A couple of days within I got in to Langmusi, there was a big gathering of monks and lamas and living buddhas from monasteries around the region.

The one and half street became busy. The early arrivals, mostly young monks perused the few shops. China Mobile office seemed to be a favorite among them. They also bought big quantity of rice and noodles and vegetables to bring to the monks’ quarter in the monastery, on the Si’Chuan side.

I strolled in as usual among pilgrims, now in much bigger number. The Si-Chuan side of the monastery was split in half by a warm stream coming down from the mountain. The main praying hall on the north side, a main temple directly across. One of the earlier afternoons, I saw a few monks practicing drumming and dancing in the big open square in front of the main praying hall. Now strangely, the square was all quiet while the streets and the streams full of life. I asked a young monk when they would start, “4 in the afternoon”, he told me.

Back to the street with more monks and cars. Near the entrance was a small line-up of about 50 monks. Before I realized what was happening, a motorcade rolled in and the monks started throwing paper prayers into the air. At the end of the motorcade was a good sized truck with a blissful monk standing in the back bed holding a Sony Ex1 on a tripod. He would have some nice footage from that high point.

Close to 4, I returned back to the main square, now filled with pilgrims and the monks were sitting in the center. A lot of them held their yellow high hat in their arms. Many photographers were busy occupying the best vintage points. I got pushed among the pilgrims and couldn’t move much.

Through the loud speaker a very assertive voice started making announcement in Tibetan, followed by another very assertive voice saying something very important. Helpers with name tag hanging on their neck kept people from rushing too much into the center. A few of the pilgrims prostrated on the ground, a lot more were mumbling.

As soon as there was some space in the crowd, I squeezed through to the side and caught a few shots of the sitting monks in the setting sun. It got really cold so I walked back to my hotel to add another layer. By the time I got back in, the lecture was just over and the monks rushed to find any corner they could to release themselves.

People didn’t move, so I stood around as well.

Shortly after the break, the monks came back to the center square and formed groups of threes, one sitting, one standing across, and one on the side. The one standing would say a few words, then clapped his hands in front of the one sitting, the other one monitored. Sometimes it sounded like a command, sometimes it sounded like a question that demanded, hopefully, enlightened answers.

I was not the only one amused by the scene. A few took photos and some had their camcorder out among the crowd. Even some of the pilgrims used their cell phone to record.

The night started to fall but the monks had no intention of stopping. The actions and discussions were heated among them and some bigger groups formed when I believed a question became worthy of more listeners to answer.

As I moved as discreetly as possible among the monks’ groups, I came upon an older monk who was also an onlooker. With the shadowy mountain as the backdrop and the low and high waves of shouting debates as the background, he pulled out an iPad2 from his robe and started recording the actions. Most of the monks kept on their routine while a few turned their heads in amazement. I’d say, Glory to Steve Jobs.

I walked away not knowing when the monks would call it their day. Only the sound of the stream rushing through the rocks could be heard once I got on the path toward the entrance. It was another gorgeous night.

Nothing is sacred; everything is sacred.

The mountain path from Maqu to Langmusi was magnificent even in silhouette, I only wish I had more daylight to see it — it was pitch dark when I got into town.

Langmusi town looked much smaller than what I imagined. One and a half street and that was all. Almost all the shops had shut the lights off, which made all the winter stars above the mountain peaks looked ever so bright.

I could very well be the only guest in the hotel, so the owner was particularly nice to me. It was almost surreal to enjoy a quiet night in the mountain in the luxury of a nice bed with clean sheets and heated blanket.

The next morning, I took an early morning walk to the monastery on the Kham side. Hardly any tourists come at this time of the year so nobody bothered to stay at the ticket booth. I just strolled in like any other Tibetan pilgrims.

The main stupa glittered in the sun. One old lady sat in the room pushing a big prayer’s wheel. The bell from her constant spinning sounded especially crisp in the quiet morning. Inside the main praying hall monks and lamas were having a lecture session. Their black cotton boots spread outside the courtyard. The bright orange walls with boldly decorated window frames caught my attention especially. In the highland plateau, sunlight must be the the most heavenly thing to worship, to me at least. And maybe that’s why the orange color? The door frames were also quite interesting, most contain the wooden carving of an elephant head. I’m not that versed in religious history to know enough about the significance of elephant in Tibetan Buddhism, but for people in a snow-covered world tower to keep that tradition around after so long, the elephants must be something particularly sacred.

