The route upriver from Dahejia would involve passing through two narrow gorges of the Yellow River: only one of which had a road that I could travel. The Jishishan (积石山) Gorge was immediately upstream beyond a dam and led to the county town of Xunhua (循化). Beyond that lay the Gongbo (公伯) gorge whose sides were so steep they precluded the building of a road.
In true Chinese style, road engineers had built an extensive series of tunnels and bridges through the mountains on the south side of the river to create a new motorway that linked up to the town of Jainca (尖扎), where the river flowed down from Kanbula. The problem for me was that bicycles were strictly prohibited on motorways, so I would have to find an alternative route beyond Xunhua. It looked like I would have to use the old highway that went north into the high country towards a small town called Hualong (化隆).
But first I had to get to Xunhua. Beyond the dam at Dahejia, the road ran between cliff walls of red soil. When I set out, the hills were darkened by rainclouds, and for the first time on this trip I had to don my rain cape. The rain increased in intensity but I stayed mostly dry except for my legs and feet.
At the Jishi Gorge dam the road crossed to the south side of the river and started a long ascent up into mountainous terrain. This was where I would really start to gain altitude to reach the Qinghai plateau. The road passed through several tunnels and made long curving arcs up into bleaker and barren hills with barely any vegetation.
The soil was red and the loess mountains on either side of the road were riven by deep gullies through which the once dry beds had been turned by the rain into something resembling a mudflow.
There were a scattering of small settlements in the valley, and each village had a small mosque. They looked recently built and followed the Chinese architectural style of a pagoda-style minaret with four open levels each covered by a sloping roof with upturned eaves. On top was a golden spire comprising the Islamic symbols of three spheres and crescent moon.
There was little traffic on this road except for a few tractors. At one point I was passed by two coaches: one carrying men wearing prayer caps, the next carrying women in hijabs.
As I neared Xunhua, the landscape opened out into a wider plain of brown, bare mountain ridges alongside the equally brown and still waters of the Yellow River.
Xunhua was the home of the Salar Muslim people but also had a sizable number of Tibetan residents, most noticeably older females wearing the traditional ankle-length off-the-shoulder chuba dress.
In the 1950s the Tibetans of Xunhua County had been joined by the Salar people in a short-lived rebellion against the heavy-handed policies of the new Communist regime. Dubbed the Xunhua Incident, the revolt occurred when Mao launched his disastrous and unpopular Great Leap Forward policies in the region, which included the creation of agricultural cooperatives which were unpopular with local farmers. Riots were triggered when a prominent Tibetan lama was taken away by the Chinese for ‘re-education’ - Jnana Pal Rinpoche was a revered local monk who had been a tutor to the 10th Panchen Lama (who had been born in Xunhua in 1938).
The Xunhua Tibetans were joined by the Salar Muslims in surrounding the local government buildings in Jainca town and demanding an end to collectivisation and the release of the Rinpoche. The protests escalated over the next few days, with buildings being ransacked and a local Communist Party leader being killed. The Communist authorities called in the People’s Liberation Army, who sent in two regiments to suppress the rebellion by force - killing more than 400 Tibetans and Salar people and sending more than 2000 protestors to prison. The uprising was noted by the Tibetan leaders in Lhasa and was said to be a precursor to the uprising there the following year - which led to the escape of the Dalai Lama to India.
There was little in modern day Xunhua to suggest its turbulent past. It was a sleepy town with just a few modern high rise buildings next to the river. A large mosque dominated the city centre, and an outdoor market at a road junction on the outskirts of town had crowds of Muslim traders selling produce such as water melons.
Xunhua did have a monument to commemorate the county’s role in one of the disastrous and lesser known episodes of the Long March: the passage through the area of Zhang Guotao’s ill-fated Western Route Army. Once described as ‘the man who could have been Mao’, Zhang Guotao (张国焘) was a rival leader to Mao among the original Long Marchers from Jiangxi province. However, he made the calamitous mistake of trying to lead his 30,000 strong column of Red Army troops through Gansu and Qinghai to try connect with the Soviet Union, rather than going directly north to Shaanxi with Mao’s smaller force of 10,000 Red Army soldiers.
