Tibet is on holiday

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Tibet is on Holiday

I should slow down. I should adventure, hitch hike, camp in the countryside, wander out of town and off the maps for a while. I've merged onto the fast lane, the tourist trail, zipping along, too fast to take the off ramps. South of Dunhuang I spy the sand dunes rearing up over the city's outskirts, an ominous chain of wondrous shifting sculptures. A fence erected around their base, however, funnels would be adventurists through a ticket booth. Since the Cultural Revolution things have changed. The CCP has seen the benefits of tourism and has reconstructed history, temples, homes of famed saints, reknowned artists, writers, painters. The country can be considered a dot to dot of scenic and cultural snapshots, postcards to be collected, viewpoints to be sought out. But where is the adventure?

Leaving town aboard the morning bus, I admire the stripes of sunlight bathing the dunes. The road turns south and climbs into the Altan mountains, a small range whose 3800m pass is reached before I've time to take in the view. Already decsending the grassy slopes and jagged red rocks wrapped in snow banks, the road suddenly stretches out before us for miles and miles and miles in a solid straight line. The mountains retreat to the far horizon, to the east the Kunlun mountains, the Qilian to the west. The land here, Qaidan Pendi, is a vast and isolated depression. Grey clouds soar and billow. I feel I've travelled back in time and expect maurading barbarians to gallop onto the scene at any moment. A shallow lake lies at the centre of this bowl, the latter some twenty kilometres east to west, fifty kilometres north to south. A few abandonned settlements along the road side, roofless hopeless dwellings pierce the earth like broken teeth. After lunch in a non-descript town the shimmering colour of autumn, the sun lulls me to sleep until reaching Golmud. The broad boulevards and landscaped curbs belie an unattractive and empty oasis, a junction town fro travelers boarding the train to Lhasa or headed east to Qinhai Lake, the largest lake in China. I ring up CITS to inquire as to the necessary Tibetan Entry Permit. "You know, Tibet is on holiday until the eighth," responds the woman at the other end. "No. I didn't know - and I've ridden all day to learn this." After cursing my misfortune I race back to the station and catch a sleeper bound for Xining.

Bad luck and foul weather follow me east into the next day. I catch a small green bus - I can't read the symbols but the destination matches those in my guide book. The road twists and climbs and falls, the landscape, a lush wet green swims past, rain drops slide down the fogged glass. A taxi driver understands I want to go to Mengda Nature Reserve and lies to me about the distance, charging twice what the acceptable rate. There is no longer any accomodation inside the park, I discover, and the only hotel outside the gates, although completely empty, will not offer me a room for less than 150RMB. (Usually I pay 30RMB). The cab driver returns me to town and shuffles me into a little white van that breaks down less than a metre into our journey. We shuffle into two seperate cabs. I've no idea exactly where we are headed or how much I've to pay when I get there. I'm tired. I've been on the road nearly thirty hours, what with sleeper busses and taxis and local mini busses crammed with school children. I could give a care for the beautiful scenery so it's just as well the clouds hang low and the old lady with her elbow jabbed in my rib smells like goats. I manage to arrive in Linxia just before nightfall, A Hui Muslim town inside Gansu province, and communicating jibberish with lots of pointing and animated limbs, I find my way to the town centre and a cheap but tidy hotel. There are no showers but it's still raining. My single overlooks an amoebic traffic circle. As night draws in, the vegetable stalls on wheeled carts are replaced by glowing red tents selling kebabs and other tastey morsels. I fill up on beef skewers and dumplings and a bottle of tsingtao. I wander the dark back streets. High brick walls frown on the narrow alleys interspersed with an occasional glass front noodle shop or hair salon. The inhabitants duck into elegant doorways, disguising hovels with poor plumbing and no heating.

Morning is but the slightest suggestion of grey light. Taxi cabs swim across the puddles, their drivers dodging the potholes they've memorized. In a sad looking back street where sunlight would only humiliate the engineering, I follow the warm glow of a pale yellow bulb hanging over a middle-aged couple inside their wee restaurant's kitchen. They look to one another and confer over my sign language before serving me a bowl of rice porridge, a deep fried dough stick and plate of pickled vegetables of colours not even to be found among the patches on Joseph's coat. Husband and wife watch the taxis jetski past and wave to passing neighbours, some enter to fetch orders, the deep-fried sticks being a popular demand. A young woamn enters to fetch her son, an obedient seven year old sitting by the window who's been working his way to the bottom of his porridge since before I walked in. There is no map of Linxia in the guide and I wonder which is the temple my book refers to in bold print as the Grand Mosque. I pass half a dozen, all of them discernable from Confucian temples only by their crescent moon atop the roof.

