Gannan: A Stone Citadel at the Edge of the Grassland, Three Thousand Metres Up
At six in the morning Xiahe county town is still asleep, but there are already people walking the pilgrim circuit at Labrang Monastery. A wooden prayer wheel is pushed forward by the flat of a hand — a creak, then another creak, then another, passed down the line like rain on a very long roof. The woman ahead of me wears a chuba; her left hand counts beads, her right pushes wheels, and her pace is unhurried but never stops.
Daylight creeps up from behind the eastern ridge, catching first the gilt roof of the Gongtang Pagoda, then the monks’ quarters on the far slope. The air is brittle cold and smells of juniper smoke and butter. Four hours out of Lanzhou, a thousand metres of altitude gained, and I felt I had stepped into China in a different season of the year.
Why Gannan
Gannan Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture sits in the south of Gansu, a piece of the map most travellers skip straight over. Qinghai is to the west, Sichuan to the south, and Gannan is wedged between them — without Lhasa’s fame or Jiuzhaigou’s crowds. That is precisely the point.
Heading south from Lanzhou, the altitude climbs step by step: Linxia at 1,900 metres, Xiahe at 2,900, Hezuo at 3,000, Langmusi at 3,300, Maqu above 3,600. In a four-hour drive the vegetation shifts from loess hills to alpine meadow to bare limestone. That staircase is rare in China — you don’t need to fly to Tibet to stand on a real Tibetan plateau.
Gannan is built out of grassland and monasteries. Sangke grassland, the Awancang wetlands, Gahai Lake — that is the water half. Labrang, Langmusi, the Milarepa Pavilion — that is the half about faith. And further south, in Diebu county, there is a stone citadel a Western explorer once wrote into his diary.
People call Gannan “the Tibetan world closest to the interior.” The phrase is a little glib, but not wrong — it is half a day from cities you know and very far from the life you know.
Labrang Monastery: two thousand prayer wheels and a university at altitude
Labrang stands in Xiahe county, with the Daxia River running past its front gate. In 1709 the First Jamyang Lama built the first assembly hall here. Three centuries later it is one of the six great monasteries of the Gelug school and the most important centre of monastic study in the Amdo region.
Most visitors assume a monastery is a place for incense and wishes. Labrang is closer to a university. It has six colleges: the College of Dialectics for sutra study, the Lower and Upper Tantric Colleges, the Kalachakra College for astronomy and calendrics, the Medical College that trains Tibetan physicians, and the Gyepai Doring College devoted to masked dance and mandalas. Monks study here for ten, twenty, thirty years; the highest degree, the geshe, functions much like a doctorate.
In the debate courtyard two monks face each other, one asking, one answering. The questioner claps, stamps, shouts — using his body to put stress on the logic.
The pilgrim circuit rings the entire monastery and takes over an hour to walk. Most of the wheels are wood sheathed in brass, mounted on axles, heavy to push. A local reminded me that the circuit must be walked clockwise — anticlockwise doesn’t count. The rule holds at every monastery on the plateau.
The people walking the circuit don’t look at the scenery, or at each other. They just walk, until a route becomes an ordinary day.
The first lunar month is the busiest time of year. Before noon on the thirteenth day a giant thangka is unrolled down the hillside, carried up by hundreds of monks; the fourteenth brings the masked cham dances, the fifteenth the butter-sculpture lantern festival. Rooms in Xiahe book out far ahead for those dates. There is another festival cycle in the seventh month, when the debates are at their densest.
To see the monastery itself, a 40-yuan ticket gets you into the main halls with a monk as guide; the commentary is usually in Chinese. The Gongtang Pagoda costs another 20 yuan and gives you the whole rooftop of monks’ quarters from above. Walking only the circuit and the squares outside costs nothing at all.
Sangke and Gahai: grassland has a season
A dozen kilometres south of Xiahe town lies Sangke grassland, a little over 3,000 metres up. In summer it is almost luminous green, wildflowers opening in bands. Around the fifteenth day of the sixth lunar month the Shanglang festival is held here — horse racing, yak racing, wrestling, singing — and herders pitch tents on the grass and stay for days. Shanglang means “gathering firewood,” originally the excuse for monks to leave the monastery in summer and collect fuel; it grew into a festival for the whole grassland.
The beauty has an expiry date. June to August is greenest and also the wettest stretch of the year, with afternoon squalls that arrive fast and leave fast. September turns the grass gold and lifts the sky impossibly high — the best light of the year. From November the pasture browns, the wind hardens, and many family-run guesthouses shut.
Further south in Luqu county, Gahai Lake is a plateau wetland at over 3,400 metres where migratory birds stop in spring and autumn. The wind off the water is strong and the boardwalk loop takes about an hour.
