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Their departure was not marked by any ceremony. ''We just started out,'' she
recalled. The four began mumbling mantras and raised their hands to heaven. They
dropped to their knees and flung their bodies forward, fully prone against the
damp earth. Then they stood up, took three small steps, and repeated the
sequence.
For more than five months now they have prostrated themselves this way, all
day every day, inch-worming their way to Lhasa and its holy sites. They slowly
made their way through more than 100 miles of some of the world's harshest
terrain, starting from above 14,000 feet, then followed a highway 200 more miles
into Lhasa.
They reached the city in early November. These days, they are inching their
way along busy sidewalks as they follow the three hallowed circuits around the
Jokhang Temple, the holiest site in Tibetan Buddhism, in advance of praying at
its inner shrines.
Only here, it seems safe to say, could such a roadside spectacle attract
little notice. Thousands of Tibetans undertake similar pilgrimages each year,
not to mention the far greater numbers who reach holy sites by bus, tractor or
ordinary treks of weeks or months.
While Buddhist devotion may be fading among younger, urban residents, it
remains a resilient source of joy for most Tibetans out on the grasslands and
the mountains, persisting through the temple-burning of Mao's Cultural
Revolution, the controls on the staffing and activities of monasteries, the
Chinese Communists' condemnation of the exiled Dalai Lama and the growing
incursions of modern culture.
''This has been our lifelong dream,'' said Joama, who spoke on the sidewalk
as she paused for tea. ''I'm not married yet, so I was able to free up the
time.''
Joama and her companions said that once they finish at the Jokhang in late
November, they will circle then pray inside the nearby Potala palace. There they
will join the throngs who bow before the tombs of former Dalai Lamas --
successive incarnations of Tibetan Buddhism's most revered leader who lived and
worked for centuries in this imposing building on a hill.
In the Potala, as other pilgrims do, they will surely press their foreheads
on an unlabeled chair that was used by the 14th Dalai Lama before he fled China
in 1959, as Chinese troops cracked down on a popular uprising.
The 14th Dalai Lama may have been gone more than 40 years, but he remains an
almost palpable presence, his continued adoration only spotlighted by the
government's campaign to eliminate his image.
''Can you give me a picture of the Dalai?'' whispered a shopkeeper in the
town of Nagqu, 200 miles north of Lhasa and a stopover for many pilgrims. ''I
have one but I need another one,'' she said, adding that many neighbors had got
rid of theirs, fearing trouble with the police.
The lama pictures that are on public display in Lhasa and elsewhere betray a
continuing test of wills between devout Tibetans and the authorities. Officials
insist that Tibetans enjoy freedom of worship -- so long as it does not involve
loyalty to the Dalai, described as a deceitful ''separatist.''
Today, in part as a proxy for the forbidden Dalai, many temples, shops and
homes in Tibet display pictures of the 10th Panchen Lama, who occupied the
second highest position in Tibetan Buddhism. The Panchen was deeply respected by
the people -- but he has also been dead for 12 years.
By featuring the late Panchen, people are also stating their resentment of
the government's effort to control his succession. Angered in 1995 when the
Dalai announced, from exile, that a new incarnation of the Panchen had been
discovered, Chinese officials put that boy under house arrest, where he remains.
They forced resident leaders to select another candidate, whom few Tibetans have
accepted as valid and whose picture is virtually nowhere to be seen.
Some pilgrims carry secret pictures of the Dalai, but whatever their inner
loyalties, their laborious travels are not intended to score political points.
They look more sad than angry when they touch the Dalai's empty chair. Rather,
their quest is for an inner harmony that can be approached by giving up one's
pride -- and prostration is an ultimate symbol of submission.
''This is the best way to make a pilgrimage,'' said Tserenduba, 41, who was
camped with nine other men and women beside the highway some 150 miles north of
Lhasa, resting after 40 days of travel by prostration. The group, also from a
distant mountain village, estimated it might take them 90 more days, well into
the icy winter, to reach the capital.
''When we move this way, it shows our complete dedication,'' the man said,
squinting from sunlight reflected off an overnight snowfall. ''At the end of a
day, our whole bodies are in pain. But we'll feel great joy when we reach Lhasa
and pray in the temples.''
In a common arrangement, seven of his group, ranging in age from 18 to 60,
are prostrating while three accompany them in support, pulling a cart with tents
and provisions. Other groups carry backpacks and subsist mostly on alms as they
go.
As Tserenduba's group prepared to start again, the seven lucky ones strapped
on protective leather aprons to save their knees and put thick mitts on their
hands.
Like many pilgrims, Tserenduba is not versed in the depths of Buddhist
theory. He knows what he believes and feels. Asked why he was making such an
arduous trip he shrugged and said, ''We're doing this so our future can be
better.''
When they finish their religious duties in Lhasa, he said, they will look for
a truck so they can hitch a ride. ''We'll just go home,'' he said.
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