Mighty Thimphu

Mighty Thimphu
November 23rd 2010
In the morning Yuri and I made breakfast in our cold apartment. We were surprised to learn that the major river that runs through the city of Thimphu was right outside. Soon we were out the door and on the tour bus of our hosts. They were taking us and the rest of the Wheaton students on an adventure around the city of Thimphu. It seems I had arrived on the right day.
The bus drove for about 45 minutes to the university that was in the mountains surrounding the city. There we were early And because I was not allowed into the women’s dorm I walked out the area around Yuri’s place. I watched as students hustled to their morning class dressed in traditional outfits. After a little while, Yuri emerged shinning in a Bhutanese Kira and we met the other Wheaties on the bus.
Our first stop took us to a traditional paper making studio in Thimphu. We saw how the stuff was made and then we wandered around the gift store purchasing the sacred material. The grainy white sheets are perfect for the painting of Thangkas—painted depictions of Buddhist scriptures and mantras.
The sky around the small South Asian city were clear and cool. Our next stop took us to a museum of Thangkas. As we exited the bus our guide Tsewang reminded us that it was forbidden to prostrate in this museum—a funny warning I thought to myself.
Inside the museum was a collection of the most precious painted thangkas in all of Bhutan. The items had been exhibited (or were planning on making the trip, I couldn’t quite tell) at the San Francisco museum of Asian Art. I walked around the space with Yuri as my guide. She told me the meanings of many of the thangkas and I asked questions about Buddhism as a whole. Toward the end of the line I noticed that some of the Bhutanese visitors to the museum could not contain themselves and started throwing themselves at the statues of the Buddha. The guards did not stop anyone; they just stood there waving incense that thickly invaded the room.
Outside in the sunshine a group of dancers practiced a dragon dance that it was said they learned in Japan. They were preparing for a festival that was still months away.
I was getting desperate for lunch but we still had a stop to go. This time we ended up at the artisanal school where students about my age learn how to make traditional Bhutanese crafts. We went from building to building watching young people carve masks, sculpt with clay, weave textiles, paint thangkas and even shape silver. The rooms of skilled focused workers seemed to never stop. On the walls were slogans along the lines of “gross domestic happiness should be more sought after than gross domestic product” and “you must teach a student so he can help society.”
Lunch came a little late for my appetite but eventually we found ourselves spooning curry and chilly in cream sauce onto beds of rice. Before all of that I went with some Wheaton guys to try and buy a license plate at a store that displayed some in the window. The store turned out to be some sort of print/fax place that happened to make plates. When we asked how much they were the shop keep said that he would just give it to us.
After lunch we headed to a large neighborhood shrine in the middle of the city. The mid-afternoon haze had cleared and the sun was shining as we passed around the stupa and spun prayer wheels. The scenes of ancient Bhutanese women praying was simply stunning. Many elderly people were circumambulating the religious center of the grounds.
Back on the bus we headed to the top Thimphu where the world’s largest statue of the Buddha was being constructed. As we climbed into the thin air my altitude sickness was getting worse. At the top I looked for a spot to relieve myself and in so doing found a remarkable vantage point of the city of Thimphu. Yuri and I took some pictures of the beautiful golden Buddha glimmer in the sunshine.
At city level we were given a break from the tour grind and I escaped with Yuri and her close friend Sarah to a café across from the bank. I had an espresso which beat out my headache and gave me more energy to continue on the day trip. Yuri and Sarah walked me around the tiny downtown area of Thimphu and we ended up at an archery ground watching the daily matchup.
Archery is Bhutan’s national sport and many men spend a few hours a day competing with their team or practicing amongst friends. At this archery ground I could see semi-drunk Bhutanese taunting the other team with war dances. It looked very difficult to shoot such a long ways but it seemed that they had high quality bows and arrows.
The final touristy stop of the day was perhaps the most significant: the national dzong. A dzong is a religious and governmental fortress that is the most important building in the region. This one was particularly important and that is why Yuri had to wear a traditional kira with an ornamental sash. Along the way guards asked her questions in the regional language, to which she replied: “I’m sorry I don’t speak dzongka, I’m Japanese.”
Inside the monastery was a huge statue of Buddha adorned with offerings and yak butter candles. The atmosphere was peaceful and quiet—the monks had already finished their rituals for the day. Outside Tsewang explained some of the importance of this monastery and how it fits into to the larger scheme of things and Yuri and I took photographs of the monstrosity.
Our tour guide left us early to meet with the queen mother next door at her palace and the remnants of the Wheaton group headed to dinner. There we stuffed our faces to capacity with spicyness. My friend Sonam met us at dinner. She was my friend from Wheaton who got me the right documents to travel to Bhutan. After the meal I went with Yuri, Sarah and Sonam to have a drink at a nearby bar. After the bar Yuri and I headed back to the apartment.

