When most people think about Tibet, they imagine feuding monks and stray chopsticks. However, as I discovered during an overland passage from Lhasa to Kathmandu, the region was far from the barren landscape of old.

This week I’ve brought you an image from a roadside stop on that journey, of some rather large sand dunes. They were fantastic, and I spent a good hour clambering to the top and hurling myself off the ridge — much to the amusement of some local kids who sprang mysteriously out of the dunes like the bairns Enid Blyton. That’s me in the cloud of dust in the centre of the shot.

Tibet remains one of the most delightful periods of my travels. Its skies — without wanting to drench you in clichés — are mesmerising. By day, their enormity is unfathomable, and by night they take on an incredible depth. Stood high on the Tibetan plateau, you get a real sense of what it is to reach out and touch the sky.

Reprint: Tumble Weed is a post from Trail of Ants.

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I stare at the newspaper. It wasn’t me. I gawp at the television. It wasn’t me. I trawl through the internet. It wasn’t me! I listen to the radio, podcasts, and conversations on the bus. It WASN’T me! At least — I hope it wasn’t me?

I didn’t know much about Asia before I scribbled over her ancient lanes. I thought it was a factory to stock my English necessities. Indeed, my local fish and chip shop, newsagent, petrol station, pizza shop and Chinese takeaway were all owned and operated by cheery Asians.

It’s only now, as I’m sat in as-safe-as-safe-can-be New Zealand, that it’s sunk in. I’ve left a trail of destruction in Asia. I tell myself every day it wasn’t me, but there’s a residual inkling; that it was.

I believe in the butterfly effect — that a butterfly can fart in Blackpool and lift the skirt of a Cornish virgin. So could it actually be possible, that I inadvertently contributed to some of the most iconic headlines of the past two years?

Perhaps the day I fell asleep in Moscow’s Gorky Park, I missed the chance to quell the August 2008 invasion of Georgia? I’ll never know, I’d quickly fallen asleep on a round-city recce because Moscow had swiftly bored me. However it’s not just the invasion of gritty Georgia that has me looking over my shoulder.

In July 2007 I arrived in Mongolia. The Mongols were in full on party mode; it was the annual Nadaam Festival and everywhere I looked small horses jerked fancy young jockeys around the beaten green Gobi. Gers sprang up; a hundred pickpockets tried their luck; I was cruelly threatened in a local nightclub; and I heard of one backpacker being kidnapped, and another who was raped.

Though shocking, none of this deterred me — I was in Mongolia. I was living a dream I’d dreamt for years. A year later — July 2008 — and Ulaanbaator became the stage to escalating violence as protestors rallied against suspected election fraud, and a year later a flood temporarily swallowed the capital. This was amazing; not least because Mongolia is one of the emptiest expanses of land I’ve ever seen. The devil had hit the bull’s-eye.

China’s also suffered. I spent three fascinating months there in late 2007 and ever since it’s been hailing horror. First of all, hundreds of thousands of my beloved Chinamen were affected by the worst snowstorms in decades. Then the warm up to the forthcoming Olympics became the catalyst to a massive anti-China uprising, resulting in my cherished Tibetan skies being splattered with the worst violence in Lhasa for twenty years. As if China hadn’t taken enough of a pounding in my absence, the Sichuan earthquake then culled tens of thousands and not to be outdone, the north-eastern Xinjiang region imploded in another round of ethnic violence. I won’t even mention their milk.

Brimming with innocence, I entered the Kingdom of Nepal. Word had already reached me of the Maoists — a terrorist group — demanding money off stoic foreign hikers in the mystical foothills of the Himalayas. Undeterred, I dodged my way around Kathmandu, spluttered down the river, clambered through bushes looking for tigers and rhino and snuck in and out of Buddha’s old place.

Other than a few spontaneous (yet peaceful) protests, I was confident things were running smoothly. Then I left — and a trio of bombs rippled the terai. Before I knew it the headlines told me the terrorists were in government and soon after they levered the monarchy permanently off their thrown. What had I done? The Kingdom had fallen.

India was never short of controversy during the four months I spent there — that’s one of the reasons I love it so. But nothing of the scale that happened after I left. First off, forty-nine people were slain by a series of bombs in Ahmedabad, and a few months later the sickening news came through that Mumbai had suffered a similar fate, with four times as many losing their lives to hereditary violence.

