kandido is back in lhasa. same hostel, same place, same motor bike.
same kandido? one year has passed and kandido is back on his steps.
like every night kandido circoambulates around the YokHang, the holiest place of the town where the temple is surrounded by thousands religiuos and jewelery shops. a whole life around the there. people eat, walk, buy, prostrate, recite mantras and piss in the typical tibetan habit of pissing in the streets.
smells of piss is mixed with the burning of herbs. music of mantra with pop songs from the chinese shops and from the mobile phones. chinese flags are hanging from the shops next to the holy skarfs and thangka paintings. kandido is walking around.just walking. everything is so
intense to suck is thinking. how many people turns in cicle around there? how many people prayed around there? how many people measure with their body length that circuite?
what make a place holy? town like lhasa, pushkar, or varanasi?
but now something is different. military commandos expecting the streets. helmets and rifles in the hands. they walk anti-clock wise. opposite of what one should do around a holy place. every so often a tank is running crazy, with a sirene full blast. no more people crawling in prostrations. but still the atmphere is there. how many revolution jokhang has seen? how many riots and blood spilled?
same place? same hostel? same kandido?
kandido smiles and looks at the piece of sky between the back and white buildings.
some miliatry look at him. but now with his long bear and the pakistan hat he looks like a chinese from xinjang. a perfect camuflage. just another chinese. no one.
the great wheel of life and death,
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