It was my first trip to Northwest China, not counting my brief photo op at Xi'an's Terra Cotta Army two decades ago as guide of a tourist group.

The flight from Beijing to Lanzhou took almost two hours. And immediately after I landed, I committed a faux pas that was typical of those who thought they'd know better than poring over a map of Gansu Province.

"Can we make a stop at the Dunhuang Grotto one of these afternoons?" I asked politely.

My host hesitated: "Well, that'll depend on your schedule. If you choose to take the train, it'll take a little more than 24 hours"

"What? That's longer than riding the train from Beijing to Guangzhou!"

"Or you can take a flight. It'll be a little less than your flight from Beijing to Lanzhou."

You see, the shape of Gansu resembles a pistol, as in the opening montage of a James Bond movie, pointing west, with Dunhuang near the mouth and Lanzhou somewhere in the base. The distance between the two is 1,140 kilometres.

Yellow-earth country

The ride from the airport to downtown Lanzhou offered a glimpse of what was to come endless miles of hilly terrain with layers of dry soil like pancakes stacked up. The occasional sprinklers on hillsides were said to be part of a "greening project" designed to make the landscape more appealing.

The appearance of the downtown skyline was quite dramatic. After driving through a gorge, the cityscape popped up like a mirage, quite like rambling in the Nevada Valley and stumbling upon one of the casino towns.

Lanzhou has brand-new and stylish apartment buildings that would fetch seven-figure prices in Beijing, and they face the river rapids that rushes through the city a scene that Beijingers could only dream of.

Driving along both sides of the river was fun, but walking was even better. One could meet people from all strata of society and get a taste of the local lifestyle.

The Yellow River, as I'd seen numerous times on TV or in photos, is muddy and billowy. I bet swimming in it doesn't carry health benefits. My host said he tried it once while in high school. He flowed with the currents while his friends played catch-up on their bicycles, with his dry clothes and all.

"Gee, did you gulp down any water? Don't tell me muddy water has nutrients. By the way, do local people use it for drinking?" I asked.

The answer came the next day, some 80 kilometres south of Lanzhou.

Standing on Liujiaxia Dam, one side is a quiet reservoir while the other side, 147 metres below, is just a dribble August and September are the flood discharge season.

President Hu Jintao worked here for six years, from 1968 to 1974, after he graduated from Tsinghua University, locals told me. As an engineer, he endured all the hardships just as any other worker, sharing a tent with many people.

The cruise up the 130-square-kilometre reservoir was a revelation. The water is so pristine that it's hard to associate it with the word "yellow." However, as the surface swells to near-lake width, some parts of the river bank appear barren whereas others are richly vegetated. One wonders how moisture from evaporation is distributed.

Local offerings

Besides the water of azure and tranquility, the cruise offered samplings of two local pastimes that enchanted me to my heart's content.

If I mention "Flowers" in the same sentence with music, you'd recall the Beijing boy band that shamelessly pirated foreign tunes. But in Linxia Prefecture, where the dam and the reservoir are located, "Flowers" (hua'er) refer to folk songs.

Without accompaniment of any kind, a man and two women yodelled several tunes. They occasionally used Chinese for our understanding, but I preferred the stanzas in the local ethnic language. On first hearing, they sound like a cross between the Shaanxi and the Tibetan folk styles. But gradually one could savour the unique flavour.

Like many folk music from western China, "Flowers" demand vocal agility of an acrobatic order, crystalline vocal lines with lots of technical wizardry, and above all, real emotional input. This is something you don't hear that often among regular pop singers.

As a matter of fact, "Flowers" are a little like American country music. Every spring, several places in Linxia hold singing contests in the style of the Grand Ole Opry in the US South. Actually, there is more frolicking and drinking than the Nashville event. Young men and women warble to each other as a dating ritual. People who share one table would stage a kind of singing duel, with the winner qualified to out-sing champions from the neighbouring tables.

