Chapter 12

The following character appears in this chapter:

Tsepak

Guide and Black-marketeer, 5’-6’’ tall, 145 pounds, 35 years of age, mid length black hair, brown eyes

We were up early the next morning and had a breakfast of two of the vacuum sealed meals that we had purchased in Kathmandu. While these meals would undoubtedly keep you alive for some time, they were not very enjoyable or tasty.

“We need more food. We should check out the markets in Lhasa. These things are terrible,” Jorani told me on finishing hers. I had to agree with her.

“We will see what this contact is like, and what he or she will show us. If necessary, we will go out on our own to look at the markets there. From my research, one is located near Barkhor Square in the old town area not far from the Potala Place. There are also others,” I told her as we prepared to leave for the corridors behind the Potala Palace in our Human form.

Arriving in the corridors early, we checked that no one had been there since we had left. Satisfied that all was secure, we transferred up to the marker behind the door to the first floor of the Red Palace to await Dukhor. He was late, but we had no idea of just what his duties here were, or what he might be doing. We did take the precaution of casting our wards around us in case this was an elaborate trap. It wouldn’t go well for those involved if it was.

Sitting on the landing behind the door to the first floor with our feet on the second step, we patiently waited for our contact to arrive. Dukhor arrived some 20 minutes late and was very apologetic.

“Sorry for being late, but I was unavoidably detained by one of the Chinese administrative assistants. The Chinese soldiers and police occupy the lower levels of the White Palace while the Monks have some of the upper floors. There are always problems with them, as they feel that they can do whatever they please,” he told us in a somewhat upset voice.

“It’s alright. Don’t worry about being late,” Jorani told him.

“Are we ready to return to the corridors?” I asked following that.

“Yes, let us descend,” Dukhor said in a tired voice.

“Descend?” we asked, and standing on either side of him, we cast the transport spell and appeared in the corridors, shocking Dukhor.

“You can do that?” he asked in surprise on recovering.

“Certainly,” I told him with a smile.

“Let us move to the exit that will take you to the bottom of the hill on its back side,” he told us before leading us down the main hallway or corridor. At its end, he opened a secret door that had been invisible even to our Dragon eyes. There were steps leading down. They went down for a long way before we came to the bottom of the stairs and were faced with the stone wall of the mountain about ten feet (3 meters) in front of us.

“This is the only exit that still works. There are others, but they no longer function,” he told us.

I put my hand on the wall and could feel the spell. It was very old and weak. It wouldn’t have worked for much longer. I knew the spell and renewed it before speaking to the others.

“I’ve renewed the spell on this exit and will work on the others later when there is time in case we need them. I will also cast a marker spell here so we can locate the entrance if we are in a hurry,” I told them before doing that.

“When you leave here turn left when you reach the three Chortens (Stupa Monuments). There is a tea house a short distance down the street there. Go in. You will be met by a man who will identify himself as Tsepak. He will guide you to wherever you wish to go. He is very dependable. He will be dressed as a guide but in Tibetan clothing. I have already given him your descriptions. Now, I must leave. It is a long way back up to the first floor of the Red Palace, and I have duties to perform yet today,” he told us.

“There’s no need to climb all of those stairs,” I told him and transported the two of us back up to the marker behind the door to the first floor of the Red Palace. To say the least, Dukhor was shocked by this also.

“Be careful,” I cautioned him. “We’ll contact you later,” I added.

“I will alert Tsepak if I need to speak to you,” he told me before passing through the door, and I returned to Jorani who was still at the exit at the bottom of the mountain. Dukhor had passed me a piece of paper before leaving.

On rejoining Jorani, we transferred out of the mountain, not opening the exit as we weren’t sure what was on the other side of it. We needn’t have worried, as there were large plants growing all along the base of the mountain that could have hidden a dozen exits. The area around the base of the mountain was very nicely cared for, as much of it was a part of Zongjiao Lukang Park. We carefully checked the area for any people but found it empty presently.