Zhang’s Communist Long Marchers failed to gain support from local Muslim communities in the barren hills around the Yellow River. Many of Zhang’s column dropped out or were captured by pursuing KMT forces. Ultimately they were almost completely wiped out in attacks by cavalry troops of the regional Muslim warlord Ma Bufang (马步芳). Ma was allied to the KMT government and recruited many Salar Muslims from the Xunhua area as soldiers. Ultimately, most of Zhang’s army was wiped out and only a few hundred made it to join up with Mao and other Communist leaders in the Shaanxi.
The annihilation of his column meant that Zhang lost power and influence in the Party after he arrived in Shaanxi - he was purged by Mao and eventually defected to the KMT. Later in life he fled to Hong Kong and ultimately moved to Canada, where he converted to Christianity and died in Toronto in 1979.
The Long March monument in Xunhua noted that hundreds of Long Marchers - including a female battalion - had been taken prisoner by Ma Bufang. They were sent to work in forced labour brigades in the ‘wasteland’ around Xunhua. They were given the worst jobs in digging the fields, logging and land reclamation.
The monument made no mention of the fate of many other female Long Marchers captured by Ma Bufang’s troops in Gansu.
An article on Red Martyrs by Tommaso Previato published by of Academic Sinica notes that:
“Women soldiers and non-combat auxiliary staff were either tortured, or stoned and thrown into ditches, sometimes still alive, or distributed to Ma Bufang’s men as concubines or second wives, thereby converting to Islam. Estimates show that among the women who lived on and could not return to Yan’an, where the CCP had set up its headquarters, 231 put roots down in Gansu …”
Putting a positive spin on the disaster, the official monument said the prisoners had ‘planted the red gene’ of revolution in the area by spreading propaganda messages and building up links with local Salar peasant farmers.
Passing through Xunhua, I stopped at a simple Muslim restaurant to have some steamed mutton baozi buns to fortify for me the road ahead. The ‘detour’ took me over a wide section of the Yellow River and along a narrow agricultural strip before the road turned north and headed steeply upward into a narrow twisting rocky gorge.
As I pushed on the pedals, the landscape slowly changed from red loess clay to solid rock. It was a long and tiring ascent and for the first time I had to move up a gear in pedal assistance to get up the switchback slopes. After passing through a narrow rocky defile the road eventually topped out at a small reservoir and led into a plateau of rolling grassland hills.
A final steep slope took me up to a shabby small town that was the centre of Hualong Hui Muslim County. It was only mid afternoon and I would have preferred to keep going on towards Kanbala, but it was still 90 kilometres away and I had used up all my battery getting up through the gorge. Hualong had only one decent hotel, which fortunately allowed me to check in. After setting up my batteries to recharge, I went for a stroll around Hualong.
It was the most ‘Muslim’ town I had been in so far, with many of the local Hui men having beards as well as the prayer caps. Almost all the local women covered their heads with a black hijab. A store next to the large mosque specialised in Islamic home decorations which included paintings of mosques and plinths holding stone discs bearing Arabic inscriptions. My presence drew a lot of stares from the locals, so much so that I felt uneasy at the attention and retired to my hotel room to get a bit of privacy.
Walking the streets I had felt an unusual sense of fatigue and lethargy. Then I realised that I was now at high altitude. Hualong was almost 3000 metres above sea level.
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| Dahejia to Hualong route |
Kanbula was thankfully all downhill from Hualong. The road ran through grassland and fertile farmland, passing a relic of the Great Wall from the Ming Dynasty. The stump of brown earth would not have been recognisable as part of the wall had it not been for a signpost - and the protective fence surrounding it. On the other side of the road was the first Tibetan stupa that I had seen on this trip - this was the transition zone of eastern Qinghai from the Tibetan plateau to the Hui Muslim lowlands.
Continuing downhill towards the Yellow River I ran into some touring cyclists going the opposite way. Two Hui Muslim men with prayer caps under their bike helmets told me they were on their way to Xunhua ‘just for fun’. They were from a nearby small town called Kanyang (康扬) and invited me to visit the beef noodle restaurant that they ran there.
About 30 minutes later I ran into another cyclist - this time a young guy who had just graduated from Lanzhou University. He had just come from Kanbula and was able to give me a lot of useful tips. The road through the park was closed due to landslips, he told me, but it was possible for bikes to get through if you pushed over a few rough sections of gravel.