Spinning Good Vibes

The clouds hang low in the valley rising gently above the hilltops,
losing their will after twenty-four hours of heavy rain.
The air is damp and chilled.
The creeks scramble for the river and the river overflows into the streets.
My footsteps lead me into the current of a thousand thousand footsteps before me
Circling clockwise a temple inside which sits still Maitreya Buddha planted in the lotus position.
My vision is directed inwards,
my feet repeating the flagstone circuit.
In silent thought, I give thanks to the many friendships I've been blessed with.
I begin where I began, my mother,
her unconditional love, meditating on her virtues,
her devotion to the sick and suffering, and her comfort to their loved ones.
Circling, thinking of my father,
admiring his wisdom, his quiet love,
his diligent labour, his curiosity of the physical world,
then praying that my parents continue to lead happy, healthy lives.
Circling and giving thought to my sister's new family,
and her skills as teacher, wife, mother, daughter,
and feeling thankful for our many memories from childhood.
Circling.
Blessing my brother and his partner, in their hectic lives,
may they find time to rest.
Following the temple's walls around and around,
Mindful of the many people I call friend:
Rebecca and Joe, may their marriage be a glorious event
uniting them and strengthening them for their journey.
Carinna and Makoto, thankful for her confidence,
her easy spirit, frankness, and wishing them best on their wedding day.
Circling and filtering thoughts of friends
who shared the joys and stresses of a foreigner's life in Japan.
Thank-you David for your spontaneity,
your break from the mold and raw creativity,
your embrace of life's imperfection, illusion and absurdity.
Bless you Masumi for your youth and independence and foot bath.
Thank-you Maria for non-sensical evenings out
and our duets in the karaoke box,
Mmay you and Alex find strength and love together.
I am indebted for lessons learned and memories shared with Sally
whose creativity and honesty and beauty run deep.
I wish her family well.
I am thankful for Anna, Christen, Kim, Kirsty & Big John -
whom when I offer my thanks feel a knot in my chest and a concern for his well being.
I am greatful to Noriko
who remains the clearest form of a boddhisatva I've the pleasure to have met.
Her selflessness is overwhelming and proof enough that such saintly figures exist.
The pilgrims circle at various speeds
with myriad thoughts but our intention and direction are one.
I give thanks on and on to Joe and Jon, to Indiana Jon, to Laurie, Martin,
Vicky and her trials in Shanghai, her efforts to bring Taka to the UK,
to Jenn and Malia in Seattle both bounding with kove for their special needs students.
I am forever greatful to those I have shared experiences with at Naramata;
Tressa and Nathaniel, Jess, Natasha, Dawn, Greg, Katie, Graeme, Kyla, Elliott, Brooke, Alyson
and the faces their names lost to childhood.
I'm thankful for best friends since many years far away and slowly fading,
Patrick, Cat, Marci, and pray we'll meet up soon.

The Price of Adventure

A cold overcast morning on the rooftop raising arms and bringing chi into my breath. A mangey dog sits chained outside his dog house by an empty bowl. I join the pilgrims spinning prayer wheels along the lamasery's outer walls, grabbing hold of each wheel, letting fly sutras. My mind is empty. My eyes follow the dress and hair of the wild looking Tibetans, old women with greying braids, babies slung to mothers' backs. After hunting down breakfast it's time for the late morning guided English tour. The lama guides us through temple after temple explaining the framed pictures and statues and stupas all light but by the flames of yak butter candles. His English is poor and his explanations vague. The first of October, a Chinese holiday celebrating the founding of the People's Republic , brings bus load after bus load of tour groups. The din and pushing inside the shadowy halls tries my patience. My attention wanders to the painted scenes along the walls, mysterious, alluring, countless golden Buddhas sit in dozens of prayer positions, temples float among clouds and verdant hilltops, demons scowl and spear their victims, creatures both real and mythical fly through the sky. Afternoon finds me wandering on my own pausing outside a lesser temple to listen to the deep chanting tones of young lamas following their elder's lead. The senior students clothed in various hats and shawls and robes of black and gold and red sit either side of the the central aisle. Before each stand several brass ritual objects. In unison they ring their bells or lift their saucers of what could only be yak milk to their lips. A few younger lamas scurry bare foot on the wood floor collecting paper prayer money and RMB, serving milk, rearranging the gong and removing the long horns when their part has been played. In the back rows sit the novices, unlearned in the chants and unequipped with the mysterious instruments and esoteric accoutrements. The chanting continues indoors while pilgrims circle the outside. I join the current, eyes half shut, breath focused on one chakra and then the next, five loops for each, coming to a rest as the lamas conclude their ceremony, fetch their boots and exit the courtyard walls. Most of the young men didn't seem all too focused in their work. Did they choose to enter Labrang Monastery? Would they prefer to be western tourists? There are six colleges at Xiahe, Tibetan Medicine, higher and lower Philosophy, Astronomy, Law and Esoteric Buddhism.

