skyhigh qinghai

After wrapping up our work duties, we set out Aug. 22 for the higher, wilder and cooler climes of northwest China, landing in the city of Xining, capital of Qinghai province about 1,300 miles northwest of Beijing. We went w/o technology… so our blog had to wait!

The cool temperatures, blue skies and the relative calm of the city of just over a million people, immediately struck us. It was beautiful, and cresting our first staircase we were literally breathless at the prospect of surviving on the eastern edge of the Tibetan plateau, the “roof of the world.” Starting 7,400 feet above sea level (Beijing elev. 141 feet), it really was uphill for the remainder of our trip.

Over the course of the next couple of weeks we visited with a dozen students and their families, saw dozens of Buddhist temples and monasteries, sampled local foods and enjoyed panoramic vistas of terraced mountainsides and cloud shrouded peaks.

In Xining, students led us on expeditions that included the Ta'er Si Buddhist monastery where we tried to stay focused on the architecture and history, but found ourselves distracted by robed monks with sports shoes and cell phones and the somewhat disagreeable aroma of sculpted yak-butter that had passed its freshness date. We also climbed the city’s southern peak (nan shan) where we mingled with a parade of temple visitors in a smoky haze of burning incense on Ghost Day (zhong yuán jié) and concluded a long, hot trek with a rest beneath the trees beside a miniature model of the Shanghai riverfront.

We spent a morning enjoying the final day of an exhibit of Tibetan sacred art (thangka) with students who repeatedly urged us to take advantage of the close-out prices as the vendors were packing up. While our hosts scrutinized jewelry and handcrafts, we eyed the inexpensive camping gear and wondered if we could get it home and when we might use it. Pass, with continuing regret.

We visited parks and the city’s main square, where music that could be heard for miles was piped through walls of speakers each morning. We traversed the diverse city, mingling with several different people groups: Tibetans, pink-turbaned Tu, Hui (Muslim) in white caps and head scarves and Han peoples. We frequented a Tibetan Western-style café that served great coffee and snacks at unbelievably low prices and listened to ethnic music along a shady parkway.

Streets were nearly devoid of bicyclists, which our friends attributed to “laziness” or narrow streets. Motorbikes were plentiful and the garbage trucks trolled the streets playing familiar classical and American tunes calling residents to haul out their bags and buckets of refuse.

Periodically plagued by altitude sickness, general fatigue and the gurgley effect of strange food and water, we bought what little was available in English from the local bookstore and spent our down time reading Emily Bronte, Jane Austen, F. Scott Fitzgerald and O. Henry. Imagine our confusion.

We got our first real taste of the countryside visiting a student and his family in their small village nestled among terraced fields carved into the mountainsides outside Xining. The student’s wife and 4-year-old son welcomed us to their one-room, bathroom-less apartment on campus where we continued to pit our limited Mandarin against the provincial dialect, a challenge we faced throughout the journey. We ventured to the public latrine built on a ditch next to the playground. Think mountains of… and no running water. At the village restaurant we assured our host we loved all Chinese food then watched with dismay as the waitress delivered large platters of mutton, beef, pork and numerous local dishes. We spent an interesting hour on the village street waiting for enough passengers to fill a car for the 30-minute ride back to the bus.

We headed south to Gui de, a small mountain city about 3 hours by bus from Xining, along the Yellow River. Sitting in the very front seats of the bus, we had postcard views of herds of yak and flocks of sheep grazing on the grassy mountainsides and the small tents of nomadic herders.

We stayed a couple days with a former student and his family in their apartment, which was walking distance from the walled Old City, where we spent a rainy afternoon being toured by our student, who speaks very little English, and his 12-year-old son. A vendor’s 9-year-old daughter attached herself to Krista’s hand and joined us as we climbed through the mist to view temples and the surrounding mountains. Later, an extensive tour by car took us to the wide, flowing waters of the Yellow River and several other temples

We had a great time negotiating meaning with the family and eating delicious food at restaurants and prepared at home. We were nearly run down by a gang of young monks on motorbikes and, after touring numerous temples and mosques, came up against a padlocked gate at the entrance to the city’s Christian church. We learned the Chinese word for diarrhea (thanks to Krista) and discovered it was a frequent topic of conversations between our hosts and their “good friends.”

After several aborted attempts at getting to legendary Qinghai Lake (we’ve been hearing about it since we came to China) we opted against the standard tour and hopped a bus to a small town situated at the west end of the lake, about 200 km from Xining. For 5 hours the bus climbed up to nearly 12,000 feet as the rolling, terraced hills gave way to a huge sky and the sky-blue water of the lake. We alone disembarked at a small village wedged between the mountains and China’s largest lake. We took in the dusty strip of shops on either side of the road and the chaotic activity of scores of Tibetan herders in town on their motorbikes and quickly noticed that all signage was in characters, no pin yin and no English.

With a touch of anxiety we ambled up and down the road with little luck trying to find a place to stay as people vaguely waved us down the street. Thankfully (yay God!), a young man eventually offered to take us to the guesthouse, a newish strip of rooms at the foot of hills behind the police station.

We hiked to the lake, watched the shepherds herd their yaks and sheep through town and the surrounding countryside, watched clouds float over the mountains, visited some deserted Tibetan monuments and declined an offer to ride horses made by an old man who appeared in the middle of nowhere. Watching the shepherds and their sheep is a sobering reminder of what it really means to be a member of the flock. At the restaurant we couldn’t read the menu and the pictures were strictly for show so we ordered fried noodles and tomato and eggs for every meal after Preston managed to order a very expensive plate of yak meat (tough, but tasty) at the server’s recommendation.

Faith and perseverance paid off again in securing tickets back to Beijing, as we had to compete with students returning to university and the agencies that were reselling tickets at huge markup. We secured a very reasonable flight that required us to spend a night in Xian, where Krista for the last time staged her nearly nightly performance of throwing on the lights in the middle of the night and declaring that someone had to kill the mosquito that was biting and buzzing in her ear. Amen.

We arrived back in Beijing tired and weary and forever grateful to the wonderful hospitality of our friends and God’s protection and guidance throughout our journeys as well as vowing not to get on another bus for a very long time. Of course, Krista again made her regular trip to the clinic for several IV’s to kill the pests that had hitched a ride back in her stomach! However, it wasn’t long before the walls of our very small room began to shimmer and our minds drift and someone wondered aloud, “Where should we go next time?”