Lhasa - yak butter eaten from a torn Sprite bottle, incense smouldering in brass pots, smoke suffusing the air with the smell of devotion, that thin air, hard to breathe. Girls, women, men and boys, all dressed proudly in patterned jackets, long skirts, satin coloured, some half on- half off. Babies nestled in thickly swaddled backpacks, mother's hair braided with jewellery adorning the jet black, father's hair just as ornate. The hair so carefully braided, is coming undone after a day's pilgrimage. Sun burnt, leather, lined faces, pink cheeks, rouge sometimes substituting that sun broken pinkness; old ladies swirling tasselled hand-held prayer wheels and muttering under their breath. Wild west buildings, women wearing cowboy hats. The city is nestled among big craggy mountains, some snow-topped, others sandy brown. I know I'm stating the obvious, but you
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