Deeper into the heart of the labyrinth Dawn. No wind. Lavender-rose light spread like butter on distant peaks. Monks and mystics, the faithful and the temporarily faithless, opened like satellite dishes on a sacred hillside above the Labrang Monastery. Slow motion clouds moving to the natural music of the Tibetan Plateau. Everything is Ice Age still for a moment as the stunned earth awakens. The birds first, calling forth the slanted light, dousing sleeper’s dreams, silhouetting the breath of stirring farm animals, glinting off riffles in the Daxia River, driving off the last stubborn traces of the monochrome night, evaporating shadows and turning up color. A low wordless chanting arises from the hillside, lifts and circles like a flock of red-crowned cranes. Smoke rises from sacred spruce fires. Farmer’s motorcycle trucks wind along the road below, moving to the open markets of Xiahe. Life stirs, puts on its boots and pisses in the alley. Breakfast is yak yogurt, Tsampa—dough made with roasted barley flour and yak butter, buckwheat porridge, Momo—Tibetan dumplings, Thenthuk—Tibetan noodles and yak tongue. Boiling hot black tea—filtered and decanted into a churn, then fresh milk and sugar are added. The wind gusts, carving new lines in faces, stealing hats, billowing robes, herding dust, pock-marking buildings, scattering anything not tied down and causing pedestrians to lean into it. Moving clockwise, streams of worshippers walk the Kora, a three kilometer route around the monastery through prayer vapors left by previous pilgrims, spinning the colorful prayer wheels, muttering chants, along a route created for moving, meditative reflection, interspersed with scarlet monks, the old, the young, the tourists, and the devout who flatten themselves on the ground, stand up, then throw themselves back on the ground, and in this way move around the entire circuit. I walked the Kora three times. Each time was different, each time was special. It’s a very active and unique form of prayer. You get exercise—by walking and spinning the prayer wheels, get to mingle with the friendly fellow Kora-walkers, get to spend time in a setting meant for reflection, say anything you want out loud, as people are mumbling in all kinds of dialects, dress however you want—some worshippers dress in the most outlandish costumes, on a plateau high above the rest of the world, surrounded by mountains. Then I rented a bike, and escaped into the Sangke Grasslands, home for thousands of years to Tibetan Nomads. The bike was old and heavy and clunky, but I was not to be stopped, grunting and huffing and puffing my way up the gradual incline, coming to the distinct conclusion that cars hate bikes. Here I was, enjoying the quiet, and though traffic was sporadic, every idiot driver that passed me felt it necessary to honk their horn in warning, as if I couldn’t hear them approaching from a half-mile away. While some cut a wide berth around me, others flew by like meteorites, and it felt as though they were trying to blast me senseless in the swirl of their passing. Still, the grasslands were miraculous. They swept away toward the horizon in fields of wildflowers, clouds, mountains and sky. I passed a lake so still I named it Narcissus Lake and spent some peaceful moments lakeside recovering from the climb up on my ridiculous bike. Further on, I passed high altitude beekeepers. And fields of wildflowers with roads leading off to nowhere. The clouds were gathering. I had been watching them to the north, but all around it was sunny. I pressed on. Too late, I realized how quickly they were moving. Pelted with fat, cold, beginning thunderstorm droplets, I looked around for cover but there was none. I recalled a bus stop shelter a ways back, turned the bike around and rode hell bent for leather back in the opposite direction. Pedal-pedal-pedal-pedal, hail droplets, pelting me sideways in the furious wind that threatened to blow me over a few times, I managed to reach the shelter before the sky opened and leaked all over the land. The bus stop had a flimsy roof, bench, plastic back wall, and had also attracted three female Chinese tourists who had been out walking when the deluge hit. Their English was limited, but they kept pointing at the sky and saying, “so sorry,” over and over again. I tried to tell them that I was enjoying this Tibetan weather unleashed, the fury, the power, the way it was trying to push us all off the face of the earth, but they didn’t understand. Instead, I pulled out my picnic lunch and shared it with them. The wind kept changing directions, and we kept scurrying from the front of the bus stop to behind, then back again, in a futile attempt to keep dry. All during the downpour a small herd of yak mixed with cows continued to eat grass behind us, oblivious. I wanted to take a picture of this whole scene but didn’t want to get the camera wet, due to the wet slap from the ever-shifting winds. Then, like an eye in a hurricane, came a moment of calmness. I took out the extra clothes I had brought—as the temperature had dropped about thirty degrees, strapped my cowboy hat down with a scarf, jumped on the bike, bid farewell to the women, who said goodbye over and over until I was out of hearing distance, and tried to outrace the storm, aiming at a patch of blue sky in the direction of Xiahe. I almost made it, then the sky came back down, the wind rose, knocked me off my bike, and I walked it along, grinning, as the cars went by honking with glee. I was drenched and cold, but I was experiencing Tibet, in all it’s wildness, and I couldn’t complain because I would remember this moment all my life. What is an adventure but overcoming hardship? It’s what we remember. It’s what we boast about. After an interminable windswept slog, the storm moved off in another direction. The sun came back out and I pedaled downhill following the river. Soon, I felt comfortable enough to take my camera out of its waterproof bag and snap off three pastoral photos. The first one is here. The second here, and the money shot here. Back in Xiahe where the sun was shining and everything was dry, I walked the bike along, looking like I survived a whaling voyage aboard the Pequod. I changed my clothes and climbed the stairs to the Nomad Restaurant, whose third floor windowed perch overlooks Labrang Monastery. Scarlet-robed monks were sitting at the windows drinking tea and gazing down into the street. Tourists were having an evening beer. Backpackers were consulting the Lonely Planet, while locals were trying hard not to stare at them. In the darkness perpetual pilgrims roamed clockwise around the Kora, the moon rose, monks chanted, the stars came out and somewhere out on the plateau the wind was trying to push someone entirely off the planet, while I sat, just another clever monkey staring at the moon. (Click on the link to view more Xiahe Tibet photos.)
1 Comment
alsacharov
9/27/2012 08:49:15 am
Mike, this is some of the BEST travel writing I have ever read. You are truly Our Man in the East!!! Shay Shay, Al
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