Backpacking

The Good Earth by Tom Carter

Follow the Dragon's Backbone into the rural solitude of Longji's rice terraces
by Tom Carter

It is hard to imagine anywhere in the People's Republic untouched by civil engineers, the levelers of history. But truly nowhere else in China has life remained perfectly intact - culturally and naturally - as on the Dragon's Backbone in the rural villages of Longsheng county is southwest China.

While Guangxi Autonomous Region's one-two punch of geological wonders are provincial sites that should not be missed - Guilin for the red hat-wearing Chinese tour groups and Yangshuo for Western backpackers - Longji Titian is an ideal place for those who cherish rural tranquility and solitude.

Indeed, to get to the Dragon's Backbone one must ascend dizzying heights (the highest in southern China), and enter a mystical fog that removes everything travelers know about modern China, placing you in a time when people were one with the good earth.

No white tile buildings in sight, the pastoral villages, namely Dazai and Ping'an, are constructed entirely of two and three story wood cabins hugging the vertical mountainside, with spring water coursing through the town's canals. It is here travelers will find accommodations at the simple family-run inns that make up the two settlements.

While one may consider Dazai and Ping'an, located respectively at the northern and southern ends of the peak, as lodging paradises, they are but mere entrances to the wonders ahead. Most visitors are content with the designated "viewpoints" around the towns' terraced fields, but for the nimble hiker, continue on into the lush hillside. Follow a narrow path of mud and stone through a misty forest of venerable trees, dewy ferns and, yes, bubbling brooks.

The rice terraces, with sloping grades reaching 50 degrees, have been sculpted by generations of farmers beginning in the Yuan dynasty to shape the hillsides into grand agricultural pyramids not unlike those found in Guatemala or Mexico. The slopes are infinite in scope and, at an altitude of 1,100 meters, seem to have no bottom or peak. It is simply breathtaking.
The hillsides that have been left uncultivated are threaded with trickling water, channeled from nearby springs to saturate the plots below, and are dotted with tombs of generations upon generations of agrarians, like those you'll see still working on the terraces.

Among them are the dark-skinned Zhaung, Bai and Yao minorities who, not unlike the Mayan Indians of Guatemala, are identifiable by the resplendence of their hand-woven traditional attire. While their men trudge through the muddy terraces sowing rice, the small women roam the paths like little florescent pink armies selling crafts and textiles kept in wicker baskets strapped on their backs. Their pierced earlobes hang with hoops of silver, and their hair, grown long since birth, is kept swathed on their heads. For a small sum though, they will happily undo their knot to show their hair cascading to the soil.

About 10 kilometers between Ping'an and Dazai is Zhongliu, a rustic village of arched stone bridges, dilapidated stables and stilted cottages symmetrically enclosed by terraces, crags and waterfalls. Hikers are approached by cheerful natives who do not hesitate to stop their plowing and ask "Chifan ma?" Their persistence to dine in their homes notwithstanding, what could be more refreshing after an exhausting morning navigating the mountain terrain than a spread of scented sticky rice baked in bamboo over an open fire, greens, salted meat and Longji tea or watery rice wine?

The undulating path continues on, with each bend revealing agricultural grandeurs and vistas of incomparable beauty. Late in the day, when the golden light of dusk illuminates the ribbon-like terraces, travelers encounter Longji's rush hour traffic; farmers descending into the outlying villages with bushels of reeds and firewood slung over their shoulders, alongside the occasional oxen grazing in the path. That's life on the misty mountaintop, where time has stood still for the past 700 hundred years.

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Tom Carter http://www.tomcarter.org of San Francisco is an internationally published freelance photographer and travel writer specializing in the People's Republic of China. Tom has traveled extensively throughout all 33 Chinese provinces and autonomous regions and currently resides in Beijing.

This article originally appeared in the June 2006 edition of City Weekend magazine.