If all of this wasn’t bad enough, the next country I forayed into was Sri Lanka. I’m almost thankful that when I first stepped foot on the Venerable Island, it was already in the throes of civil war. It meant I couldn’t be the catalyst. The Sinhalese government pulled out of a six-year peace deal the week I arrived. I stayed for two months, fearlessly venturing to the war-torn east coast before looping around and back to India. Then the government accelerated its stance, fuelling the climax to a bloody feud. Maybe my many inquisitive questions were misplaced?

The next country I dared to step foot in, was tiny Singapore. Rumours were strife that a woman in her twenties was brutally cursed for crossing the road without being escorted by a little green man. And then, if that wasn’t shocking enough, I was told off for taking too long to order noodles. I’ve got my eye on Singapore, if only to see if anything interesting ever happens.

From Singa’ to the Indonesian archipelago. A two-month jolly around Sumatra, Java and bountiful Bali proved to be one of the most exhilarating periods of my life. I left full of admiration for a country of simple brilliance. Four months later the government executed the infamous Bali Bombers, which seemingly acted as little deterrent — eight months later, central Jakarta reverberated to the blasts of two of its iconic hotels.

A year in Australia ensued, for the most part I was safe in the haven of Melbourne sipping stubbies and perusing antipodean quirks. Then one Saturday I dropped Reb and her dad at Avalon airport, and the radio began to crackle through the news that became known as Black Saturday; bushfires left 173 dead and levelled lives in the worst natural disaster in Australia’s history.

All of the above lays in my wake. Battered and torn, broken and bruised. Lives inextricably twisted, love curtailed, and communities eternally altered.

Perhaps it’s true, that you only really know a country and its people once you’ve been there — once you’ve spent time laughing with its children. But perhaps it’s also true, that you only get to know a place, once you’ve left?

Trails of the Unexpected is a post from Trail of Ants.

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I don’t think this weeks Reprint needs any words at all. Just look at him. He’s the cheerleader of the tour bus troop. I’m outspoken in my denial of there being a fundamental difference between a traveller and a tourist so I’ll choose my words carefully.

What you’re looking at is the amazing spectacle of debating monks at the incredible Sera Monastery in Lhasa, Tibet. The senior monks are in effect, educating the rookies. They debate on all aspects of monastic life, from Buddhist philosophy to who does the dishes. The man stealing the stage is naturally, American (I heard him speak) and he should not of even been standing where he was.

This Reprint loosely raises the debate; is all-access tourism good for Tibet? Being on the fringes of this spectacle it was hard to imagine that these young monks were not influenced by the actions and attitudes of myself and Mr. I ♥ Tibet. I won’t comment too much as the Reprint is a light-hearted feature. In fact I’ll balance things out and say that monks are one of the rudest, most annoying sets of people I’ve ever had the displeasure of queuing up with. If you let one monk queue jump, you might as well wait for nirvana. There. I said it.

Has this weeks Reprint image hit a cord? Let me know about it via the comments panel, or for more imagery from along The Trail take yourself over to the stills gallery.

The Reprint: ‘Monk Hunter’ is a post from Trail of Ants.

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Yeah so I went from here to here, popped into here and swung by there before I took a train over there to catch a plane here. Sounds easy. Simple. A cinch? It’s not.

Your world map might be laid nicely on your horizontal kitchen table in your homely house of right angles, but if you’re travelling around the developing nations of our great globe then you’ll be a fool – a quintessential fool – to believe the journey between stations is a dull strand of mere miles.

There isn’t a traveller in the land that doesn’t have a tale of travelling woes (regale us in the comments); the day their bus lost a wheel and careered toward the hungry cliff edge; the day their rickshaw slammed into the wrinkled stumps of Ganesha; the day their motorbike hit the grit and they spiraled into a snobbish palm. Etcetera.

This week’s image aims to portray those long arduous days of bouncing over rugged terrain, being violated by the springs of your seat and assaulted by the ridges of the roof. I shot it purposely while journeying through the Himalayas in Tibet towards the incredible Mount Everest. The global trail of tarmac hasn’t yet been laid on the inner reaches of the Tibetan plateau, but rest assured it’s not-so-far away.

If your eyes are salivating from this tantalising taste of Tibet then follow this link to feast your eyes on more imagery from the unforgettable times and treats of my time on the ‘Roof of the World’.

