Labrang Kora (Xiahe)

North-west, Gansu, China

William Mackesy’s account of this walk

 As you leave the loess hill country of the Yellow River Basin and wind up the long valleys into the stark mountains of the Tibetan Massif, the Han Chinese world dwindles and Tibetans take over.

Four hours out from charmless Lanzhou, reputedly China's most polluted city when we were there, we passed a large but grubby white chorten, the first physical sign of Ethnic Tibet.We were heading for the town of Xiahe, strung out along the delightful Daxia He river over 2,900 meters up amid jagged peaks on the plateau's edge.At its centre lies the great Labrang monastery, said to be third in the Tibetan world.

We bowled through a surprisingly pleasant new town with smart little Chinese hotels, then the long, dusty street of the ancient monastery village. Dark doorways broke the blank mudbrick walls of temples and monastic housing, giving tantalising glimpses of bright courtyards within. Dusty-red robed monks, shaven headed and many barefoot, loitered in the warm spring sun.

Our driver, Mr. Chiu, a cheerful, chubby, permed-haired likely-lad-on-the-make, dropped us off at our rather eccentric hotel and sped off in his VW Santana taxi, back to further money-making prospects back in town.

We strolled back into town along the river bank, the mountain stream sparkling in the sun, through dry, grey fields, ploughed but too early (this was mid-April) for the appearance of barley shoots. It was clearly exam time: solitary teenagers, mostly girls, sauntered or sat by the river bank, apparently the quietest place around, hunched over their books, clearly perfecting their rote learning.

The monastery, once home to over 4,000 monks, is vast and decidedly underpopulated although it now houses well over 1,200 monks. Large quiet courtyards, bright awnings flapping lazily in the gentle breeze; dark halls and temples, blood red columns and dimly gleaming gods occasionally incandescent in shafts of light; the buzz of monks in prayer. A huge golden stupa, glowing above the flat roofs, dominated the town from a hillside across the river where we sat and contemplated the scene. High above, sharp ridges, pockets of snow still in their clefts, sawed away at a cloudless sky.

Like all sacred Tibetan sites, Labrang has a kora, a sacred path winding for over 3 kms around it, and this was the first part of our walk the next day. 

We started from the western end of the main street, walking clockwise as custom requires.Although it was early in the year, there was a throng of pilgrims on the path, mainly from Amdo, the surrounding area of the Tibetan Plateau.All wore the traditional blanket-coat, mostly off one shoulder or even off altogether, arms and “upper” hanging limply from the waistband.Mothers, faces burned dark brown by the relentless sun and wind and already heavily lined, padded along patiently, stooped under heavy packs, snot-nosed children trailing from each arm.Great chunks of coral and turquoise hung from heavy silver chains in their long, delicately braided hair or from their necks.Tiny, wizened grannies, almost bent double, heavy ropes of grey hair hanging down their backs, shuffled along, beady miss-nothing eyes assessing everything about us as we tramped past.Their taller menfolk staggered in front of them, braided hair hanging below wide-brimmed felt hats, knives in their belts, curly-toed leather boots scuffing the dusty path. Their lives may be unremittingly tough, but they were putting on a good show today.

We were now squeezed between the perimeter wall of the monastery and the steep, rocky mountainside.Low sections of wall revealed the brightly painted eaves of great buildings, pilgrims ambling in file across the courtyards and red-nosed boy-monks playing in the corners.We stepped round the first of many prostrating pilgrims, who, over the entire course of the kora, extend themselves full length in the dust, painfully pick themselves up, advance themselves to where their hands were and then do it all over again, religious devotion which has its nearest parallel in the self-flagellating penitents on the great pilgrimage routes of mediaeval Europe.

At the north-eastern corner of the circuit, pilgrims and monks slowly circled and re-circled a large white stupa.

Nearby, a group of women enjoyed a picnic, a woman in a grey cloth pinafore and fine, large felt hat, told a clearly bawdy anecdote to cackles from her friends.

Long ranks of big brass prayer wheels line the eastern leg, each side of the main street. We shuffled along behind a group of brightly clad, mantra-muttering women. South of the main street, crouched figures in the edge of the field indicated the most basic of all communal lavatories.