The river at Kangyang was a beautiful green colour and placid: quite a contrast to the muddy brown soupy mess that I had last seen at Xunhua. Here I faced a choice: a minor road ran uphill along the north bank of the river up to the large Xiaqiong (夏琼寺, Jakhyung) Tibetan Buddhist Monastery perched on the edge of a precipice high above Kanbula.
Founded in 1350, Jakhyung was one of the oldest monasteries in the Tibetan world and the birthplace of the Gelugpa branch of Buddhism. The present Dalai Lama was born just a few kilometres to the north of the monastery, in a village called Takster, in 1935. The monastery didn’t look that far away from Kanbula as the crow flies, but my navigation app told me it would be a 40 kilometre round trip from the river, as there were many switchbacks in the steep road. I decided to press on to Kanbula.
Until recently named the Kanbula National Forest Park, the mountainous region along the south bank of the Yellow River had recently been designated a ‘global geopark’ by UNESCO. The Qinghai government had obviously decided that it would be a major tourist attraction, and was in the process of building a holiday resort around the entrance to the park.
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| Hualong to Kanbula route map |
The small town of Kanbula had a few modest hotels and homestays along the main street, but I decided to try the new Kanbula International Hotel further down the road, as this was the only one showing that it was open to foreigners. It was a new and flashy, almost Las Vegas-style hotel, but I decided against staying there: like my previous experience at Hanguguan in Henan, the hotel appeared deserted and was located at the end of a road along which were a series of unfinished concrete frameworks for buildings that might one day be hotels, restaurants and shops. For now it was a gloomy and isolated ghost town and an inconvenient long walk from the main street, to which I returned on the bike.
In contrast to the Jakhyung monastery overlooking the town, Kanbula was still a predominantly Hui Muslim community. There were a few tourists about town but most of the new streets and the landscaped tree-lined walkways along the waterside were empty. I rode my bike down to see the river scenery, which was spectacular: red rock cliffs and pristine clear green water.
I discovered the reason for the lack of tourists in Kanbula the next morning: the park was closed. Beyond the deserted Kanbula International Hotel the road was blocked by a makeshift metal screen on which a sign stated that the highway had been blocked by landslides and all traffic was prohibited while construction was underway. Remembering the advice of my Chinese cyclist, I found a way to push my bike around the side of the screen, through some bushes. With some trepidation, I set off along the empty road, which ascended alongside the river until I reached a viewpoint above the huge dam.
The views back towards Kanbula were impressive, but I was startled by a stern mechanical voice barking out orders at me in Chinese: “Attention! This is a prohibited area! Leave immediately!” The electronic voice was coming from a surveillance camera array mounted on a post overlooking the viewing area. The message kept repeating itself, making me realise it was a recording triggered by movement sensors rather than a real-time warning from someone spying on me via the cameras.
I moved on, entering a tunnel that took me through the hillside and then along a series of zig-zag loops of road up to an empty carpark with an even better view of the dam. Here there was a real life security guard with an electric buggy, but he ignored my presence.
From here I began my ascent into the mountains of Kanbula. The switchback road was steep, and as mentioned in the warning sign, a few short sections had been obliterated where the hillside had collapsed due to erosion. These had been bypassed by newly-scraped dirt tracks that were even steeper than the official highway. I had to get off the bike and push through these rough sections because they were already a mess of ruts, sandy soil and large broken stones. It was hard work and I was rapidly using up my battery, as well as my water bottle supplies.
It took me until late morning to reach the 2800 metre altitude where the uphill slope of the road eased and I was able to get panoramic views of the lake, now far below. I was now among terraces of grass and crops, and there were occasional marmots scurrying away from the road to hide in their burrows as I approached on my bike. When I reached a collection of buildings labelled Jiancang (尖藏) village, I saw my chance to get a battery recharge. A large ‘visitor service centre’ had a power cord trailing from an open window, where it had been used to charge up an electric buggy, but was now disconnected.
After a word with the staff, they agreed that I could use it for my bike. I joined them inside where they offered me hot water from a huge urn to make tea. They were ethnic Tibetan villagers who worked as park maintenance staff, but on this day they had little to be getting on with. One of them sat with his daughter, spending an hour patiently working through the homework exercises in Mandarin from her school textbook.
I asked them about restaurants on the road ahead, but they shrugged and said nothing was open at the moment. With a few more bars of battery charge I resumed my journey on the road that now rose and fell for several hundred metres between more small villages. On the hillsides above and around the road there was a thick covering of trees, interspersed with pinnacles and mounds of red rock. These ‘Danxia landforms’ were the ‘geo’ part of the park.