The Reprint: ‘Boulevards of Blur’ is a post from Trail of Ants.

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I’d seen him from a short distance, twelve months previously, he travelled alone aboard a plane to Moscow. He wore a dark tracksuit top zipped over a light t-shirt, and loose pale green shorts covered the knees he cradled by his chest. His hair sprayed out in loose brown curls beneath a khaki cap, highlighted by scribbles of grey. His pale thin lips lined a shallow smile, and his early morning eyes seemed glazed with relief. As his homeland slipped beneath a thin veil of cloud, he lifted his cap and ran his fingers through his hair, his lips parted just once to release his farewell thoughts: Let the journey begin, my friend. Today, he lay upright on the rippled white sheets of a double bed, in a simple, homely room on the island of Bali.

His hair was shorter, still a familiar fiesta of curls and slashed with new grey. His face was slimmer, his pale skin had darkened and his spirit was now windowed by black-framed glasses. His khaki cap lay upturned nearby, a tide of sweat had set a shade in the rim and it was filled with worn foreign coins. His loyal backpack leaned tiredly, resting its bruises and scars against a bamboo table. He lay shirtless, wearing chequered grey shorts between a half empty packet of Marlborough and a swollen blue notebook. Ambient music moulded around his quiet thoughts, and I watched in silence as his eyes circled the motionless ceiling fan. He lay in the path of a mirror, reflecting the figure of a proud and mortal curio. Though he sometimes heard me, I sensed he never saw me.

He recalled how he’d left Moscow, slipping east through Siberia to the rhythmic beat of a Mongolia bound train. It was five days before he set foot in Ulaanbaatar. While he absorbed the strength of the mighty Mongol race, he followed the whispers through the kitsch of their annual games. He described the grace of wrestlers, the poetry of archers and the fear that pecked at the calmness of preteen jockeys. Asia mesmerised him instantaneously. He looked musingly at the ceiling fan, he found its will to spin tremendous. After a short time living with local nomads in their ger and exploding dust clouds with the hooves of horses, he journeyed onward to Beijing. The Mongolians, he declared have a degree in simplicity, their eyes hang like painted canvases in a dusty exhibit of Untold Beauty. His arrival in Beijing was infamous, he writhed in agony for three days. At moments he became so dehydrated he had to use his fingers to pry his swollen tongue from the inner of his cheek. China was kind after this initiation, and even in the cruellest moments he learned patience, compassion and conviction.

He recalled a southwest mountain village where he’d sat and eaten beside a loyal friend, whose name, when he spoke it, started the percussion in his eyes. Following a humble feast they shared cigarettes and baiju with a decade or more excitable locals, who later produced a segment of bee larvae. After a pregnant pause, he swallowed the first of the pale grubs, beginning a long evening of song and dance, laughter and merriment. It says a lot about the Chinese, they’re xenophobes who roll out their welcome mats with a courtesy offered to queens. He shuffled on the bed, and then I listened as he rolled his memory onto the Tibetan plateau. He visited Lhasa, spending two weeks watching the evolution of monks, and the perseverance of pilgrims. He thought highly of the Tibetans. Lhasa radiates beneath a sky so alive, so pure, so blue. It mainlines your veins, and suddenly you’re as wise as the ocean, as blameless as boys, and as boundless as her eyes. He left the Forbidden City in a failing van. He drifted in and around whitewashed monasteries and indigo lakes, vast pale dunes and rich red forts, sought all the while by scores of grubby faced youths. As the traveller’s tale ascended to the base camp of Mount Everest, I picked up the thrill in his tone. He told of being caught out in tumbling temperatures beneath a canopy of curious stars. After a slow 10km hike he recoiled and spent several hours shivering uncontrollably beneath a stack of blankets, his eyes still retained that frozen glaze.

The resilient city of Kathmandu became the stage to a fond farewell, to the girl whose name he chased around the orchards of his mind. He cast his eyes on his cigarettes before confessing it had taken many moons before he realised the feeling seeping from the Kathmandu shadows, was loneliness. The Kingdom of Nepal played stage to my coronation. The day I lost my queen preceded the month I found my Kingdom. It was there, in Nepal, that he first encountered Hinduism. He found sense in aspects of its tradition, Buddha had nudged him on an educational level, but Hinduism and all the myth and colour of its ways and words earned a place in his heart in ways he’d never permitted. He doesn’t believe in mortal gods, or the dictatorship he sees in other religions. The real Hindu takes strength from everything, and gives weakness to nothing. He looped around Nepal, taking to the rivers, roads and jungles before riding on the roofs of buses through the southern terai, stopping by the birthplace of the Indian Prince, Buddha before lowering himself over the border and into the heart of Hindustan, to India.

