The morning began with a confusing negotiation with the thick Yunnanese dialect for our pick-up to the gorge. Our landlady (former) wasn't too helpful once we had ridden out our room payment and in between deciphering which bridge street the pick-up meant and tracking back to square one, we were on our way. The book unfolded to page after page of stunning landscape that had its fire of courage stoke by one drought after another. We saw fields of wheat bend in the wind. We saw roads that wound their way to reach to the heavens above. We saw curious, quiet faces burnt by only hard labour under the life-giving sun could coax.
Our quest changed hands between one ride to another, roads were bumpy albeit much better than what I would have imagined, and then the boringness of sitting in a van parted to lead the eyes to what legends were made of - Tiger Leaping Gorge. When I got out of the van my ears adjusted to strange sounds that were simply put, out of place in a place like here that was so remote from anything else that had came into our paths so far. Explosions. A muted loudness that told the mind what the sight could not - rocks breaking and pieces of the giant falling down the angry flow of water coursing its own, as it had been for ages far before any of us set foot here. We were trekking through the main road, high above the low path by the river, and low below the high path that would had led to a-3,000m viewing platform of the entire valley. The detonations were man's hand into widening access throughout the gorge. Even the greats of nature were helpless against the modern invasion of technology. What may had taken years was done now in days. We climbed through and above three landslides of rocks that were so huge that putting aside the thrill driven by adrenaline, this was one heck of an exercise of humility. I felt small, yet deftly powerful to test myself in the raw elements.
My guide's hazel eyes turned to me.
Don't look up, or down. Walk, and run the last 10m.
Then some lads in army fatigue dashed past me in the opposite direction. I jumped for a clear path amidst the rocks. For a brief moment, mortality rang out loud. I looked down, finally.
The river was the most tempting fruit I had ever laid my eyes on. You didn't have to be an adrenaline junkie to want to white-water raft down there. You just couldn't because you couldn't. I had to settle for the landslide climbs. The wind cut through us like tiny slaps while tiny rain droplets hit our heads like pebbles thrown by the gods, mocking us on our silly trek under this weather. Another 2km by foot and then we finally squeezed into our last pick-up. There wasn't any other hiker in sight. After 5 hours, we were there.
The Middle Tiger Leaping Gorge. A horse neighed in the far away fields in the drop down. Two crows, quite unusually black like their Indian counterpart except the band of white around their necks' plummage. The pair jumped off the cliff in a nod of understanding like the secret codes of an ancient brotherhood. A falcon soared above while sparrows shot past like seeking bullets. I felt again that all steps I had taken in the past had prepared me for the current one I was taking. For a long while since India, I recognised again that here, the gorge made you earned it. One foot ahead at a time. My back was bent low in respect, sweat poured through my shirt as I sighed in satisfaction and relief of the long trek completed. And that was just to get here.
No tigers leapt the immaculate display of distance between the gorge but this giant set of rocks in front of me was lined in the ochre terracota and black stripes of the famed creature. The heights rippled and contorted like tense muscles. The sharp edges of corners and tips threw out like claws. The rush of the river roared. Maybe it's a purported greatness akin to the tiger. Perhaps it was a long time ago when people knew little and felt an affinity to connect with the spirits that roamed the forests around us, hence an animistic mascot was made up on the spot. The top of the gorge glistened with melting ice. Our sun finally cut through again in the late hours of the day - casting shadows where its powerful rays could not pierce through, like smoky spotlight hugging the curves of a cabaret singer that enthralled your imagination with every move of her silhouette.
Our journey towards Zhongdian, or Shangri-La had yet to be concluded but already we felt that we were far, far away from reality. Maybe this was how it felt when you walked into the world beyond. A quietness that was so deafening. A beauty that was overwhelming because of its rawness and honesty.
Not so bad to get a glimpse of life beyond, especially if it was easy to come back to yours and look back again.