The rock formations became more common and greater in size until I reached the high point of the Kanbula park road at a village called Dehong (得红). Here the road began a long and twisting descent through the most fantastic and extensive rock formations. Some were rounded mounds, others formed sheer rectangles of cliffs while further down was a whole series of twisted pinnacles in the shapes in the forms of horns, wedges and pinnacles that resembled the skeleton of a massive dinosaur.
I had the empty road all to myself and made slow progress because I kept stopping in the middle of the highway to take more photos. At an almost deserted visitor car park I found a Tibetan mother and son with a stall selling cartons of instant noodles and roast potatoes. These made a most welcome lunch to fuel me on the next leg of my journey towards the distant town of Guide (贵德, pronounced gway-duh).
The map showed it was possible to take a side road steeply downhill to the shore of the Kanbula reservoir and from there ride on a boat back to Kanbula town via a dock near the dam. My plan was to continue through the park and take the road out to the northwest on to the Tibetan plateau. Ominously, however, there were rumbles of thunder as I freewheeled down past the last of the rock spires. I donned my rain cape, removed the phone from its handlebar holder and ensured all the panniers were sealed.
The empty road descended sharply and I began to feel lonely and vulnerable as drops of rain started to spatter down around me. The dark grey mist rolled in from the peaks and thunder and lightning began to roll into the lower valley. I reached another junction where a smaller road had a sign pointing in the direction of Guide - its rough condition further eroded my confidence in the way ahead.
Lightning bolts now cracked almost overhead, and when I saw the bright line of one zapping almost horizontally towards a nearby hillside, I decided to seek shelter. The only place I could see was beneath the arch of a small bridge over a gully - but this would mean leaving my bike exposed to the rain now pelting down. In desperation, I cranked up the power setting on the bike and pedalled around the side of the hill to another gully, where the road turned uphill.
Some way above I could see a few buildings by the road, so I set out to see if they offered shelter. The rain eased off briefly but another bank of cloud and mist was rolling in from the mountain peaks. It took about 15 minutes and a lot of effort to get up the hill and reach the village. The houses appeared deserted and the gates and doors were firmly locked up. At that moment, a tractor chugged down the hill and the female Tibetan driver gestured vaguely back up the road when I asked her if there was anywhere to shelter from the rain.
The last building in the village had a plastic canopy in the yard covering a shabby table and a few plastic chairs. I pulled my bike underneath it and moved as close to the wall as I could to escape the wind-driven rain. The door of the wooden house opened and a peasant face gaped out at me with a momentary expression of disbelief and incomprehension. The man’s rough voice urged me to come inside and shelter from the rain. I didn’t need to be asked twice.
Striding through the door I found myself looking into the faces of a group of men all lolling on the wooden floor tucked up in sleeping bags.
“Sit down! Join us! Take off your wet clothes!” they urged me in heavily accented Mandarin.
After I slumped in exhaustion against the wall and declined their offers of cigarettes, they explained that they were a road repair crew who were ‘resting’ because of the storm. They plied me with hot water and told me they weren’t locals but Hui Muslim men from Ningxia, near Zhongwei. We bonded instantly when I told them I had recently cycled through Zhongwei, and they were full of praise for my Yellow River journey.
They told me it would likely rain for the rest of the day and urged me to stay with them in their cabin until the morning. I said I had waterproof bike gear and would wait and see what the weather did.
Over the next 40 minutes we swapped stories: I heard about how they travelled around north west China doing itinerant labouring on the roads. They thought it was good work because it was stable and simple labour that paid a regular wage. And they were a group of friends working together without having to rely on a ‘middle man’ labour hire agency who would take a percentage of their earnings. They were inquisitive about my job, how much I earned, and about my family.
They asked me what religion I was and for sake of simplicity I said I was Catholic. When they asked about whether there were muslims in Australia I told them yes, but they were generally people whose families came from places like Lebanon, Malaysia and Pakistan.
One of them responded: “So Islam is not a native religion in Australia like it is in China?” I’d never thought of it in those terms before. The conversation continued to range across a random range of topics, including the British monarchy, whether Michael Jackson was really ‘black’ and the benefits of the western diet compared to Chinese food.
