I deserved a day off after the huge distance I covered coming down from Qinghai. I didn’t give myself that, but the next best thing was an ‘easy’ 60 kilometre day around the Liujiaxia reservoir to Linxia (临夏), the Hui Muslim town described as ‘Little Mecca’ because of its numerous mosques.
It was a wonderful sunny day as I crossed the Qijia (祈家) bridge that took me over a gorge of the Yellow River to the south shore of the reservoir. I didn’t need to wait until Linxia to see mosques as there was a very ornate one in Qijia as soon as I crossed the bridge. The road followed the shoreline for a few kilometres and I noted that the water level was quite low - presumably still awaiting the late spring releases of water from the numerous dams I had seen upriver.
Further on I approached something I had long dreaded: a long road tunnel. I bypassed a line of cars and trucks waiting at the entrance for the oncoming traffic to get through. A construction worker with a red flag allowed me to pass, and I was able to ride on the cordoned-off side of the road where maintenance crews were working in dark and noisy conditions to resurface the highway. I had always feared being overcome by carbon monoxide in a long road tunnel, but these guys were working in the middle of a one kilometre tunnel without so much as a mask, let alone fans or breathing apparatus. Nevertheless I was still glad to escape the fug and the thunderous roar of trucks to emerge back into the sunshine.
Beyond the exit of the tunnel a suspension bridge spanned an inlet of the reservoir and offered a panoramic view over the two kilometre wide expanse of water and the dramatic red sandstone rock formations along the shore.
Turning south into a wide bay, the road passed a ferry jetty where tourist boats made a stop on their way between the dam and the Bingling statues. I continued on south, passing a few Muslim restaurants and wondering whether China’s ‘Little Mecca’ might be a sensitive region that was out of bounds for foreigners. Or might it be a strictly Muslim enclave that followed sharia law?
When researching the route I’d learned that in 2010 the imams in neighbouring Guanghe (广河) prefecture had organised local residents to lobby local restaurants and shops not to sell alcohol and to avoid any pork-based foodstuffs. Feelings ran high and there were even photos of men confiscating crates of beer and making a show of smashing them in the street.
Conversely, another branch of local Muslims known as the Dongxiang (东乡) once had a reputation for being heavily involved in the illicit drug trade in heroin. In the early 2000s the Gansu authorities launched a “strike hard” campaign in Dongxiang Autonomous County to crack down on gangs who were trafficking opium from Yunnan and Burma and also growing poppies locally in the areas west of Linxia centred around Sanjiaji.
So when I rolled into Linxia I was reassured to find it was a pleasant and progressive city of modern high-rise apartments and landscaped lakes: Some people were wearing Islamic headdress but most of the younger population had adopted the secular smart-casual attire of office workers everywhere. Linxia was more Canberra than Mecca.
Since it was Friday and it was my custom to welcome the weekend with a beer, I was also pleasantly surprised to find that Linxia had a few craft beer bars. On the northern fringe of the city centre was a series of pedestrianised shopping streets, part of which had presumably been designed as a food district. There were bars and restaurants, and I found myself at the Derenberg brewery trying to decide whether to splash out on a bottle of Oak Barrel matured ale or a Milk Stout.
Linxia would be the final stop in the Muslim areas of the Yellow River and also in the region of loess landscape. The south of Gansu was very different from the rest of the province and its name in Chinese Gannan was synonymous with Tibetan culture and the grasslands around famous monasteries such as Labrang.
My final evening in Linxia was therefore spent enjoying a bowl of the spicy chicken dapanji, which was a Hui specialty. It was so popular in the region that there was even a franchise restaurant chain which sold only dapanji and variations of it.
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| Liujiaxia to Linxia (click on image to enlarge) |
In the Gannan region my next main goal was to get to the monastery town of Langmusi (郎木寺), about 260 kilometres south, from where I would be able to take a side road to the Yellow River. With my daily cycling range of around 100 kilometres, the route would take me through two Tibetan towns, Hezuo (合作) and Luqu (碌曲).
There was a major highway running around the mountains to Hezuo, but for some reason my navigation app was telling me to take a minor road that went up into the hills. I found out why when I entered the river valley south of Linxia: tunnels. The road snaked around green wooded hills, following the course of a turbulent river.