To the Top

November 22nd 2010

In the morning the air and the sky were both clear and the jagged mountains hung over the earthly little village of Paro. My friends and I ate a generous breakfast at the hotel then waited around for a taxi to come and collect us. Today was the day we were to climb to the Tiger’s Nest.
Once the taxi arrived it was a 20 minute drive to the foot of the mountain. For Yuri, Devin and Lina who had been there for four months, Bhutan was already starting to look ordinary but for me everything was new and different. I peered out onto the shrubby rice paddies, the migrant workers working on the road and was impressed when we crossed a bridge that was completely covered in prayer flags.
At the foot of the mountain the trail began immediately and the climb was steep and muddy. We stopped almost every 100 meters to take pictures of religious graffiti, religious signs and a prayer wheels—a prayer wheel where if you were to spin the wheel it would have the same effect of saying a prayer. One prayer wheel was powered by hydro energy—it was a mill connected to a stream—so it was constantly praying.
We took a shortcut up the half of the mountain which was a great deal steeper but faster. At the end of the short cut there was a café where we sat and had milk tea. There we met a couple from Colorado and shot pictures. Upon leaving the students who had been living in Bhutan were appalled by how expensive the tea was—about 5 usd a person.
The next portion of the climb began to get much more interesting in terms of scenery. We passed by shrines, endless prayer flags, prayer wheels, dogs, donkeys and all the while we were coming closer to the monastery Tiger’s Nest. On the way I climbed through this crevice in a the mountainside which promised to forgive all of my worldly sins if I could make it through. It was a little difficult because it was a 3x2 hole but somehow I made through to the other side. After a little more walking we came to a bridge over a waterfall that was covered in prayer flags. In the exceptional beauty of that moment I was certain I was in Bhutan. After crossing the bridge we came to the gates of the monastery.
At the monastery we left our possessions at the door and soaked up the beauty of the extraordinary temple alters. When we entered the first temple Yuri went front and center and prostrated in front of the Buddhist deity. The temples were bright in oranges and reds; they were well kept by the robbed monks who wandered around the premise. There were a couple of pilgrims praying in front of the alters. The place smelled like smoky incense and yak butter candles. We peered into a few more prayer rooms and then headed back down to the earth.
It took us almost two hours to get to the bottom of the hill where our driver from earlier was waiting for us. The taxi took us back to the hotel where we got refreshed and collected our stuff to head for Thimphu, the capital city where Yuri and the rest of the Wheaton tribe live.
The drive to Thimphu was about an hour and a half and because we followed a cascading river below reminded of the drive from Ukiah Ca. to Healdsburg and following the Russian River. By the time we were on the outskirts of Thimphu, on Bhutan’s only freeway, the sun had set. We headed into the city to meet the rest of the Wheaties for dinner. At a small pizza joint right off the main street I was united/reunited with some Wheaton students, a Wheaton professor and the visiting parent of a Wheaton student.
The Wheaton students discussed logistics and academic matters at dinner. This was their last week in Bhutan and they had many arrangements to meet. After dinner Yuri and I headed to where we hoped I was staying for night. Yuri had asked a friend/tour guide if I could home stay with his family for a few nights but he had never reconfirmed so we were unsure if the deal was still happening. When we arrived at Tsewang’s house (the tour guide friend) we were greeted by his wife and children who showed us to our own apartment on the complex. Inside there was anything and everything we might need—breakfast, beds, computer etc. We were very happy with our set up and comfortable even in the cold Himalayan night.