He smiled, as if trying to expel the gross history of this journey. His first night in India, he told me how drunk he’d gotten, attempting to forget the inward journey that choked him with anger, and drenched him in desperation and blood. I learned later that that aching anger would bind itself with love. He travelled the cities of the north with his parents. Together they took in the holy Hindu city of Varanasi; the glorious Mogul white cliffs of the Taj; the Golden Temple, home of the Sikhs; and the Buddha’s classroom of Sarnath. Between these, they fought with forts and took trains to temples before the three speared their way over rails to the southern, largely Christian city of Pondicherry. North India is crass and callous. You’re soul is robbed, your spirit burned and your destiny is devilishly realigned. Christmas was spent sowing seeds of kisses on that girl, she’d drifted on his whispers to bloom beneath the shadows of festivity and friends. He stopped his story for a moment to sip a sassy smile, though its cause would remain a private pleasure.

He then told me of the month of Janus, who opened a door to new beginnings on the isle of Sri Lanka. The surf and sands of southern Ceylon bore him the fruit of countless new friends, each was true, each loyal and distinct. One day, he fell upon the tragedy of two Sri Lankan brothers, whose family business, a turtle farm was destroyed “the day the sea is coming”, along with almost their entire family. I didn’t have to hear Nimal and Ruwan’s tragedy, I could see it in their eyes and feel it in my heart, and without words I knew she felt the same, we had to help. I listened to his thoughts on Sri Lanka, the gaps he left I figured were small parts of his self that he left in the sands to recover another day. The tea plantations, national parks and holy pilgrimages he spoke so sweetly of, sat beside his firsthand accounts of an island in turmoil, at war.

His return to India was more instinct than desire. He tore himself away from an island he loved and threw himself at the mercy of her southern states. He found shanti the day he rented an Enfield Bullet motorcycle, and found comfort from the loving arms wrapped around his waist. He described the thirty day journey in magnificent stages, from the temple strewn lands of Tamils, up and over the Western Ghats before descending their coats of grit and grim into the green glory of Kerala. All along their way they sipped hot sweet chai and snacked on wadis with a hundred, no a thousand locals. They pinched rice and sweet, spicy curries with their fingers from banana leaves and when their clocks chimed for their ‘hour of need’ it took just a shy passerby, or a hidden onlooker to attract a gaggle of intrigue and set them on their way once more. To thread a passage through India in this way, sweetened bitterness with bliss and spliced cruel with kind. Our path was scribed with poetries of passion, and slow ballads of awe and brilliance. The conclusion however, also brought a sequel to the Toodle-oo of Kathmandu, to his pillion, his equal and his muse. This time born of logic, laced with tears but remembered in gratitude.

He paused, then silently walked barefoot to his porch, as he sat down he drew his knees to his bare chest and lit a cigarette. The plumes of smoke moved thinly through the still, warm air of our Bali night. He stared up into the dim porch light, watching in wonder his self-made spectacle of careless wisps. He extinguished the cigarette slowly, drew a deep breath and continued his memoires, carrying his thoughts over the moss-covered rocks that surrounded a small hidden lawn. He recalled the three weeks of long days that followed her departure when he’d ventured into the state of Andhra Pradesh, going nowhere fast while thinking things over slowly. I knew it was time to leave India, when I was denied entry to a night train. My bribes fell on hollow ears, my begging fell on careless eyes and my will was spirited away on a feather, to a passive plateau. I’d lost the will to fight; I knew right there, right then that my time – for now – was up.

