When I emerged from the dark grottoes of Dunhuang, my mind was reeling with images of Buddha , repeated over and over in vivid colors. In three hours it's as if we'd passed through several Sistine Chapels and experienced some of the most inspired art ever made. A.D. Wealthy merchants and pilgrims heading west on the Silk Road made donations to the monks here to paint grottoes dedicated to their God. For them it was like insurance against the dangers and evils of the Taklamakan that lay ahead. Outside the grottoes, busloads of tourists poured out like bees from a nest.
People hawked stuffed camels and Buddha key chains.
As I walked past them shaking my head, I noticed an old man in yellow robes standing as still and regal as Buddha himself. In his weathered hands he held shell beads which he shuffled as he prayed. I asked him how he felt about this Buddhist shrine becoming a visitor site, thinking he'd be disgusted. There is no conflict between learning and praying. A sparkling river ran along the foot of the cliff, its banks dense with poplars and willows.