After moving to the three Chortens, we located the street Dukhor had mentioned and moved down it in our glamours of a pair of old Chinese people who had been on the Potala Kora and needed a short break. It was a distance of about 400 meters (a quarter mile) from where we exited the mountain to the tea house and included crossing a major road, which wasn’t too busy.

The tea house was easy to locate as there were people moving in and out of it all of the time, and the note that Dukhor had given me had the name written on it in both Tibetan and Chinese characters. The large sign over the door easily identified it. On entering, we were a bit disappointed, as it appeared to be a rather old and tired establishment. The walls were a bit dingy, and the furnishings were very basic. There were rows of tables with benches on either side of them.

The room was filled with customers. There were many different types. We saw families out for a meal. Older people congregating and telling stories or swapping gossip. Workers in their boots and work clothes. Young business people on cell phones. There were people playing cards or board games. They were dressed as everything from Tibetan laborers to businessmen out to lunch and everything in between. There was much laughter and talking. Everyone seemed friendly and to be enjoying themselves. They all had the small glasses that the tea was served in, and there were piles of Yuan bills around each glass or family unit.

“There you are!” a man said in English in a surprised voice after we had entered. “I thought you had gotten lost,” he added, as he quickly moved to join us.

“I am Tsepak,” he said still in English in a much quieter voice, identifying himself.

“Each of you take a glass, and we will rest for a time and refresh ourselves with some tea,” he told us in the louder voice. We did as directed, and he led us over to one of the rectangular tables. The tables had been painted green at some point, but the paint was now marred and missing in places. We moved to the middle of the room to find a seat. Three men got up from a table and moved away as we approached. The others sitting there turned to speak to those near them as we sat down with Tsepak on the end of the table and Jorani and I on either side of him. There was more than enough room for the three of us there on the benches.

Tsepak put money on the table near our glasses. Shortly, a waitress appeared and filled our glasses with traditional Tibetan sweet tea from a large kettle. It is the preferred drink in Lhasa. It is made with strong black tea and mixed with powdered milk and sugar. Butter tea is the preferred drink in many other parts of Tibet.

“People will wonder why we are speaking English when you appear to be Chinese. What can I tell them?” Tsepak asked after we had our tea which was served in the small glasses that we had picked up on entering.

“You can tell them that we are Chinese from America and don’t speak any of the local languages,” I told him.

“If necessary, I can speak to them in Thai or Khmer,” Jorani added. This seemed to satisfy him.

We had been discussing the places that we wished to visit for a short time when two elderly women hesitantly entered the tea house. Jorani called them to our attention breaking into our discussions. They each took one of the small glasses and moved to a table at the very back of the room in its darkest corner.

They hadn’t stopped to speak to any of the other customers or seemed to know any of them. No one seemed to notice them but the three of us.

Once seated alone at a small table, they began to count out the price of two glasses of tea. While others at the various tables had yuan bills (Chinese currency) near their glasses, those two counted out coins and together seemed to have just enough money for two glasses of tea. The price of tea here was less than one yuan a glass, so it would have been less than fifteen cents in American money.

A closer inspection of the two women revealed that their clothes while clean were old, worn, and thin just as they were. A waitress soon approached them and poured their tea before collecting the money. The two women only sat there and looked at the glasses of tea for a long time before sampling it.

“The old are the ones who suffer the most,” Tsepak said after a time on seeing where we were looking. He was no longer cheerful.

“Why are they so poor?” Jorani asked. “Have they no family or relatives to help them or take care of them?”

“It’s hard to know. The Chinese have arrested many, splitting up families, and causing hardships. The charges are usually bogus, but they don’t care. They care nothing for the Tibetan people, and many are starving,” he told us in an upset voice. I had seen that the women were thin and had needed to lean on each other on the way to the table.

“We must do something for them and the others,” Jorani told me in an insistent voice.

“Yes,” I agreed and cast an obfuscation spell around us before pulling out a hundred-dollar bill. Tsepak’s eyes popped on seeing it.

“Don’t allow anyone to see that in here,” he warned me in a quiet voice.

“No one can see us presently. If this is too large, I can supply the same amount in smaller bills,” I told him.