He took to Singapore, a city he knew was a contrast to India, the homeland of humble heroes and fantastic villains. He drank and shopped and laughed and sighed, he ate and walked and talked. Singapore – for the visitor at least – is as neutral as Asia gets with the West. She’s loyal, where others are scheming, and she’s tender where others are tough. He stopped to watch an ant, struggle under a prized crumb of toast, and then from nowhere there were two, then three, and then four to help carry their loot awkwardly away. Touché. He continued, explaining how he flew to Sumatra, an island of Indonesia and one he discovered to be inlaid with treasures. He mounted volcanoes, dipped his weary body in lakes and his finale was attended by the fire-red, pendulous orang-utans. He took an onward flight to Jakarta, capital of the neighbouring island, Java, and en route he lost his prized possessions; his passport, and wallet of critical cards. Corruption in Indonesia was not beautiful, nor welcome. It’s a crime of the coward. If this nation weren’t so soft and sweet in other ways, I’d instil you with its sour side and stench. He spoke of other islands ringed with golden beaches, and cultures descended through lineages of lore.

It was here on Bali that I heard these nibs of his enchanting year in Asia. I listened for over an hour, in awe. I thought I knew the definition of my emotions, I thought I’d felt them all. Though the depths of those in Asia almost reduced my prior sentiments, to mere essence. Even in the shaves of silence I heard the enigmatic echo of his epic. I see his friendships in the constellations of his ebony eyes; I feel his compassion in the warmth of his palms; I feel his excitement in the nape of his neck; I see his astonishment in the furrows of his brow; I sense his caution in the flare of his nostrils; and I’ve heard his story, a thousand glorious times. A thousand glorious times.

A Thousand Glorious Times is a post from Trail of Ants.

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For these four, mind-blowing days it felt as if I were living within a high school English project. My former English teacher, Mr Zaidi would slowly sweep back his black, spiraling locks, knowingly adding to the tense finale of his class. He’d draw breath to fuel a husky, magnetic voice before swiftly declaring through a clearing in his goatee, ‘homework. I dunno, just invent a story about an overland journey between Tibet and Nepal’. I’d look at the lads, smirking painfully. ‘Oh’ he continued demon-like, ‘pop into Mount Everest on the way’. My head would slump to the table and my gaze would dribble over Palmer’s artistic acres of ‘I heart C.o’R‘, my consciousness cruelly restored by the rusty point of a compass, jabbed deep into my leg. The drill of the school bell would carry me to the bus, making sure to avoid the dreaded Gauntlet Runs on the fringes of the yard. So here’s my homework, Billy (that’s what we called him, ‘coz we woz kool’). Sorry it’s so late, my goldfish ate the first one.

We pact our bags and got in a big white minibus and eat Pringles and Monkey Nuts and went in moddy roads and saw a lake and the sky was sonny and wee saw some mountains and ate some nooddles and saw lot of stars, twinkling stars and onetime (wen we were neither up or down the hill) we went to see a Big mountain which was Bigger than all the rest and it was called everest was its name and we walked up to it and walkd away from it and got back in the bus and drove away to nepall on a moddear road it was fun and we had to walk a bit and I wood do it agian. The End. ps. PALMER HEARTs Mr B.Z. (can I ‘ave a A+ pleese, I need me pocket money this week too buy some pogz for Kirsty, innit).

Can you imagine! In reality the literary faux pas staining this post isn’t so far from the truth, though the reality of the tour would take the skill of Bill Shakespeare to secure. The highlight of the tour – in fact my trip thus far – was the mighty Mount Qomolangma (Everest, to you and I). It’s image was forever in my mind, even before I condemned it to memory; refusing to be shaken free by turbulent Tibetan roads, or by the trio of European tour-mates that had joined myself, the ubiquitous Reb and our new Welsh-guard-friend, Mark. Even the powerful, arresting blue pallet of the vast, sacred Yamdrok lake couldn’t sway my mind’s fixation from the impending chunk of treasure. Though, The Creator was relentless in a quest to try. Vistas of snowcapped mountain ranges with monumental allure were strewn menacingly across rocky plateaus. At one memory-tempting point, a mighty sand dune enveloped our feet, as though an hourglass had been dropped, devilishly, at the roadside. The addition of a quartet of playful kids, a cunning, but unsuccessful attempt. The town of Shigatse attempted a swerve ball; kindly presenting us with it’s piece de resistance, the charming complex of the spirit-shifting, Tashilhunpo Monastery. All were admirable attempts, but alas for The Creator, all fell in the shadow of the world’s highest, and best known mountain. Everest beckoned.

