The Wild West (Part 2)

Our bus heads up another huge mountain, winding its way gradually higher and higher, reaching closer and closer to sky. We have been over many mountains already on this eight hour bus trip, but this one is different. When we reach the peak of the mountain, we are greeted by an amazing sight. There is no other side to this mountain, and the bus never descends; we have reached the top of the Tibetan Plateau. The scenery, previously dotted with gigantic peaks, is now strangely flat, with the bald, treeless hills rolling softly and gently into the distance, and perfectly plains stretching all the way to the horizon. The very ground itself is a mountain top, and the clouds drift by so close to the plateau you could almost touch them.

After hours of crossing these bare plains, we spot the first sign of civilization; the small town of Litang, our home for the next several days. The setting of the town could not be more beautiful, sandwiched between huge, snow-capped mountains in one direction and rolling hills in the other, with nothing but perfectly flat plateau-land seperating them. The buildings look strangely small in this huge landscape, meekly standing in the corner, dwarfed by the majesty of the scenery surrounding them.

At 4000m high, we were told Litang would be a freezing cold place, especially in the late autumn. Having worn all my best animal-hair coats and woollen beanies, the first thing I end up doing once getting off the bus is taking all my layers off! Though the air might be cold, the sun at this altitude is blazing hot, and in the middle of the day there is not a single cloud to break the sun's tyranny. As we set about exploring the city, we do so in jeans and a t-shirt, but still carry our jackets in case we find ourselves in the shade.

Our first stop is the main street of Litang, which is colourful to say the least. Maroon-robed monks make their down the road, as do Tibetan men and women wearing anything from denim jeans to cowboy hats to traditional fur-lined robes. Passing yaks are by no means occasional, and seem to enjoy walking up and down the main street, stopping occasionally to look into the shop windows, perhaps thinking of buying something. Most of the shops seem to be hand-making jewellery, quietly engraving patterns into gold-leaf, or welding metal sheets together in the open air. Even the streets themselves are beautiful; almost every door is a work of art, with intricate patterns decorating the walls. People of all ages would greet me on the street, from one year old babies goggling at me from their mother's arms to old men waving to me from the windows of their houses. Most people stick with the standard "Tashi Dele", but some like to show off their English skills by greeting me with "Hello", "Nice to meet you", "Okay!", "Thankyou!", or "I love you!".

Walking off the main street for a few blocks, the buildings thin out, the road turns to dirt, and the city finally fades away into...nothing. A vast plain, without so much as a single tree or building on it, stretches infinitely to the mountains far in the distance, with only a few munching yaks to break the bare monotony of its surface. For the next several days, it becomes my favourite hobby to join the yaks in their wanderings, mulling around the plain in the evening as my shadow grows longer and longer. I never get very far however; it seems that whenever I walk near one of the small earth-coloured buildings scattered near the city, a family waves me over and invites me inside. These families are generally yak herders, and the first thing I am greeted with upon entering their home is huge chunks of yak meat lying on the floor, waiting to be sold at the markets. They serve me endless cups of yak butter tea, boiling it in the simplest way; just place the kettle inside a parabolic mirror, and wait until the scorching sun turns it glowing white and smoking. The first thing most people want to talk about is the Dalai Lama, who is regarded very highly in these parts; it is illegal, or at least not wise, to have a picture of the Dalai Lama, as this is still a part of China, but in the confines of their home they at least have the freedom to say whatever they like about him. Some of the men have even been to Dharamsala, the home of the Tibetan government in exile, where many of them learnt English. They tell me their stories, and I tell them with mine, as we sit and sip tea until the sun dips below the mountains.

Though the mountains in the distance are by far the most breathtaking part of Litang's surroundings, it is the hills behind the city that prove to be the most fascinating. The most obvious feature of these hills is a huge monastic complex, filled to the brim with copper and gold Tibetan statues carved in the most amazing detail, and intricate paintings currently being completed by the local monastic population. A thousand stupas line the walls, while in the centre, the main halls of the lamasery rise high into the sky, crowned by a huge golden image of the eightfold wheel. The monastery is not the only spiritual place in the region though; a number of small monuments dot the area, with piles of prayer flags, statues, carvings and scriptures, and even the shabbiest looking buildings seem to serve as warehouses for the spiritual treasures of this region.

