hotels I start to understand the reason. The new train line from Beijing has brought a flood of young Chinese tourists, mostly couples, all dressed in newly-bought and fashionable outdoor gear, and all having the time of their lives. They are all so pleasant, so good-looking, and enjoying themselves so much that I can't resent them, and in fact I am picking up a 'contact high' just from being around them.

Between the last time I was here three weeks ago and today, the train has changed Lhasa irrevocably and forever. Even though all the buildings are the same I hardly recognize the place - it's now become a cultural and religious theme park for the young Chinese middle class. These people are humble and respectful, and they know how lucky they are. Most of them have dreamed for many years of coming to Tibet, but can only now turn that dream into reality. Many of them also have a deep interest in Buddhism and the minority cultures of the Chinese West. The fact that many Tibetan emigre groups (and sympathizers) object to their presence doesn't say anything about the Chinese visitors - it's a commentary on the objectors themselves, and in my opinion an adverse one. They would be much better Buddhists if they were to just let go, accept impermanence, and move on.

Even though I appreciate their presence, these hordes of Chinese tourists are a problem for me right now. We are even having problems finding somewhere to park the car while we look for a place to stay. Dorje and the driver obviously want to be rid of me and go home just as much as I want to find a roof over my head. At my suggestion we park near the Barkhor (and are immediately blocked in) while I look around some of the small hotels around the Jokhang. They are all full, of course, but the staff in one of them mention another place that might have some room. The directions they give me are long and confusing , threading through a labyrinth of ancient alleyways. Even the staff themselves don't seem entirely agreed on where this place is. I wind my way to the extreme unfashionable edge of the Barkhor area. I do find one hotel whose prices are outrageous (600 yuan a night for a place that is really nothing special - probably more than it would cost in the U.S.) and that also appears not to have any room.

I wander through the alleys in desperation. Finally I start asking at random if anyone knows of any accommodation. The first place I ask looks promising but turns out to be something like a women's shelter. They definitely look at me cross-eyed for even going in and asking.

Across the street is a dark and dirty stairway 'guarded' by a woman sitting in a chair. There is something rather furtive and sinister about the aura of the place, like a gambling den or a clip joint. Nor is this feeling dispelled when I ask whether the place is a hotel and a man appears over her shoulder and says, in Chinese, 'That's right - it's not a whorehouse, it's a hotel!' I'm led up the stairs and shown a room that looks fine, really, especially if you're coming from an extensive trip through the wilds of Western Tibet. The price is 30 yuan, which compares very favorably with the 600 yuan I was quoted at the last place, so I close the deal and run back across the Barkhor to get my stuff.

Once I return, some of the reasons why the room is so cheap start to become clear. This is not so much a hotel as a flophouse or even a homeless shelter; everyone here is obviously down on their luck even by Tibetan standards. People wander around the corridors in their dirty underwear, muttering to themselves. I don't get a key to my room, but am dependent on the staff to lock and unlock it. The filthy toilets don't bother me too much, since it seems like years since I actually saw a clean toilet anyway, but the washing facilities for the whole place seem to consist of a single cold-water sink. Having to shave off my beard in cold water, in almost total darkness, in the middle of a busy corridor, is definitely a challenge.

I move my return flight to Chengdu up from five days hence to the day after tomorrow. Suddenly I feel really done with this trip: I'd leave right now if I didn't feel the need to buy some presents for friends back home. I go to the market around the Barkhor and bargain for some souvenirs, then back to the flophouse, as I think I should call it, to drop them off.

Warning: The following section, currently hidden, describes a legitimate massage that turns into a sexual encounter. It is R-rated for sexual situations and does not show me in a good light. You're welcome to read it (and this includes my friends): I just thought I owed you a heads-up. Click here to show hidden material.

In the following account my actions were based on what I knew at the time (virtually nothing). I have since found out a lot more (including that my experience was the exception rather than the rule) and would not make the same decisions again. Anyone tempted to do something similar should read the absolutely heart- and gut-wrenching Death of a Hair Salon Girl. Working in the Chinese sex industry is very far from a free choice for most of those involved in it, and often the consequences are tragic.

I have been fantasizing about revisiting the street West of the Potala with the hairdressing salon/massage clinic ever since I passed through it on my first visit to Lhasa (for details, see Urban Kora.) Mainly I have been having sexual fantasies about the type of massage they might offer, and have been at least semi-consciously planning to revisit it and see if there is any way to turn those fantasies into reality. Now I am still planning on visiting it, but my priorities have changed. My sexual interest has abated somewhat, and I am actually interested in getting a legitimate massage - I could really use one. My body is a mass of tension after being banged about in the Landcruiser for so many hours and miles. Also, I can't bring myself to stay even another hour in the flophouse - it's too depressing a conclusion to my trip.

