Further In and Further North - East of Tibet

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“Why risk getting into trouble with Tibet? Just head to Sichuan and you’ll see Tibet”, this sagacious piece of advice came from more than one of my expat friends, folks well inducted and customized to Chinese customs and places. I have to admit as a newbie to the country and still fresh with intrepid aspirations, the romantic lure of Tibet still clung strong. I am one among the many victims of the countless romantic stories spun around this distant mystical land. But my friends had a point and I’m glad I heeded their advice.
I’ve read accounts of several cyclists who’ve made it through Tibet dodging sentry posts and patrols. There was a time when you could get a permit to travel independently through a few places as well. Check posts are few and there’re enough off roads and wilderness to cover your tracks. But after last year’s riots the already touchy government is even twitchier about Tibet. Already having been denied entry in China at Boten thanks to the fact I was Indian and I happened to have a book with a monk on the cover, I guessed the odds were too high to even dream of another possible skirmish with officials. Instant deportation is the usual outcome of such altercations. So we settled of the road that led just a little east of Tibet and one that would leave us breathless with awe…and exertion.

Road S217 is a rather elusive road to leave Zhongdian by. In sharp contrast to the gleaming highway that connects with Lijiang, S217 is obscured by a rather rutty lane that takes one past back alley automobile workshops and dusty warehouses. Once on it, the road eventually leads up to the frontier town of Litang and takes one through stunning landscapes that change as dramatically the people who inhabit them.

We left Zhongdian to find ourselves following a river on a beautiful sealed road that belied the steep 4200 climb waiting ahead as it mainly sloped downhill or ‘Almost Flat’ which in cyclist’s jargon has come to mean undulating roads that allowed one to harness momentum for the few short climbs. Pockets of villages along this stretch are inhabited by Tibetans who build grand houses that certainly do not economize on wood. Each house is marked by a wooden porch supported by thick pillars of a tree trunk each not to mention the wooden walls and floors. Trees still abound in this region and the hills retain a thick green cover but I had to worry for them for no matter how grand the houses looked, I’d rather vote for the trees.

The road didn’t remain sealed for long for as soon as the climb began the tar began to wear. We had been warned that more than a 100km of the road has eroded to a rough dirt track but as we discovered, still very manageable on bicycle wheels and a blessing even as motor vehicles tend to avoid this stretch. The first climb gave a clue of what was to be routine for days, long switchback after switchback to reach what appears to be a pass only to find the true pass behind another short but frustrating descent. As only the highest passes are marked on the map one has to be prepared for several more climbs than expected unless armed with excellent topographical maps. Apart from that a glimpse of the prayer flag festooned passes are a good indication of how much of a climb lies ahead.

Daxueshan pass lay at 4327 m according to our map though the readings on the posted signboards were always at least a 100 m more. This was our first major pass and took at least 4 hours to complete. Amnesia hits hard once at the top of a pass. All memories of the slow laborious climb and the constant persuasion of the body and mind to make it across the next 100m is forgotten in an instant once wheels tip over and friction gives way to momentum. Frustration gives way to elation in a swift mood shift that Ced has diagnosed as a bi-polar me. I cannot claim to love climbs but I do get done with it and love the views it brings and of course the hard won reward of a long descent.

From the pass we feasted our eyes on the wind blasted peaks and moraines that lay in between. The scenery was the most dramatic since we’d begun cycling again and the work required for it the toughest. Late summer evenings mean we can cycle to nearly 8 pm but the sudden wind chill factor that sets in makes it more prudent to look for a place to camp by 7.30 pm. Options have been plenty since we left Zhongdian as streams and grassy patches abound. Finding a flat enough ground is the only challenge. We camped again under the brightest northern stars I’d ever seen, of which many constellations were new for me. Sleep came swift and sweet lulled by the gurgling brook and occasional twaks of moths flying into the outerfly of our tent.

