The train first took us to Lanzhou. The bullet train was a far cry from the old days of rattling through the countryside in a sleeper bus. Now the landscape raced by. Hexagonal towers rose above plots of sorghum, framed by snow-covered peaks farther off. The villages huddled together as if conspiring, all elbows with their jagged pitched roofs and corners. The scenery on the train was similarly interesting, the never-ending videos playing techno porn about the wonders of this very line.
Lanzhou was a quick blip of a hotel and another impressive Provincial Museum, Gansu now. A mosque stands with minarets like rocket ships. A sign for Huian dentistry, deftly working the character for "ease" into the name. The city is shadowed by dry hills to the east, with pagodas and temples on the crest. It is only later that I note the ropeway. I also spy the Apsara Hotel that Bill Porter riffs on in his book on the Silk Road. Another, The Friendship Hotel, begs a TV sketch where a traveler enters and asks for a room and is told bruskly to piss off.
On the road out of town, the low, deforested hills began once again to present themselves, the sole exception being the dwarf pines that were nearly as tall as the tombstones that they were expected to eventually shade. An old women poked about amongst the rocks and sand. I'm not sure what she was after, but sparse vegetable plots added a bit of green to the dried canyons and riverbeds. Villages were dusty rectangular affairs, where old men sit and chat or play cards. What I first thought were Mao suits and caps turned out to be the traditional wear of the Dongxiang, Mongolian Muslims who are thought to be the descendants of Genghis Khan's troops once stationed here.
As a person with Irish blood, I appreciated this road, which continued to rise with us. The land grew more fertile, and mulberry trees began to line the roads, and apricot blossoms added color to the hills clinging to the remaining brown of winter. The greatest crop appeared to be Islam, for mosques seemed to be everywhere, the minarets towering over every village, ofttimes more than one.
As we climbed higher, the Muslims eventually met the Tibetans. Closer to the hills were the tell-tale stupas and gompas, with prayer flags adding trim to the ridgelines above, or draping the guardrails of the bridges that crossed fast-moving rivers. Trucks climbed slowly up the passes, their beds loaded with steel for some immense project, crawling past lonely police outposts, always with a basketball hoop beside. An alleviation of boredom I suppose, in a lonely posting. The mountains beyond grew rockier, with a fuller coat of snow, and the river ran more wildly in its bed. One section had been rechanneled to allow for construction, and where the diggers dug lifted too the scent of the desert after a sudden rain.
We reached Xiahe and the plateau upon which it rests. It was unmistakably a Tibetan town, though the farmers working the perimeter covered their heads with the caps of the Muslim. LYL and I took a stroll around town, passing familiar facial features and clothing, the women wrapping their monochromatic robes with colorful aprons. Ruddy faced children raced about, kicking a soccer ball. Dogs slept in the road, as they do. And the air chilled with the coming of the evening. I truly love Tibetan culture. Has it only been a year since we were last among them?
The following morning we walked in the warm sunshine toward Labrang Monastery, spinning tall prayer wheels that line the earthen walls. We passed the morning poking in and out of the various halls, led by a monk with somewhat wonky English. When he and the group exited each hall, I'd sneak in three full-length prostrations, my breath coming fast due to the altitude and the strong scent of butter lamps. It all culminated in a long sit in the main courtyard, as the entire monk populations chanted and rocked back and forth, their yellow hats adding an unintended chorus line affect. Where the hats tipped forward betrayed a dozing monk. The higher-ups had the build of yaks in their thick robes and burly shoulder pads. One fellow paced the roof as if secret service. I'm not sure how much time passed, as the whole thing had a timeless air too it, the accompanying meditative state coming about quickly, and the peace that usually follows. Then it was called to an end by a blast of horns from the roof above, the monks then filing into the hall to eat, the rush of maroon robes like the flow of water through a drain. They were followed closely by the laypeople who climbed past all the discarded boots to pile food and cash atop the empty cushions beside them. The chants continued from the inside as we wandered off to lunch of our own.
The rest of the day was spent out on the Sangke Grasslands. There was little out there but horses, yaks, and a couple of yurt villages for Han tourists. I'd hoped we would walk more, but we merely climbed a rise to a lone prayer flag, and later wandered out to the clustered homes of nomads. One family invited us inside, where we took butter tea beneath the glass walls and ceiling, looking more like a conservatory than a typical home. Having achieved the desired thermal effect, a bed was at the front of the house, with the darker back half reserved for cooking, eating, and the usual prayer room. It was pretty idyllic here, a sentiment echoed by our hosts, who had reached an age where they no longer want to be nomads, and have chosen to leave the yak herding to the younger generation. Better to settle in and potter in the garden, whose vast expanse stretches on and on.
I eventually got my wish for a walk, up a steep hill overlooking Labrang. The sun was warm and I wished to doze in the grass, but night would come soon, and being over 3000m, so would the cold. A day after we left, it would snow, the feeling of timelessness continuing, as spring settled back into winter.
I can only imagine the isolation that this place would bring, as remote as it is. Our two nights were spent at the Nirvana hotel, a pleasant place run by a friendly Dutch woman. I talked a little with her about her 15 years here, and she said that she doesn't much think about it as it is simply her everyday life. A sentiment shared, I think, by all expats. She was only one of two Europeans living in Xiahe, and I was surprised to overhear that she wasn't aware that the other foreign woman had recently taken a trip to Cambodia. They must not get along too well. I am reminded of George McCartney and Nicolai Petrovski, the only two foreigners in late 19th Century Kashgar, yet in their roles as consul for the two primary participants in the Great Game, shared a profound antagonism for one another.
On the turntable: Kevin Seconds, "Heaven's Near Wherever You Are"
On the turntable: Joseph Conrad, "Victory"
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