There is no English-lettered sign to invite one into the narrow gateway to an alley.  The stairs ascend, with but one turning about twenty steps up.  Services are on the third floor, reached by this long outside staircase.  I didn't discover that it was an active church until living here for half a year.  People I asked who 'knew' Kangding said they thought the church wasn't in use.

Because the road was still under construction and the travel time would be unpredictable - from one to four hours - I went up to Kangding on Saturday night in order to attend Mass Sunday morning at 9 a.m.  I had learned on earlier visits that the priest is a circuit riding priest who resides in Ganzi city. Kangding is a mission church, getting serviced once every six weeks or so.  For the other Sundays, a middle-aged woman who could be a nun plays the organ and reads the scripture for the service. 

When I stay in Kangding I prefer a Tibetan guesthouse where I am in a room with two beds, often alone, with my own bathroom and a quiet environment away from the heart of the small city.

This particular weekend, instead I stayed at the Black Tent for the same price.  It is a hostelry listed in the Lonely Planet backpackers guide.  Although my colleagues have stayed there, I never did because the more fastidious of them described the place as being quite dirty.  However, when last I was in Kangding it had changed hands and was being painted and cleaned up.  Because of that, and its proximity to the church, I decided to stay there this weekend.

At the Black Tent I was in a room with three others - two guys and a girl.  It is in the heart of the city, where the roar of the river is constant.  I heard voices and traffic all night. The toilet was down outside stairs and at the end of a hall.  The sink was in the hallway, which also gave entrance to the kitchen and the innkeepers quarters. 

My roommates, the backpackers, invited me to have dinner with them.  I decided to join them, being hungry more for English-speaking companionship than food.  They relied on me and my smattering of Mandarin to show them Kangding.  They had already been there a few nights, but still felt lost.  These travelers had been lured here by Lonely Planet with a promise of the annual fire ritual on the mountaintop, performed by monks.  They had fallen victim to SIPS (SARS induced panic syndrome); the festival had been cancelled.  They were at a loss for further entertainment.

I took them to a restaurant, ordered something which didn't turn out to be what I expected, and then took them folk dancing.  Through their eyes I saw a town that doesn't speak English, that has no tourist information center, where friendly faces make you welcome with smiles and gestures but can't answer your most basic questions.

While the world slept in, I woke the innkeeper to unlock the door and headed to 9 a.m. Mass.  After the priestless service in Chinese, I started down the long stairway.  At the second floor landing some ladies milling about motioned me to enter.  I discovered that below the church there was a rectory of sorts, with a large kitchen.  We sat on wooden benches that lined the wall. The bench seats were open-slatted.  There were a couple of  wooden tables with narrow benches, painted glossy black.  I could hear activity coming from inside the kitchen.  We drank Tibetan tea in small enamel bowls.

After about five cups of that, a pot of rice came out. One lady, in traditional Tibetan clothing and with a welcoming smile, brought out a dish of liang fen, cold congealed rice broth dressed with vinegar, sesame oil and hot sauce, cut into long square 'noodles'.  Another lady brought out a soup pot of fish, tomatoes and tofu, nicely flavored.

Waiting for the food I wandered into the kitchen.  There I saw a poster with a large picture of the Pope. My understanding is that the Chinese government permits the Catholic Church to exist in China only as long as it renounces any connection to Rome. Bishops are not appointed in Rome, therefore priests are ordained by bishops who no longer can trace their line of succession back to Saint Peter. Finding the picture of the Pope felt like finding a contraband picture of the Dalai Lama in a Tibetan home, behind closed doors.

As a linguist, it was a treat to sit amongst these women, none younger than 60, listening to their chatter. It occurred to me that they were alive when those same French explorers stayed at this same mission.  I wished I had the language to ask them about that. I heard a lot of Tibetan words peppering their Sichuanese. My meager Mandarin wasn't very useful, except for the simplest of phrases. They were content to have me share in the fellowship. Never mind we couldn't converse. They wove me in and out of their conversations. With their smiles and gestures, they made me feel welcome.

Kangding is a city for people watchers. It is still a trading post for the Tibetans in the outlying areas. Women in sheepskin lined ankle-length robes walk by with maroon cheeks where the wind and sun shamelessly kissed them without letup. They sit on street corners selling butter pressed into large yak bladders. They are dressed for the city, their waist-long hair braided, the two braids tied at the ends, looped, and then slipped over the crown of the head like a wreath.

Ornaments are entwined in their braided wreaths, of turquoise-encrusted silver rings, bloodstone, yellow opal. Bejeweled silver earrings are hooked in the earlobe, but cotton twine loops over the ear to share the load. Their waists are heavily draped with embossed silver discs, and with amulets that hold precious relics, pictures or prayers to ensure their safety, and further hunks of semi-precious stones. The men have strong, swarthy faces, and long hair. Ornately molded silver sheaths protrude from the woven cloth wrapped around their waist, knives ready to slice off a piece of dried yak meat for lunch, or avenge an offense.

The Kangding Love Song is well-known throughout China, and is the lure for many domestic tourists. It sings the beauty of pao ma shan, the mountain peak that soars 1,000 feet above the city, crowned with a Tibetan monastery and stupa scraping the clouds from the heavens. t is a song with simple lyrics and a melody like a zephyr stirring the fir trees to dance. It is a sweet image, belying the rugged past and culturally uncertain future of this little city in transition.

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