It's always amazing how quickly encounters pass. The wind carries them away, the sun bleaches them out like a cloth that has been exposed too long to the weather. All that remains, is a translucent fabric of voices and faces. A cobweb of stories and acquaintances. It lasts over time.
In the Jinsha valley prayer flags are waving. They have lost their color, the prayer sayings have faded. Drifting veil, which no longer casts shadows. If you look through them, you can see the clouds. The wind plays with them. No spectacular crackling, no tearing on the strings as on the high passes before. Fine waves, a slight swell, fine and without resistance. Warmth and cold, sun and rain can't harm them anymore. Although almost worn out, these prayer flags will survive all the others.

The gorge gets narrower. On the cliffs Buddhas are painted, ornate, lush. Why are they here? A look into the water, it is loud and wild, throwing bubbles that burst in swirls. Slowly we ride higher, the narrow valley widens, the wild water gets still. A Chorten at the end of the gorge. A Buddhist world icon that fills every place immediately with a special charisma. The belief of the Tibetans, the philosophy of Buddhism is expressed in this structure. Like a watchman it stands there at the beginning of the stream, which is finding its way still quiet and innocent up here, but little bit further then shoots restlessly below the rocks to reach the goal and in the end gets tangled in itself in his impatience. Perhaps this is why the Buddha and stupas have found their place in this valley. They remind the travelers to practice peace and patience.

It's the perfect place for the Tibetan stone carvers. We meet them randomly, just after the Chorten. Actually we only wanted to shop in the small store and then hide to camp in the bushes in a few miles. But the intricately crafted stone tablet next to the store window grabs inevitably the eye. Fine lettering, mantra verses and a Buddha. Who can carve such a delicate image in the brittle shale? The shop owner has noticed our glimpse. He comes out of the house, pointing to the stone tablet and then at himself. We should follow him. Undoubtedly, he is the master who created the artwork. He takes us behind the house. Here are lots of unfinished stone tablets, and a bit further back others are still working on the thick gray plates. "Mani" stones are produced here. At special places they are set up, piled into meter-long walls. In the Himalayas not only the people pray but also the stones. They help the Tibetans to spread good thoughts and wishes. We are led around, look, marvel. In the end, we drink butter tea and eat roasted barley flour in one of the simple huts. Tsampa, the staple food of Tibetans. On the wall hangs a portrait of the Dalai Lama.

From the valley we cycle up to the next pass. Thousand meters of altitude. How many passes have we climbed in the last weeks? How often have we rushed down into the deep valley again? The people we meet, warn us of the snow that had fallen during the night. A jeep driver stops, wringing his hands and wants us to return. Has it really so much snowed up there? We sit at the roadside, eating some peanuts. Not far to us is a monastery. A monk on a Honda stops and invites us. A small cell with stunning views over the whole valley. There is quite a mess in the room. Unwashed dishes, incense sticks, a prayer mill. The monk lives here with three others - a real male household. They are responsible for the convent's hospital. Also here they warn us of the snow. The mountain is evil, we should wait another day, tomorrow it would be better on the pass. The food is tasty, the fellowship of the monks is exciting. Much persuasion is not needed.

In the afternoon we watch how they produce medications. Two monks roll small globules of a greasy, black mass. Our conversation is funny, sign language and drawings. We get along well and learn our first Tibetan words. In the afternoon we even get access to the small monastery. Paintings of protection demons adorn the walls. Something is veiled for our eyes with a black cloth. The day is over quickly, the sun has melted the snow almost completely on the surrounding mountains. The next day we'll ride over the pass. We sleep in one of the cells. It almost looks as if the monks lived here previously and as the dirt was too much they changed to the next room. At night, squeaking rats. We throw some old clothes towards our panniers from time to time.

Jachi. Something is wrong with the place. The monks have told us. Also in Jachi there would be a monastery. But only women would live there. We laughed. When we arrive in the village, also we have the feeling that there's something strange. Tents and huts everywhere. All the hills are full of it. No fixed home and thousands of people. Almost all are women. Dressed in red. Pilgrims and nuns from all over Eastern Tibet. Bhikkuni, followers of the Buddhist's woman order. Bhikkuni has existed since the citation of Buddhism. However, the women have always been subject to discrimination because of eight rules that the Buddha had imposed to them. Until the twentieth century, the women's order in Tibet was rarely practiced. But the 14th Dalai Lama attempts to strengthen Buddhist nuns in Tibet. And we've found such a nunnery by coincidence. We stay for a day exploring the narrow streets. Countless meditation cabins are scattered in the plain and over the hills. Prayer flags flutter in the wind, decorate bridges and river banks. We observe all the people: Old women with weathered faces, young nuns and children, a rocking motorcyclist, long hair, leather jacket, sunglasses. They all walk the Kora, the sacred path around the monastery. In the Himalayas not only stones, but also steps do pray. Each circumnavigation strengthens the good wishes, the prayer. The motorcyclist holds through the longest. He's still runing even when we come back hours later from our  tea invitation. Tirelessly. For how long? We walk a round with him, smile at each other.

The earth shakes in Bayu. It's 3' clock in the morning as the trembling tears us from sleep. Only short, but we are wide awake in a minute. A few days ago, there have been a violent earthquake five hundred kilometers northwards. Yushu, the city on the edge of the Tibetan Plateau, no longer exists. Although the full extent of damage is still hanging in the censorship and the tragedy was immediately converted into monumental promotional trailers for the Chinese government, the terror and the images run deep. Not only in ourself but in the whole Tibetan population. It takes a quarter of an hour, and the whole city is on alert. People run outside, make a fire and spend the end of the night under the open sky. Also we dress us, the room door remains open that night. Even two days later we put the most necessary things ready, next to the exit.

The way to the Tro La is dusty. The asphalt has long ago ceased and still the road winds up to the sky, through the craggy peaks of the Chola Mountains. The landscape has become wild, the air thin. 4900 meters, the highest pass of our trip. We cycle on the road that leads to Lhasa. They are not the first pilgrims, we encounter, but the two we'll never forget. Tired they've come towards us, a tied leather apron, corded wooden boards on the hands. Walking two steps, a prostration. On their knees, in the dust. The forehead touches the ground, arms outstretched. Standing up, walking another two steps. 1000 kilometers remaining to Lhasa, meter by meter, pass by pass. Days, weeks, months. We get off the bikes, share our last cookies, try to understand. The two exercise themselves in modesty and humility on their pilgrimage. What willpower you need for such a path, which feeling one feels when he finally achieved his destination after this incredible effort? The knowledge of one's own resilience,  the confidence in body and spirit must be enormous.

When leaving the province the landscape changes. We are riding continuously over 4000 meters. A vast plateau under the spell of the play of light, the land of the Golok nomads. Here rises the Amnye Machen, the sacred mountain of Eastern Tibet, the seat of the mighty God Machen Pomra. His bottomless crystal palace reach the center of the earth and its towers touch the moon and stars. Rock and ice are under his command, and the white horse Droshur carries him in no time to all parts of the world. The mountain is the end of our journey through Tibet. A little later we leave the plateau. From one day to the other, we enter the desert. First sand dunes, the edge of the Taklamakan is reached.

It's always amazing how fast the weeks pass by on a trip. Nights are followed by days, something that was in distant future, is suddenly already present -  then past. Not long ago we were jumping in the air in the face of Yade Dragon Mountain, have imagined the journey through the Himalayas. Now, the high mountains are behind us, have become memories. Already we carried them through wind and weather, the sun has burned down on them. They have remained strong. An unbreakable cobweb of encounters and stories. It will outlast the time. That's certain.