Against their protestations that I should stay and eat dinner with them, I eventually decided that the storm had passed and the rain had eased up enough to continue my journey.
Donning my rain cape again, I faced a long climb back up to a second ‘pass’ that led me out of the Kanbula park and into a wide valley overlooking the Yellow River. It was dryer on this side of the mountains and as I rode down the long, twisting road back to the river I passed Tibetan families who had stopped their cars to have picnics on the grass and enjoy the view.
The final 40 kilometres of road that led me to Guide took me along a wild stretch of the river with an unusual mix of terrain. Beyond the green waters there was a beach-like strip of fertile land along the far river bank, covered with bushes and trees. Behind this ran a low line of dark coloured hills, resembling slag heaps from coal fields. And in the distance was a continuous backbone of sharp, spiky rock ridges whose layers changed colour from brown to beige to red.
I had to push against a headwind for much of the way, and was later subject to another torrent of rain from a passing storm. And so it was with great relief that I finally reached the fertile green fields around Guide. Lying on the main highway south from Xining, it was a bigger transport hub than I had expected and had a good range of hotels to choose from. Guide was also very much an ethnic Tibetan town, and I felt a sense of reassuring familiarity when I saw Tibetan monks walking the streets in their crimson robes, returning my greeting of ‘tashi delay’.
After washing the worst of mud from my bike and my clothes, I was too tired to do anything more than grab a simple dinner at a Sichuan restaurant and return to my hotel room to put my feet up. When I came out of the hotel lift and found myself in an art deco hotel corridor I was once again struck by the incongruity of the sudden transition from wilderness to stylish comfort.