North of Xiahe is another direction, also half a day. Ganjia grassland is barer than Sangke — shorter grass, more stone — and deep inside it stands an octagonal walled town of rammed earth, said to follow a Han-dynasty garrison plan that later dynasties kept using. It is small; from the wall you can see the whole grassland to its edge. Ganjia sits higher than Xiahe and the wind is fiercer, so bring an extra layer.
Stay on grassland long enough and you understand: time here isn’t counted in days, it’s counted in the colour of the grass.
Langmusi: one stream, two provinces
Langmusi is not a monastery but a town. A stream called the Bailong River runs through the middle of it, less than two metres wide — one step across. The north bank belongs to Luqu county in Gansu; the south bank to Zoige county in Sichuan. A monastery stands on each bank, facing each other across the water, and only together are they called Langmusi.
The Sechi Monastery on the north bank is built up a slope, its halls mostly gilt, at their best at sunrise. The Gerdi Monastery on the south bank has silver-toned roofs and holds the relic stupa of the Fifth Gerdeng Rinpoche. Behind Gerdi is the Namo Gorge, where the Bailong River rises; the walk in and back takes two to three hours on an easy path, but at 3,300 metres you will feel it if you hurry.
The town takes half an hour to cross, yet carries the nickname “Little Switzerland of the East,” mostly on account of the sheer limestone peaks around it. Pilgrims and backpackers share one street: in the morning it belongs to the circuit-walkers, at noon to hikers, in the evening to people drinking tea on guesthouse steps. Some guesthouses can arrange a visit to a Tibetan family to learn to churn butter tea — an hour or two, and far more interesting than ordering a cup in a restaurant.
On the hill behind Sechi Monastery there is a sky burial site. It is open to visitors, but open is not the same as invited. Don’t photograph, don’t gather to watch, don’t walk up close; if a ceremony is under way, retreat and look elsewhere. Between looking and not looking there is a line, and it should be kept.
Zhagana: four villages inside a stone box
Southeast from Langmusi, over several ridges, you enter Diebu county. Zhagana means “stone box” in Tibetan — sheer rock walls on four sides, and a hollow in the middle holding meadow and terraced fields, with four Tibetan villages arranged from low to high: Dongwa, Yeri, Dari, Daba.
In 1925 the American explorer Joseph Rock came into Diebu from Zhuoni and wrote this in his diary:
“I have never seen such glorious scenery. If the author of Genesis had seen the beauty of Diebu, he would have placed the birthplace of Adam and Eve here.”
The line has since been printed on countless guidebook pages and guesthouse walls. Rock was in southwestern China collecting botanical specimens for National Geographic, and he stayed in this country a long time and photographed it heavily. Nearly a century later, in 2023, Zhagana was added to the UN World Tourism Organization’s list of Best Tourism Villages, and the stone box stopped being a secret kept by hikers.
Each village has its own angle. Dongwa is the largest, with the most rooms and restaurants; Yeri sits halfway up and is convenient for sunrise; Dari’s viewing platform is the classic shot of the whole valley; Daba is the highest and quietest. Xiannütan is an alpine meadow about forty minutes’ walk from Dongwa, best in the last hour of light.
If you have time, the road out of Zhagana’s north gate is the “Rock Road,” the mountain route Rock himself travelled, now paved — rock faces, spruce forest, unguarded bends. The drive is worth more than the destination. It needs a high-clearance vehicle, and should be avoided in rain or snow.
One new rule you must know in advance: in high season the site runs timed, real-name reservations. From 1 May to mid-July you book at least one day ahead; from mid-July to early October, three days ahead — all through the official WeChat account, “Zhagana Scenic Area.” Ticket windows generally cannot sell you a same-day ticket at peak times. Entry is 80 yuan, the shuttle bus 40 yuan round trip, and most sources say the ticket is valid for three days. Drive straight through from south gate to north gate in under three hours without stopping to sightsee and the ticket is waived.
Where the Yellow River takes its first bend
Maqu county is the westernmost part of Gannan. In Tibetan, maqu means the Yellow River, and this is the only county in China named after it. The river leaves the Bayan Har mountains in Qinghai, flows east into Maqu, then turns back west, winding more than four hundred kilometres inside the county and carving the Yellow River’s first great bend.
Four kilometres south of the county seat, Nyima town, a bridge crosses the Yellow River with a stone marker reading “First Bend of the Yellow River Under Heaven.” What actually leaves you speechless is the Awancang wetland: three rivers empty into the Yellow River here, slicing the water into a grid of channels, with yaks and sheep scattered like pepper on green cloth. In 2008 China National Geographic ranked China’s five most beautiful grassland wetlands; the Maqu wetland group, centred on this one, came first. From ground level you cannot see the sweep of it — bring a drone if you can.
