Litang at 4100m in the high Tibetan grasslands. Brown hills rising over flat-topped roofs, dust swirling in the streets. Nomads on motorbikes with long wild hair, gold teeth, greasy shearling jackets hanging off their shoulders. A fine market with fruit, butchered meat, dry goods, shoes and clothes. Police, of course, everywhere.

The old quarter of town up on the north edge of the city still feels like Tibet, unreconstructed or improved. I wander the dirt streets behind houses with outer walls of mud and straw, old women spinning prayer wheels at small temples along the way. The Gelugpa monastery at the top of the hill is all new, bricks and lumber still piled around the courtyard. This is China: everything is in the process of being built.

More touristy than expected, Litang, with signs in English on the main street and a few westerners in my hostel. They hold sky burials here still west of town. From here on the road turns north, deeper into Kham.