The whole thing lasts several days, and people show up in thousands to participate. You might say this is the ethnic version of the Super Girls phenomenon, but this one goes back at least 500 years. The talents may be less polished, but they have vocal prowess that do not rely on amplification. But one thing it shares with the television juggernaut: It has also been commercialized as local governments have organized all sorts of trade fairs around "Flowers" festivities.

"Flowers" have to be relished in the right setting. Floating on the Yellow River, with clay formations of a variety of hues drifting by in the background that was a helluva locale for enjoying it. I bought a few disks, and much to my dismay, the expensive staging, production values and electronic accompaniment cheapened the singing. Money can buy the notes and melodies, but it cannot reproduce the magic of folk music where it is supposed to be heard.

Gastronomical delight

The food served on the cruise was like a formal meal in Gansu, at least of the places I visited. It didn't arrive in delicate portions as Cantonese dim sum or other southern-style refreshments. It had an allure that reminded me of army camps in the ancient times feral and dashing. It was almost a male bonding ritual.

One of the first items is a large plate of U-shaped dough sticks, fried golden and smelling delicious. I guess it's the equivalent of dinner rolls for a Western-style meal. Placing them next to a bag of French fries would illustrate the difference between urban briskness and tempestuous abandon.

Mutton was the centre-piece of the feast. Known as "Dongxiang shredded mutton," it is cooked and then cooled down. You eat it like the spare-ribs served in touristy Boston restaurants, but you dip it in seasonings of your own choice.

The greatest thing about Dongxiang mutton: It does not have the special stench usually associated with raw meat. Locals explained that part of the reason is the species, and other part the grass. But I looked closely and this terrain does not sprout much grass. Maybe it's the lack of grass that has cleansed the sheep of their smell.

Whatever local sheep feed on, if they're going to reincarnate into a second life, they're not going to like me because I could not stop munching on them. "I think they're going to do a 'Revenge of the Sheep' when they're born again as another animal," I told my host.

"But what about us? We've been eating mutton all our lives."

"That's the difference. They've taken it for granted that you guys are up on the food chain, but we're guests here. I'd better stick to Lanzhou noodles."

Whatever your preference for the perimeters of noodle, those chefs can string them as thin as you like, and evenly so. "If you separate each line, they'll add up to 100 storeys high," explained the lady who narrated the process.

The noodles were served in several small bowls, each containing samples of a different stringing style. The noodle soup was delicious, but a bit brackish for my taste.

In one of the best-known noodle shops in Lanzhou, I tried to forgo one of the bowls. My host chided: "Look at the photos on the wall. All the big celebrities come here from all over Asia. This shop does not have franchisees. People usually have to queue up for a bowl."

Bingling Temple

When Liujiaxia Reservoir narrows down to the size of a regular river at the southwest end, there rises on the left bank peaks of extraordinary shapes. As usual, tourism professionals have let free of their imagination and given mythological tags to many of them.

But one peak stands out for its resemblance to a pair of sisters. It reminded me of the giant statues from "The Lord of the Ring" trilogy. The Sister Peak here guards the Bingling Temple and the grotto.

"Bingling" is Tibetan for "100,000 buddhas." The grotto was started some 1,600 years ago. And as China's fifth largest grotto, there are 196 grottos and niches, 694 stone statues and statuettes, 82 clay ones and 900 square metres of frescos. The place saw its best day in the early years when Buddhism was spread into China.

One cannot help but be left in awe of the religious fervour and craftsmanship that was put into decades of toiling at a cliff.

Did they know that someday their sweat and sacrifice would bring in tourist yuan to their descendents? And why do Buddhist grottos and stone carvings of a biblical scale always appear in the most spectacular sceneries? Did the early Buddhists have geographical and topological prescience?

I did not journey to the world-famous Dunhuang after all. But the breathtaking beauty of the reservoir and the surrounding mountains, coupled with relics of the Bingling grotto, and not to forget the crystal-clear Yellow River, combined to make this an experience of mythical proportion.

At that moment, I wish I were a poet and would marvel in rhyming couplets.

(China Daily 07/08/2006 page9)