Next morning a long and rapid descent through fog and light rain gave us veiled views of a lovely green valley dotted with whitewashed mini fortress like houses. This was Ranwa , one of the most beautiful Tibetan villages we crossed and where a beautifully tarred road slinking through the valley provided welcoming relief after a day and a half of bumpy riding. Though the village hot springs tempted us it was too early for a break. We lingered awhile before following the road to Xianchang, visited often by westerners for the huge Tibetan temple perched over the rather garish town. Apart from that the valley has little to offer as heavy dam construction work mars most of the scenery the narrow valley has to offer. We chose to restock food and leave as quickly as possible.

Yak Turf Ahoy!

From Xianchang S217 takes a sharp turn right of the river to begin a steep punishing climb that soon clings to precipitous cliffs and follows sharp mountain ridges before joining more benevolent mountains with rolling unhurried slopes. This was the beginning of the grasslands; yak and nomad turf. While the road is less steep the switchbacks here seem never ending and the sheer expanse of the terrain can be rather disheartening. Accumulated tiredness from days of cycling caught up and I had to succumb to fatigue after the 38 km climb of the day. We decided to take advantage of the late evening sun and pitch camp. Finding a flat grassy proved easy as did choosing a stream from the several that trickled through the green yak meadows.

We finished the climb next morning and found ourselves a little above 4600 m. Here we met the first of our highland cowboys; wild leather clad Khampa Tibetans though, by the look of the one rounding his yaks ripping through the grassland on his motorbike, they seemed to have discarded their horses. On our descent to Sangdui we met a load of them, looking very much like Red Indians of yore with their burnt reddish skin and affinity for wild west-esque fashion sensibility - cowboy hats, denims, leather trappings and long hair included.

Sangdui village at 3800m is marked by smart stone houses that display very little wood, a necessity for trees are rather scarce here. The village is also home to the beautiful Bangpu monastery built in the mountains that enclose the beautiful alpine valley. Happy to be at a steady plane for a while, we dreamily followed the sparkling river through what was certainly the most beautiful valley we’d cycled through. But the road led upstream and a climb was inevitable. The trees began to thin out replaced by huge boulders that dotted wild flower strewn grassy patches. We were climbing to a plateau and we could feel the difference.

Rather than being hedged in by mountains looming above, a vast empty wilderness greeted us. Here it’s the sense of limitless space all around that overwhelms you. We could see for miles around. The road continued ahead making little dips and swells into the distance for it was still far from flat. I saw the little black dot of a figure ahead of me right where the road held promise of a few meters of flat ground. Controlling my ragged chest I strained at the pedals some more setting another goal for a break.
He wasn’t a yak herder as I expected but a road worker posted here to set up camp for a road crew on their way. With my miniscule Chinese I was able to answer his many curious questions - Where we were from? Why we were on bicycles? Where were we going? Etc. Questions which had become routine since we left Dali armed with some Mandarin. But his reaction was far from the routine we usually generate. “Women xihuan Indu ren” (We like Indian), he burst enthusiastically before launching into a long excited jabber about Gwaya Rinpoche or the Dalai Lama as the world knows him. I couldn’t pick all the pieces of his sudden joyous outburst but figured out enough to know I was the first Indian he’d met and how much he loved India and dreamt of visiting the place. Our little chat wasn’t one that would have been approved by authorities but gazing at the vast wilderness around us I knew we were safe from prying ears. I was happy to share a bit of what many Tibetans dream of.

After our little chat I cranked up my pedals to catch up with Ced and jest about the welcome my nationality assured among Tibetans along our route. It wasn’t an exaggeration for in Lithang I was welcomed with the same response by Rinche, a Tibetan who had made the perilous overland journey to India for a coveted glimpse of the Dalai Lama. We had a special discount at the guesthouse he managed. Overland travel to India is rarely permitted when official sanction is sought but every year many Tibetans do manage to cross over either as exiles or as in the case of Rinche, as visitors. While this was once a route that meant corporal punishment and sure imprisonment if caught, the situation seems less tense in recent years. Unless in cases of Tibetan uprising and protests like the previous year which results in strict clampdown, officials do seem to sometimes sanction Tibetans wishing to make a quick trip across the border. Without elaborating Rinche said he’d simply boarded a Katmandu bound bus but there could have been more to the story.

