From Lhasa, heading east

I'm not a journalist. I'm just a traveler with a video camera, and a thirst for adventure, for helping those I can. I'm not here searching for stories, I'm looking for stories to stick to me.

We load the Jeep with some supplies. My Tibetan driver is about 45yrs old, broad-faced and dark-skinned. J sits in the front passenger seat.

These busy streets of Lhasa. The city is such a melting pot now, the Chinese, the Hui Muslin, the new Tibetans dressed in counterfeit North Face jacket, and the old Tibetans from remote villages, some make their pilgrimage here in more than three years, on foot.

And also, western travelers. At the restaurant the night before, more westerners than natives came to celebrate the New Year. Ballons, horns, and John Lennon's Imagine. J sat across the table, his eyes looked pensive. When he turned to the light, there was an orange glow around his handsome profile. I cried. It must be the music, that song had made me cried more than once.

Brownish hills dominate the landscape. Mallards and loons amuse themselves in shallow rivers.

We drive across a snow-covered mountain pass. Prayer's flags in the thousands flap loudly at the top. Even as cold as it is, a couple of die-hard flag sellers still wait by the roadside.

The grandeur of the Tibetan Plateau is unspeakable. One can only admire. Any words, once spoken out, fell short of describing. In fact, over here, you can only communicate with your heart and your mind.

We stop at a mountain lake. It is supposed to be a tourist destination, but that doesn't stop hydro development companies from coming. Bulldozers and trucks work tirelessly nearby. The billboard tells me, it is going to be a reservior for a dam downstream.

The wind-swept lake is beautiful with snow-capped mountains in the background. A lama temple sits on a small island in the middle. Perhaps, I've gotten used to nature in its original form. Putting me in a "designed" view-spot, I feel manipulated in a way.

I have a tender feeling for J. He is as simple as a child, sensitive as a girl, and yet brave enough to come with me here. If anyone at work knows he comes with a foreigner to interview Tibetans, he'd be in big trouble.

Small towns come and go. It is obvious the native Han Chinese, especially those from the nearby Sichuan province took control over the restaurant scene everywhere. Tibetan tea houses normally don't do very well. Tourists seldom stop by, and there are few items on the menu other than salty yak-milk tea and barley dough.

Low clouds and heavy wind close our day in a mid-sized town of little character. It is just the beginning.