Maroon-robed monks appeared here and there. Most looked really young, like teenagers. When the morning session was over at the main praying hall, young monks rushed out in groups to their nearby living quarter. One boy monk somehow stayed behind. I caught a picture of him looking up to face the oversized drapes with paintings of the Tibetan Eight Treasures.

The whole monastery looked too new to me.

At the corner of a small temple stacked a few abacus looking “device”, wooden frames with beads threaded through either a string or a small stick inside. I liked the weathered-look of them. Curious why they were there, I waited for some pilgrims to come over, and soon realized the purpose of them: a counter to remember how many circles people have walked around the temple. It’s quite important for the pilgrims to move in clock-wise direction. How they pushed the prayer’s wheel, the way they circle the temple, even their path inside the monastery. Me, on the other hand, often find myself on the a wandering path.

The highest building in the monastery is the residence of the living buddha. I tried to walk up but was stopped by a “Stop, Be aware of dog” sign.

Prayer’s flags in the thousands flapped in the wind on the high hill. I walked a small snow-spotted path to see them. Sky-burial site should be somewhere close by as well, though I didn’t intent to look for it. Small paper prayers littered the ground like snow flakes. Aimlessly, I walked the ridge following the prayer’s flags, enjoying my day among the mountains. I like Langmusi much better than the town of Zoige.

Lots of dog barkings and lots and lots of dreams in between. Giving a hug to Sophie, watching Brian cut open a car tire, in anger as usual, body fighting to hold down my soul to stay in this body but it wanted to raise up, flew toward the woods, birch and aspen trees, the green leaves I could only see through an oval-shaped prism. Then there were lights shining on me, pale yellow to bright, I could see through my third eye. Oh, let the light in, what a powerful feeling. Then, I opened my two normal eyes and it was still dark out.

I shall come back here just to dream some dreams.

Daerji called and said he had arranged a couple of elders in the village to see me. After breakfast, Sangji and I walked a few houses over to a two-story brick building. Upstairs, all the nice bright orange furnitures and two big stoves in the middle. Compared with Sangji, they must be quite affluent. The old lady held a new born boy by the window. The old man smoked cigarette. I was offered to sit by the old man.

Daerji and Sangji helped me briefed the old man. Even though I couldn’t understand what they were speaking, I could guess they were retelling some of the stories of last summer, when I came and rode with them to see the sand dunes and that both of them were “selling” me to the old man. Eventually, everybody was ready. The old man looked full of emotion when he spoke on camera. What could I do to fully honor their trust?

I really like the look of the old lady, her very wrinkled smile radiated happiness. Not much she could say though, just smiled in shyness.

The next family in the next village. The elder had left the village to go to Langmusi, so the son talked instead. He was funny and talked very eloquently. Their house was an old wooden one that looked really pretty. Even they have already had a house, the government still insisted on building a new brick house for them, and of course, they have to get a loan to pay it back. The wife could say a bit Mandarin so we talked while she breast-fed their little new born. Loved her look by the fire. I wished I had more questions for her as she seemed very eager to talk.

After having another meal, Sangji took me back home to wait for Baisang who just came back from Langmusi. We went back to his home which is almost done decorating and talked very briefly. When he was young, Baisang ran away to India and spent some time there as a monk. One of Sangji’s brother ran away to India as well and stayed there. Lots of story here if I dig deep enough.

Bo was already waiting while we were at Baisang’s. He followed us back to Sangji’s and I bid a quick farewell to the family. He offered me a yellow Khada on my way out — I’m truly honored. What can I do for them in return?

Can’t say I’ve gotten too much great footage for this stay, but at least, it strengthened my relationship with the herders in these villages. It’s hard to say I’ve gotten a story yet, since for people in this village, their lifestyle hasn’t changed that much, something not quite what I perceived last time. Their nomadic practice still remains, and it’s really hard to show the slow changing environment. I need to come back to film them move houses and yak herds next time. Or, the better question, why am I so hard on myself for doing all these? Maybe I can help them with making something with yak fur? Or have scholars here to study the causes of the desertification and make suggestions? What? What? The call of adventure always win.