Lithang is a scruffy Tibetan town patrolled by gangs of young Khampa nomads in town to pick provisions while the older generation is represented by groups of prayer wheel twirling grand old folks. Though far from a place to relax and kick back, Lithang excites and stimulates for the sight of so many nomads descending to town stirs a peculiar longing and curiosity to know more about their lives. It was also a magical place to experience the solar eclipse which we were right in time for. However like the nomads we were also eager to get back on the road and back to the solitude that has become so familiar.
By this time Ced’s visa had just 2 days left and we were forced to catch a mini cab to arrive in Khanding to renew it. From Lithang Road S217 merges with the Sichuan-Tibet highway, a holy grail for Chinese cyclists hundreds of whom who attempt the Chengdu - Lhasa route every year. We had met a Checz cyclist coming that way a little before Litang and asked if the road was busy. “Yeah! Fairly! I met lots of Chinese cyclists”, he’d replied. We understood once we crossed droves of cyclists of all age groups and sexes every stage of the road to Khanding.

From Khanding on our road northwards provided a break from high altitude as it dipped down to 1600m to follow the Dadu River upto Danba. We were still in Tibetan territory following the valley that is home to the Jiarong Tibetans, a tribe who had settled down to an agricultural lifestyle. The valley is famous for its ancient watchtowers, many of which are more than 2000 years old, built by ancient Jiarong to defend against Qiang invaders and bandits. The quaint architecture of the local houses provided us with plenty to see while we crossed the valley and made our way to Barkam (called Markham by locals). Zhoukeji was an interesting village we crossed on the way, marked by a handsome castle where Mao and his men had taken shelter in 1939 during the long march. There were several houses around the area that intrigued us with their unique construction style that featured wall built with stones laid in gentle hemispherical layers. So far the valley from Danba upwards had been quite an architectural treat.

From Markham we headed immediate North on a trail that led to the Darza monastery. We had tipped by a well travelled Sinology appreciating expat we’d met in Lithang. He’d visited the little known monastery several years ago and told us it was one of the best he’d seen in terms of ambience. The monastery is now advertised by a tourist board at the junction in Markham city but it looked like few travelers paid heed to it as the road remains a rough dirt track all the way. It was another grueling 4100 m climb that awaited us the next morning. We hadn’t slept much either as in Markham we’d been rather unceremoniously booted out of our hotel a little before midnight.

Arriving in Markham we’d checked around at several hotels but were unable to find a room for less than 80Y. Till now we’d never paid anything more than 60Y for rooms complete with hot showers and toilets so we were unwilling to settle for it. We finally found a small back alley Tibetan guesthouse thanks to the hostess who spotted us and showed us to a tiny but scrupulously clean room and gleaming toilets for 40Y. We accepted and checked in but just when about to tuck in, we were disturbed by frantic knocks on our door. As it turns out foreigners weren’t allowed in the self styled guest house and a malicious neighbor had complained to the police about our presence. Not wanting to cause trouble to our extremely agitated hosts we decided to respect their request for us to leave at once. As it turns out the only hotels authorized to take in foreigners were the expensive up market ones. Indignant and seething we decided to cycle out of town instead and camp along the way. Luckily for us the weather held and we found a field just four kilometers after cycling through the dark alarming dogs on the way.

We had unknowingly camped just close to a elderly beekeeper who spent summers in a tent to tend his beehives and we were woken up early the next morning and invited to share breakfast with him. Another lucky break for we had no food with us. We soon forgot our sleepiness as we tucked into tea and rice porridge with him and his wife. They packed us a piece of heavy Tibetan bread for the road and went off on their chores refusing to let us articulate our gratefulness. Its gentle folks like these who make our travel so special and make up for every unpleasant experience.