The Most Amazing Flight of My Life

November 20th and 21st 2010

The sad, sloppy North American and Australian faces are fixated on the China/Japan soccer game. All of them businessmen, and in their jet lag slump I imagine they are thinking about the only interesting aspect of this game: determining if the players are male or female. This is what is happening in Shanghai’s busiest international airport in the early Saturday evening.
I arrived at Pudong International Airport four (yes 4) hours early in nervous preparation of my journey to Bangkok and then Bhutan. In my free time I wander around the airport and eat crusty airport food that tastes like it was heated up by extinguished cigarettes. Experiencing the airports gloom reminds me of all the shitty flying adventures I have had traveling back to my home country. Luckily, I am not one of the sorry specimens; I am going on the trip of my recent dream.
After what seemed like an eternity of waiting, I boarded a dirty Chinese airliner and took my seat by the window. The stress of making connections withers away as the plane takes off on time. I sleep most of the four hour flight to Bangkok and wake up in one of the biggest airports in the world. In Bangkok I have to get my passport stamped and enter the country with my checked bags to re-check into my next flight on the Bhutanese airliner. As fate would have it the Druk Air check in opened at 5am and it was now close to 2am. I stepped over hordes of sleeping backpackers, found a simple Thai café, discovered the phenomenon of Thai coffee and read my McCarthy western.
After what seemed like a second eternity I was able to check my bags and get my visa OKed. I went through security and fell into a sea of blonde skinned adventurers fresh from their South East Asian excursions. Some more airport wandering and then I confined myself to waiting at the gate about an hour before the flight was set to depart. I looked around at the groups of Bhutanese nationals, Nepalese migrants, American, Japanese and Scandinavian tourists all eager to get to the kingdom in the clouds. Come boarding time, we took a bus to the small Airbus A319 on the tarmac. I took my seat next to the window and met my Bhutanese seat mates who were returning to their country from a telecom convention in Hong Kong.
By the time the plane was screaming down the runway my heart was throbbing with the force of a 367 horse power turbo charged whip, I’m not sure if I’ll faint or throw up or just not make it through customs without a stretcher—I’m too excited. When we are airborne the flight attendants serve me curry breakfast in their traditional outfits. I sleep a little bit but am woken up when the plane begins a descent.
On the ground of the plane’s first stop I peer out into the undeveloped rustic village we just landed in—it looks like Mowgli’s village in Jungle book. I clarify with my seat mates that we are in southern and to my surprise they inform me that Bagdogra is actually in India. I was in India!
After some tourists and Bhutan’s richest man got off the plane we jet into the open air. When the plane gets out of cloud cover I notice out my window that the earth is still above us. The gargantuan peak to the east is Everest!
Soon the plane begins its second and final decent into Bhutan. The pilot seems to search for the right valley mixed up in the jagged, mountainous terrain bellow. Then we fly over the airport about 3000 feet off the ground. We circle once all the while descending in order to approach the airstrip. The airliner nearly scrapes against the trees bellow before touchdown. The brakes slam us to a halt and I have reached Bhutan.
When the flight was deplaned many tourists got out to snap shots of the plane that just made it. I don’t, not because I don’t have a camera but I am eager to get into the country. I get in the tourist line but after an inspector sees my papers I am redirected to the diplomat only section. It takes forever to get through but after a 20USD fee I am in. I make my way through the tiny airport and outside to the greeters. There is this girl with a worried face scanning the recent arrivals when I walk right outside the door I hear ”Oh!” It takes a second to realize the face I have not seen for seven months but when I do Yuri greets me with a long awaited kiss.
I am also greeted by two Wheaton students Devin and Lina. Together we go into the town of Paro, check into our hotel and then we all go out to eat lunch. We spend the day exploring Paro, the neighboring teaching school and the region’s dzong. At every corner I am thoroughly intrigued by beauty and the wonder of a distant and beautiful kingdom. All day long I can’t hide a smile that has been hiding in my soul for too long. I am in Bhutan I kept telling myself.