Kailash Karma Kora by Tom Carter

going round in circles
a kora of good karma around Asia's sacred Kailash Mountain
Written by Tom Carter
Wednesday, 01 November 2006

My path to purification began in the home of Shiva the Destroyer – or perhaps it was just his rubbish bin. The shantytown of Darchen at the foot of Mt Kailash in western Tibet is populated with half-naked, red-cheeked children playing in trash heaps. Teahouses running on car battery power, with dirt floors lined with old pillows, serve as bedding for road-weary pilgrims and backpackers before they start on their kora around Asia’s most sacred mountain.

The word kora means ‘pilgrimage circuit’, or simply, ‘big circle’. It describes the clockwise path followed by devout followers of Buddhism and Hinduism in their effort to attain spiritual absolution for the sin of being alive. Throughout Tibet one can see the faithful making koras around temples and other holy places, though none as consecrated as the 52-kilometer circumambulation of Mt Kailash (known in Tibetan as Kang Rinpoche and in Mandarin as Shen Shan).

I began my pilgrimage at dawn (after hesitantly downing a cup of salty yak butter tea for strength) guided by a trail of prayer flags up the misty southern ridge to the Gyangdrak and Selung monasteries, and then following the few stone cairns back down to the kora. At one point the kora branched off, leading to a sky burial site, the place where Buddhists bid farewell to the dead by dismembering corpses and leaving the remains for the birds of prey that form koras of their own far above. The proximity of a burial site is disturbingly announced in advance by the shredded clothes in the vicinity, and more abruptly, by the occasional human bone dropped from the sky by said birds.

I continued my journey, passing a number of resplendently dressed pilgrims watering their horses in a shaded canyon. Before long, I arrived at the Chuku monastery, which hugs the western hillside above the Lha-Chu River, in clear sight of the enigmatic Mt Kailash. Aside from being the most holy Buddhist site in Asia, it is also the source of four great rivers: the Sutlej, which flows to India; the Indus, to Pakistan; the Karnali, which feeds the Ganges; and Tibet’s own Yarlung Tsangpo.

I arrived at Mt Kalish at dusk, which in summertime comes at about 10pm; Mt Kailash was bathed in ruby-red hues, a spectacular site, though one soon obscured by drizzling rain clouds. Exhausted, I turned in for the night at a nearby yurt on the grassy banks of Damding Donkhang and soon after I set my head on the filthy pillows, I fell asleep.

I’d been cautioned by a number of experienced pilgrims that the second half of the Mt Kailash kora was the most difficult. And, sure enough, as soon as I passed Dirapuk monastery and crossed the Lha-Chu river the following morning, the route became increasingly treacherous. The steep path eventually thinned out – as did the air – and then disappeared altogether among the large boulders strewn about the Drolma-Chu valley.

I am in my early 30s, but in no time was moving slower than an old woman. Indeed, 80-year-old Tibetans spinning their hand-held prayer wheels quickly out-paced me. Before I had ascended but one-third of the way up the 5,600-meters of evil that is the Drolma-La Pass, I was doubled over with exhaustion. It was then, during this moment of truth beneath the luminously golden face of Mt. Kailash, there appeared before me a vision. Her name was Yang Jing, my own Tibetan goddess of mercy.

One day prior, I had met Yang Jing, a Ngari local, in the company of her grandmother. At the time, both of them were on their third kora in just three days. When she spotted me draped over a large boulder, they were already halfway through their fourth. Carrying only prayer beads and a small pouch of necessities, she relieved me of my burden, a backpack filled with ‘non-essentials’ – laptop, camera, food, clothes and water.

Embarrassing as it was, a lovely Tibetan woman, eight years my junior, carried my pack the rest of the way around Mount Kailash, simply because I could not. (At the end of our kora, Yang Jing not only refused payment for her help, but offered me a gift – her decades-old yak bone prayer beads; the only recompense I can now offer her is this story).

Though weighed down with my belongings, Yang Jin soon outdistanced me, while I struggled along at the rear, making my way up the bleak Drolma-La, passing the glacial brooks of Shiva-Tsal and the clothing-littered stones and macabre shanks of hair that pilgrims leave to symbolize the expulsion of their old sins. With a light snow frosting the terrain, I finally caught up with Yang Jing atop the scenic pass where she recited her prayers.