Third day in a row I'm the first customer at Tsaewong's Cafe refueling on two mugs of fresh ground coffee. I even bring my own bread and peanut butter so I can budget for the caffeine fix. After examining a half dozen bare bones mountain bikes, I choose the least evil with working breaks, solid chain and firm tires. Passing the Labrang's far end, a bend in the road leads past a neighbourhood of simple dwellings, a small wooden nunnery and a couple temples belonging to the Red Hat sect, hugging the base of the hill's southern slope. A couple young novices approach my parked bike and try to clampour on. Despite their title, the Yelloe Hats wear their hair long wrapped around their head in a black cotton cloth. In the fields outside town, a dirt track winds its way past farmers sifting the wheat from the chaff, throwing shovelfuls into the air. The track towards Sangye Grasslands deteriorates to a narrow path, then a chain of puddles among tall grass and before reaching an abrupt end at the foot of a bluff where a paved channel crashes into a pool next to a generator pump house. I step gingerly over a bridge of wooden planks, most of them missing or cracked, tied across on two iron cords. Along the narrow valley's far side, a paved highway leads into the grasslands entering through an elaborately painted concrete archway housing the ticket booth to a mock up nomad village. A mud track hugs the other side of the valley climbing over a low crest, passing a gate where two ferocious unleashed guard dogs greet me with snarling incisors. My heart races. I keep on at an even pace walking my bike through the muck, the hounds pouncing andf growling a few feet off. I feel like Atreyu in The Never Ending Story. The track climbs, the barking recedes behind me. A seven year old boy smiles to me as I pass his small herd of yaks headed towards the pastures over the next crest. To the south under a crayola blue sky spread the grasslands, the track, a wet brown scar cuts along the undulating hillsides vanishing through a narrow gap along the horizon. My bike skims the surface of a large puddle disturbing a few yaks from their reverie and grass munching. Two Tibetan cowboys, a father and son, the former in a brown suede hat, the latter with thick shoulder length hair and rolled up jeans, wake from a nap in the shade of their Honda motorbikes and wave to me before climbing the barbed wire fence and joining me by the river bank. I offer them some nuts and watch as each attempts to ride my bike, the father wobbling and falling after a metre. The son returns me my bike pointing out a bare patch in the tread where the tubing bulges out. We talk in hand gestures and sound effects. Pointing to the fields they teach me words for yak, horse and goat, then using objects close at hand they ask me rock, poo and bicycle. They express their wish that I remove my boots and socks and roll up my jeans so we can all cross the river together. Two more men arrive on their motorbikes to give a hand. "Dah. Soh. Lieun." They point to a herd of animals approaching the far bank, coralled by a half dozen horsemen. The current is quick, cool and knee deep. The horsemen are dressed in overcoats, the sleeves well past the wrist, but in the midday heat, worn tied around the waist with a thick red band and shimmering like a silk skirt. One hand holds the reign, the other spins a weighted rope overhead. Two women ride among the group, dismount and grab stones to hurtle at the stragglers, their long black hair, high rosey cheekbones and large silver earings embedded with precious stones offer an Anthrpologist's wet dream. After the yaks cross, the women have me gather behind the goats and flapping our arms we press them against the bank. The current is too strong for some and they are quickly swept down stream where a couple of the larger horsemen standing planted knee deep in the chill water pluck the panic striken goats by their wooly hides and chuck them onto the bank. A mere hour's cycle down the road, across a precarious bridge and beyond a pair of vicious hounds, I've escaped theme park China and found adventure. The rear tire explodes with an echoing 'BAM!' not a hundred metres into my return journey. I ride back along the highway, the rim and fender screeching, the wheel hiccuping along the ashphalt.

