China -

n 1964 an anthropologist called Michael Piessel made his way to a sleepy town high in the mountains of western Sichuan Province. Here he met the Khampa, a fiercely independent and proud nomadic race who made their living herding livestock across the vast, barren grasslands.

The Khampas stood a good six feet in height, … wore great heavy boots and flowing khaki robes that flapped like whips as they walked, advancing with their feet slightly apart as if to trample the grass to extinction. … Unlike Tibetans of Lhasa, their features were not Mongoloid, but straight, with large fierce eyes set beside beak-like noses, and long hair braided and wound around their heads, giving them a primitive allure. (taken from Tibet Handbook by Gyurme Dorje, published by Footprint Handbooks, 1999)

Since Piessel's time, the Khampa have changed little and, with a view to compiling a portfolio of portraits, I set out to visit one of the largest gatherings of these Tibetan people – the Litang horse racing festival. At 4,680 metres, nights in Litang are cold and clear. And, when I arrived, the sky above the snow-capped peaks was ablaze with stars. Inside a local restaurant a group of monks sat side-by-side with a group of American tourists clad in Gortex apparel; one flicking the channel on the small TV perched precariously on a rickety table – cross-country alpine skiing was the choice for the night. A mobile phone rang. A hand slipped discreetly into a crimson robe. Outside a jeep roared by in a cloud of dust, flicking flashes of crimson through the grimy window. In the settling dirt a young boy swung a sling round and round, shepherding a nervous herd of yak down the main street. It was the night before the start of the festival and the town was abuzz with local Khampas stocking up for their weeklong festivities, latecomers searching for an empty bed, and revellers starting the party early.

The descent to Litang earlier in the day had given me a spectacular view of the valley. On the right sat the town itself and the Chode Monastery climbing the hillside. And, on the left, was a sea of tents stretching into the distance. The excitement on the bus was palpable – passengers pushing to take in the view, chatting and laughing, all anticipating a week of high spirits and the meeting of old friends against a backdrop of stampeding horses and whooping riders. Ethnic Tibetans had travelled from all over the plateau, from Qinghai, from Sichuan, from Tibet – arriving on horseback, in trucks, vans and wagons pulled by spluttering tractors – for this ancient display of horsemanship and bravado, mixed in with plenty of trading, drinking and general celebrations.

The next day, the first day of the festival, several kilometres down the valley, the air was hushed and expectant. A slight drizzle fell but it didn't seem to dampen the spirits of the spectators. No one seemed to notice; everyone's heads were craned, looking northward up the valley. In the distance a group of riders were approaching. Not a small group, but several dozen – more perhaps – one hundred, maybe even two. The sound of the hooves got louder, the crowd surged forward, everyone desperately trying to get a good view. Several unfortunate young policemen who had been given the duty of crowd control were on the verge of a nervous breakdown. In high spirits the crowd teased and taunted them as they unsheathed their belt buckles, but only hysterical laughter broke out as the spectators dodged the policeman's blows. And, it was just a minor side show, more importantly the shouts of the riders had been heard and the crowd joined them in an ululating cry. Suddenly, like a crashing wave, the riders were upon us, thundering down the centre of the tent encampment.

The horse festival tradition in the Kham areas of eastern Tibet date back to the 15th century when riders would proudly display their skills, including speed-racing, stooping from galloping steeds to pick up silk scarves from the ground and twirling Tibetan muskets around their shoulders before shooting at targets on the ground. Today many of the events remain the same, with impromptu wrestling and tug-o-war matches breaking out between bursts of folk song and dance. And all around a brisk trade in all sorts of items is being conducted while copious amounts of beer, chang and hard liquor are consumed.

I had pitched my tent in with the nomads and, waking on the third day, I unzipped it to a group of curious young boys. They inquired about the cost of my camera equipment. I quoted a four-figure number in dollars and was asked if I wanted to exchange it for several pieces of ornate coral jewellery, which they assured me were of the same value. I declined – they grinned mischievously and laughed, before racing off across the muddy ground on their rusty old bikes. Riders were still arriving from town, sitting astride dust-coated motorcycles, looking at the world through pairs of dark sunglasses. Groups of dance performers started to practice their routines on the dew-covered grass, a mother walked past with her young son, barely visible beneath his elaborate costume, his walk stilted under the weight of the lavish jewellery.

I looked down later from the hill above the valley, smoke rose in spirals from the cooking tents and a soft mist hung above the grasslands beyond. I watched the sun rise slowly over the sea of tents and the lush grass of the valley dotted with pools of turquoise water – it was definitely worth the journey, if only for a few days.

At any other time of year Litang is a small peaceful place. A dusty one-street township used by nomadic herdsman to stock up on goods – copper pots, silverware, blankets, saddles, ropes, grain, rice and fresh vegetables. It is part of the 'wild west' of China, waking only once a year to the shouts of the riders, the rumbling of the earth and the pounding of horses' hoofs, as Tibetan cowboys – seemingly from another era – display equestrian skills to the cheers of the crowd.

And it is the faces in these crowds, the costumed spectators – decked out in their finest attire – who leave the deepest impression. A pair of rosy cheeks, a tilted hat above a dazzling smile, a calm gaze framed by long glossy black hair, a nervous performer arranging her coral-and-turquoise-studded jewellery. Faces captivating in their beauty, faces of people enjoying a brief celebration of life before they return to the hardship of their everyday existence in the rugged regions of western China.