lhasa —Tashi leaned over to me and whispered, “Don’t say anything, please. There are hidden microphones here.” We were entering the Potala Palace, the traditional seat of the Dalai Lama, a huge and ancient building high on a hill in eastern Tibet. There are a thousand rooms in the old palace, but only thirty-five were open to us. Monks sat on cushions in the hallways, scrutinizing us carefully—too carefully, making me think they were not monks at all.

This was not what I had expected. I had come to see what I could of traditional Tibet before a railway line from Beijing opens in July 2006, bringing a flood of Chinese migrants and workers into a heartland opening to mining operations and heavy construction. I was starting to think I had arrived too late.

Eight other travellers and I had hired a chugging but determined little bus to take us from Kathmandu over the high Himalayan passes. The rainy season was shimmering to a close and the road was washed away in four different places before we reached the Chinese-held border. There, we met Tashi (not his real name). Each group of travellers must be accompanied by a government-approved guide, and we had feared from the beginning that we would be saddled with a Communist Party official. For the first few days, we weren’t sure we hadn’t been. Tashi had the face of a Tibetan but he kept to himself. He got us through the Chinese military’s checkpoints and occasionally pointed out some of the ruined Buddhist monasteries high on the craggy hills. For the most part, though, he was silent and distant.

Then, on the third day, during a hike near the massive northern flank of Mount Everest, I discovered that Tashi had been afraid of us. “Listen,” he told me as we paused alongside a gurgling stream, “you are Canadian?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Then I will tell you something. A friend of mine is now in jail . . . for three years.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Same as me,” Tashi said. “He was guiding a group across to Lhasa. All of them were Canadian.” He looked at me hard. “He began to tell them about the problems here. He told them everything and then . . . ”

“What?”

“In the end, when they came to Lhasa, one of the Canadians . . . ” he paused. “One of the Canadians was not Canadian. False passport. He was a spy. And so they put my friend in jail. Now, there are only a few Tibetan guides left. I am afraid for my job. Now they bring 300 Chinese guides down. I think I will not have a job soon.”