However, no temple, monastery or mountain of prayer flags will remain in our minds as vividly as a bare patch of earth hidden amongst the hills surrounding the city. Though there is nothing to look at, this is indeed a sacred site; it is the site of the Sky Burials, an ancient ritual central to the Tibetan religion of this region. Such sites exist all over Tibet, but are almost impossible to visit in Tibet itself; in Litang, witnessing a Sky Burial is suprisingly easy. We rise early one morning and set out toward the hills, for what will prove to be, without hyperbole, the most incredible experience of our lives.

The contrast with a western funeral is striking, even before the burial begins. The people attending are gathered around a campfire, drinking beers together and grilling food for breakfast as they wait for the lama to arrive, strangely relaxed for a funeral. When the Lama does arrive, and the mood becomes slightly more sombre; there is silence as he brings the body out, punctuated only by the noise of the large birds circling high above. There is no procession of palbearers, no funeral march, just a potato sack with the body inside, the head lolling sickeningly from side to side...Then they heave it out, naked, on the dusty, sun-parched plain. I had expected an old man, killed peacefully by the slow advance of old age, but instead the body that comes out before me is that of a 20 year old woman, only two years older than me, who died the previous night in a car accident. I am shaken already, and the burial has not even begun.

The Lama begins chanting as he removes his knife, which he first uses to cut her long, black hair. I look away for the next part; after the hair, he takes the scalp as well, cutting away the skin all the way to the skull. Then comes the rest of the body, which he cuts into efficiently and with little hesitation, slicing open first the torso, then the hands and arms, then the legs and feet. While we watch silently, a much noisier crowd is gathering near us. Huge vultures, as big as eagles, are gathering nearby in huge numbers, watching the procession with great interest.

Soon the Lama moves away from the body, and the moment the vultures have been waiting for arrives. I take a few steps back to avoid getting in the way of the torrent of birds streaming toward the cut-up body, completely blocking it from view in the feeding frenzy that follows. It is not until the Lama shoos the last of the birds away that we can behold the terrible efficiency of these creatures; after about five minutes, what was once a woman's body is now a skeleton, with not a scrap of flesh remaining.

They are not finished yet, however. The Lama then proceeds to take the bones, place them on a block of stone one by one, and smash them with an axe, breaking the marrow out from the centre of them. Eventually he reaches the last of the bones, the skull, which he breaks with a few carefully aimed hits, then proceeds to open, removing the brain from inside. The brain, and the skull itself are then similiarly mashed up, until there is nothing left of the skeleton but what looks like a pile of red dirt. The vultures quickly resume their place, and soon even these remains have vanished, and what was once a human body has now disappeared completely from the face of the earth.

Many consider this practice to be nothing more than grotesque barbarism, as is the case for the Chinese government, who banned it for several decades before finally relenting. To attempt to understand a sky burial however, one must first attempt to understand the Tibetan people themselves. Tibetan buddhist beliefs maintain that the body is nothing more than a vessel for the spirit, and once the spirit has left it people should not remain attached to the empty sack of flesh by revering it or attempting to preserve it. Another important part of Buddhism in general is the virtue of compassion, and it is believed that by donating one's own body for food after death, the person not only performs a good dead but also gains good karma, which ensures a better rebirth in the next life.

Naturally, the images stick in my mind for many days after, and I have plenty of time to ponder what I have seen while wandering around the bare surface of the plateau. I look to the city, where a woman walked just days ago; and to the hills, where a patch of dirt still bears the smattering of dust that used to be her body. When I die, will I be anything more? The Western process of burial may be nicer about it, and a lot slower, but the end result is still the same; whether buried, cremated, or devoured by hungry vultures, one's body inevitably decays and crumbles, until it is no more than dust.

Sunset now, and Alex and I are on a mini-van once more, off the Sichuan-Tibet highway and onto a dusty road headed to the province of Yunnan. Our vehicle seems to rise into the very heavens themselves, floating to the 5000m mark over snow-covered mountain passes, on the very top of the roof of the world. The sun sets in distance, but at the very same time, the moon rises in the opposite direction, and we make the rest of our journey by the soft glow of the full moon, bathing the surreal scenery in silky white light. We eventually descend from this heavenly afterlife back to realm of the living, arriving in a city named Shangri-La. This town is nothing but a tourist town; I am sure the real Shangri-La lies hundreds of kilometres behind us. I sleep soundly that night, my mind filled with images of the place I have just left. Over the mountains, Litang too is sleeping soundly; the yaks munchquietly, the Lamas rest within the monastery walls, the vultures feed their young, the prayer flags blow silently on the hilltop, and the long dusty road stretches endlessly into the distance...as I fall asleep that night, I know there is no place I have been luckier to travel to than Litang, and no road I have been more blessed to travel than the Sichuan-Tibet Highway.