• English Site
• > SPIEGEL Magazine

The Tibet Express

A Train to the Roof of the World

By Andreas Lorenz

A new railroad line that now connects Tibet with the heart of China is raising concerns that it will bring too much foreign influence to the tradition-rich and long isolated Buddhist region.

A Chinese pop song, "Tell me that you love me," blared through the loudspeakers, followed by a song about sesame flowers. Last Thursday at 8:50 p.m., eight minutes before their scheduled arrival time, three white diesel locomotives pulled the 15 cars of the T 27 from Beijing into Lhasa's brand-new train station.

Platform No. 1 quickly filled up with locals carrying large amounts of luggage, as well as monks and tourists. The trip alone, traveling high up in the Himalayas, is already a sensation for many. "I was really looking forward to it," says a man wearing a windbreaker and trotting along behind a travel guide carrying a yellow flag.

The new railroad line, which nudges Tibet closer to the rest of the world, has also inaugurated a new way of thinking about time in the Himalayas. Residents and visitors are no longer forced to travel through the mountains on steep and tortuous roads or pay costly airfare. The train is inexpensive and comfortable, and the trip from Beijing takes only 48 hours.

Seventy thousand Chinese and foreign tourists have already taken the "heavenly railroad," as the Chinese call it, to the Tibetan capital since early July. Young, educated Chinese are especially fascinated by Tibet's exotic culture. Arriving in Lhasa, they encounter a world in which religion still shapes the daily lives of most local inhabitants.

Lhasa is a blend of the Middle Ages and the modern era. Monks in red robes walk the streets talking on their mobile phones. A department store stands just a few meters from the Jokhang Temple, Tibet's holiest site.

But many Tibetans fear that the new train could make the roof of the world even more attractive than it already is. Sitting in Lhasa's dimly lit tee houses, surrounded by the smell of Yak butter, they discuss rumors that Beijing plans to send 400,000 people to the region and resettle them in the mountains. But most Tibetans have gotten used to the Chinese, even tolerating the presence of Chinese soldiers -- as long as they are permitted to continue practicing their Buddhist religion in peace.

And all attempts by the Communist Party to paint the Dalai Lama as a separatist have apparently been unsuccessful. The 71-year-old god-king clearly enjoys great support in the city to this day, despite the government's repeated efforts to force nuns and monks to distance themselves from the Dalai Lama through its "patriotic education campaign."

The Communist Party continues to deal ruthlessly with rebels, perceived or real. In a letter to the United Nations smuggled out of the new Chushul Prison near Lhasa, Dolma Gyab, a 29-year-old teacher, reports that he was sentenced to ten years in prison last September for having criticized the Chinese government in a book manuscript.

Before fleeing to India in 1959, the 14th Dalai Lama lived, like many of his predecessors, in the Potala Palace. Today visitors deposit small amounts of money and traditional white shawls known as hadas in front of his throne. Since the railroad began bringing thousands of new tourists to Lhasa, the crowds have become so large that palace administrator Qiangba Gesang, 65, was forced to increase the daily maximum number of visitors to 2,500.

"Tourists are like a cooking fire," says the gray-haired Qiangba Gesang. "You need it, but it can cause a lot of damage if you are not careful."