Meet Phoenix. Marcia King-Gamble

Asian men held placards with names that were barely legible. There was no sign of a driver retained for just the Sutherland group.

      “Xiong Jing, our project manager, said he’d arranged transportation for our group,” I said out loud. “But there doesn’t seem to be anyone here to meet us.”

      I was tired, edgy and wound up from the ridiculous incident. I hadn’t gotten much sleep on the flight, not folded like a pretzel in those uncomfortable seats.

      “I don’t see anyone waiting,” Damon said, coming up behind me.

      “Could be he’s late. I’ll see what we can do about getting us to the hotel.”

      “I’ll get a taxi.” Damon hurried off.

      “I’m finding rickshaws,” I announced. “They’re cheaper and a whole lot more fun.” I stomped off in the other direction, my trusty Althea, her dreads secured by a rubber band, next to me.

      “I hope the luggage and equipment fit into those rickety pedicabs,” Damon said as he returned loud enough for me to hear. “Betcha anything Phoenix will make that luggage fit.”

      I decided to let it go.

      A weathered-looking man of indeterminate age stepped in front of me. “Madam Sutherland?” he queried in a singsongy voice with foreign intonations.

      “I am. And you are?”

      “Your driver. Your manager, Xiong Jing, asked me to meet you. I’m sorry I was detained. Is that all of your luggage?”

      My manager? I waved a hand indicating the group and their bags. “Yes, thank you for coming to get us.”

      Everyone had been instructed to travel light. We were restricted to clothing and personal effects, enough to fit in either backpacks or duffels. The bulky items we’d been forced to check were the equipment we would need to work.

      The driver signaled to a group of lounging porters. The men swooped down like vultures, piling the bags and equipment on their heads and backs. They gestured for us to follow them.

      Outside, a minibus was haphazardly parked at the curb, hemming in a line of beat-up taxis. A child who looked to be no older than twelve guarded the vehicle. Coins exchanged hands before our escort motioned to us to climb in.

      I was short of breath and my chest felt tight. I blamed the long, exhausting flights and the twelve-thousand-foot altitude for this unexpected weariness. After the bags and equipment were crammed into the back hatch we pulled out.

      A nerve-racking journey followed. The bus swerved this way and that, narrowly missing pedestrians, bicyclists and pedicabs. We bounced down rutted streets and with every jostle the cardboard airline meal I’d ingested threatened to be expelled. I pretended to take it all in stride but what I really needed was a Tums, something to settle my chest and stomach that were in danger of imploding.

      Ten minutes passed then the driver pulled over abruptly.

      “Where are we?”

      “Please just make it the hotel,” Althea mumbled, opening up two droopy eyes. She looked about as gray as I probably did.

      I couldn’t quite make out where we were. It was dark outside. Where we’d stopped sure didn’t look like the Himalaya Hotel to me. Squinting, I spotted a barricade. It must be some kind of a security checkpoint of sorts.

      A uniformed man, police or public security, I think they were called, approached. He waved his arms and demanded something of the driver in Tibetan.

      The driver sprang from the vehicle. His stance quickly became subservient as he spoke to the man before motioning for us to get out.

      “Hey, what’s going on?” I asked.

      When the driver didn’t answer, I climbed from the bus and followed him.

      A number of uniformed men converged on my driver, jabbering and pointing to the back of the van where the luggage was piled. They began motioning to unload the bags and equipment. The men went through our personal items, tossing clothing on the ground and waving electronic gadgets in the air.

      “I’m falling asleep on my feet,” Althea complained. “Let them take what they want.”

      “Are those real guns?” I asked, shock receding.

      I’d read about the Public Security Bureau, Tibet’s answer to the police, and figured these rather unpleasant men were them. I’d been told they wore green uniforms but favored plainclothes and dark glasses when undercover. Their goal was to blend in with the crowd, and so they would often hide behind newspapers. The PSB’s responsibilities encompassed staying on the alert for civil unrest, checking for expired visas and monitoring crime and traffic.

      A bald, beefy officer, who looked to be the leader, unzipped Damon’s duffel and began strewing clothes about. I chuckled gleefully as two pairs of jeans and a handful of T-shirts went flying. When sweatshirts hit the dirty pavement, followed by socks and a pitiful few pairs of underwear, I heard Damon groan. Beefy, the larger man, waved something that got the attention of the other officers.

      Things got pretty serious quickly and my good humor ended. Heart in my mouth, I watched security converge.

      “Dammit, Damon,” I gritted out through clenched teeth. “Tell me you weren’t stupid enough to smuggle in booze or drugs?”

      “Just a dime bag of pot for medicinal purposes,” he quipped. An amused grin lit up his pretty boy features. The man didn’t seem to sweat. I, however, was sweating plenty.

      The driver continued jabbering away in his language to the Tibetan officers. He beckoned Damon over.

      The officers held up two books. I squinted, hoping to get a look at the jackets. I came closer while the officers kept their flashlights trained on us. Both books were written by popular New York Times bestseller authors.

      But it wasn’t the books the officers were after. It was the photographs used as bookmarks they shook out from between the pages. Damon must have forgotten them there. He’d used photos of the exiled Dalai Lama to mark pages. He’d probably forgotten them there. This was what the fuss was about.

      “What’s the problem?” I asked the driver.

      A crooked index finger worried the driver’s forehead. “It’s illegal to have pictures of the Dalai Lama,” he explained. “You all may be in big trouble and so am I.”

      Damon thudded his palms against his head. “I’ll take full responsibility if you explain to the officers it was an oversight on my part,” he said. “Tell them we’re here on official government business.”

      The driver sighed loudly. “I’m not sure that’s going to work. This isn’t the United States.”

      Turning back to the officers, his palms clamped together as if he were praying, he apparently pleaded our cause. The more he spoke, the more questions were hurled at him.

      I needed to do something. I couldn’t just stand there. I trotted over just as the lead officer snarled something at the driver.

      “They won’t deal with a woman,” my driver yelped in loud English, gesticulating with one hand for me to stay out of it.

      I handed him an envelope. “Explain to these gentlemen we’re not ordinary tourists. We’ve been commissioned by the government to work on an important historical finding.”

      The envelope was snatched out of his hand by Beefy, and a flashlight produced. The surrounding officers peered at the paper and began talking at once.

      “They don’t read English,” my driver explained. “They don’t understand.”

      “Then please translate,” I pleaded. “Show them the official government stamp.” I pointed to the letter’s gold seal.

      “I will do my best,” he said firmly, as if fearing I would make things worse. “Tibet is not exactly a woman’s