The terrain was quite different from the arid sandstone I had become used to, but it was a welcome to return to the Tibetan landscape that I had visited so many times in the last few decades. I saw signposts for the road to Labrang (Xiahe, 夏河) monastery and then encountered my first tunnel: the sign said no bikes or tractors. I paused to consider my options - there was no alternative route over the hills, and since it was only a 200 metre tunnel, I waited for a lull in the traffic and pedalled through. It was to be the first of four such tunnels, all prohibiting bikes. I made it through each one when the traffic was light.
The road made a gradual ascent into beautiful hills but the scenery was marred by construction work underway along the left side. Concrete pylons were being erected and tunnels were being bored into the mountain side. It looked like a new rail line - and a sign I saw later in the day described it as the ‘Xi-Cheng High Speed Rail Link’ that would connect Xining and Chengdu directly and reduce travel times from 10 hours to just four by avoiding the need to travel via Xi’an.
Building a railway line across the Aba Tibetan steppe into southern Gansu was a remarkably ambitious engineering challenge. Most of the line would be at an altitude of over 3000 metres and would require 158 bridges and 66 tunnels to negotiate the mountains and marshlands of this part of the Tibet-Qinghai highlands. Perhaps the project was motivated by a sense of destiny among the leaders of China’s Communist Party, for this was the place where the Party’s future had been forged during the Long March.
In 1937, the ‘great snowy mountains’ and grasslands of northern Sichuan and southern Gansu had proved to be the most arduous part of the Red Army’s push north towards Shaanxi.
In Red Star Over China, Edgar Snow wrote in of it:
“In the grasslands there was no human habitation for ten days. Almost perpetual rain falls over this swampland, and it is possible to cross its centre only by a maze of narrow footholds known to the native mountaineers who led the Reds. More animals were lost, and more men. Many foundered in the weird sea of wet grass and dropped from sight into the depth of the swamp, beyond reach of their comrades.
“There was no firewood; they were obliged to eat their green wheat and vegetables raw. There were even no trees for shelter, and the lightly equipped Reds carried no tents. At night they huddled under bushes tied together, which gave but scant protection against the rain.”
When completed, the new Sichuan-Gansu railway would enable ordinary Chinese citizens to travel in comfort at 250 km/hour across a landscape where once the Party founders had struggled for weeks in arduous and sometimes fatal conditions.
Perhaps the rail project will be used by the Chinese government as a symbol of a new technological Long March, just as the original trek through the region had been used in propaganda to show the Party setting an example for the rest of the nation.
As the writer Sun Shuyun said in her book The Long March:
“The message has been drilled into us so that we can accomplish any goal set before us by the party because nothing compares in difficulty with what they did. Decades after the historical one, we have been spurred on to ever more Long Marches – to industrialise China, to feed the largest population in the world, to catch up with the West, to reform the socialist economy, to send men into space, to engage with the 21st century.”
Beyond the tunnels and the turnoff to the Dangzhou grasslands (当周草原), I had to contend with one more high pass before the descent into Hezuo. It was just before the pass that I saw my first foreign cyclist of the whole trip. A young western woman sped past on a bike in the opposite direction as I struggled up the hill, and it happened so quickly that I didn’t even have a chance to react, let alone stop and chat. I can only guess that she was on her way to nearby Labrang.
Hezuo was a small town most famous for being the location of the unique Milarepa pavilion (安多合作米拉日巴佛阁). This broad nine-storey edifice held a special place in Tibetan Buddhist culture, with each floor having a richly-decorated temple dedicated to one of the Tibetan deities. I stopped off on the way into Hezuo to take a look and it was indeed unique and magnificent - but after climbing up the stairs to each of the temples I discovered that photography was strictly forbidden.
The tower looked newly renovated and was contained within a walled square of prayer wheels next to Hezuo’s main monastery, Tso Gompa, which also looked like it had undergone a recent makeover.
The town of Hezuo itself was an anonymous grid of modern buildings. After parking up my bike at the hotel I went for a walk in search of something to eat. Two young Tibetan women saw me looking a bit lost and asked me what I was looking for.
“You won’t find any good restaurants around here,” they laughed. “Come with us, we’ll show you where to get something.”
Their down-to-earth and irreverent attitude reminded me of the way people in Yorkshire spoke - not afraid to offer a bit of unsolicited advice to strangers. They led me to a street and recommended a fancy Tibetan restaurant.
“This is where all the Beijing and Shanghai people come to ‘da ka’ (打卡, take social media images) and ‘zhi bo’ (直播, live streaming) for Douyin, ” they said.