Nanjing and its coincidences

October 28, 29,30 2010
The weekend getaway came at the right time: I needed a break from Shanghai’s city lights and I had to clear my head to make an important decision.
In the days before going to Nanjing my global education advisor came to visit Kevin and I here in China. He took us out to lunch on a Tuesday afternoon and then asked me if I wanted to join him touring the Shanghai School of Economics and Finance—they have a study abroad option. I took the afternoon to go with the Dean because I had planned to attend this program next semester. In the two hours or so I spent at SUFE I realized that this program was could be a pitiful mistake—I had to make a choice: stay at Fudan and do independent research or head to SUFE.
At dinner that night—the Dean took Kevin and I to a fancy restaurant downtown—I told my advisor that I did not like the SUFE program and I might opt for something else. His advice was figure it out fast. Kevin and I took our guest to see the sights around Shanghai and later that night I wrote and email to my academic advisor at Wheaton asking her what I should do. In the morning I received an email saying that I need to find my own independent research topic and advisor—I needed a Chinese professor. But how was I going to find this over the weekend?
So here is the trip to Nanjing:
Barely being able to get up after the lash the night before I find my feet packed the bare minimum of necessities in my backpack and headed out to the streets for a morning cracker sandwich. Waiting for the bus and the other 30 odd students and stragglers to show I up I talk baseball with my buddies—after all it was the first game of the world series in San Francisco.
One dud joked with me while we waited for the bus to come: “if the Giants are in the world series you should be stealing someone’s iphone to read updates, I know if the Cubs were in the series I would do that.” “we both know that you will never have to live up to that wager because the bubs will never get into the series”
Finally the bus comes and we all pile in and I see that a professor that I have never seen before was to join us on the trip, Professor Shu. In the process I almost forgot my passport.
The peace of a cloudless sky was first enjoyed in Shanghaiese traffic on a rooftop freeway. When we got to the train station the sleek granite was covered in sharp morning sunlight. Inside the clean and efficient Asian train station finding the right platform was a simple straight shot. We boarded our Japanese made bullet train (a Shinkansen) and it left the train station with mathematical precision.
I fought for the last window seat in the hemisphere and watched the world float by as the train accelerated to infinity. At 210mph the train sprinted through the world of new; buildings, farms factories, power plant and homes, all brand new and spotless. Almost as if the residents of these places woke up one morning with a brand new suburb.
We stop in Wuxi, which all I can remember about the place is that it was where the companies of both DJ (my sister’s boyfriend) and Nate (my cousin) have development laboratories. Forty five minutes later we are in Nanjing.
We are greeted by a Chinese guide equipped with flag and loudspeaker—ew. On the bus ride to our welcoming feast he informs us that Nanjing literally means southern capital and is one of the historic capitals of China. We eat lunch and I realize that I love Nanjing food because they serve cold, salted duct at every meal. I also learn that I don’t like stinky tofu. I have tried an eaten everything in China but stinky tofu smells exactly like cow manure and I can’t imagine it tasting much different.
After lunch we head to the tomb of Sun Yet Sen. We climb the up to his neo-roman mausoleum and take pictures of ourselves and the hordes of Chinese political pilgrims. We keep exploring to find that Sun Yet Sen’s burial site is more of a patriotic themed park with plenty of attractions. The nicest part about the place is that there are trees everywhere—natural trees. I missed trees so much and forests and I got my fix (if only for a second) walking from one patriotic building to another. The other nice thing about this spot was that most tourist only enter museums to see the wax figure displays and read about the rifles and cloths on display. Outside of most of the buildings there are beautiful untouched gardens along stunning Asian architecture and no one to bother you. I spend my own time wandering around, exploring my own secret corners.
