Ganja Grasslands, the fairy-tale rural China

Get lost in Ganja Grasslands, in rural fairy-tale China, and visit with me Tseway Gompa and Trekkar Gompa where monks gently welcomes me…

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Remote Ganja Grasslands

It’s early morning. The sky is cloudy and rainy, but they say it will clear as the hours go by. I greet Labrang reluctantly, with the promise of remembering. I already know as soon as I return to Italy all this will fade. There will be evenings spent watching Netflix, dinners with friends in All You Can Eat Japanese restaurants. Continuous texting on my smartphone, dozens of social media notifications to support self-esteem. This places will seem just a distant memory.

Yet Labrang exists ( and resists) even today, in 2018; it is not a hypothetical elsewhere of a parallel dimension. I let these thoughts flow as I travel through the silent prairies of Ganja, Xiahe County, Gannan Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture, Gansu Province. China. I want to fix it: this place has precise geographical coordinates. I can go back if I want. It’s real, I’m not dreaming.

Trakkar Gompa

Around 12 pm we make a stop along the road, where there is a small monastery, Trakkar Gompa. It stands out against an imposing rock formation and only 90 monks live here. The inevitable wheels of prayer are visited by some curious cows. We wander among the houses and enter the temple, but we meet no one. Where are the monks? What happened to them?

“Look!” Maria exclaims, pointing to a hill in the distance.
“Can you see them?”
“What?”
They descend in random order, staining the green of the meadow with red. They look like poppies. The monks prayed on the prairie, somewhere over the hill that borders the horizon, and are now returning to the monastery for lunch.

It may be the melancholy of having to leave these places or the rarefied air of these altitudes, but I am struck by a sudden emotional impulse. I start to run towards the monks, greeting them with my hand. I have a smile that reaches up to my ears.
“Hello! Are you coming back for lunch? You are beautiful!”. They nod and smile in turn. “My name is Andrea and I come from Italy!”. I stare at each one of them, giving out handshakes and patting their shoulder.

“I saw you coming down the hill. You were awesome! I couldn’t help but come and greet you!”
I am so happy I cheer them all. They trust instantly. They gather around me, looking at me with kindness. Older people ask me a few questions in English. I photograph them as we speak and it doesn’t seem to bother them.

There is a child monk, about 4 years old, who studies me carefully. He must miss something, because he looks at me up and down, but he does not seem convinced. He is in the arms of a monk in his 30s, who holds him with the fatherly tenderness.

On the way back to the bus, Daniele approaches me and comments. “They were really nice. You kept touching them. Who knows whether you are allowed to touch a monk or it is considered a lack of respect”. Of course, I had not considered any of these things. I just wanted to feel them close, maybe we all need to feel close. Or am I just a pushy person?

Tseway Gompa

With the doubt of having been disrespectful, we get to Zuohai, a village lost somewhere in the mountains. Such a remote location, even Google won’t track it (try a search). Here stands Tseway Gompa, a Bon tradition monastery. Bon religion precedes Buddhism and refers to animist practices. Over the centuries the two cultures have merged and confused into what we now call Bon Buddhism.

We enter quietly in one of the temples: the monks are busy making votive candles with yak butter. We greet each other with a look. Gestures are all we have to communicate and somehow we ask if we can stay and watch them working. They smile and nod. Yes and no are universal concepts. Even without words, we can express assent or rejection with the force of a gesture. Kindness is also a universal language, I think. Everyone understands it and everyone appreciates it.

And with kindness a boy approaches us, waving a bunch of keys. He repeatedly beckons us to follow him. We don’t know what he wants, but he insists and we go along with it. He takes us to see all the altars of the monastery: one temple after the other, he opens the lock of the entrance door and let us to enter. I ask him if I can take a photograph of him. He agrees. He is very shy and tries to give me a smile. He’s really cute, and I want to give him a gift too. I’m not gonna photograph him anymore, so he won’t feel embarrassed because of me any more.

The disruptive force of an act of kindness

At the end of this unrequired yet highly appreciated tour, I move away from the others and stop to play with the children of the village. We look at each other a lot, and we smile. They seem to really appreciate my presence. Chinese children seem much older than their age. It’s like they’re small adults, already self-sufficient. They’re playing a game, the one who jumps more steps at once gets to win. A child of about 4 years falls awkwardly after the jump, and she peels her hands and knees. All the other children laugh. A big tear is coming out of her, but she rubs her hands and pushes it back in. She prefers to join the others in their laugh. I approach to see if she needs help, but she shrugs as if to tell me “these things happen” and comes back to play.

I get lost in some reflection and when my attention goes back to them, I realize that they are confabulating something, because they have put themselves in a circle and whisper. Suddenly they disappear behind the temple wall. I see them coming back after a few minutes with their hands full of flowers. One by one, in a row, they approach me and offer them to me with big smiles. Now I am the one who’s pushing back the tears. It’s one of the most beautiful gestures I’ve ever received. I won’t forget it. I go back to the monks, to absorb the emotion. I find them focused on meditating. Time seems to stop. Or maybe it doesn’t exist here. When I go out, it’s already evening. And it’s time to go. I greet the children once, twice, a thousand times. They follow me to the bus. Maybe they realized I needed to feel someone close.