When I said I wasn’t interested in Tiktok and preferred a Sichuan restaurant, the girls shrugged and wished me a good trip. “Welcome to Hezuo,” they called out as they departed.
The next day’s cycling brought me a taste of Long March-like arduous struggle as I pedalled to a small town on the steppe called Luqu. It started off well enough as I crossed a pass into a pleasant grassy valley of farms and small temples. The local Tibetans were hawking strawberries and honey at stalls by a road junction. I stopped to take a photo of an old Tibetan monk as he meandered up an embankment from the river. When he saw me he waved and greeted me with ‘tashi delay’.
In response to the usual questions I told him about where I had come from and where I was going. After giving me the thumbs up, he pulled out a 20 yuan banknote from his bag and asked for a donation. When I said I carried no cash, he pulled out a laminated WeChat Pay QR Code. I had to laugh, and swiped his code to donate 20 yuan. If I thought I might acquire some merit from this act of benevolence, it certainly wasn't with the weather gods.
As I started pedalling up towards another pass, the heavens opened and I quickly got soaked, despite my rain cape. I was now up at around 4000 metres and was also feeling the lethargy of altitude sickness and with cold and wet fingers and toes too. It was a thoroughly miserable ride to Luqu and a dangerous one too as I sometimes had to steer the bike into the centre of the road to avoid the puddles and rivers of water along the side of the road.
The rain did not let up all the way to Luqu, by which time I was desperate to find shelter and change out of my sodden clothes. On arrival in the one-street town, my wet hands fumbled to make any impression on the phone touchscreen while I sheltered in a doorway and I booked the nearest hotel. I should have read the description because to my disappointment, this turned out to be a sleazy internet cafe that had some basic rooms above it. I could not face going back out into the rain and just accepted my fate. I wheeled my bike through the computer hall where Tibetan youths smoked and lounged around gaming screens and pool tables.
With nothing to do, I spent the rest of the afternoon in the room trying to dry my shoes with a hair dryer. I felt a bit better after a cup of tea, using one of the last of my Yorkshire Tea bags - I would need to get to my goal before they ran out! Perusing my map I was glad to see that I was now only a day’s journey away from Langmusi, from where there were side roads to the Yellow River at Maqu and Tangke (唐克). The latter was further away, but was the site of the river’s ‘First Bend’. There was no road along the river for the 80 kilometres or so between the two places, so I decided to go directly to Tangke.
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| Linxia to Luqu via Hezuo (click on image to enlarge) |
If my rainswept road to Luqu was a reminder of the difficulties of the Long March, the next day’s ride to Langmusi was literally moving forward into the sunlit uplands of Sichuan. Starting out at an altitude of 3200 metres, I cycled up into the grassy hills above Luqu, where flocks of sheep amble up the misty slopes.
By mid morning the mist had lifted and I was on a busy highway across the grassland plateau, once again following the messy construction of the high speed rail line. I passed a junction with a road heading towards the Yellow River at Maqu County, but I didn’t take it: there was no way to get from Maqu to the first bend of the river.
Staying on the main highway, the truck traffic kept me on my toes, and it was augmented by increasing numbers of coaches and cars with plates from distant provinces. I played a game of trying to match the Chinese characters on the plate to the home province. As well as the expected Gansu 甘 and Sichuan 川 I was seeing plates from Yunnan 云, Guangdong 粤 and even distant provinces such as Zhejiang 浙.
I was entering the tourist zone. At the highland lake of Gahai (尕海) I saw my first Tibetan holiday campsite: at a junction there were a couple of new buildings and some Tibetan marquee-style tents with strings of prayer flags and a row of A-frame pitch-roofed cabins behind them. It offered horse riding and all-terrain vehicles (沙滩车 - literally ‘beach buggy’) for hire, and a bored Tibetan youth was stood by the roadside waving a sign advertising Tibetan barbecue and hotpot. They didn’t have many customers but the owners didn’t seem to be short of money either: the owners had a BYD electric car and another Tibetan youth drove out from the reception in a Lexus.
This local tourism-related venture was the template for scores of similar such businesses I would see over the next few days around Langmusi and the headwaters of the Yellow River, all offering horse rides, glamping and local cuisine.