We were now on a terrace on the south side of the monastery, the river, gurgling ten feet below, with its own compliment of crappers and washerwomen busy on its banks.

To our right was a half kilometer parade of prayer wheels, massive drums in their own houses dotted among them. Through gateways, above the prostrated figures in the entrance, stood quiet whitewashed colleges, their awnings and doorways gay in the sunshine.

A haphazard market space along the south-west side brought us back to our starting point.We now struck off through the Tibetan Village to the west, along a dusty track through sturdy little stone and mud brick huts, glimpsing family groups sitting in courtyards, small children at wrinkled grannies' sides, mothers bustling slowly about their chores. Goats and bullocks were penned in tiny spaces outside.Clusters of older children played in the streets, pointing and giggling as we passed.

We swung right up a side valley, and climbed through cheerful little farmyards on the edged of the town beside a dry watercourse which clearly carried a wild, roaring torrent in the rainy season.There were no trees here, just tough grass and struggling scrub on thin, dusty soil.Above us, crags and a fierce sky.

An hour took us to an ancient hamlet, poor-looking hovels with broken-down walls, empty except for two large, barking dogs. I picked up some rocks to throw - they are a famous menace and rabies is a risk - but they didn't come at us: one was tethered and its companion clearly didn't feel like a solo expedition.

We met a cheerful, nut brown drover with his small flock pattering ahead of him. I had my first ever conversation in Mandarin – admittedly hideously accented on both sides – which didn't involve repetition, hesitation or blank, open mouthed incomprehension on at least one side.

 "Hello."

 "Hello."

 "Where are you from?"

 "Hong Kong."

"Oh."

(Pause for narrow, assessing inspection.)

 "Where are you taking your sheep?"

 "Xia he."

 "Oh."

 "Goodbye."

 "Goodbye."

Made my day.

We clambered through a rocky defile, a string of prayer flags fluttering from crag to crag high above. The track became steeper and rougher. The valley walls closed in. An hour or so on from the hamlet, we rounded a corner, and saw, high on a crag ahead of us, the ruined monastery which was our destination.

It was ruined and deserted, its stone blending into the clifftop so that it was easily missed on first glance.At the centre, the shattered remains of a strong, square building faintly resembling, on its great rock, a Scottish chieftain's den; to the left, the remains of smaller buildings crept down a slightly less precipitous slope.The "keep" had completely lost one face.It looked as if it had been blown up, a regular fate in Tibet during the Cultural Revolution.

The path turned left into a side valley beneath the line of the broken Monastery ridge, then circled back and scrambled up to the lower buildings. At the top of this valley was a surprisingly green little meadow and a refreshing scattering of pines, thickening in the shelter of a gorge at the valley head.

A patient little donkey stood, harnessed to a cart in the lee of a wall; workmen were evidently labouring on the repair of the monastery. Two outbuildings already had new roofs, more were being patched together.

We puffed our way to the main “keep” on the ridgetop; rounding a corner, we almost knocked over a very ancient; decrepit monk, who was slowly circling the building, clockwise as prescribed, muttering prayers as he went.We nodded and smiled at each other.He got a small bow from me, the least that his piety deserved.

We sat on the ridge's sharp spine and gazed back over the valley, dry and inhospitable, the trees and meadow behind us seemingly another world. Far above, high, lonely buttresses pointed defiantly into the sky.

When we finally got up, the old monk was still circling the ruined monastery.We exchanged smiles as we walked past.The donkey cart lurched down ahead of us.We sat briefly with its friendly man-and-boy drivers as they shared a roadside cigarette.

The shadows were lengthening when we trudged, sorefootedly, back into Xiahe.Families now sat on their doorsteps enjoying the last sun.Men and their animals shuffled back into the village at the day's end.

My last impression of Xiahe came as we sat in Mr. Chiu’s taxi on the way back to Lanzhou.Rounding a corner, he had to swerve to avoid a group of pilgrims who were prostrating their way to Labrang.They still had 11 km to go.