In Litang, the spiritual heart of the Tibetan resistance in Kham, there are legends of Rara Gyata: the warrior who fought 500 battles against the Chinese only to be betrayed and murdered by the Nepalese while operating in and out of the border with Tibet.

Of all the resistance fighters from Kham -- the infamous Khampas of modern day western Sichuan -- Rara is the only one all can agree upon. Organizing Khampas is like herding cats. They roll through the mountains on ponies or motorbikes sporting huge shades, gold teeth, long black braids, silver danglin' and huge Khampa daggers sticking out of their chupas (all purpose cloaks).

In the summers, they cruise up and down the strip in towns like Tagong and Ganzi, flashing smiles and making the Tibetan women weak in the knees. Western women have been known to fall for their macho alluring charms, only to be left holding a boisterous half-breed as the Khampa disappears into the hills.

Unity is a far lesser priority than straight up pimping (in the wholistic sense). But Rara managed to do it. His name is spoken differently throughout Kham -- from Litang to Dege, where the monks make scriptures all day and down past Daocheng, where Rock found Shangri-La -- Rara is pronounced in a hundred different dialects.

But his exploits remain the same:

"He took twenty bullets at the battle of Litang and shot down a plane with his rifle"
"He rode his horse for a week to meet up with all of his men, spread out across the plateau, and led them in a battle against the Chinese near Kangding"
"He killed a thousand Chinese in one battle"
"He was the first of the Khampas to be trained by the CIA and never lost a battle after he returned to Nepal to carry out cross-border raids"
"Women loved him, men wanted to be him (standard)"
"When Rara smiled, all of us were happy, when he frowned, we were all anxious"

I first heard these stories from Baba, an old Tibetan guerilla who hangs out in a western restaurant in Chengdu, drinking cheap red wine and watching CNN. I went to Litang and asked around. The only man who could tell me anything about Rara was another old man, with white hair and a paralyzed face. The cops beat him down one day, leaving him unable to speak and suffering from chronic headaches. As compensation they bought him a concrete house inthe fields outside of Litang, where his wife and daughters take care of him.

On his mantleplace he has a small black and white picture of a Khampa nomad. The picture is grainy and faded, but the man is clearly a warrior. His rifle is propped against his heel and his massive dagger is as long as his arm. His chupa is lined with yak fur and his braids jingle across time. He is short and he wears a bemused tilt to his warrior expression. I imagine what happened before and after this picture was taken. The old man's daughter speaks up:

"My father says he fought with Rara when he was a boy. No man was braver. He was a true Khampa warrior."

I look over at the old man for confirmation and his eyes shine through the dim lights left behind by the beating and he breaks into a wicked smile. Inspite of myself, I step back from the lame old man in fear.