Following three days of fresh brewed coffee and banana pancakes and wandering enchanted temples wreacking of yak butter and crowded with tour groups, I break the next journey in little visited Hezuo. Bus station, trinket shops stocked with hand held prayer wheels, silks and jewellery, a Muslim noodle shop and a tasty bakery all converge quite conveniently at the town's major cross roads below my hotel window. Curious of the old homes perched along the bluffs marking the west of town, I set out on a circuitous walk destined for the Ando Hezuo Mila Riba Palace, an impressive and unique eight story structure to the north-east of town. The neighbourhood on the bluff, a tight knit grid of walled courtyards broken with tile roofed double doorways all connected by a series of gravel path strewn with rubbish, hides in its midst an old Chinese style mosque. The minaret, a common structure throughout the villages of Gansu province, is a seperate hexagonal tower painted in green, red and blue flourishes with a three tiered sweeping gren tile roof. Mischeivous kids huddle by a wall calling, "hello!" and elderly grandmothers, wrinkled and toothless, answer my presence with childish grins. A muslim cemetery covers a hillside in stone markers and dark mounds. Over the next grassy hill I descend along a dirt path, photographing a white stupa in the distance. Two men seated in front of a tent turn and wave at me, the closer one scowling, not wishing his photograph taken. I ignore him and walk on. Up the hill to my left stands a lonely one room white washed temple in front of which smokes a large urn of incense sticks and prayer money. An old man approaches me, also waving his hand across his chest, the universal 'don't'. Not understanding, I approach him. His face is old with glossed over cataracts. He points to my right. Less than ten metres off perched on the wet grass is a sandy white bird, a large bird with massive plumage, a vulture. He points behind himself to a half naked white body lying on its side on a silk lined blanket. It takes a second to register. I've wandered into a Sky Burrial Ground, a sacred Tibetan ritual. The family has camped out in the hills and laid out their deceased family member to await the arrival of the vultures which will feast on the body returning it to the cycle of life. I bow to the old man bringing my palms together before my face in a show of prayer and humility then quickly descend the hill. The vision stays with me, the young white body open to the cold wet air, its gender wrapped in silk, its flesh in contrast to the verdant hillside, haunting and romantic.

Langmusi, nestled in the Aba grasslands a couple miles off the main road crossing from Gansu into Sichuan, attracts a surprising number of tourists despite its small size. A dozen hotels, twice as many restaurants and thrice as many handi-craft shops line the one road through town. Most travelers arrive keen on joining a horseback riding tour into the surrounding countryside where nomadic tent towns and hot springs can be found. I visit the only horse trekking office in town where I meet a young Chinese woman whose job it seems is to overcharge tourists and underpay her Tibetan guides. I spend the day hiking into Namo Gorge, its mouth reached beyond Sezhi lamasery where two opposing rockfaces carved with Tibetan mantras hug a clear pool of trickling spring water. "Tickets! tickets!" calls a young lama from a hidden ticket booth. I explain I do not wish to visit the temples, that I'm headed to the gorge but he is adamant that I purchase a ticket. I backtrack into a block of houses overlooking the temples and barrecks. Tourism has inspired business minded greed among the local holies who feel their jurisdiction now extends into the village and surrounding hills. Signs in chinese script warn travelers found off the track will be fined. I follow the creek into the gorge to an opening where Chinese tourists dressed in head to toe gortex, images straight out of an outdoor clothing brocure, and equipped with name brand sunhats, shades, water bottle and hiking boots as though setting course for Everest Base camp stop every few feet to readjust tripods and zoom lenses. Within an hour, having left the path and hacked my way up through the bush, I reach the top of a rocky pinnacle overlooking the gorge, the village beyond, and 180 degrees of rolling hills. Hawks dance in the currents, their occasional screech is the only sound heard at this height.

