9.29.2010
9.30.2010
In the morning I packed up my belongings in the hotel room and boarded the sleepy bus. We were heading for an overnight adventure into the mountains far beyond the city. The bus ride to our first destination was supposed to take three hours. I embraced the long ride and welcomed spending the morning looking out the window and listening to my iPod—one of my all time favorite past-times. In the morning light we passed by numerous Tibetan mountain villages. Most of the time the bus glided high above rooftops on the new freeway but sometimes the route was diverted through towns. The valleys that people lived in were carved by the most extraordinary glaciers at some point thousands of years ago. Looking out the window was made more interesting by examining the people that lived in the villages. Half the time the villagers were Tibetans—or Buddhist Tibetans—and the other half of the time people were Huar or Muslim Tibetans. Ethnologically the two peoples might look the same but culturally they live in different worlds. Huar people dress much different, with white caps for the men and black lace head pieces for the women; Tibetans in traditional threads have bright colors all over their clothes.
The bus made a pit stop on our first sight of the Yellow River. People snapped shots and pissed off the side of the cliff. Mostly the banks of the river were littered with garbage and the almost stagnant water below wasn’t anything majestic. After a bit we continued on, this time off the freeway and onto busy country roads. Now the villages were becoming far more interesting, mud huts populated with hard working Huar men in perfectly white hats and their families. The road was not only being used by cars but by businesses mixing paint, crushing wheat, selling fruit among other things. Abruptly the bus halted and I thought we were waiting on a shepherd to move his goats out of the road but really we had arrived at our lunch spot about an hour and a half early.
The group dismounted from the bus and climbed the hill to where the restaurant was. At the top of the hill each and every student slowly came to realize that we had just arrive at somewhere very special. The valley that we were in was freckled with beautiful orchards, free flowing streams, tiny little farms and quiet little houses. In the mountains on the other side of the valley there was a Buddhist monetary carved into the cliff side. On the near side range it was as if the mountains climbed forever into the heavens. Bare and without trees the only thing on the mud colored summit were the countless families of sheep wandering around and eating weeds.
It took a few minutes to collect my thoughts then I went around to talk with some of my friends. Two people had found a trio of baby goats that had wandered into the yard of the restaurant. They tried to pet the white chievs but the spasmodic creatures had retreated down the hill. When I joined them at the bottom of the hill two of the goats had forced their fat bodies through the wire fence. One was left and after five minutes it was completely panicking without its brother and sister. I got my two buddies, Hannah and Mike to help me corner the sorry kid and I grabbed him by the legs. He hollered at me a great deal but with one hoist I threw him over the fence and he ran off to find his lost goat siblings.
Soon after the goat liberation lunch was served in the restaurant’s garden. I found a table in the perfect Tibetan paradise and ate with about seven other people. The meal began with cold dishes, pickled vegetables and sampa—a Tibetan mush that you mix with your hands, then we had two kind of hot pots, mutton, dumplings and countless other dishes. It was by far the best and most delicious meal I have had so far in China. In the perfect afternoon I enjoyed tasty food and great conversation with my friends. After lunch we still had more time to explore around a little but and I toured the garden. I picked a few apples and sniffed some flowers then it was back on the bus.
After the beautiful village which no one could tell me the name of we headed now further into the mountains. Soon after we crossed the Yellow River again we ran across the Chinese cavalry who clogged up the road with a herd of horses. We came again to a bridge across the Yellow River and this time we stopped to get out and walk across. The unnaturally high green water looked beautiful in the thin mountain air. The bridge was decorated with prayer flags and when some vehicles would pass over they would chuck wallet sized prayers out their window for safe passage. At the end of the bridge I waited for the others to cross and talked about conspiracy theories with my tour guide.
I loved the clear mountain air but we had to move on. Now we left the Yellow River valley and drove into more sharp cliffs. The bus was swerving around tight winding corners and below white water rapids rushed in and out of rocks. This place was beautiful, as beautiful as it gets and then it occurred to me that this was the kind of place I have wanted to see since I wanted to start seeing places. To hell with Shanghai, this is the place.
Out of the cliffs we reached another plateau valley, this one was far more Tibetan than what we were just in. We reached our destination, place that specialized in making handmade thangkas. Inside a small house 35 Americans squeezed into a gallery that belonged to some local monks. There men in orange robes had made the some of the most extraordinary religious art the eye can imagine. Intricate designs colorful as can be. The price tag on these was more than what I had in my pocket and their religious importance was beyond comprehension for me to actually buy one.
Around the gallery was a monastery. I walked around it and soon knew that this was a very special place—it had golden towers. It was quiet and peaceful and I enjoyed walking around the grounds only listening to the wind.
Our next stop was at an orphanage that taught children how to paint thangkas. We went in and out of their galleries and discovered the level of detail in these pieces. All of the tapestries had images in them the size of fingernail. Impressed, we got to see the young artists in action, painting incredible works of art. After that we heard a brief explanation of the art form and I learned that the art of making thangkas is about 4,000 years old.