The next remote settlement on the plateau was Gongba (贡巴), which boasted a large new visitor centre topped with a sign proclaiming it was a “National AAAA-Level Tourist Attraction”. For about a kilometre the highway was lined with restaurants offering local cuisine and Sichuan dishes. The carpark was busy with coaches, cars and even a couple of campervans. It had food and gift stalls and a coffee van with a sign that said “Latte brings Long Life and Wealth".
Gongba was also an example of the Chinese policy of settling Tibetan grassland nomads into permanent housing. At the far end of ‘town’ was a long line of about 20 identical new houses built in a vaguely Tibetan style with red tiled roofs. The area around it had been landscaped with walkways, ‘sitting out area’ with pavilions and a playground.
Pedalling on into the grassland, I noted that it was now extensively fenced, with herds of yaks and sheep grazing around small homesteads and tents. The Tibetan herders here rode small horses, and at one point I was riding alongside one of them as he herded his flock of about 100 goats across the highway. What a contrast to see Chinese tourists in their electric vehicles having to stop and wait for a herder sitting in the saddle wearing a traditional chuba and cowboy hat, with his face protected from the sun by a scarf.
For the rest of the day as I pedalled over the plateau I enjoyed sunny weather, giving me a real world experience of the Windows XP wallpaper image of bucolic green hills, blue skies and white clouds. I also had a trio of hawks circling overhead.
Reaching the Gansu-Sichuan border, the highway continued on towards Ruo’ergai (若尔盖,Zoige), but I took a turnoff that descended into the monastery town of Langmusi.
Set in a wooded valley surrounded by rocky peaks, it was easy to see why Langmusi had become such a popular tourist destination. The town had two major Tibetan Buddhist monasteries that straddled the border: the Serti Gompa on the northern side of the river was in Gansu while the Kirti Gompa was in Sichuan. They were centres for Gelugpa ‘Yellow Hat’ Buddhism and the main temple buildings had been extensively renovated with gilded roofs and colourful thanka murals.
When I arrived, there were a lot of monks on the street and also a lot of tourists. Langmusi’s main street could have been transplanted from Dali or Yangshuo. It had been rebuilt in a generic ‘rustic Tibetan’ style with wooden shopfronts, a cobbled road and lots of signposts. The street was lined with restaurants, bars, coffee shops, convenience stores, guesthouses and gift shops.
My initial choice of hotel was near the entrance of the Kirti monastery which looked nice in its online photos, but in reality was a soulless shell. Despite having few customers, the man at the reception desk had a take-it-or-leave-it attitude and did not disguise his reluctance to let me see the rooms on offer. He quoted a price that was 100 yuan more than the online price, after which I walked away to try some of the other hotels in town. It took me four attempts to find somewhere half decent that would accept me - and even this guesthouse room lacked basic amenities such as towels.
After parking my bike, I went next door to a Muslim-run restaurant where they had menus in English and I ordered the ‘yak burger’. It was actually just a large ‘rou jia mou’ (肉夹馍) meat bun and I vowed to stick to Chinese dishes in future.
I had a wander around the streets of Langmusi and saw the monasteries from a distance but did not go inside the temple buildings. I felt uneasy about being part of the mass tourism phenomenon in Langmusi, and did not want to join the crowds of tourists posing for photos in front of statues or talking into their phones on selfie sticks as they livestreamed their experience. I knew I was being hypocritical and snobbish, but I’d seen many other Tibetan Buddhist temples during my travels that I felt I could miss these two.
Tibetan writers such as Woeser have described how the tourism industry is undermining their traditional cultural and religious practices. Sacred places undergo ‘Disneyfied’ development and are marketed as ‘magical kingdoms’ to attract hundreds of thousands of visitors. While these tourists may be respectful and have a genuine interest in Tibetan Buddhism, the sheer numbers and the facilities needed to cater for them can overwhelm communities and sideline genuine pilgrims.
Most of the shops in Langmusi may have been aimed at tourists but the supermarket still catered for the everyday needs of the Tibetan community: it had a special section for household items such as yak butter tea mixers and golden bowls to hold candles that burned butter oil. The clothing section was given over to chubas, pangden striped aprons and the cheap straw sun bonnets favoured by many older Tibetan women. On my way back to the hotel I heard the sound of a sports whistle blowing and peeped through a gateway into a yard where young monks in their maroon robes were playing a serious game of basketball.