So, in the late afternoon, I go searching for a massage. The girl who called out to me before is not on duty, so I go into another salon, open to the street, that has a cheerful look. The girls have turned two of the hairdressing chairs around, pulled up a couple of other straight-backed chairs, and are playing Mahjong, for small stakes but with a lot of excitement, camaraderie, and kibitzing. They quote a price for a massage of 50 yuan ($6), which seems to me a reasonable Chinese price for a legitimate massage, and I agree. Someone asks 'OK, who wants to do this one?' and everyone looks at everyone else. There's a definite lack of enthusiasm, partly I think because the Mahjong game has reached an interesting point but partly because I look strange to them and they're not sure what to do with me. Finally one of the players stands up and says 'Sure, I'll do him', despite holding what looks like a pretty good set of Mahjong tiles. She seems a happy and wholesome type, popular with the other players. She's wearing a long-sleeved lace top and 'distressed' jeans with holes at the knees, and appears to be in her early twenties. She's good-looking but doesn't seem to have made any special attempt to make herself look sexy.

As she leads me upstairs we pass a girl and an older gentleman coming down. The girl, I think, is Tibetan (the other girls in the salon are Chinese), and the guy, I think also Tibetan, has a bit the air of a dirty old man (thought he's probably no older, and also no dirtier, than I am myself.) They both look somewhat shamefaced.

She leads me up to a small sheet-rocked room with a single bed. I take off my shoes and jacket, place them on the chair, and ask 'How does this go?' She looks a little taken aback, then asks me to lie down on the bed, clothed as I am. Her massage starts with my right thigh. As I talk about my long and arduous trip and how tense I am after it, her hands move further down my leg and we transition into a regular Swedish-type massage - the only difference from a Western massage with New Age music and the scent of herbal candles in the background is how good this girl is.

I have had a few massages in the U.S., but am not that big a fan. Most people who do Tai Chi and Yoga, as I do, like to get a massage once in a while too, but not me. I just end up feeling woozy afterwards, and by the time the wooziness dissipates so has the relaxation. This girl is different. Instead of just massaging general areas as a lot of Western therapists do, she is going into very specific places with her fingertips and untying the tense muscles the way you would untangle a mass of tangled rope.

She takes her time: after at least half an hour she asks me to turn over. It's when she starts to work on my back that my shell really starts to melt. We are keeping up an intermittent and desultory conversation - she asks me where I learnt my Chinese, what drew me to Tibet, my age, and so on. Finally she asks - 'My, you're not only big, you're pretty fat too! How much do you weigh?' She certainly isn't trying to flatter me! My usual Western weight (just shy of 190 pounds, on a 6'1 ½" frame) is nothing unusual in the U.S., and I feel I must have lost at least 10 pounds on the trip. I tell her 'About 160 jin' (80 kilos, 176 pounds) and she says 'Then you weigh as much as two of me! I weigh 80 jin!' (40 kilos, 88 pounds) Of course, this acknowledgment of our difference brings us closer.

She asks me to turn over again. This time her fingers linger a little as she runs them up my inner thighs, and she exclaims 'Nin zhuang da!' - 'Look how you're growing!' It's a joke, of course - the sort of thing you might say to a favorite nephew you hadn't seen for a couple of years. A moment of silence hangs between us, then she says 'Nin dagai bu dong wo de ise' (You probably don't understand my meaning). A longer silence, and then I say 'Wo dong ni de ise' (I do know what you mean).

And now, haltingly and in suddenly-inarticulate Chinese, I ask her for what I have been fantasizing about for quite some time now. 'Keyi' (OK), she says.

Now she does something I don't expect. She doesn't touch me in a directly sexual way, but instead straddles me, her body resting against mine, and gently rubs her face against mine, stroking my cheek with her hand. The experience is not so much sexual as it is tremendously intimate. I hold her close, and she moves her chest gently against mine. I feel incredibly, enormously comfortable and at ease.

After a while I make a request that she misunderstands. 'Keyi', she says again, and almost in an instant she is lying on her back with her legs open, clad only in a garter-belt. As she removes her bra she takes a condom from it and offers it to me. I am amazed at her speed - she definitely has this routine down - and finally it is clear to me what her primary profession is.

I am very tempted: I'm ready and so is she. She seems to have her head screwed on, she knows what she is doing and is comfortable with it, and she definitely has the safe-sex routine down. Finally I just can't bring myself to go through with it - I keep seeing Eva's face. I tell her so and her face falls - the signs are unmistakeable, she wanted to fuck me, and not just for the money. Not that I'm the love of her life or anything, but we had come so far and she is so aroused that she wants to go all the way. But she swallows, puts her game face on, says Keyi again, sits up, and finishes me off with her hand.

I give her 200 yuan (she never mentioned a specific amount other than the initial 50 yuan) which seems to satisfy her. Up to now we have been very open with each other, but as I dress and she tidies the room she can't meet my gaze and suddenly seems uncomfortable with herself. My feeling is that she wanted to fuck me, but doesn't feel good about the fact that she wanted to fuck me. Maybe she has a boyfriend, tells herself that she just does this for money and her feelings aren't involved, and now she has to face the fact that sometimes that isn't true.

I get almost no sleep at all. Even though I get up in the pitch dark before 6 a.m, the Chinese backpacker is already long gone. I leave my bags in the office for a couple of hours, circle the Jokhang one last time, them head over to Shigatse Travel to change my flight again, to today rather than tomorrow.I can't take even one more night like last night.

Lhasa 2.0

Tibet's Version of the Flatirons

Brother and Sister with Slingshot