There are several temples on the property as well, the only thing is, the Chinese government has gutted out any religious affiliation and installed more historical information. Again I am more into walking around these specimens of blasphemy—the 600 year old stone buildings are mind blowing. I find a pagoda with some of my friends and we climb up it to look out over Nanjing. Bellow us civilization is polluted and fascinated with skyscrapers.
Our guide finally herds us back into the bus and we head downtown to check into our four star accommodations. After a short break we are back on the bus heading to dinner at a place that specializes in fish—we never actually ate that much fish though. After dinner we headed on a night cruise of Nanjing’s canal system. Nanjing’s old town has been refurbished to look like something out of Pirates of the Caribbean. Everywhere there are historic looking buildings with bars and restaurants in them and everything is lit up with neon lighting. At this point I’m exhausted and I feel like I’m on a ride at Disney land without Mickey ears. Soon we get bused back to our hotel and I melt in my cushioned bed.
The next day we started out by taking a tour of an accredited graduate school in Nanjing that is run by John Hopkins. It went like any other college tour except I kept ducking out to see if the Giants were winning game two. At this point I wasn’t sure if I had been disowned by my father who was not calling me to keep me updated. When we toured the library I checked to the score and saw that the Rangers were walking home runs for the Giants. My family did end up calling me to tell me San Francisco won and underneath my well worn SF cap a smile shined the whole day.
After lunch we were taken to the ancient palace of Nanjing. At first we were being led by our guide but soon most American students found our guides use of a flag offensive and a group of 30 dwindled down to nothing. I got myself purposefully lost in the ancient maze of classical Chinese architecture and garden scapes. Once I had enough I called up Kevin and Alex to see what they were up to.
When I found my crew we decided to head to the city center to see what this city is all about. We went one metro stop and found a commercial sector that was not unlike the place we live in. We were becoming desperate for an afternoon bar but Nanjing is as dry as a Monday night AA meeting and everyone we asked looked at us as if we had come to corrupt all of Nanjing. Apparently Nanjing was made by McDonalds and KFC because at ever corner there is at least one American fast-food restaurant. After getting some essentials at Wall Mart we headed back to our hotel lounge.
At night we headed out to the Jiu Ba Street (right across from the hotel) which as far as translations goes can either be 98th street or bar street. There every club was the same: we would go in, find a table order a bottle of something and soon learn that they did not have it. Kevin and Alex were supremely disappointed in the nightlife of Nanjing and longed for Shanghai.
The next day we started early to head to the museum of the Nanjing massacre. On the outside, architects designed a place where the massacre can be revered and the feeling of a crushed city can be felt. The first thing that we did was hear the recount of a survivor of the Japanese attack on the Republican capital. He spoke tearlessly about the horrors that happened to him and his family. It sounded like his raspy voice has recounted this many times before. After the haunting tales, we walked through the museum displays. It was a bit like seeing the exhibits at Auzwichz,, having to read about such terrible crimes. The museum was a bit manipulative and gave no chance for reconciliation but overall it was a good display of how 300,000 people lost their lives.
When I was waiting for the bus I just happened to be in the same place as Professor Shu, who is my program’s Chinese politics professor. He tells me that he is actually a political economist—what I study—and he got his PhD at the University of Texas. I just hit the jackpot. I, by chance, ran into exactly the right person. I ask him if he can be my independent research advisor and he says he would be glad to do it.
We have lunch at vegetarian restaurant that makes fake meat look like real meat. I enjoyed the plane vegetables. After lunch we walk on Nanjing’s ancient city wall and enjoy the Saturday afternoon sunshine. Soon we are back on the train and silently zoom into Shanghai’s city lights in the early evening.
That night was Shanghai’s Halloween celebration and I went with my buddies to a club owned by one of Kevin’s contacts to celebrate. I dressed as white trash and Kevin was a Buddhist monk. We had a blast.
My camera is now completely dead but you can always check out Kevin’s photo blog at http://www.flickr.com/photos/kpatnode/page2/

