UNDER the gaze of troops armed with automatic rifles, bayonets and batons, residents of Lhasa's old Tibetan quarter are now being allowed outdoors after many hours of cowering in their homes. Burnt-out buildings, smashed shop-fronts and piles of looted property are ubiquitous reminders of an orgy of anti-Chinese rioting. Lhasa is back under control, but with a heavy hand.

Security is particularly intense in the Tibetan quarter itself. Helmeted riot police are posted every few metres along its narrow, winding alleyways. Residents are subjected to identity checks as they walk around. In the heart of the district, in front of the Jokhang temple, which is Tibet's holiest shrine, two armoured personnel carriers are parked. On the front of one big red Chinese characters read: “Stability is Happiness”. On the other it says “Separatism is Disastrous.”

The road around the temple, normally packed with pilgrims spinning their prayer wheels and murmuring prayers, is now nearly empty. At one point those trying to walk around it—an act of piety—were required to walk through a column of gun and baton-toting troops, one by one, and present their identity cards. Your correspondent saw several turned away—usually, it appeared, pilgrims from out of town—before the circuit was blocked to all. The pious had no choice but to turn back, retracing their steps around the temple in an anti-clockwise direction (to Tibetans unholy).

Beyond the Tibetan quarter, it is now possible to survey the full extent of the damage caused by the rioting of Friday and Saturday. It extends well into areas of the city where ethnic Han Chinese form the majority. Your correspondent saw a Bank of China branch with its windows smashed, the guardroom of the Tibet Daily, the Communist Party's main mouthpiece in the region, similarly damaged, a multi-storey internet café gutted by fire, and shop after Chinese-owned shop burned or destroyed. The scale of the unrest was probably the biggest the city had seen since the Tibetan uprising of 1959 which prompted the Dalai Lama to flee into exile.

The troop presence in Lhasa is similarly extensive. Some are members of the People's Armed Police, an anti-riot force. Some could be regular soldiers. China wants to give the impression that the unrest is being handled by the police. But the licence plates of some military-looking vehicles are covered or missing (army and police licence plates are readily distinguishable). They are patrolling along streets, stopping cars and pedestrians to check papers and sealing off some areas to all but residents. There must be hundreds if not thousands deployed.

Access to monasteries on the edge of Lhasa, where the unrest first began on Monday March 10th, remains blocked by police. Your correspondent was stopped several hundred metres away from the entrance to one of them, Sera, and was taken to a police station for brief questioning and inspection of documents before being released. Troops stopped him and deleted his photographs (foreigners, he said, were not allowed to take them). Government officials visited your correspondent at his hotel and advised him not to go out “for the sake of security”.

Some Han Chinese in the city remain nervous. A Han taxi driver (Hans, rather than Tibetans, dominate the taxi business) was reluctant to drive close to the Tibetan quarter despite the intense security. A Han shopkeeper more than a kilometre away from the Tibetan-dominated area said he would remain in Lhasa, his home for the past 20 years, but many other Hans would leave. A Han acquaintance, he said, had been knifed to death during the riots. An exodus of Hans—and a drying up of tourism from other parts of China—would deal a body blow to the city's economy.

The authorities have set a deadline of midnight on Monday local time for rioters to hand themselves over (if they do so by then apparently they can expect more lenient treatment). This has aroused fears among Tibetans of widespread and indiscriminate arrests in the days to come. Some Tibetans say house-to-house searches and arrests have already started.

But the authorities are trying their best to give the outside world an impression of normality. Unlike their response to a big outbreak of anti-Chinese unrest in 1989, this time they have not declared martial law, nor even announced any curfew or measures to expel foreigners (some are being told by their Chinese travel agencies to leave, however). Your correspondent, the only foreign journalist with official permission to be in Lhasa (which was applied for and granted well before the unrest erupted) is still allowed to remain. But in practice the city's daily life is being controlled by troops (from elsewhere in China), foreign journalists are being barred from entering and the most repressive measures in 20 years are in force.