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| Luqu to Langmusi (click on image to enlarge) |
第23章 小麦加之精酿啤酒
从青海一路南下骑行了如此漫长的距离，我理应休息一天。虽然最终没给自己放假，但次日沿着刘家峡水库轻松骑行60公里前往临夏的旅程，也算是次优选择。这座回族穆斯林聚居的小城因遍布清真寺，被誉为"小麦加"。
晴空万里的好天气里，我驶过祈家大桥，桥下是黄河峡谷，前方通往水库南岸。未至临夏便已邂逅清真寺——刚过桥头，一座精美绝伦的伊斯兰建筑就矗立在祈家。沿湖公路蜿蜒数公里，我注意到水位异常低浅，想必是在等待春季末期上游那些我曾见过的水坝开闸放水。
前行不久便遭遇长久以来最忌惮的路况：漫长隧道。绕过入口处排队等候对向车流的卡车长龙，手持红旗的施工人员放行让我通过。我在封闭维护的半幅路面上骑行，施工队正在昏暗嘈杂的隧道中铺设沥青。全长一公里的隧道里，工人们连口罩都不戴，更别说通风设备了——我总担心在长隧道里一氧化碳中毒，这些工人却在此环境下作业。当重新沐浴在阳光下，逃离卡车轰鸣与污浊空气的刹那，仍不禁心怀感激。
隧道出口处，一座悬索桥横跨水库支流，两公里宽的湖面与沿岸赤红色砂岩构成的壮丽地貌尽收眼底。转入南向宽阔湖湾，渡轮码头边停靠着往返于水坝与炳灵寺石刻之间的游船。继续南行经过几家清真餐馆时，我不禁揣测：这座"中国小麦加"是否属于外国人禁入的敏感区域？抑或是严格执行伊斯兰教法的穆斯林飞地？
前期做路线功课时，我了解到2010年邻县广河的阿訇曾组织居民要求餐馆商铺禁售酒类与猪肉制品。当时情绪激烈的民众甚至当街砸毁收缴的啤酒箱，相关照片一度流传。与之形成反差的是，被称作"东乡"的另一支穆斯林群体，曾因深度参与海洛因毒品交易而恶名昭彰。2000年代初，甘肃当局在东乡族自治县开展"严打"行动，清剿从滇缅贩运鸦片并在临夏以西三甲集等地种植罂粟的犯罪团伙。
因此当我真正进入临夏城区时，现代高层公寓与景观湖泊构成的宜居新城景象令人安心：虽有部分人佩戴伊斯兰头饰，但年轻群体多穿着各地白领常见的休闲商务装。这里更像是堪培拉，而非麦加。
恰逢周五——我惯常以啤酒迎接周末的日子——更惊喜地发现临夏竟有几家精酿啤酒吧。市中心北缘的步行商业街上，餐饮区聚集着多家酒吧餐馆。在德伦堡酿酒坊前，我犹豫着该奢侈地点瓶橡木桶陈酿艾尔，还是牛奶世涛。
临夏将成为黄河流域穆斯林聚居区与黄土高原景观带的最后一站。甘肃南部的甘南藏区与省境风貌迥异，其名"甘南"二字早已与藏文化及拉卜楞寺等名刹周边的草原画上等号。
于是在临夏最后一晚，我享用了回族特色美食大盘鸡。这道辣味炖鸡在当地极受欢迎，甚至衍生出专营大盘鸡的连锁餐厅。
接下来的甘南旅程中，主要目标将是南行260公里抵达寺院小镇郎木寺，从那里可岔道前往黄河支流。以我日均百公里的骑行能力，路线将穿越合作与碌曲两座藏区城镇。
虽有绕山通往合作的主干道，导航软件却莫名指引我转入上山的小路。当驶入临夏南部的河谷时才明白缘由：隧道。道路沿着湍急河流在绿荫覆盖的群山中蛇行。这与我已习惯的干旱砂岩地貌截然不同，却让我重归数十年来屡次造访的藏区景观。看见通往拉卜楞寺（夏河）的路标后，首条隧道赫然出现——标识明确禁止自行车与拖拉机通行。踌躇间发现山路别无他选，趁车流间隙快速蹬过这200米隧道。当日共穿越四条禁行自行车的隧道，皆趁车少时冒险通过。
道路缓缓爬升通向秀美山峦，左侧施工场景却大煞风景。混凝土桥墩正在架设，山体隧道不断掘进——后来看到的标识显示这是"西成高铁"工程，直连西宁与成都的线路将行程从10小时缩短至4小时，无需再绕道西安.
