Travelling west from Lanzhou, along the course of the Great Yellow river’s drifting breadth, all thoughts of the relentlessness of the urban metropolis which we had just escaped from soon dissolved and we were left to enjoy the tranquil mountain meadows which were soon assimilated into lush, alpine forest. By now the rivers snaking presence was far below us as we passed through snow-fissured mountain terrain which rose majestically from the valley floor. We were ascending to an altitude of 3500 feet and the noticeable changes in the atmosphere coupled with the adjustments in the surrounding geology and genealogy of the local people made it apparent that we had crossed into the Xizang region or what is more commonly known outside China as Tibet.
The very existence of Tibet is as much a philosophical idea as a geographical place and soon becomes intertwined in the mind with the myths and legends of the region.
For several hours we carried on along a poor road that zig-zagged upwards through tiny hamlets of mud-walled buildings standing on uneven ground until we finally arrived at Langmusi - a small village straddling the border of the Gansu and Sichuan provinces, high on the Tibetan plateau were our jeep was immediately surrounded by rosy-cheeked locals dressed in brightly decorated outfits many with braided hair woven with coloured thread.
A translation of Langmusi into English means ‘fairy monastery’ and it is named after an ancient legend that tells of a fairy, who was turned into stone on a nearby mountain.
On our approach to the monastery I saw what I first thought to be the discarded debris, however, it turned out to be a kaleidoscope of ‘prayer wind horses’ – tiny bits of coloured paper thrown into the wind by Tibetan Buddhists on the hope that their prayers will go to the heavens and be answered.
As we stood outside the deserted prayer hall a monk appeared and started to bang a large gong. Very slowly and in solemn procession, other monks started to appear - they were being called to prayer and started to assemble outside the front steps, when the last gong sounded they all rushed into the hall and sat down in silence. The hall was dimly lit and very cold and in the half-light the silence was disturbed by the head principle berating the other monks for not working hard enough which we were assured was all part of their religious practice.
We walked back down what could only be described as typical village street in this region - solid yet uninspiring buildings designed as a defence against the freezing winter winds flanked a dirt road and the cliche of tumbleweed blowing down the thoroughfare would not have been an out of place depiction.
We entered the only shop on the street where the aromatic smell of yak butter candles filled the air. I walked up to the dusty counter and examined the 6 items that were on display. As the rather excited woman who owned the shop spoke no English our guide had to negotiate my purchase of a traditional coral and silver ring.
Since the Tibetan custom is to wear earrings that would be considered too large and heavy by western standards we went next door to a workshop, where the woman’s husband was working a lathe. He picked up from a large collection of tools and implements a small file and started to shape the ear wire on a pair of earrings I had just bought - a final memento of this leg of the journey.
The very existence of Tibet is as much a philosophical idea as a geographical place and soon becomes intertwined in the mind with the myths and legends of the region.
For several hours we carried on along a poor road that zig-zagged upwards through tiny hamlets of mud-walled buildings standing on uneven ground until we finally arrived at Langmusi - a small village straddling the border of the Gansu and Sichuan provinces, high on the Tibetan plateau were our jeep was immediately surrounded by rosy-cheeked locals dressed in brightly decorated outfits many with braided hair woven with coloured thread.
A translation of Langmusi into English means ‘fairy monastery’ and it is named after an ancient legend that tells of a fairy, who was turned into stone on a nearby mountain.
On our approach to the monastery I saw what I first thought to be the discarded debris, however, it turned out to be a kaleidoscope of ‘prayer wind horses’ – tiny bits of coloured paper thrown into the wind by Tibetan Buddhists on the hope that their prayers will go to the heavens and be answered.
As we stood outside the deserted prayer hall a monk appeared and started to bang a large gong. Very slowly and in solemn procession, other monks started to appear - they were being called to prayer and started to assemble outside the front steps, when the last gong sounded they all rushed into the hall and sat down in silence. The hall was dimly lit and very cold and in the half-light the silence was disturbed by the head principle berating the other monks for not working hard enough which we were assured was all part of their religious practice.
We walked back down what could only be described as typical village street in this region - solid yet uninspiring buildings designed as a defence against the freezing winter winds flanked a dirt road and the cliche of tumbleweed blowing down the thoroughfare would not have been an out of place depiction.
We entered the only shop on the street where the aromatic smell of yak butter candles filled the air. I walked up to the dusty counter and examined the 6 items that were on display. As the rather excited woman who owned the shop spoke no English our guide had to negotiate my purchase of a traditional coral and silver ring.
Since the Tibetan custom is to wear earrings that would be considered too large and heavy by western standards we went next door to a workshop, where the woman’s husband was working a lathe. He picked up from a large collection of tools and implements a small file and started to shape the ear wire on a pair of earrings I had just bought - a final memento of this leg of the journey.
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