Shangri-La
We got lost in the fluttering flags of the stupa adjacent to the monastery – the reds and greens and yellows made flapping sounds in the light air, like chants afloat on the mountain winds.
There is an actual place called Sangri-La. Ok, so the Chinese government is making a strong push to market Zhongdian and the surrounding prefectures as 'Sangri-La', but biases aside, this is the contender with the closest legitimacy, I think.
I certainly thought it was Sangri-La when I saw a red-robed monk sitting on a pile of logs, back towards the Tibetan monastery rising like a fortress from the imaginations of Conan the Barbarian, face towards a field populated by a blanket of yellow wildflowers (as if the sun had crashed into the meadow and splattered all its yellowness on the green), and deep in meditation.
We fingered the enormous prayer wheels, rubbed our eyes in the dark temples, sniffed in the yak-buttered incense, and craned our necks and the multi-hued and wonderfully-ghastly images of saints and demons and monks on the walls.
I tried to explain to two monks hauling a cart of cement that I was not Korean, but Vietnamese. They smiled and nodded. "Han-guo?"
We got lost in the fluttering flags of the stupa adjacent to the monastery – the reds and greens and yellows made flapping sounds in the light air, like chants afloat on the mountain winds. Two Tibetan kids, arms over shoulders, stopped, posed for a picture, and strolled onwards to the monks' village.
We tumbled down into the yellowed field, muddying our shoes and waist-deep among the petals, shielding our eyes from the too-close sun and gasping at the mountains circling the valley, the square houses built into the shan's broadsides, and the clouds (how shall I describe them this time... like whipped cream, like shaving lotion, like pillows on a bed of blues?).
Drunk from our heady tour of Ganden Sumtseling Gompa, we got drunk on Lhasa beer at a travelers pub. Well, I got buzzed – Blowingbubbles/Cartoon girl was fine – and YuppieNomad, red faced and stupid drunk. Full with sunflower seeds, we got fuller on hot chocolate.
Brain addled and bellies warmed, we stumbled into Sangri-La's old town square and onto a dusk-strewn mass of Tibetans in dance. A human wave – fingers and hands and bodies swayed in unison, as chants echoed through a loudspeaker. It seemed like the entire town was on hand for this ritual. Little girls held their mothers' dresses, copy-catting the fluid dips and twirls. Men jigged and jiggered. Round and round and round, a giant clockwise circle of blurred feet rhythms...
I slept that night, full of contradictions and haze. Whether it was the beers or the dharma-ness of Sangri-La... my happy thoughts wandered aimlessly and contentedly.