修建一条横跨阿坝藏区草原、直达甘肃南部的铁路，是一项极具挑战性的工程。铁路大部分路段海拔超过3000米，需要修建158座桥梁和66条隧道，才能穿越青藏高原这片地区的高山和沼泽地。或许，这项工程的动机源于中国共产党领导人的宿命论，因为这里正是长征时期铸就党的未来的地方。
1937年，川北和甘肃南部的“大雪山”和草原，是红军北上陕西最艰苦的一段征程。
埃德加·斯诺在《红星照耀中国》中写道：
“草原上十天无人居住。这片沼泽地几乎终年阴雨绵绵，只有通过带领红军的当地山民熟知的迷宫般的狭窄立足点才能穿过沼泽中心。牲畜和人员都损失惨重。许多人在怪异的湿草丛中踉跄，跌入沼泽深处，同伴们够不着。
“没有柴火；他们不得不生吃青麦和蔬菜。甚至没有树木可以遮风避雨，装备简陋的红军也没有帐篷。晚上，他们挤在捆扎在一起的灌木丛下，但这几乎无法遮风避雨。”
建成后，川甘铁路将使普通中国公民能够以每小时250公里的时速舒适地穿越这片曾经让党的创始人在艰苦甚至致命的条件下奋斗数周的土地。
或许，中国政府会将这项铁路项目作为新科技长征的象征，就像最初穿越该地区的长征被用作宣传手段，展现党为全国人民树立榜样一样。
正如作家孙书云 在其著作《长征》中所说：“这个信息被深深灌输到我们心中，使我们能够完成党为我们设定的任何目标，因为没有什么比他们所做的更艰难。在历史性的长征之后的几十年里，我们被激励着进行着一次又一次的长征——实现中国工业化，养活世界上最多的人口，赶超西方，改革社会主义经济，将人类送入太空，迎接21世纪的挑战。”
穿过隧道与当周草原的岔道后，我在抵达合作市前还需翻越最后一座高山垭口。就在垭口前，我遇见了整个旅程中首位外国骑行者——一位年轻西方女子骑着车从对面山坡疾驰而下，而我正费力爬坡。相遇转瞬即逝，我甚至来不及反应，更别说停车寒暄。暗自猜想她或许是前往附近的拉卜楞寺。
合作市最负盛名的当属独一无二的米拉日巴佛阁。这座宏伟的九层楼阁在藏传佛教文化中地位特殊，每层都供奉着装饰华美的藏传佛教神祇殿堂。进城途中我专程造访，攀上层层阶梯后却发现严禁拍照。佛阁似经重新修缮，坐落于合作主寺措贡巴旁由转经廊围成的广场内，整片建筑群都焕发着新颜。
合作城区本身只是现代楼房组成的无名网格。在酒店停好车后外出觅食时，两位藏族姑娘见我神色迷茫主动搭话。"这附近可找不到好餐馆，"她们笑道，"跟我们走，带你去个好地方。"她们直率不羁的说话方式让我想起约克郡人——总爱给陌生人提点建议。两人将我领至一条商业街，推荐了家高档藏餐厅："这儿可是北京上海人来打卡直播的网红店。"得知我更想去川菜馆，她们耸肩道别时喊道："欢迎来到合作！"
次日骑往草原小镇碌曲的征程，让我初尝"长征"式的艰辛。起初顺利翻越垭口进入宜人的农牧山谷，路口摆摊的藏民正叫卖草莓蜂蜜。我给一位从河岸踱步而上的老喇嘛拍照时，他挥手用"扎西德勒"问候。当我说明行程后，他竟从布袋掏出20元纸币化缘，见我说没现金，又亮出塑封的微信支付二维码——我大笑着扫码布施。若指望这善举能积功德，显然未获老天垂怜：攀爬下一座垭口时暴雨倾盆，即便穿着雨披也浑身湿透。海拔4000米的高原反应加上冻僵的手指脚趾，让前往碌曲的路程既痛苦又危险——为避开路边积水，我不得不时常骑到马路中央。