The Giants

This is it; as good as it gets. If you are a Giants fan and a live chances are life couldn’t be better right now: the Giants have won The World Series.
I am not the person who can’t stop pinching himself; I’m not the guy who wakes himself up in the middle of the night smiling, thanking God that the orange and black are now the royal colors of victory. In any case I, like many of my fellow Giants fans, cannot really believe that some hours ago on a field in Texas our team clinched their destiny.
For me though it’s a little different; I live a world away where the closest baseball fans are across an East Asian sea, and fans eat noodles at baseball games—not hot dogs. Shanghai is not a baseball city.
In thinking about what my team has done this year I want to go back a few steps, to the beginning of the year—the beginning of spring training. I remember reading the headlines of who the front office was signing. Mark DeRosa, then Aubrey Huff and then I think it was the resigning of Bengie Molina. Pitching was excellent, but in terms of hitting the only destiny that fans could foresee was that the team’s bats would be asleep at the plate.
Pathetic as the team was, some glimmer of hope was shinning in my soul. I knew back in early spring that this was going to be the year the Giants would take the World Series. I knew this because I was planning on spending the following academic year abroad—here in China.
I told my friends and my family—mainly my Dad—about my prophesy and of course I was received with laughs and taunts. My hope began to dwindle away when the Giants lost their first place in the Western Division to San Diego. Still I was back to my nine year-old self, watching every game I could, memorizing every player’s stats and analyzing my team’s chances of success. Then I left the home of the greatest national pastime and crossed an ocean.
During my first few weeks in China I kept up with how los Gigantes were doing and wore my baseball cap on the weekends. Being outside of the culture of baseball one finds that no one really cares about the sport at all, but that didn’t deter me from bringing up my team’s chances of success in October at ex-pat parties.
I read the Chronicle online and watched my team’s playoff chances go from possible, to probable, to an almost mathematical assurance, to just barely making the playoffs, to the playoffs. Then when the Giants faced off with the Braves in their first game I felt the dire need to be a part of the cultural baseball movement that was rumbling deep beneath the San Andreas fault. I read the play-by-play in the mornings before my Chinese class and once I was home again I would look at the game’s pictures and read the recap.
As the Giants did exceedingly better in the playoffs it seemed as if Californian hope was snowballing into something productive. I read articles detailing how fanatical Giants fans had become with their Mr. disguiseo beards, panda hats and rally thongs. Whenever I read the play-by-play I would have my facebook page open and read my friends’ comments. The chat seemed as filling as what one would hear on any color commentary.
Then it was game six of the NLCS with Philadelphia. I woke up on a late Sunday morning poked around my email and facebook then remembered the game was on. I immediately bolted out of my groggy state and caught up with what was happening on most TV sets in the Bay Area. The Giants had squeezed a lead out of nowhere with Uribe’s homerun and it was now the eighth inning. My cell phone rings and my dad is on the other side. “Do you want me to put the game on?” he asks without saying hello.
I pace up and down my room with my Giants cap on and my phone in my ear. With so much static, I can barely make out what John Miller is saying during Brian Wilson’s rollercoaster of a ninth inning. With two outs and one of baseball’s most productive hitters is at the plate with two strikes on him, the static clears and all I can hear is “STRIKE THREE CALLED!” The Giants were in the World Series and I was as happy as can be.
When I woke up on Tuesday morning it was Monday night in the States. I called my parents to chat and almost forgot that there was a game on. I got online and soon I was reading the game pitch by pitch. As Cliff Lee and The Freak battled it out I did my Chinese homework and glanced at my computer every thirty seconds or so. I watched as Uribe and Ross got on and were bumped to scoring position by Huff’s first career sac bunt. I watched to see what Burrell could do, then Rentaria got up. Right as the Afro Colombian launched the ball over the awestruck Texan outfielders the play-by-play cuts to a commercial. I switch over to facebook to see if there are any updates and all I can remember is “RENTARIA…HR!!!
My cheers woke up my roommates and now that the game was just starting to get interesting I had to go to class. I took my laptop to class and read my play-by-plays but my teacher interrupted me to kick me out of the room. I made a deal that after the morning quiz I could take all the time I needed but I would get an F on attendance for the day. “Whatever you gotta do, I don’t care, this game is too important.”
Back in my room I call my dad and I he puts the phone to the radio again. The airwaves are clear over the Pacific Ocean and I get every word out of Kruk and Kuip’s microphone. I am now pacing back and forth in my room, my Californian flag draped over my shoulders and the phone in my ear. My heart thumps and tears well up in my eyes as I realize what is about to happen. I listen to the ninth; it was a one, two, three with Wilson’s signature strike-out closing out the game.
It’s unreal. I guess it all happened but how do I know—I could only read about it. Facebook lights up with my friends’ posts from all over Nor Cal. Everyone is pumped. My sister calls me and I talk to her as I listen to KNBR’s patter in one ear. Soon enough I realize I have to get back to the alternate reality—the one that I am in, the reality of the country that I live in and the Chinese class that I am missing.
I enter in the classroom all smiles. “They won!” My Chinese teacher and the other American girl who came to class today couldn’t care less. “I don’t understand” my Chinese teacher said. “Let me explain: my family has been in California for over 80 years, in that time the Giants have only been a part of California for some 50 odd years, and in those 50 odd years, none of my family has ever seen the Giants win the World Series.” She giggles and says, “No, I don’t understand baseball.”