Then with the frozen jade waters of Gauri Kund lake below, we carefully began our descent. As we reached the lower level, I was able to breathe again and the remainder of the kora was a delight. We crossed snow banks and passed venerable elders prostrated in verdant meadows fed by small streams trickling down from the mountain’s horizontally-banded crystal face. Later, we arrived at a smoky encampment, with chanting pilgrims sitting around yak-dung fires.

We continued past fields of boulders blanketed in thick green moss before taking a rest in a tea tent crowded with jovial Tibetans. Instant noodles and soft drinks were available, but I boldly choose the traditional Tibetan staples of yak butter tea and tsampa, an ‘instant’ bread made from barley flour kneaded with the tea. Like most Tibetan pilgrims, this was all Yang Jing carried in her small satchel during her multiple koras. Tsampa may be flavorless, though it smells unwashed, but it seems to provide sustenance and energy aplenty for Tibetans to complete 13 circuits.

After our rest, we pressed on through the lush hillsides, tracing the Dzong-Chu river until we came to the Zutul-Puk monastery where most of the Hindus from India had set up camp. I, too, might have spent the night there, but in spite of the searing pain in my legs, I was determined to follow the steely Yang Jing back to Darchen to complete the kora on my second day. My resolve was rewarded when we finally rounded the last bend and met with a stunning vista overlooking the Barkha plains: the Himalayas to the south, aglow under the evening sky.

We walked by a series of mani prayer walls and inscribed yak skulls, together, into the setting sun. It seemed a fitting way to end this epic tale, with the southern sapphire face of Kailash behind us – along with our sins.

Travel Pack
A number of travel agencies and hotels around Lhasa can arrange week-long Land Cruiser expeditions along Tibet’s southern route past Lake Manasarovar to Mt Kailash for approximately RMB 4,000 per person. Alternatively, budget travelers can take a three-day sleeper along the northern route, departing from Lhasa’s north bus station every couple days to the outpost town of Ali for RMB 700. Water, food and a window seat in the front of the bus is strongly recommended. From Ali’s north junction you can hitch a ride on a ‘gypsy’ jeep to Darchen/Mt Kailash, or catch a lift on one of the trucks from nearby construction sites, or the occasional rogue bus. Permits are no longer required for travel in Tibet and as such no agency should charge you for one.

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Tom Carter http://www.tomcarter.org of San Francisco is an internationally published freelance photographer and travel writer specializing in the People's Republic of China. Tom has traveled extensively throughout all 33 Chinese provinces and autonomous regions and currently resides in Beijing.

This article originally appeared in the November 2006 edition of That's Shanghai magazine.

Seven Days In Permitless Tibet by Tom Carter

July 07, 2006
Local Travel: Seven Days in Permit-less Tibet
The open road into Xizang
text and photos by Tom Carter

The news was shocking!

The ticket agent at the Shangri-la bus terminal in Zhongdian, Yunnan province was happy to tell me over and over, in both Chinese and English, that yes, foreigners can now travel east through the Tibet Autonomous Region to Lhasa … overland and without a permit! I really couldn’t believe what I was hearing, but rather than falling down in rapture, I agonized over taking advantage of this new policy or continuing as planned on my already-paid-for, government-authorized, one-week tour across Kham to Lhasa. Ultimately, it would have been silly for me not to choose the latter.

The decade-old Land Cruiser was in surprisingly good condition, having driven through Tibet 99 times. We set out through northern Yunnan to the crags of Feilaisi, finding ourselves at a dizzying 4,000 meters above sea level and nauseously breathless, to stay overnight at a roadside pilgrimage site of sun-bleached chortens, wind-tattered prayer flags and a stunning view of Mingyong Glacier.

Bright (a light so bright it was hard to believe) and early the next morning, we continued into undulating hills. Vistas of incomparable beauty revealed themselves with each bend. The forest was a tapestry of earthy shades, in orange, purple, browns and greens, both light and dark. With the iridescent blue sky and cottony white clouds above us, we traced perilous dirt switchbacks whose collapsing shoulders threatened to toss us hundreds of meters below into the Mekong River; it looked peaceful enough from above, its banks and farmland dotted with eye-catching, whitewashed adobe homes that seemed to beckon us into Tibet.