Frosted window in the morning. Woke up then fell back asleep. Luckily days come late here so even when I heard the family getting up again, it was still before sunrise.

Sangji walked me out to see the herders drove their yaks out. Hundreds of yaks walked into the morning fog, then the big red sun rises right above the horizon. It was a gorgeous sight for winter solstice. I’ll freeze the frame and send it to Steve as I promised.

Sunrise didn’t last very long at all, a few minutes of adjusting iris, finding the right angle to include the herders on their horses, and then it was already the day.

Back inside, Sangji’s wife cleaned the table where they put pictures of Dalai Lama, the lama at Langmusi who lives at India now, and a few others. The situation is not as strict here since it’s so far away from anywhere and no party leaders bother to come. The herders have some freedom putting out whoever pictures they like, and the Dalai Lama is still the spiritual leader in their mind.

The wife cleaned the small metal bowls with burnt yak dung, which polished the copper amazingly well. After the table and the scripture books were dusted, she added water to the little bowls, put some yak butter in the bigger one, poured in hot water, and then Sangji came to mumble some scriptures.

Cell signals were sporadic that day, which was kind of normal. I was hoping to go and film some more Baisang’s family but he was not home. Another idea was to film some elders talking about what they’ve been seeing over the years. After breakfast, which lasted for about two hours, Sangji rode out to see who he could find; the wife did some stiching work; I waited, and played with the granddaughter, who seem to be amused by anything and everything.

After Sangji came back with no confirmed arrangements, he offered to take me to the confluence of the Black River and the Huang (or Yellow) River where his first daughter lived, in a tent.

Kind of a bumpy ride but not as bad as when we crossed the dried-up peatland in the summer. One section was by a seasonal wash, all others were among dried grasslands, and there was remaining of a mud wall the villagers built some twenty years ago to protect the best of the pastures.

At the confluence. This side of the Black River is Si’Chuan, the other, Kham. The city of Maqu is right across the river. I asked Sangji about the gold mine. He pointed at the mountain side where some construction were clearly visible. The mine, the processing factory.

A big herd of yaks tried to walk down to the sandbars by the river. Sangji told me the river bank has been retreating visibly over the past twenty years. High wind in the spring time turned into dust storm after taking in the fine soil from the eroded river bank, he believed.

The Huang River was not completely frozen though the ice blocks made it looked very rugged. Sangji said loud cracking noise of ice crashing could be heard at night.

A short ride from the river was the daughter and her husband’s little tent, in a camp of about 6 or 7 families. They are still the true nomads. The two look like teenagers but are already the parents of two children. The little boy about a year old cried hiding behind his mom when he saw me. The young husband rode out while the daughter cooked. He soon came back with a big bag of snacks and spread in between me and Sangji. I wish I could convince them there were so much unhealthy chemicals in the snacks they didn’t need. After a nice dinner (or lunch), Sangji and I rode back in the cold. The sun had already set by the time we reached his house.

The younger daughter and the wife were making dough and fillings — yak meat for dumplings. The daughter could make the perfectly looking moomoo (a kind of dumpling like a bun), but not jiaozi(potstickers) so I taught them how to wrap. They had a great time learning. The daughter got it much faster than the son in-law and she made sure to give him a hard time showing off her “masterpieces”. Quite a co-incident dumpling-making the same tradition parents will follow at home for winter solstice.

More hope for tomorrow. So much appreciate the family treating me like one of their own.

Bitterly cold morning. Bo came in early and we hit the road by eight, which was just about sunrise for this part of China. Nothing changed much from June except the landscape, now all brown with spots of dusty snow. Just passed the gas station outside the city, someone in a police uniform waved us over. Apparently he was only looking for a ride. Most likely Bo told him we were passing by. He got on, and soon fell asleep.

The section just after Si’Chuan in Kham was paved, a nice little break from the mostly bumpy dirt road.