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| Kanbula to Guide route |
第19章 坎布拉封闭道路上的旱獭
从大河家逆流而上的路线需要穿越黄河的两处狭窄峡谷——其中仅有一条可供我通行的公路。积石峡就坐落于水坝上游不远处，通往循化县城。再往前则是公伯峡，其两岸峭壁陡立，根本无法修筑道路。
秉承典型的中国式工程智慧，筑路者们沿黄河南岸的山脉开凿了绵延的隧道群与桥梁，新建的高速公路直抵坎布拉流经的尖扎镇。我的困境在于高速公路严禁自行车通行，因此不得不在过了循化后另寻他路。看来只能取道北上的旧公路，前往化隆小镇所在的高原地区。
但首先我得抵达循化。驶过大河家水坝后，道路在红土峭壁间蜿蜒。出发时山峦正被雨云笼罩，此行首次不得不披上雨披。雨势渐猛，除双腿与双脚外，我基本保持干燥。
在积石峡水坝处，道路跨至黄河南岸，开始向山区漫长攀升。从这里我才真正开始向青海高原爬升。公路穿过数个隧道，在植被稀薄的荒凉山岭间划出绵长的弧线。
赤色土壤铺展两侧，黄土山峦被雨水冲刷出深邃沟壑，曾经的干涸河床此刻正翻涌着泥流般的浊水。
谷地散落着小型村落，每座村庄都建有清真寺。它们显然新建不久，采用中式宝塔风格的四层开放式宣礼塔，每层飞檐翘角，顶端金色尖顶托举着象征伊斯兰教的三球一弯月标志。
这条路上车辆稀少，偶有拖拉机驶过。曾有辆客车超越我：前车载着戴礼拜帽的男子，后车则是裹头巾的妇女。
临近循化时，景观豁然开朗——褐色的荒芜山脊与同样褐黄的黄河静水，共同铺展成开阔的平野。
循化是撒拉族穆斯林的聚居地，也有相当数量的藏族居民，尤以身着传统露肩及踝"楚巴"长袍的老妪最为醒目。
20世纪50年代，循化县的藏族人民与撒拉族人民联合起来，发起了一场短暂的起义，反抗新共产党政权的高压政策。这场被称为循化事件的起义，起因是毛泽东在该地区推行灾难性的、不得人心的大跃进政策，其中包括建立农业合作社，而这种政策并不受当地农民的欢迎。骚乱的起因是一位著名的西藏喇嘛被中国政府带走进行“再教育”。这位喇嘛名叫贾那巴仁波切，是一位受人尊敬的当地僧人，曾担任十世班禅喇嘛（1938年出生于循化）的导师。
循化藏族人民与撒拉族穆斯林一起包围了贾恩卡镇的地方政府大楼，要求结束集体化并释放仁波切。在接下来的几天里，抗议活动不断升级，政府大楼被洗劫一空，当地一名共产党领导人被杀害。共产党当局调集了人民解放军，派出两个团武力镇压叛乱，杀害了400多名藏人和撒拉人，并将2000多名抗议者投入监狱。拉萨的西藏领导人注意到了这场起义，并称其为次年当地起义的前兆——这场起义最终导致达赖喇嘛逃往印度。
如今的循化，几乎没有什么能让人联想到它动荡的过去。它是一个沉睡的小镇，只有几栋现代化的高楼依河而立。市中心矗立着一座大型清真寺，城郊一个路口的露天市场上挤满了穆斯林商贩，兜售着西瓜等农产品。
循化确实有一座纪念碑，纪念该县在长征中一个灾难性且鲜为人知的事件中所扮演的角色：穿越张国焘率领的西路军的地区。张国焘曾被誉为“堪比毛泽东的人”，他是江西省原长征军中与毛泽东势均力敌的领导人。然而，他犯了一个灾难性的错误：他试图率领三万红军穿越甘肃和青海，试图与苏联接壤，而不是带领毛泽东率领的一万红军直接北上陕西。
张国焘的共产党长征部队未能获得黄河周围荒山中当地穆斯林社区的支持。张国焘的队伍中许多人要么退出了，要么被追击的国民党军队俘虏。最终，他们在地方穆斯林军阀马步芳的骑兵攻击下几乎全军覆没。马步芳与国民党政府结盟，并从循化地区招募了许多撒拉族穆斯林士兵。最终，张军大部分被歼，只有数百人加入毛泽东和陕西其他共产党领导人的阵线。
纵队的覆灭意味着张军抵达陕西后失去了在党内的权力和影响力——他被毛泽东清洗，最终叛逃国民党。晚年，他逃往香港，最终移居加拿大，皈依基督教，并于1979年在多伦多逝世。
循化的长征纪念碑记载，数百名长征队员——包括一个女兵营——被马步芳俘虏。她们被送到循化周围“荒原”的强制劳动大队劳动。她们被安排从事最艰苦的劳动，例如挖田、伐木和开垦土地。
纪念碑上没有提及马步芳部队在甘肃俘虏的许多其他女长征队员的命运。
托马索·普雷维亚托在《中央研究院》发表的一篇关于红色烈士的文章指出：
“女兵和非战斗辅助人员要么遭受酷刑，要么被石头砸死扔进沟里，有时还活着，要么被送给马步芳的部下当妾或二奶，从而皈依伊斯兰教。据估计，在那些留下来、没能返回中共总部所在地延安的女性中，有231人在甘肃扎下了根……”
官方纪念碑对这场灾难进行了积极的解读，称这些战俘通过传播宣传信息并与当地撒拉族农民建立联系，在当地“播下了革命的红色基因”。