After the orphanage we headed to our hotel in the town of Rebkong (in Tibetan) or Tongren (in Chinese). Once settled in our simple Chinese accommodations I headed into town to get some food with some friends. We ate noodles at a place close to the small towns center. Everywhere we went we got stares from red faces, I’m not too sure many westerners make it out this far.
After dinner the whole group was invited to the home of a friend of our tour guide. In the traditional Tibetan compound we drank salty tea and ate sampa, yak yogurt, fried bread and these apple shaped pears. It was divine but I was already very stuffed. After the tea the host came around and invited us to tour the house. I was amazed when she showed us her kitchenware, the wooden bowls she used to serve us were literally one thousand years old! Much of the goods had been passed down from generation to generation and were still in use today—those are some serious antiques. It wasn’t warm high up in the mountains but we were warmly allowed into the home of these people.
Once back at the hotel some people wanted to go out and see what the nightlife in the small town was like. One of our tour guides took us into the city. Walking through the streets everything was dark, not a streetlight anywhere. This, I began to realize, was the China that my dad saw 20 years ago. We walked for 30 minutes and our guide lead us down a dark alley way and all of a sudden there was a Tibetan night club. Inside tacky lights and bad music made for a funny atmosphere. Elements of pop culture once thought of as forgotten about are alive and well in remote mountain cultures; fashions once thought to be buried in the 80s, disco tracks trapped in the 90s thrive in the mindsets of the peoples of Everest and the Andes like syrup stuck to the bottom of a plate. On the dance floor Tibetan men get down to these dead super trends.
The club was definitely a cultural experience but one can only take so much and after a few beers and few hours I leave with a friend and we poke through the streets to find our way back to the hotel. There I collapse in exhaustion.
The following day we are back at it early and head to Tongren’s central monetary. This was the most extensive religious compounds that we had yet discovered. We spent almost three hours going in and out of the various religious compounds statues of giant golden Buddha’s and blue gods, beautiful thangkas, child monks in orange robes memorizing religious texts and everywhere pilgrims. Inside the buildings everything smells of the burning yak butter candles and the simple smell of incense. Dust is everywhere cause everything is ancient but nothing really seems dirty. The people are the most interesting sights to me. I wanted to take pictures of the many pilgrims as they prostrate in front of their holy sites but out of respect I cannot do such a thing—even though my colleagues don’t seem to have this problem. Many of the pilgrims are nomads, they smell of yaks and they are very old. The female faces are ancient not only from another world, but another time. They leave offering after offering in front of the statues. I think to myself that there is nothing more pure than this place.
After the monastery we walked through the village and poke in and out of the shops by the religious sight. They are selling spiritual items—prayer flags, bells, thangkas—Kevin winds up buying monk robes. Soon we have to leave the city of Tongren and the army of monks that are everywhere. We head to our lunch spot in a distant village with a completely different ideological background. On the way we stop at a nomad settlement high up in the mountains beyond the tree line. We get out and head up into the grass lands where everything is covered in sheep shit. Out from one of the yurts come three American girls on their gap years. They describe their situation while complain about it at the same time. Some of my colleagues pay to ride horses but I opt to climb the hill to see what lies beyond. Everything lies beyond and the green hills continue forever it seems. I shoot some pictures at the top and pick some Tibetan edelweiss.
Back on the bus everyone smells like yaks and sheep manure and we continue on the road down to the valley bellow. There we stop at an elementary school where an army of children await us. At first the five, six, seven year olds are shy and run away from us. I give my edelweiss to the first three darlings I see. They accept them and then run off and hide. I headed to the soccer field and the American men take turns booting soccer balls as high as they can go. As the ball is sky rocketed the entire play field awes at how high the ball was shot up. All of a sudden there is so much love that was just created out of nothing. People are slow to get on the bus, as they resist leaving the cuteness of a hundred Tibetan school children behind.
Finally in the late afternoon we arrive at a restaurant to have lunch. They serve us noodles and the best mutton I have ever tasted—and the freshest, it was butchered that morning. The village we were in was one of the last Turk tribes to make it to China and everywhere there are sophisticated looking Chinese Muslims with perfectly white caps and combed white beards. The place is full of life and business is good in every shop I pass. Some stores sell smart phones or nice cloths others sell butchered lambs hanging intact or dried fruit. I buy some dates and a nice hunting knife. I didn’t want to leave this beautiful town where everything seemed to be going great but that is the nature of the road.
Now we are heading back to the city of Xining. Outside Huar life is unstoppably beautiful yet simple. This is a rugged place but pure and harmonious. The bus burns through potato farms and mud huts until we get back on the freeway. Arriving back into Xining I remember that this is the city with the most cranes one can imagine. The difference between the city and the rural life surrounding hit me in the face. The bus was now entering a people who based their priorities on materialistic ambitions and leaving a lifestyle that is based on spirituality. Funny what you might learn from getting out a bit.
After checking into the hotel I head out with some friends to get some food. We go to the opposite end of town where Bill’s bar lies and explore around a bit for a good bite. We end up at an expensive hot pot restaurant that serves us various animal innards in a spicy sauce. Not exactly what I wanted but it was an experience.
At Bill’s bar I socialize a bit and then I wind up as the bar’s DJ and I play beats until the cops come in and threaten to close the place down.
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