Between Drums and Trance: the Shaman Festival

The wind rolls over the dry plain like an invisible breath from the mountains. It is early in the morning and the air is heavy with anticipation. In a remote valley of Gansu, between dusty villages and an endless sky, people gather with prayer flags in hand and drums under their arms. It is the time of the shaman festival, an ancient ritual that blurs the boundaries between the world and the spirit realm.

What follows is not a performance, not a tourist attraction. This is a ritual, deeply rooted in a worldview where nature, humans, and spirit are one. The shaman dances – with sudden jolts, with still gestures – as if he is balancing on the edge of trance. The spectators follow breathlessly. An old woman closes her eyes, moving with the rhythmic wave of sound. "The spirits are close today," whispers a young monk next to me, as he offers a pinch of yak butter to the fire. "They are listening."

I feel small, privileged, a passerby in a world that rarely opens up to outsiders.

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