A second walk in the late afternoon, the track leading north-west or town, skirts Geerdend Lamasery where yet again a group of young Chinese and a Tibetan monk call, "Ticket, ticket!" I explain with the help of an image I'd taken from the gorge, that I wish to visit a small cluster of homes over the next hill and not the monastery. But they refuse access along the road beacuse it first passes by their temple. Once again I backtrack and climb the damp pastures outside the fences disturbing a herd of skittish sheep. A group of Tibetan women inside the fence call over to me, "Menbushe, menbushe!" I ignore them knowing full well I am outside the lamasery's grounds by several hundred metres. Up valley the evening sun squats on the hillsides, the lower recesses of the valley vanished into darkness, except a serpentine river reflected in silver. A dog in the little village catches the scent of an intruder and barks across the pastures at me. Two young boys pass me on the track carrying home a heavy box. A dozen wood homes bathe in the last golden rays, their slats of reds and browns gather into the dark shadows.

The clouds settle over the village hiding from view the world beyond a hundred metre radius. Three young people from Amsterdam have signed up for a two day horse trek. We share the same concerns, that the unbudging, defensive tour guide will short change the local nomad hosts. I decline the tour. A cold damp mist keeps me indoors sipping nescafe until noon with a few Israelis. Savid, Guy and Shlomi are students of Chinese. Their excitement is amusing for the first few hours and I tag along for a walk about among the temples. The Chinese holiday has ended, the streets have emptied. I find Guy attractive, sitting next to me on the couch sleepy eyed and rough voiced. I watch him the rest of the day for clues of his sexuality. Shopping for trinkets, finally making good use of his Chinese to barter, I'm impressed how he keeps a smile on the shopkeepers' faces. I learn that his father works in imports-exports and that Guy's ambition is to wrok in the steel trade industry in China. I dream for two days of running my fingers through his course dark hair. I see him wrapped in a towel preparing for the shower. He's no sculpture but spying the pink of his nipple and his scraggly chest hair inspires new day dreaming. Late evening in the shadows of the hotel lobby, smoking a cigarette, the red burning light approaches me, Guy shakes my hand and wishes me well. The opportunity passes like two proverbial ships in the night. I take a long walk into the mist following the edge of the river as it snakes up the valley. I've brought food but no change of clothing and doubt I'll make it over the hills to the Nomad camps. My feet grow wet and cold. The valley climbs towards the river's source, its channel growing narrower, its current faster. Hemmed in by the mist with no more than five metres of vision I stop among a cluster of abandonned and torn apart empty wood shacks. These are surrounded by countless shoes, most of them childrens', most of them without a pair. I imagine some strange local folk tale to explain this strange sight. Retracing my steps back down the valley, I spot a group of tourists on horse-back approaching the road, the Dutch backpackers. Their guide motions for me to join them inside a tent where his wife and young son prepare us tea and rice with vegitables. His wife recognizes me from the morning when I passed her and her son shortly outside Langmusi. The guide offers me his horse and I climb on for a bumpy free ride back to town.

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Photos

Dunhuang - Golmud bus ride
descending into a vast depression just inside Qinhai province

bus ride, Dunhuang - Golmud
abandonned settlement, like broken teeth

vegitable stands, Linxia
my hotel, the clean cheap Inn, stands in the background at right

evening ceremony, Xiahe
the young Red Hat lamas gather for a candid ceremony involving lots of whooping

sculpture made of Yak Butter
the lamaseries and the lamas stink of yak butter - actually so did I after a few days

Cowboy Dork
it looked much better on the shelf / when i asked one girl why Tibetan coats had such long sleeves, she answered, "becuz it's fun"

young Yellow Hats mounting my bike
(yeah, I know their hats are black)

father & son, grassland cowboys
one of my favourite moments in China was conversing with these two

and their goats
my job was to block the shore and scare the animals onto the bank

evening prayer wheels
I pray I want to be young again

evening prayer wheels
poof! it's a miracle!

Hezuo
locals spend a lot of time circling the stupa, the hillside and the nearby lamasery in an effort to amass good kharma points

Hezuo
stupa & yak, reminds me of home / on the hillside beyond the stupa is where I encountered a Sky Burrial Ceremony

cowboy Kev, Langmusi
no such thing as a free ride?

Comments

[Laurie Rands]

Kevin, what a site, and what an adventure. Your Mum sent me the blog address, and I am in wonder with your write-ups, so full of colour and excitement. I will certainly be visiting your site again, to see what your next adventure brings forth. Your third cousin, In New Zealand Laurie Rands