The Black River was frozen. Soon after crossing the bridge toward the three villages, I called Daerji. We still managed to make a couple of wrong turns and ended up in Gasha instead of Chagu, where I wanted to go. The half-finished new brick houses in Gasha were painted pink and purple, ugly in my eyes.

Eventually we found the school in Chagu. In a little while, Daerji came to lead us to the home of the Sangji’s. He was the one who rode me to the sand dunes in the summer. His wife and daughter helped carried my luggages in and Bo soon took off.

Daerji and the other village head stayed to chat for a bit. Their Mandarin is marginal so it was difficult to carry a conversation. Sangji’s on the other hand is much better. His daughter made me Zanba, the mixture of roasted barley flour with tea, sugar, yak butter, and small bits of dried yak cheese. All mixed by hand to a small dough and ate like that. Not bad.

The day goes on leisurely for Sangji, who, even only in his forties, has already become a grandfather. His younger daughter and son-in-law do most of the family chores. Since it was winter time, the family stayed at their more permanent camp and once a day herd their yaks to drink by the Black River.

When it was watering time, Sangji rode me to the open grassland. I filmed a few amused herders riding toward the camera, one of the girls though had the most elegant rope-throwing style, swinging her rope with a metal tube at the end in a circle above her head as a way to tell the yaks where to go.

At this time of the year, the Black River is completely frozen. One young man was there crushing the ice open for the yaks. It was a beautiful sight with yaks, ice, water, herders on horse in the background, but I was sure it was so terribly cold for the ice-crasher, who had to pick the ice blocks by his bare hands to throw them away. One of the nicest things for the highland here though, is its almost constant warm sun during the day. After crushing enough icy surface, the young man laid down on the ice to take a break and asked me if I wanted to film him taking a nap like that.

Sangji’s family snacked a lot. Maybe because I was there, they ate all the times and constantly offer me food. In the middle of their room was a yak-dung burning stove. It was amazingly warm and didn’t smell bad at all. Come to think of it, it is a very sustainable way of fuel, as long as their grassland is plentiful, the herders will have enough yaks for food and fuel. The cycle, hopefully, could continue on.

The sun set late as well, almost 7 at night. I filmed some more how the herders drove their yaks back to the pen near their home. The whole village at dusk smell like burning yak dung. Temperature soon dropped to way below zero.

When we were warming up inside, the wife came in with a big basket of dungs and the granddaughter wrapped in her pretty little dress. The little two-year-old is very pretty. “Highland blush”, the red cheeks from the sun that are so normal for girls here have not reached her. She was shy for a bit but very soon, her naughtiness came right out.

For dinner, Sangji’s family cooked me a whole pot of yak shanks. That’s the best meal for guests. Their good-heartedness is what motivated me to come and film them, as always.

Night fell quickly but the room was kept warm by the dung fire. Kind of sad in a way herders here have well adopted TV watching at night. If I go back to Qiunatong, that small Tibetan/Nu village down Yunnan, will they still sing and dance by the fire?

Sangji’s family put me in the part of their house where his daughter slept. It was shabby of course, broken window and dirt ground, but that’s already their best. The blankets they gave me were so heavy I could barely move under there. It was warm enough. Just that all the dogs in the village decide to put on a choir at night.

Bo came to meet me at the airport Saturday. He had a red jacket on and looked quite happy. Business was really good for him this past summer.

It snowed the day before and didn’t stop until this morning. The air was fresh as usual and the mountains well covered in white. Jiu Zhai(Nine Villages) must be an exciting airport to land for pilots, peaks after peaks after peaks and all of sudden, the runway appeared that seemed quite sloped to my untrained eyes.

The sun felt warm even though it was less than 20F. We had a quick noodle at a restaurant ran by a Muslin family. Half-frozen streams by the well-paved road and the dried grass covered hills reminded me of my first trip to Lhasa. We climbed a 3800m mountain pass with icy patches and a few trucks slid off coming up, but otherwise, an uneventful trip to Zoige town. Quite a bummer the hotel I used to stay didn’t have in-room cable anymore and internet cafes in town insisted on checking ID card I don’t have. Have to stay unplugged for quite some time. Sleepy, slept early.

It snowed again overnight. Sun out on Sunday. Tried to call a few places in Langmusi, I might base there instead if I could find internet, and it would be a more interesting place than this dull and characterless Zoige town.