“Xizang!” our driver called out. In fact we had been in Tibet for half a day, but how could we know without having crossed any sort of border or being stopped by officials asking to see our papers? We had to remind ourselves that entering Eastern Tibet was now a permit-less process and all the checkpoints on our maps and guidebooks were recently abandoned. We celebrated our unbeknownst entry into the TAR (Tibetan Autonomous Region) by spending the day in the small, dusty city of Markham. Winding down from its weekend market, the city was brimming with the splendor of the traditional Khampas population: golden-skinned women with their long striped dresses and colorful plaits, and large-sized men with lengthy braided hair woven with red Chamdo tassels and a solid jade hoop. We were greeted by dozens of red-cheeked, runny-nosed children dancing around us. My European traveling companions were constantly surrounded by a crowd of curious adults, who took turns running their fingers along the thick blonde leg hairs, then letting out a collective fascinated murmur.

Traveling through Eastern Tibet can be compared with experiencing the four seasons in just a matter of days. While we started with clear skies and venerable forests, the next morning took us into icy tundra. Ascending 99 bends into the Hengduan Range, the mountains seemed to freeze over before our eyes. At 5,008 meters we reached the highest altitude of our trip.

At the bleak Dongdola pass we encountered a settlement of nomadic shepherds (drokpas) living in black tents while herds of emaciated yak-cows grazed the surrounding frozen pastures. These gentle people of an inhospitable land were dressed in simple hand-woven attire, but they were extravagantly accessorized in coral, turquoise and silver jewelry. These shepherds had seen few white faces in their lifetime. One drokpa family had yet to see a digital camera and they were mesmerized by the sight of their own images on the LCD screen.

At Pomda, a noise-polluted junction of logging trucks and tractors, we met a bunch of international backpackers and hardcore cyclists sitting at the literal crossroads that connects the northern route of the busy Sichuan-Tibet highway with the less-traveled southern roads. From there, our journey took us through and down into verdant terraced hamlets and patchwork plots of land fed by snow springs, over the Salween River to the unbelievably mint-blue twin lakes of Rawoktso. Dodging Kham’s morning traffic of goats, lamb and yak-cows (yes, cross-bred), we pressed on along the boulder-strewn road of the Sundzom Valley, past the Parlung Tsangpo white water rapids and old avalanches of frozen snow to Tongmei, where we encountered our first real obstacle.

Rumors had been circulating amongst the backpackers we’d been meeting on the road about a downed bridge at the Brahmaputra and Parlung Tsangpo convergence, which would prevent anyone from continuing on to Lhasa. It turned out the bridge was fine but a landslide on the other side had literally wiped the road off the sheermountain face. Anyone wanting to continue on had to either nimbly navigate a narrow footpath or wait a week or longer.

So it was here that we said goodbye to our Land Cruiser and crossed the bridge to meet another driver. The organizer of our trip told us via cellphone from his cozy office in Kunming that the new driver would be waiting “just a short walk” from the landslide. It turned out to be an arduous four-hour hike up a treacherous mountain path above the Rongchu gorge, in the dark of night, under the pouring rain of Tibet’s monsoon season. We braved the muddy slopes, deftly crossing washouts and literally dodging falling rocks from above, before finally arriving at a construction workers’ tent made from a giant nylon bag. The Israeli and British backpackers decided to stay while my companions and I trekked onward, in search of our new driver.

With our new vehicle and driver, we headed onwards toward Lhasa. Passing vivid fields of yellow youcai flowers, we arrived at the famous Draksumtso, an azure lake and lush Alpine forest which would have been breathtaking had it not been for the sea of baseball cap-wearing tour groups – the isolated beauty of Eastern Tibet was behind us.

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Tom Carter http://www.tomcarter.org of San Francisco is an internationally published freelance photographer and travel writer specializing in the People's Republic of China. Tom has traveled extensively throughout all 33 Chinese provinces and autonomous regions and currently resides in Beijing.

This article originally appeared in the July 2006 edition of That's Beijing magazine.