I get up at sunrise. Some white water birds fly over my head. They love the marsh grass beside the water. They are like sea gulls. Then it's goodbye to Panggong Lake. Two grinning guys ride donkeys over yonder into a huge, flat meadow. People and animals, horses, sheep and yaks spot the landscape as far as the eye can reach. Space is so gigantic here. Elation.

Being a tiny, embodied organism is a wonder intimately related to conceiving freedom: we can move around and enjoy it.

Some villages lie across the plain. But the main road crosses a ridge to Rutok, administrative center for northwestern Tibet. I go for a look around the market. Little shops under a sky-lit square sell clothes, toys, food, tools, medicine - something for everyone. There's a big, empty space in the middle of the market, as if waiting to be filled up with something - maybe that's only on the weekend. You can buy most practical things in the market: clothing and food. My survival basics include pork wieners, sugary wheat biscuits, slabs of Shanghai chocolate, army issue biscuits made of flour, sugar and pork fat, some raisins and nuts, and a few packages of noodle soup. Plenty to keep me going. People here smile. They're curious but shy.

What else is there to say about Rutok? It's a hybrid Chinese fortress and Tibetan town. The native quarter is made of low homes, smaller than Tibetan country houses, uniformly crowded together along narrow paths. Across the road, the Chinese have built many compounds with high walls. Some of these places contain clean, modern new administrative offices. Ten brick hothouses are growing fresh vegetables.

Another army convoy drives in and stops for a break here. I have a chance to say hello and look closely at one of their Steyr trucks... All the instructions under the cowl are written in Chinese characters. Unless the army requested Chinese writing on this machinery, a branch plant probably turned these out. I don't say anything much to the soldiers, except to say, "Nice trucks, made in China..."

The road above Rutok climbs into a steep ravine beside a fast alpine river. Earthen formations are like heaps of wet sand mingled with cracked rocks. The so-called road is an intolerable mess. I bob up and down over rocks as big as footballs. A land cruiser passes. Two middling American fellows gawk at my slowpoke figure. They stare so hard, as if they can't believe they're seeing a real guy riding a bike. Since I'm not worried, I can't help but grin. Like National Geographic-type pros, they appear stoic-looking and shell-shocked in the same instant. I pass a well-kept agricultural research station strung along the river. They're growing several varieties of grain, even rice, in little plots by the rippling stream.

I did not rest at Rutok because I have a special destination in mind: I plan to camp beyond Risum township at the Paleolithic site of Rimotang. I need to arrive before the sun sets. So I press on, finally reaching Risum. The Nomads live here because the ravine broadens into a grazing meadow. It's a busy day in this hamlet. Several market trucks, owned by Tibetans, have brought wares to the Nomads. Food and drink mostly. Two young women walk by with an older man, their father perhaps. He carries something newly purchased. All three grin broadly, especially the daughters. What has the Nomad man bought? A strip of photoelectric cells on top of a blue metal tool box, which contains a battery charger, or some electronic gizmo like a transformer. Has he spent a fortune or made a bargain? Why such a grin? Maybe they're the first ones in the pasture with solar cells and can use their radio all the time now.

I notice a wall round some Tibetan dwellings and Chinese style offices. The high walls have jagged pieces of broken glass stuck on them to discourage scaling, certainly not a very Tibetan tradition.

Then, I'm racing against the sun for photos. This afternoon, the sun is untouched by clouds. With a bottle of beer and some biscuits, I cross a long causeway over marsh and river. At the end sits a small army camp. Nearby, the soldiers practice shooting.

I'm looking for Rimotang. It's supposed to be right here. What is it? A few thousand years old, it's classed as prehistoric. It lives in the rocks just ahead and above this bubbling fresh-water spring. A hairy man-like creature seldom seen by anyone? Nope. Rimotang is a series of petroglyphs carved in the rock face above the road. I see it! I snap some bright sunset shots of the entrancing figures chiseled into very hard rock, a red-hued schist.