Dazang monastery lies at 3700m at the edge of a small plateau with towering mountains all around. From afar it looks like a little alpine village. It’s only when you get closer you notice the endless prayer wheels that encircle the monastery town and its several temples. A guest house for pilgrims and visitors has been built right outside the main monastery walls and though rather stiff for a 100Y/day/person, the three excellent meals thrown in make up for it. We were rather taken aback by the presence of CCTVs and a police station in the monastery itself. The monks and visitors were definitely under surveillance though they didn’t seem ruffled by it. The lone cop posted there was pretty pally with the cops but he seemed a little perplexed to see foreign cyclists in an area rarely visited and approachable only by taxis and private vehicles. Though polite he incessantly bugged us for information regarding our next plans and once we told him of our plans to continue on the road ahead to Longriba, he freaked out.

We’re still unclear of the exact reasons but the next morning we were asked to remain till his superiors came and once they made the 2 hour jeep ride from Markham we were told not to take the small road we’d originally planned on but to head back to Markham and follow the highway. They cited bad weather and risks of landslide as the reason. As they were responsible for our safety they couldn’t let us continue on the dirt road. Ced tried his best at persuasion trying to convince them we weren’t beginners and knew what we were doing but in vain. I guess they were genuinely concerned but Ced was quite upset for the road promised much more than competing with trucks along the highway. Arguing with officials here is futile and so we finally accepted their offer to drop us back to Markham in their jeep. As they had been extremely polite and given our run of luck with officials I found the whole situation rather amusing but Ced sulked the whole ride back.

After the lift we left Markham at once following the highway. It didn’t help Ced’s mood that it soon started pouring and left us soaked and desperate as we were far from the next habited town. We spent a miserable night in a filthy abandoned road worker’s tent as it was the only dry place we could find after cycling well into the night. The next day brought intermittent sun shine and by evening the hundred odd kilometers of gradual height gain to above 3500m rejoined us with the wild wide expanse of that stretch into the Aba grasslands.

Our route took us through the Tibetan settlements of Longriba and Waqie; towns marked by signboards proclaiming them to be “The resettlement of the Pastoral People”. Elsewhere we could see hilly mounds where the grass has worn off to reveal the slow birth of sand dunes. But long stretches of postcard scenery like green pastures dotted with nomad tents still lay aplenty and the leisurely roads through them gave us plenty of time to muse. Could the life of these high plains and the nomads that roam them really be threatened? The question is partly answered in the electric poles and motor-able road that cut across the grasslands connecting hastily built towns and serving as necessary lifelines for changing lifestyles.

However wheels spin easy on these roads and one can really kick back and relax on the saddle, the only thing to fear being the huge Tibetan mastiffs left unchained in these patches. The best thing is to stop as we learnt after a particularly incessant one chased Ced and ripped of one of the back panniers before jubilantly returning to his spot in the sun with a huge canine grin. We fixed the problem with ropes but kept a wary eye after this rather nasty experience. But the wheels still spin easy.

A few kilometers from Langmusi on the south west road we’d taken, we stumbled across a camp of Nomads who’d assembled for their annual horse racing festival. Far from the colourful affair of tourist brochures, this was a simple village affair of folks who’d come in from their grazing lands to meet and party. We happily accepted their offer to stay and feasted with them on butter tea and boiled chunks of freshly slaughtered sheep. Though I could have done with some seasoning I tugged away indulgently at a leg of mutton knowing that this was as raw an experience I could have; for in a few years time things could and would differ.

Leaving the little band of Tibetans to carry on with deciding the best horse and rider of the fest we pedaled the last few kilometers to Langmusi, a tiny Tibetan town at the extreme north end of Sichuan. From here a few days cycling would take us down and across to the next province of Gansu and further on where all traces of grassland will melt into sand dunes of the Tenger Desert and chortens replaced by crescent topped minarets of the Hui Muslims who dominate the region. We had crossed Sichuan and though I do wish to someday pedal alongside wild Tibetan asses in the high Tibetan plain, for now I felt privileged to have sampled the best of the terrain that lay just a little east of it.

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Photos

Climbing to meet the storm
The final push to Langmusi after fest.

You can't smell flowers from a galloping horse - old Chinese saying.
And so we cycle.

Ancient road along the Dadu.
Before dynamite and steamshovels, building and sometimes using roads could be risky business when surrounded by mountains all around.