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A pilgrim climbs on past. Clack, clack, clack. Stick staccato on slabs of stone. She pulls her weight of technicolor bones up each stair. Her eyes hidden by layers of time, fixed on the mala beads in her hand. She utters silent prayers. For her deliverance and the enlightenment of all beings. Om Mane Padme Om. I squint up. Sipping breaths like sour yak butter tea, another wave of nausea hits. The Potala Palace, the seat of the gods, rises up like some anime castle in the distance. Beckoning. “Old lady beat you!” A familiar voice chuckles, that Tibetan humour never so far from the surface. I take the bait, facing Lopsang with a scowl. “How many more steps my friend? Surely almost there?” “Almost there, yes - just two thousand to go.” I sigh. He wore just a simple matching tracksuit, another Western addition to Tibet since China's silent invasion. Yet it seemed to me that Lopsang was no ordinary tour guide. He peered out over the rafters of the mountain monastery. Floating halfway between the Earth and heavens, the air suddenly becomes electric. A quick glance around ensures we are alone. “Mother lake, she once lay here. Sacred to my people.” The sound rings out like a prayer, over the lifeless expanse of concrete below. I shiver. It has nothing to do with the altitude, but far more to do with the five military check points we had passed through. I pull my yak blanket tighter. “A Chinese guide,” Lopsang gives a wry wink. “Would tell you only of the monument erected for the great liberation of Tibet. To the greatness of Mao.” Though we had met just a few days ago, he had dropped his air of suspicion. I had become a confidante to this at once strong yet vulnerable man. I was surprised at the surge of affection rushing through me. A girl simply longing for adventure, I found myself suddenly in alliance with exiled Tibet. I don’t remember how many months later Lopsang stopped responding to my emails. He just disappeared without a trace, like so many of his people before him. I hoped for the best, but was comforted with the thought of how blessed his next life would be. No longer in his matching tracksuit, but cloaked in his true colours. The burnt saffron of the Palace monks. .