Thousands of people lined the streets all morning hoping to catch a glimpse of him. The Dalai Lama, leader of Buddhists and the Tibetan people, was back in town. I was in McLeod Ganj, a city in Northern India where the Tibetan government in exile is based.
There was a heightened sense of excitement all around at his impending arrival. There was a strong smell of incense as Tibetans lit bundles of the strong smelling stuff to herald his arrival. We heard that he was due at 9am, and were assembled at the appointed time. We were eager to catch a glimpse of this man- a pretty cool guy by all accounts, peacemaker, leader, visionary and Nobel Prize winner. He's up there with Nelson Mandela and such luminaries.
We waited for hours; he was due "any minute" all the time, but did not arrive until about 2pm.
Indian time of course is different to Western time. Its much more flexible.
McCleod Ganj is basically a centre for Tibetan refugees, people who have fled their native country, some in horrific circumstances, and arrive in India hoping to get an education, a way to the Western world, and ultimately a ticket back into their own country. Tibet is currently being occupied by China and the Tibetan culture is basically being eroded in the same way Irish culture was stamped out by the British when they colonised us. 
China is such a huge economic superpower that they get basically get away with it, and thats why you don't hear that much about it. Nobody is prepared to stand up to China and tell them to cop themselves on.
So, McCleodGanj is more Tibetan than Indian.
The place is crawling with monks, all clad in their maroon robes and sandals or occasionally ultra trendy Nike runners. Its an interesting place. You get the monks, the Buddhists, the Western travellers, the hippies, the spiritual seekers , the backpackers and the trekkers.
Its common to see motorcycles roaring down the street, rented out by Israeli backpackers (just done with military service and in need of somewhere cheap to go wild and smoke hash), or ancient Indian bockity motorbikes driven by wizened tiny white haired Indian men. Walking down the street you pass dingy tea shops with huge pots of chai on the boil. There are women standing behind huge frying pans on the street making momo's, a Tibetan delicacy, a type of dumpling which can be steamed or fried, and is absolutely delicous. Lepers with no legs or stumpy arms try to catch your attention from a type of skateboard they use for getting around. Because of the brisk tourist trade, beggars are drawn to the place. And there are so many of them. They are reduced to abject poverty; some in desperate horrific circumstances you just don't want to think about.
I digress.
Eventually a calvacade of cars approached and it was clear that this time we were in luck. I wasn't sure which car to look in; it all happened so fast. But I craned my neck, and luckily looked into the right car. There he was, in his maroon robe, with a bit of shoulder showing, sitting in the passenger seat of an ordinary black car. It was a case of blink and you miss him. There was a warm smile on his face. It was only a split second, but I saw him. I saw the Dalai Lama; I was happy. 
