The turn off for Sakya was a dirt road that veered through a desolate, eroding plateau dotted with tiny villages. We shared the road with roaming kettle, dogs, and kids. The latter were busing themselves with patching up pot holes in the road by filling them with dirt.
Here we also saw preparation of heating fuel for the winter – patties of yak dung were neatly arranged on rooftops and fences to dry.
Early in the morning we went to see the Sakya Monastery. A see of pilgrims clad in red were standing outside, since the gates were still closed, but dozens of Chinese workers were there since the break of down doing repairs to the Monastery’s walls, setting their pace to a tune they were singing. Ironic.