The road back passes through Hezuo, the prefecture seat. On its outskirts stands the Milarepa Pavilion, a nine-storey tower about forty metres high, its nine levels standing for Milarepa’s nine years of ascetic practice. Inside, Buddhas, murals, thangkas and appliqué hang so densely there is almost no bare wall. You remove your shoes, walk clockwise, and don’t photograph the interior. The present building is a 1988 reconstruction; entry is 20 yuan.
What to eat: a bowl of yoghurt and a steamer of Tibetan buns
Food on the plateau is not refined, but it is honest.
The Tibetan bun is what people remember. Minced beef or mutton, mixed with salt and Sichuan pepper, wrapped in unyeasted dough and steamed until the skin is thin enough to show the filling through it, shaped like a treasure vase — locals also call it the “ox-eye bun.” Don’t bite straight into your first one. Sip the fat and juice out of the top first, or you will scald your mouth or spray your sleeves. In Xiahe they come with a dish of chilli paste.
Tsampa is the staple. A lump of butter in a bowl, hot tea poured over, then roasted barley flour, dried cheese curd and sugar, mixed by hand into a ball. Your first attempt will leave you covered in flour, but barley toast and buttered milk together are the most sustaining mouthful on the plateau.
Sweet fern rice is the first dish of any hospitable meal — rice and the tuber juema in equal halves, sugar scattered, butter liquid poured over, sweet without cloying. Hand-grabbed mutton goes into boiling water in big freshly cut pieces and comes out as soon as the blood sets, eaten with pepper-salt and raw garlic; Hezuo has the best reputation for it. Yak yoghurt is far thicker than anything in the city, with a skin on top and a blunt sourness that needs sugar to get down.
On Xiahe’s streets there is also Labrang bread — large, hard-crusted, dense inside, two or three yuan a loaf, and what locals actually eat every day. At this altitude water boils at seventy or eighty degrees, so rice comes out a little underdone. It isn’t the kitchen’s fault.
Getting there, sleeping there, watching yourself
Getting there. Lanzhou is the only gateway. Buses leave Lanzhou’s South Bus Station for Xiahe and Hezuo. Xiahe is about 240 kilometres, three to four hours, around 75 yuan — and tickets on this route cannot be bought online, only queued for at the window. Hezuo runs more frequently, every half hour. Hezuo to Xiahe is just over sixty kilometres, a bit over an hour. Within the prefecture there is essentially no public transport between sights; private cars or self-driving are the norm, and some stretches have no phone signal, so download offline maps beforehand. Xiahe has an airport, but few flights, and you still need a car from the terminal.
When to go. June to August for the greenest grass, and the rain; September and October for high skies and gold, the most comfortable window; November to April for cold and snow on some roads. During the first-month festival and Shanglang, rooms are scarce and expensive — book a month ahead.
Altitude. Xiahe is around 2,900 metres, Langmusi 3,300, Maqu above 3,600. On your first day: no shower, no exertion, no alcohol, drink water, walk slowly. Ibuprofen for headaches; glucose and a small oxygen canister cost little to carry. Rhodiola has to be started in advance — taking it on the morning you leave does nothing. If you have a cold, don’t go up.
Where to stay. In Xiahe, around Labrang, 200–600 yuan; Langmusi town has plenty of guesthouses, 150–500; guesthouses inside Zhagana vary a lot in quality and book out early in high season; Maqu county town has the fewest options. Prices roughly double in June–August and around National Day.
Manners. Prayer wheels, stupas and monastery circuits are all clockwise. In halls, remove your hat and shoes, don’t photograph the Buddhas, don’t use flash. Don’t touch children’s heads, don’t step on thresholds. At the sky burial site, no photographs, no noise, no approaching. Ask before photographing a monk; most will agree, and if they refuse, that is the end of it. Drones are banned in monastery areas.
One warning. Zhagana’s reservation rules, festival dates and bus timetables change often. Check the official WeChat account before you go, or simply ask your guesthouse owner — more reliable than any guide.
Gannan is not an easy place to travel. Long roads, high altitude, weather that turns without notice — sun, hail and rain in a single day. But because it is not easy, it has not been entirely smoothed flat. Walking from the pilgrim circuit at Labrang to the viewing platform at Zhagana, you pass grassland, monasteries, wetlands and stone peaks — and a great many ordinary people turning prayer wheels.
The plateau doesn’t give you answers. It just turns the volume down until you can hear yourself.