穿过循化县城时，我在一家简朴的清真餐馆停下，吃了些羊肉包子为接下来的路程补充体力。这条"绕行路线"带我横跨黄河宽阔的河段，沿着狭窄的农耕带前行，直到道路向北急转，陡直攀升进入怪石嶙峋的曲折峡谷。
我奋力踩着踏板，沿途地貌逐渐从红色黏土变为坚硬岩层。这段漫长疲惫的上坡路让我首次调高了电动助力档位来攻克之字形弯道。穿过狭窄的岩石隘口后，道路最终抵达一座小型水库，通向起伏的草原丘陵地带。
最后一段陡坡将我送上化隆回族自治县破旧的县城中心。此时刚过午后，我本欲继续赶路前往90公里外的坎布拉，但穿越峡谷已耗尽电池电量。化隆仅有一家像样的宾馆，所幸允许我入住。安顿好充电设备后，我出门闲逛。
这是迄今我所到过最具"穆斯林"气息的城镇——当地回族男子多蓄须戴礼拜帽，女性几乎清一色裹着黑色头巾。大清真寺旁有家专卖伊斯兰家居装饰的店铺，陈列着清真寺画作和刻有阿拉伯文的石盘底座。我的出现引来无数注视，令人不适的注目礼促使我逃回宾馆寻求清净。
漫步街头时，我莫名感到异常疲惫，这才意识到已身处近3000米的高海拔地区。
值得庆幸的是，从化隆到坎布拉全程下坡。道路穿过草原与肥沃农田，途经一段明代长城遗迹——若非标识牌与防护围栏，那截褐色土墩根本难以辨认。路对面矗立着此行首见的藏族佛塔，标志着青海东部从藏区高原向回族低地的过渡带。
继续下坡奔向黄河时，我遇见几位逆向而行的骑友。头戴骑行盔、内衬礼拜帽的两位回族男子说他们去循化"纯粹游玩"。他们来自附近康扬镇，热情邀请我去品尝他们经营的牛肉面馆。
约半小时后，我又遇到一位兰州大学刚毕业的年轻骑手。刚从坎布拉过来的他提供了重要情报：公园道路因山体滑坡封闭，但自行车可推行通过碎石路段。
康扬段的黄河呈现出碧绿平静的绝美景致，与循化浑浊的"黄汤"形成鲜明对比。此时面临抉择：一条小路沿北岸攀爬通向悬于坎布拉绝壁之上的夏琼寺（藏语称"贾央寺"）。这座1350年创建的藏传佛教古寺是格鲁派发源地，看似不远，但导航显示往返需40公里盘山路。我决定直赴坎布拉。
这片黄河南岸山区刚被联合国教科文组织评为"世界地质公园"，青海政府正将其打造为核心景区，在入口处兴建度假村。坎布拉镇主街散布着普通旅舍，我最终选择镇尾新开的坎布拉国际大酒店——唯一注明接待外宾的住所。这座拉斯维加斯风格的浮华新酒店却门可罗雀，周边布满烂尾楼框架，阴森如鬼城，我只得折返主街。
与俯瞰城镇的夏琼寺不同，坎布拉仍是回族聚居区。虽有些许游客，但新建的滨水步道大多空荡。骑行至河畔，但见赤色丹崖与翡翠碧水相映成辉，蔚为壮观。
次日清晨，我发现了坎布拉游客绝迹的原因：公园关闭了。在荒凉的坎布拉国际大酒店后方，道路被临时金属挡板阻断，告示牌声明因山体滑坡禁止所有车辆通行。想起中国骑友的建议，我推着自行车从挡板侧面的灌木丛挤了过去。怀着忐忑心情沿空荡公路前行，道路伴河攀升直至抵达水坝上方的观景台。
回望坎布拉的景色令人震撼，却被机械化的严厉中文警告声惊扰："注意！这里是禁区！立即离开！"声源来自观景台监控杆上的电子设备，重复播报的录音显然由运动传感器触发。穿过隧道和之字形盘山路，我来到能俯瞰大坝的废弃停车场，现场仅有一位驾驶电动巡逻车的保安，对我视若无睹。
由此正式开启坎布拉山区爬坡。塌方路段正如警示牌所言，新辟的泥泞便道比原路更陡峭，我不得不推车穿越布满车辙与碎石的险径。近午时分抵达海拔2800米的尖藏村，藏族养护工人们允许我借用给电瓶车充电的插线。他们围坐在室内大茶壶旁，其中一位正辅导女儿完成汉语作业。
询问前方餐馆无果后，我继续在丹霞地貌间起伏前行。得红村是公路制高点，此后便进入奇幻岩石矩阵——圆形丘峦、矩形峭壁、状若恐龙骨架的扭曲尖峰。在几乎荒废的服务区，藏族母子的烤土豆和泡面成了救命午餐。
本计划取道西北出口进入青藏高原，但滚雷声中暴雨骤至。闪电几乎横劈山脊时，我仓皇躲进路桥拱洞。随后挣扎骑至山坡村落，被一群宁夏回族养路工收留。这些外出务工者裹着睡袋躺满木屋，热情邀我避雨。我们聊起宗教（我简化为"天主教徒"）、澳洲穆斯林移民，乃至英国王室和迈克尔·杰克逊的肤色话题。
雨势稍缓后重新启程，翻越第二垭口进入俯瞰黄河的宽阔山谷。最后40公里逆风骑行中，又遭暴雨突袭。当贵德肥沃的绿野终于映入眼帘时，身着绛红僧袍的藏僧一句"扎西德勒"，让我在这座交通枢纽城镇找回熟悉的安心感。
在四川餐馆草草解决晚餐后，艺术装饰风格的酒店走廊让我恍然惊觉：从蛮荒到精致的切换，在这片土地总是如此突兀又自然。
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