I'm sat at the foot of an avalanche which is frozen in time. It has tiny waterfalls rushing from it through the slits in the rock like a threat reminding me that this frozen giant is still alive and it is only sleeping. Every now and then there is a ripping sound that echoes around the U-shaped valley where I sit. It stiffens me. I don't plan on staying here long - something tells me that humans should not out-stay their welcome here, take your photos and keep walking, it's reserved for Mother Nature and her mighty temper. I've never seen layers of ice, snow and rock so rigidly set, then gracefully slipping into a turquoise glacial lake. The only way I am sure that time is still moving is from the sound of the rushing waterfalls that cascade gleefully and gallantly, and the hoarse calls of the white birds that swoop in the cradle of the icy face. My breathing feels like a burden that might give me away, expelling whispy vapor into the hushed atmosphere. This cloud of ice stays completely fixed on the rock like an Andsel Adam's snapshot. A shroud of mist crowns it, eerily concealing the mountain's peak.
I could be in an ancient world before humans existed if it weren't for the faded and torn blues, whites, reds, oranges, yellows and greens of the prayer flags that drape from budding Pussy-Willow branches, and the miniature rock piles that that adorn the shores of the lake, holding the wishes of Tibetan pilgrims.
Right now, this is the closest I can get to Tibet. 60km away from the Tibetan border in the Meili Mountain Range, a 2 hour reckless drive from Deqin ('Derchin') in China's South Western Yunnan province. The Chinese government have rigid restrictions on foreigner access into Tibet, at the best of times you need a paid guide, a permit which only allows you to enter certain areas, plus a load of hassle from Chinese guards. (During the time of me writing this - May 2009 - no foreigner was allowed to get into Tibet.)
Generations before had walked over this mountain range from their homeland in Tibet and when their eyes fell on the lush pastures and dense forest below, they decided their mission was complete and they set up permanent camp. They now speak a Tibetan dialect and the younger Chinese born generation consider themselves Tibetan rather than Chinese. It confused me though to see Chairman Mao Zedong's beady eyes glaring at me from the ubiquitous poster hanging on the wall back at village guesthouse. It was a paradox of their proud ancestral heritage.
I'm amazed at the strength of explorers like these. If to me, this village was remote, then how untame and fierce are their homelands and the pathways they took? My mind conjures images of the Tibetan plateau and all the secret contours and unpassable terrain restricted by dispute and law.
The journey to the green valley village of Yubeng involved a 5 hour uphill hike, followed by a 30 minute descent, dodging the locals that leaped past like mountain goats with their moody mules that stumbled carrying oversized Chinese tourists along the way. Yubeng is the main base for visitors in the Meili Mountains with large log guesthouses on wooden stilts amongst veg patches and chicken huts and views of the foreboding snow-capped Kawagebo peak that broods over the sacred village.
Every walkway begins with rugged prayer flags that flutter across the path and remind the visitor of how much the locals regard this neck of the woods. After weeks of walking through the trechourous beyond, this lush fertile land was a lifesaver for the pioneers of this place. A haunting message is whispered through the flags, asking you to respect the surroundings and be wary on your path. The locals told me of two European girls who took a chance with nature and met their fate whilst swimming in the glacial lake one summer. The frozen avalanche gave way and tumbled down on top of them.
Peering down at the stone piles below, I'm careful as to where I place my feet and how long I hold my gaze. The white birds are like an optical illusion disappearing againt the icy backdrop. I hear one more loud rip and rumble that comes from within and then echoes around the edges of the cove, like a wise old witch bellowing a belly laugh. I'm still feeling my inferiority and unfitting presence.
As I shuffle back down the path to more hospitable and colourful ground I hear the chopping of a woodcutter's tools and know I am not alone in the world, and that time is still moving.
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