Framed with perfection by a shallow valley carving its way outwardly toward it’s Tibetan base camp, Everest threw itself skyward, dragging a dedicated following of rugged brothers with him. I wonder perhaps, whether the spectacle is a result of the Devils final attempt at punching his way up, and out of Hell’s fire into the cool salvation of the thin mountain air. A myth to ponder? In modern day reality, Everest acts as a natural stage for media-hungry ‘Free Tibet’ campaigners, one precaution recently moved the base camp a further 4km back from it’s glacial footing; now just a flat 4km stroll from our blanket-drenched dwelling in Rongphu. An army base now acts in the original place and a US$200 fine, apparently, awaits those who trespass against thee. Needless to say, Mark and I trespassed a good couple of kilometer passed thee, aided by summit-fever and hidden within a steep, rocky stretch of hills that dictated the direction of a forming road.

Though at 10km from ‘home’ – wearing little more than a couple of t-shirts, a hoody, jeans and a pair of Dunlops – it was worrying to see the sun slip shyly behind the valley, allowing the shadow of the world’s highest mountain range to wrap it’s sub-zero self around my head. One kilometer from safety – knees trembling, eyes squinting, fingers swollen – we were rescued by the minivan (Reb had pressed the panic button and our tour guide Jamba and Co had hit the road in search of The Missing). At -7c, with a massive additional wind-chill factor I was mightily relieved, though I could barely say so at the time. My body shivered uncontrollably for hours, as my head seemed to take the full force of a furious, Mother Nature. But we made it, and survived to tell the amazing tale of the most amazing view of the most amazing mountain in the most amazing, amazing mountain range on this amazing continent.

Still full of amazement we set about fulfilling our tour, onwards to the Nepalese border. A six am wake up call confirmed fears that our tiny Toyota minivan couldn’t traverse the terrain of the border regions of Tibet. Instead, Reb, Mark and I were bundled – no squeezed, like sardines – into a bright orange dumper truck, our backpacks kindly strewn into the open-air rear, upon a load of wet sand as we began a memorable journey, during which we knew got to know each other – a bit too – intimately. We were offloaded at Zongmu, a winding hillside town struggling to declare it’s own identity though eagerly requesting ours. In true adventurous style, we shunned the seventy-five pence taxi and began to walk the 8km out of China’s Tibet region and on to Kodari, (Nepal’s border town equivalent to Zongmu) while our sodden backpacks ground into our backs. An eight kilometer walk would of been simple, but a Nepalese gnome simply made it an adventure.

Sat upon the apex of a hairpin turn, high up in the Nepalese Himalaya, a short middle-aged man in a Nepali bobble hat swayed his head (not unlike the nodding dog in the rear of your ‘I’m so wacky!’ friends car). He gently ushered us downward, not along the road but down a steep mountain shortcut that would eventually find us stumbling, full of glee, onto a manic Nepalese welcome mat. Nepal maybe famous for it’s treks, but few can say they arrived doing just so – naturally, I claim we trekked from China, into Nepal. In the final stages, we crossed the threshold known as the Friendship Bridge, though the brutality inflicted on a handful of jostling locals by the army’s batons was far from the celebratory nature I’d expected. Needless to say, it accelerated our negotiations with a Kathmandu-bound taxi.

The journey south, in Toyota’s answer to the Ford Capri, was as staggering as it’s Chinese equivalent. Though the villages and towns that grasped the main road were clearly far from that of the relative calm offered by China. This was chaos personified. Architecture, which while in China I’d assumed to be unrivaled, was a massive step below. Hygiene- or lack of – which I deemed impossible to replicate, was almost non-existent. The redeeming features of the environment slipping through the cars jarred window, were a sublime backdrop lit by the radiant smiles of the local people. I was so excited to be in Nepal, if it weren’t for the charisma of the taxi driver keeping me awake, I’d of missed the Maoist (Communist Party of Nepal, aka rebels) blockades. A couple of hours later they’d start to collect their toll, fueling a civil war that is bubbling just below this verdi vista. I’ve just got a new homework project. Tkae taht, Billy

Himalayan Homework is a post from Trail of Ants.

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I couldn’t do anything but stand there. Kids of every age took turns to scramble up and over me as if I were a long lost climbing frame, those that couldn’t quite conquer the summit of my shoulders grabbed my hands and insisted I span, and span, and span. Surrounding walls were decorated by endless reams of colourful streamers, a cool expanse of water nearly tempted me in to paddle and a pet zoo turned up to keep everyone entertained. It was the spirit of a kids birthday party, and I was so excited to be invited. The only problem, I’d failed to bring any presents, though (most of) the kids knew exactly what they wanted; ‘munee, munee!’ they yelped in their sweetest voices, hands upturned and eyes switched to a well-rehearsed cute mode.