暴雨持续到碌曲仍未停歇，在这条独街小镇上，我躲在门廊里用湿漉漉的手指勉强操作手机，订了最近的宾馆——结果竟是家楼下开着烟雾缭绕网吧的廉价旅舍。藏族青年在游戏屏幕和台球桌旁吞云吐雾，我认命地推车穿过大厅。整个下午都在用吹风机烘鞋，查看地图发现距郎木寺仅一日路程时稍感安慰，那里有岔路通往玛曲和唐克的黄河段。鉴于两地间80公里河道无沿河公路，我决定直奔黄河"第一弯"所在的唐克。
如果说暴雨中的碌曲之路令人想起长征艰险，那么次日前往郎木寺的旅程则真正驶入了阳光普照的川北高地。从海拔3200米出发，我骑行至碌曲上方的草山，羊群正在雾霭笼罩的山坡漫步。临近中午雾气散尽，繁忙的草原公路上，高铁施工场景再度出现。经过玛曲县黄河岔路口时我未作停留——从玛曲无法抵达黄河第一弯。
主干道上外省车牌逐渐增多，我玩起辨认省份简称的游戏：除常见的甘、川外，竟还有云、粤甚至浙字牌照。进入旅游区后，尕海湖畔出现首个藏式度假营地：崭新的建筑群旁支着经幡装饰的帐篷，提供骑马和沙滩车租赁。路边无聊挥牌的藏族小伙背后，停着比亚迪电动车和雷克萨斯——生意冷清却装备豪华，这成为未来几天我在郎木寺和黄河源区常见的经营模式。
高原上的贡巴村新建了"国家AAAA级景区"游客中心，一公里长的公路两侧布满餐馆。停车场大巴云集，甚至停着几辆房车。礼品摊与咖啡车旁立着"拿铁带来长寿富贵"的招牌。这里也是游牧民定居工程的范例：村尾排列着二十栋红顶藏式民居，配套步行道、凉亭和游乐场。
深入草原后，可见用围栏划分的牧场里，牦牛群围绕帐篷小屋吃草。藏族牧人骑着小马赶羊群横穿公路时，与被迫停车等待的电动车游客形成奇妙对比——裹着传统楚巴、戴牛仔帽的牧人脸上还蒙着防晒面巾。
整日在高原骑行的我，终于体验到WindowsXP经典壁纸般的田园风光：绿丘、蓝天、白云，外加三只盘旋的苍鹰。抵达甘川交界处后，我离开通往若尔盖的主路，拐进山谷中的郎木寺镇。
这座被嶙峋山峰环抱的林木葱郁之地，拥有横跨省界的两大格鲁派寺院：甘肃境内的赛赤寺与四川辖区的格尔底寺。鎏金屋顶与彩绘唐卡装饰的主殿显示其刚经翻修。镇上游客如织，主街风貌恍若大理或阳朔——仿古木店面、石板路与密集路标构成标准化的"藏式风情街"，排列着餐馆酒吧与纪念品店。
我原想入住格尔底寺入口处的酒店，网图精美的实际却是冰冷空壳。前台男子报出比网上贵百元的价格，态度敷衍地拒绝带看房间。连换四家旅店才找到勉强接纳的住处——连毛巾都不提供的客房。隔壁清真餐馆的英文菜单上有"牦牛汉堡"，实为肉夹馍的拙劣模仿，让我决心今后只点中餐。
漫步街头远眺寺院，我却不愿加入游客队伍入内参观。郎木寺的旅游产业化令我不适——举着自拍杆直播的游客在佛像前摆拍时，我为自己这种清高心态感到虚伪，但既然见过诸多藏传寺庙，错过这两座也无妨。
藏族作家 唯色 (程文萨)述过旅游业如何破坏他们的传统文化和宗教习俗。圣地被“迪士尼化”开发，并被宣传为“魔法王国”，以吸引成千上万的游客。尽管这些游客可能心怀敬意，并对藏传佛教怀有真挚的兴趣，但庞大的游客数量以及为他们提供服务所需的设施，可能会让藏族社区不堪重负，并将真正的朝圣者拒之门外。
郎木寺的大多数商店或许都面向游客，但超市仍然满足藏族社区的日常需求：超市里专门设有家居用品区，比如牦牛酥油茶搅拌器和用来盛放酥油蜡烛的金碗。服装区则摆满了藏式长袍、庞登条纹围裙，以及许多老年藏族妇女喜爱的廉价草编遮阳帽。回酒店的路上，我听到体育赛事的哨声，便透过门缝瞥了一眼院子，看到身着栗色长袍的年轻僧侣们正在认真地打篮球。
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