Daerji, the village head in Chagu happened to come to town and we met briefly. He said he would tell the other villager I interviewed last time to be ready to have me there for a few days. All good.

While waiting for my ride to the herder’s home, some 200km away from this town I’m staying right now, I have this moment of clarity, credited partially to the forced wait, partially to a note from my sister about Yi-Ching, The Book of Change. Actually, I don’t really like that translation, because Yi conveys a lot more than just change. It’s about cycle, about adaptation, about changing around the core of something unchangeable.

The world in its circular movement is perfect. It is that intertwined circle of Ying and Yang, the dark and the bright forces that work together to form the world. A world of everything nice and positive will be a world of stagnation, and non-existence. In order for something, anything to be alive, both forces have to be in motion. When you feel the positive force, it was because the negative force was pushing, and one should be prepared to feel that negative force to come next of what you are feeling right now. The other way around works the same way. If you feel the negative force, it was because something positive had been developing to the point of its reversion, and that once the negative force has also developed to its own point of reversion, the positive force takes stage. In that, there is no positive or negative thinking, optimism or pessimism, both are thoughts that get caught in the one sided struggle for stagnation, both are a form of avoidance of the basic rule of nature.

We let the rule of nature flow through us. Going against it causes suffering in both the body it is carrying through and the bigger world around. Stay in accordance with the flow of nature, from that and only that, we can start to build our little speckle that we oftentimes project as the world around us, but a mere illusion our senses have made us believe is the truth.

Accept the world as it is, that is the only way to move, and without movement, we cease to exist. Acceptance though, is not the same with agreeing with everything that is going on. It is the base, the core to start from to add values to the things we want to see improving, knowing fully that our actions will bring out both the dark and the bright forces as well.

We need the force that goes against our current momentum to move. No river flows in a straight line. It needs the forces from both riverbanks to flow forward. So, whenever you feel some barriers and resistances, be thankful that without which, you wouldn’t be able to make it to the next bend down the course. A life with many bends is a river that flows.

I crossed many sites with a plaque saying that the dirt pile next to it was part of the Great Wall, from far back to even older than 200BC to 1400 and further on. It was indeed quite amazing to think that someone that long ago actually was working on what was under my feet. That thought gave me the chill.

And so, in a way, for more than 2000 years, the culture of the “central kingdom”, the culture I was born in, has been building walls. And it seems like the habit continues. Any institution, company, any “unit” has walls around it.

Do we really need these walls?

These walls reminded me of those fences in the desert grassland. They look ridiculous. Sand buried them so easily it became a permanent job to repair them. Had the money used in keeping up these fences was given to the herders, they would be so willingly happy to put a halt on herding, if that’s the reason of the desert degradation — but that isn’t. Those at the bottom, those without a human voice are the easiest target for problems elsewhere.

At least three mosques in this very small town covered in dust. Their shiny colors stood out especially against the colorless streets and houses.

It was later in the afternoon. From a handful of shops near the market, smoke rose up slowly from the long chimneys sticking way out. I heard some chanting and followed it toward one of the mosques. But, it stopped before I could get there. Very soon, men in white caps came out, some got on their bike, some walked. One biked away slowly in front of me, his white cap covered in thick winter hat.

It is a muslim community. This province has the highest concentration of muslim population in China. Many branches of believes, and for the most parts, they peacefully believe their own chosen sect. It is also one of the poorest part of the country. The land is bone dry and there is nothing much to dig up underneath.

By the entrance to the open-air market was a make-shift slaughter stand. Two sheep carcasses hanged from the hooks, blood still dripping. The butcher took in orders from those walking by.

My knowledge of the Huis, the minority group in which most of them are muslims, was limited to the fact that they don’t eat pork. There was a famous novel called “Muslim’s Funeral” that I found quite moving when I read it in high school. The name “muslim” even sounded mysterious and pure. Nothing more. Now, there are definitely a few versions of what the muslims are really like portrayed by various media. I shall return sometime later to a nearby area where there is a high mixture of people believing in various religious, muslim, christian, buddhism all live in one village. Later though, desert and camel first.