Immediately the wall decoration revealed itself as a towering cliff faces adorned with endless swirls of prayer-flag bunting, the water expanded into the mystical Nam Tso lake (not, as some believe it to be, the highest lake in the world) and the pet zoo turned out to be nothing more than a bunch of nomads believing I wanted to sit on a yak for a photo. I escaped the embarrassment of having to explain how much I would detest the idea by completing a kora around a sizeable lump of rock, it’s base riddled with cave dwellings. The bright blue surface of Nam Tso reflected the azure of the sky above, while the sun shone down in it’s extraordinary way. The day was a pleasure to own, though I soon discovered that up here, the night skies fight hard for glory. As the cold night air drifted in from neighboring mountain ranges, stars pierced the sheet of darkness, instantly pinning my head backwards. The Milky Way spread itself between the horizons, while a Welshman named Mark picked out seemingly invisible constellations. It was only the bitter cold thrashing my face that caused me to skip passed snoozing Tibetan mastiffs and retire to my abode for the evening, a cozy tin shed which gladly appeared to be a storage unit for the world’s blanket supply.

Nam Tso lake lies at 4718m, meaning any exertion takes a lung or two of effort, but we managed to stagger up two of the highest mountains hills in the world to take in the view, with live acoustics provided by the ripple and roar of the prayer flag bunting. It wasn’t the lack of oxygen, but the inhalation of a suspect omelete at breakfast that found me heaving a mound of my own. We returned to Lhasa city, drained of breath but full of amazement after a short glimpse at the Tibetan countryside. The amazement continued to spiral when we cut through Barkhor Square, where we spotted an elderly, feeble Tibetan man aiming his catapult at unsuspecting tourists. I immediately remembered a moment a few days previous in which I was crossing the road and my forefinger was hit sharply by a ball-bearing. Believing innocent until proven guilty to be a fair and just system, I withheld my intended punishment (incorporating a flying prayer-wheel).

With confrontation successfully avoided, I headed for Sera Monastery (once again) to take some inspiration from the monk’s brotherly nature. However. I was astounded to discover a courtyard full of the maroon-robed skinheads yelling and abruptly clapping each other into submission. They were raucous and relentless, and I felt powerless to stop the imminent downfall of one of the world’s most revered groups. I was just on the verge of intervening, when it was pointed out I was witnessing a monk debate. I still don’t fully understand the scenario (mostly due to it’s Tibetan argot) but loosely believe it to be an education based exercise in which young monks debate the scripts and other relevant issues; what time they have to go to bed, who does the washing up and how long they can use the internet for. Or so I believe.

With all conflict soundly expelled from my torso, I left Sera revitalised. I had a spring in my step and a cold in my nose, but that didn’t stop two more of them cute Tibetan toddlers wriggling up to me, though before they could break the spell I whisked out a couple of toy soldiers (a new trick of mine) from my pocket and sent them on their merry way. I’d sprung only a couple more steps when I heard an unforgettable racket bellowing towards my behind. I turned around to see a cloud of dust encompassing a gang of ten more kids, none more than 6 years old and all in search of a new toy soldier. I couldn’t do anything but stand there. The smallest – ergo cutest – placed a hand on each of knee caps, stopping me in my tracks he slowly looked up at me. I explained in my non-existent Tibetan that I was toy soldiered out. He got the drift. He rested his tiny head on my leg and started crying, tears dampened my leg. I wanted the world to swallow me up, I realised I’d just turned up at another party without a present. Still, that’s my tomorrow covered.

Tibetan Toy Soldiers is a post from Trail of Ants.

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One thousand. Two thousand. Three thousand. Four thousand. FIVE thousand. I shrieked ‘weeeeeeeeeeee…’ with delight, as we descended leisurely toward ‘the Forbidden City’ of Lhasa from the oxygen-sapping Tanggula Pass- fellow passengers celebrated with a ’5000m Party’, flicking exaggerated whoops and cheers around the cabin on torn strips of toilet roll. As we tumbled off the train at Lhasa station, my flip-flops skimmed across it’s spotless surface – a sign we were truly out of China proper – and my gaze floated skyward to the deep azure, locking brilliant white clouds into place. I barely noticed my respiratory system throwing a tantrum- I’d assumed the gasps and gulps were simply a natural reaction to the infamous city’s idyllic welcome.