The images include organic ones: animal and human, as well as symbolic, ideal forms. Of the animal and human forms there appear, even to an untrained eye, two basic style sets. One set was carved at a much earlier date than the others. The early images depict very simple "stick" animals and human figures. The more recent set of carvings depict very fantastically stylized representations of animals. You will notice the difference between two examples below...

Bon religion and cosmology predates the advent of Buddhism in Tibet by thousands of years. Let's look at the "Bon Cosmic Egg." This special and peculiar symbol carved into the cliff face, neither animal nor vegetable, may be classed among the earlier carvings at Rimotang. There are two versions of the "Cosmic Egg" at the site. One looks much like a newly divided zygote: the two cells cling to one another. The second version shows a more boxy egg...

It is widely believed that these bipolar images depict an integral part of Bon's cosmology of creation. These fascinating representations of pre-creation are intended, by all appearances, to show the first state of our world. All things come from this "Cosmic Egg" according to the Bon tradition. Look how they recall scientific representations of molecules and atoms.

The early animal images depict hunters in pursuit of game. As in the case of petroglyphs discovered in other places, both creatures are elementary: the most basic linear forms represent the living shape...

Several more recent carvings showing much less wear evoke the ibex and antelope...

Of course, it's easy to speculate, but very difficult to ascertain precise knowledge of prehistoric dates. The evidence stands out to anyone who actually visits this site: some, but not all, of the stick style images are carved more deeply into the surface of the stone, notably, the Bon "Cosmic Egg." Yet, at the same time, these simpler images evidence signs of erosion - much more than the stylized animal images. Yet, these new-looking animals are not so deeply etched into the stone. Therefore, it's reasonable to presume the carvings were made in stages, over a span of hundreds and even thousands of years. Quite possibly, there were three or more groups of carvers. But it may be impossible to say if those who carved the bipolar images of the "Egg" came before or after the carvers of the weathered, robe-wearing men and their game animals...

Directly below the rock carvings, mineral water bubbles from under the Earth. The water is pure and absolutely clear. You can drink it without filtering. It flows from under the images of an enduring culture. It's a thrill to see. What is a single life but a cup of water? This small stream has enriched an eon of life, an ocean issuing from the deepest womb of our planet. Long I look at the springing water, and I feel how purely nature inspires humanity with intelligence and the wish to procreate. Nature wants us to pass understanding to all the people who will come after us. Surely, the rock carvers felt the same, hundreds and thousands of years ago...

Numerous tiny rivulets feed the marsh. The water is so small and tufted grass overgrows it. I splash across. Beyond is a sharp contrast, a circle of baked sand. Hardy thistles crossed with a succulent pop up among the grass and cracked sand. I pitch my tent. A group of Nomad tents are encamped within imagination's distance of the rock carvings.

I'm too tired to venture over and say hello; besides, maybe the Nomads don't want much to be bothered by the likes of a foreigner like me. I drink the beer I bought at Risum, smoke and write. It's a chilly night. Two or three days more to Ali town. My hands are too dry. My thumb tips are coming apart at the corner of each nail. I need cold cream. I'm a soft city boy. My semi-cleanliness is pretty good compared to the unwashed mess most Nomads endure. They're used to being grubby, but I'm not. My dry hands feel like old parchment.

The next day almost erases itself - and me. Up to higher ground. Recklessly fast truckloads of Chinese soldiers tumble past me. I'm nearly sideswiped by a psychotic bozo. I shout a few ripe curses after the army truck. Finally, I reach a flat place on the way over to the Indus Basin, less than 100 kilometres from the town of Ali. I stop to rest by some yurts, but do not ask for food. The intense heat of late morning makes the goat turds smell sweet and musty. I eat my biscuits. Outside one of the yurts, there's a lady and her friend, and they aren't so friendly and don't permit me inside. I see that they have a pair of binoculars. Apparently, they're the local equivalent of busybodies - and they like to know exactly who's coming and going. I grin painfully at fate even as these cruel ladies remind me, once again, that somebody else gets let in while I'm left out: even Nomads can be mean in English. But really now, I don't care who wins or loses anymore. That's all absolutely meaningless to me.