The previous post is Hezuo (July 17).
The next post is Songpan (July 19).

Langmusi (July 18) · Jul 21, 08:41 AM

Loud knocking pulls me out of a dream. I snap upright in bed. First, “good morning” then “thank you” and “xie xie” in rapid succession. The knocking stops and I’m left to shake out the cobwebs and pack. After waking the lobby attendant to find out that the floor attendant has me deposit, I walk out in the dim pre-dawn darkness. A minibus takes me across town to the southern bus station, picking up two others along the way. The sky is lightening rapidly as I buy a seat on the 7:00 bus to Langmusi; I have time to eat a breakfast, but will have to wait for the noodle shops to open. I wolf down a 5 yuan plate of beef chow mein then get on board my bus, where I’d previously stowed my bag. Near the front I sit next to a young Chinese tourist girl; we chat a bit, but I fall asleep once we get going. At a stop two hours into the ride we get off and walk around for twenty minutes. I buy bread to snack on and more toilet paper — you always bring your own in China. I hop on to the bus as it’s pulling out of the lot, and again nap for the next hour and a half to Langmusi. We’re driving through grass-covered steep hills, past Tibetan ruins and villages. It’s a hazy day, but somehow that makes me love the landscape more. We arrive in time for lunch.

I let myself become swept along with three Chinese backpackers. They look at a room in the Langmusi Hotel, reject it, and settle — after much Chinese haggling — for twenty yuan per person in the Sara Bingguan. We drop packs and walk down the street for a Chinese lunch, but we sit outside of wooden seats with goat horn backrests.

The morning haze is fully gone by the time we finish lunch and split up. Langmusi is a small Tibetan village with one main Chinese tourist drag and two or three “destinations” (e.g. temples, monasteries, etc.). I spent most of the afternoon away from all that, wandering side streets and then walking up into the steep hills surrounding Langmusi. The Lonely Planet says, “a rural Tibetan village nestled among steep grassy meadows, evergreen forests, and show-clad peaks.” There’s no snow right now because it’s summer, and the main strip has been developed in the Chinese urban fashion — otherwise the Planet is dead on.

I woke with a sore throat this morning, but don’t slow down my pace at all; after lunch I set out, heading up the valley towards the grottoes on the far side of a monastery. Drinkable water bubbles up from a couple springs — the town’s water.

I go around the outside, climbing up into the rural hillsides to avoid the main street. An old man invites me into his homestead to take pictures in his garden and share tea. His two grandsons run around while we sit on the glass-enclosed back porch. His son — their father — works in another town, and doesn’t come home often. After a pleasant while I excuse myself and return to town to print out a picture of the old man holding his youngest grandson, still an infant. The boys in the photo shop recognize him. I return to present my gift and he brings me into an inside room, setting out an array of snacks: sliced cucumber, bread, dried fruit, nuts, steamed rolls, and more tea. They boil water here with a parabolic solar heater in the yard. After a while I excuse myself again; I’ve only got one night in this place, and I want to see more. I leave with an invitation to return and spend the night if I’m still in town tomorrow.

I’m glossing this afternoon’s events, but this is a journal, not a book. Still, my apologies.

After I say goodbye I continue my walk through the hills up toward the monastery. On a hillside below a small stand of trees I spot three local kids; they wave me up. I sit with them for a spell and they tell me I was supposed to have bought a ticket to be here. I hadn’t, and they tell me to keep along the outside. I head off, and cut down to the main road at the last minute and follow a monk through a gate into the grotto. A group of them are swimming in a concrete-lined pool formed by a small dam. They motion me to join them but I continue upstream, past old men bathing in the cold water and then past the springs. I follow a Tibetan couple up the canyon to a holy cave where the woman climbs up to look at the sky. The man explains with spiritual hand motions.

On the return, near the end of the grotto, I meet a group that wants to take pictures, including a kid who latches onto me. We walk out together; he’s holding my hand, but he won’t follow me back uphill. He indicates that he wants to meet later, and I agree to seven thirty in front of my hotel — the Sana.

On a hilltop I encounter two monks resting under the shade of prayer flags. The ground here is littered with small, square paper prayers. The view is great, so I stay and chat for a bit before slowly winding my way back to town — across back streets, beside the spring-fed creek where people wash clothes, past old water-wheels.

The affectionate kid is waiting for me; it’s almost exactly half seven when I get back. He kind of weirds me out, and I use the excuse that I feel like crap on account of the walking around with my cold. It’s true; I do feel like crap. A hot shower doesn’t help, but I take one anyways, and shave, too, because it’s been a while.

Leisha’s Restaurant is crowded; she’s loving it. Leisha is a high-energy quick learner. She’s determined to succeed, and be happy doing it. There are three separate tour groups of ten to fifteen people here tonight, but I sneak my order in. The Baby Mac Yak Attack (or something) is yak stir-fried with potatoes, onions, pepper, and mushrooms in a Tibetan flatbread sandwich. It’s weighs a pound and a half or two; I feel amused sympathy for the males at a nearby table who are each tackling the much larger Big version of the Yak Attack. While I’m waiting for my order, I meet several independent travelers, including the Italian woman who’s been taught Leisha to make bruschetta, and apple pie over a couple visits. Yesterday she explained pizza; today it’s on the menu. The thing called “apple pie” on the menu is a strange baked pastry, but it’s not a bad desert.

I return to my room late. The Sana is upstairs from a bland retail clothing shop; I have to knock on the steel shutters to get in.

Days are long when you travel “yi ge ren” (by yourself). A lot happens.

* * *

  1. hi…it’s me!!!!!

    — Danielle Randolph    Feb 2, 12:28 PM    #

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