If Buddhism has such a thing as a confession booth, I suggest you buy me an express ticket. ‘Father – sorry, Heavenly Father – I do take thee to be my lawful wedded wi… No, no, wait! I do confess, for over 3 months I may of tickled Maitreya’s bulbous belly, and lost numerous staring competitions with the poker-faced Amitabha but still, I can’t tell a mantra from a monk’. Well, I actually can, but you get the drift. I hasten to add that I’m the same with Christianity, Hinduism, Taoism, Confucianism, Islam, Judaism, in fact sod it – all religions. I even struggle – God forbid – with Zoroastrianism. However, the jovial nature of the cluster of words above, should not take away from the respect I hold for the millions, probably billions, that hold a firm faith. My religion – as clichéd as it sounds – is Travelism, and the people that line my pilgrimage. It’s this belief, that has brought me to Lhasa to drift thoughtfully among the factions of prayer-wheeling pilgrims, murmuring monks and trigger-happy tourists that trace the Barkhor kora (a traditional pilgrims circuit) around Lhasa’s central Jokhang Temple today.

On the face of it, Lhasa could be just another Chinese city. Though filter in the aforementioned pilgrims and monks. Shift a few Kodak shops this way, a couple of bbq stalls that way and there’s just about room for the large, no huge, no massive Potala Palace to tower like a stray structure of maroon-red and dazzling-white lego blocks over the cities monastery-dappled carpet. No less than 1000 rooms riddle it’s insides, and the 26 or so open to tourists give a golden glimpse of the magnificence to the seat of the once Tibetan government, and former residence to the – shhhh – Dalai Lama (though he’s been at his holiday home in Dharamsala, India since 1959). I visited Potala on a Chinese national holiday, the corresponding red of the PRC flag flapped powerfully upon it’s summit, as it did throughout Lhasa city. Outside the exit, a beautiful Tibetan girl (maybe 8 ) knelt down in her leather apron, then prostrated herself on the ground in full view of a row of metal prayer-wheels. She did this solemnly, with patience, beside her proud father. Each time they rose, they inched clockwise along their kora pausing only to accept offerings from respecting onlookers. If the physical nature wasn’t cause enough to donate, the dignified attitude in her act most definitely was.

Sera Monastery is a completely different experience, while the Potala is an imposing block, Sera is a network of chapels and courtyards, where monks still live today in their hundreds. The white-washed walls, cobbled pathways and sporadic, hardy trees created a monastic complex not too dissimilar to a Mediterranean village. The original intention for the visit was to experience a courtyard of debating monks, an apparent raucous environment in which numerous pairs of monks debate loudly with each other, hand-clapping and shouting aplenty. But alas. It was Sunday. The only day of the week they decide to ‘get on’. Though this did mean the the monastary was quiet, and suitably peaceful. To my surprise, and delight, a friendly-faced monk insisted I take a photo of the two of us. I duly obeyed, who was I to argue, especially on a Sunday – though alas, the candlelight threw my autofocus. Another monk insisted I insert my head into a cavern beneath what I believed to be a shrine, as I struggled outwards I cracked my head on it’s mantle and he broke a smirk. My reward was a white, silk Tibetan prayer scarf hung around my neck by the shaven-headed monk, a vertical black strip painted down my nose and a carving of a horse, kindly pointed out as being, indeed, a “horse“. I am blessed. I celebrated by joining my fellow kind, in the kora around Jokhang Temple before tucking into a ubiquitous yak steak.

In approximately a weeks time I tour south to Nepal’s turbulent capital, Kathmandu. Among other places, I stop at the Chinese base-camp for Mount Everest. This hump could delay posts, though gladly I have another week to go in Lhasa and the surrounding area, so at least one more post should be spawned from here. The silver-lining for your patience, will be my uncapped ability to upload photos once again. Hallelujah!

Kora blimey! Bless you, Lhasa is a post from Trail of Ants.

Consider visiting my travel blog to explore a wide variety of travel related articles, and score yourself a 7% discount on your next travel insurance policy with my World Nomads promotional code.