The Land of Lhagu

  Lhagu, China
Friday, June 16, 2006

With the small, one-street town of Rawok behind me, I passed a small hydroelectric plant near a large waterfall. As in the hydro plant near Tsakhalo, where I spent the night a few days ago, the employees were relaxed and enjoying themselves.

Supposedly managing hydroelectricity is easy: gravity happens, turbines spin, electricity flows.

The employees were drinking beer on the roof singing songs. I joined them in a round, picking a Tibetan song I could sing a bit, without knowing the real meaning.

As I continued on, the dirt road skirted the steep banks of Rawok Lake. My backpack was heavy with food, and this was the first time I was carrying all the gear myself, which felt good, despite being a little more difficult.

Eight miles later, I reached Canea where men played pool on the dusty streets.

An old woman walked with me, pointed at a triangular-shaped mountain surrounded in mist, and closed her hands in prayer: "Dorje Tsenthur," she said, the town's holy mountain. She left through green barley fields, and I continued south.

A boy showed me a shortcut through the barley fields and over gates designed to keep livestock out of the fields.

Next, a couple of girls jumping puddles from the recent deluge walked with me. We sang songs together.

A few minutes later, I was in the back of a tractor heading south along another glacial lake as the sun set. The ride was bumpy, wet, and cold, as we crossed several streams which sprayed me and the villagers traveling with me with glacial water. The cold winds coming from the mountains and glaciers to the south quickly numbed my hands which held on tight to the tractor as the driver made his way along a ragged road.

In the dark, I established a campsite near a spring and sheltered from the wind. The stove was uncooperative--perhaps the altitude at 14,000 feet, perhaps the clog-inducing unleaded gasoline, perhaps a combination of both. The lighter was giving me a hard time too, so I made a fire, using one match. Despite the rain, I found dry kindling around the bases of juniper shrubs and enough sticks to boil water and enjoy a stir-fry dinner of potatoes, onions, tomatoes, and slices of processed meat common in these parts.

At night, the rain continued, though lighter, and a dusting of snow was visible on the mountains in the morning. I awoke and ate a boiled egg and spoonfuls of tsampa and drank some powdered milk. The sun shone through the rain as schoolchildren stopped to say "hello," a rainbow behind us.

I decided to fix the stove and make a fire to cook a few meal's worth of food, knowing that at higher elevations, relatively flammable and dry fuels might be harder to find. I was also interested in leaving as little an impact or footprint as possible whenever camping. It was a trade-off, however: where firewood is abundant, making a small fire might be more ecological than burning fossil fuels full of additives such as benzene.

I cooked two batches of tsampa, mixing the roasted barley flower with the salted yak butter tea. I also cooked a meal of noodles and chicken with white sauce for later and enjoyed some more veggies, potatoes, and meat for lunch.

Next to me in the cliffs, the cuckoos were calling.

By mid-afternoon, the skies cleared, so I packed my gear and continued south.

Ahead was a small gatehouse for the village of Lhagu, where a man, his young son, and a dog were waiting for any visitors along the road. I stopped, and the man offered me butter tea. I drank a couple of glasses and gave the boy 10 yuan. As I continued on, I looked back to see that the man, the son, and the dog were following me. Soon, they invited me to their home in Lhagu.

We hiked up the terminal moraine overlooking a lake. The immense Lhagu glacier was calving into the lake, making a distant roaring sound. Raging rapids engorged because of the spring snowmelt flowed a few feet from the dirt road, coming from Lhagu Lake above. The lake was the color of churned translucent milk with a hint of mint. Surrounding the lake were mountains and glaciers partially enshrouded in clouds, with Tibetan homes and barley fields nestled in the valley.

Near sunset, as grandma and mother joined us, herding the cattle and sheep for the night, we reached their home in Lhagu village. Inside the dark traditional Tibetan home was a large assortment of pots and pans. Swastikas and other Tibetan Buddhism symbols adorned the walls and beams. On the right side of the room was a fireplace.

Father began by stoking the fire. Mother churned milk on the opposite side of the room, creating a rhythm to her work as Tibetans enjoy doing. Grandma sat near the fire, spinning her squeaky prayer wheel.

In the smokey room, Father continued by preparing steamed buns and fried greens from the nearby hillsides. Mother began knitting a woolen sweater. Son and two daughters played together. A pot of yak butter tea sat next to the fire, staying warm. Periodically, the father would fill our glasses.

After dinner, we all slept together in the one room home.

In the morning, I thanked the kind family and continued through Lhagu village, meeting people on the dirt path and barley fields along the way. The road ended here; from now on the trail was smaller, and walking and motorcycling were the preferred methods of getting around.

Leaving Lhagu village and lake behind, I reached a pasture with nomadic tents. In this pasture, the residents of Lhagu brought their goats, sheep, and yaks for the summer. Villagers came to greet me along the way as I passed yaks.

The skies were blue now and the mountains were more and more clear. Still, the higher mountains were behind clouds, although once in a while I caught a glimpse of their summits. I relaxed in the warm sun next to clear alpine springs, looking up at glaciers high above.

Behind me, around the corner, was the village of Lhagu.

Ahead of me, the wide valley narrowed into a steep gorge heading into the high mountians.