Tales from the Tibetan Plateau Part VI: Good ol Friday

Tales from the Tibetan Plateau Part VI: Good ol Friday
10.1.2010
10.2.2010
On our final Friday on the Tibetan Plateau we first head out to a market place where they sell everything, especially tourist souvenirs. I wander around a bit, examine what I want to buy and then bargain with the Han Chinese who sell sacred Tibetan gear. Markets always make me anxious.
Next, the group walks through the city streets and a sea of stares to China’s largest mosque. Outside of the sacred building our program director describes the place’s significance and how it is the fourth most important mosque in China—I don’t know what is more important. By the time she gets to the part about how the mosque was torn down during the cultural revolution a small army of curious Huar men and women join our group to listen in. They look on with curious stares as they cannot quite comprehend what she is saying. Soon more Muslims are listening to what’s going on then American tourists!
I love watching the Islam faithful heading to their place of worship. The men are very elegant in their suits and white caps and are respectful of everyone they come across. We wind up waiting for the bus in a Huar neighborhood where I snap shots of Huar businesses.
The bus takes us to lunch—Uyghur food. They feed us a giant stew of two whole chickens with potatoes and spicy sauce. Even after they fill the stew with noodles we are still hungry and our guide brings us more mutton grilled on a stick—some delicious stuff.
After lunch there is an optional trip to another monastery on the outskirts of the city. Most people in the group have had enough exploring through these religious sights and only about ten people make it. I feel that they are the ones missing out. The weather was perfect and brought out the colors in the Tibetan buildings perfectly. We go in and out of the holy buildings and we are joined with hundreds of other Chinese tourists and some Tibetan and Mongolian pilgrims. I can’t take pictures inside the monastery that is filled with giant Buddha’s, offerings and yak butter candles. One place had an exquisite sculpture of a religious text made out of yak butter wax. It smelled like rank milk but it was an extraordinary sight.
Outside the holy grounds the village is stocked with small shops selling touristy stuff with a faint whiff of religious significance. I nap on the bus and in the hotel room before I head to our farewell dinner at a fancy restaurant. I get stuffed on good food and after the thank-you section I leave. On my last night I tagged along with some friends as we head to a few Xining bars. We make it to two places that are overly smokey and have bad drinks. The second place we go to has a Tibetan interior design scheme and they serve us a traditional wine. After all that I head to Bill’s bar and enjoy my last night in the place where I spent so much time. I play cards and get my butt kicked in Texas Hold’em. Before heading out Bill blasts some American tunes on the loudspeaker and we enjoy our last hours in Tibet. This time the cops did actually come in and break up the party claiming it was too loud. Bill’s excuse: “This is what it looks like when Americans party Man!”
In the morning we pack the bus one last time and head to the airport. The morning goes by simply and all I want to do is get on the plane and sleep. When I finally do get on the plane I am treated to the most uncomfortable flight I have ever been on for all kinds of icky Chinese Airliner reasons. I am happy once I am back in Shanghai and I am very glad to be back in my apartment in a cozy corner at the top of a communist block building.

Tales from the Tibetan Plateau Part V: Flirting with Central Asia

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.