Into Tibet

 

Yongming Wang

 

Prologue

 

I remember it was two months before my forty-year-old birthday. Out of the blue I felt that my life had just started; or it had already finished, probably? I didn’t know. I slipped into a deep state of melancholy. I only knew that I wanted to search for some answers, in places far, far away from any modern cities and popular tourism scenes, the so-called advanced civilizations, places that would challenge both my physical and mental limits. I hunched over the map in front of me, searching and scanning, and finally came to a name of place that I had always dreamed to go but never got a chance.

 

I took off for Tibet. The time was June 2002.

 

 

One                                         Chengdu Airport

 

It was five o’clock in the morning. Our plane was scheduled to take off at seven.   It was drizzling that day; and I was well familiar with such kind of climate which is typical of Chengdu: either overcast or raining at any given day almost all year round. I say “our plane” because I was with a group of about thirty people who consisted of a tourist group called the “Discover Tibet”, even though I didn’t know, nor met any of those people before that morning. But that’s the only way for us foreigners to get into Tibet --- by joining certain tourist group.

 

Yes. I was a foreigner, although Chengdu, the capital of Sichuan province that borders Tibet, is the hometown of mine. Officially I held an U.S. passport. Officially this was the only way for me to enter Tibet, I was told.

 

Before embarking on this journey I rummaged, at my American home, through all my trunks and bags and finally found, in the bottom of an old ragged wooden trunk, my old resident ID card when I was still a Chinese citizen thirteen years ago. You see, I never threw it away. I carefully put it in my wallet and hoped that it might be of some use after entering Tibet. My travel agency agreed to let me leave the group after three days in Tibet. Under one condition though, that was, a guide would accompany me all the time when I was in Tibet alone. It was a mutual understanding that the guide would come to hotel to meet me after the end of the third day. Of course there was extra expense involved --- I was supposed to cover the guide’s all expense in Tibet wherever we go. I had to agree. “It is better than a big group,” I comforted myself with such a thought. I might persuade the guide staying in hotel or something, just leave me alone, or simply get rid of the guide all together. Let’s see what will fold out. By the way, I was always a lucky man. This time it might be no exception. I kept my fingers crossed.

 

It was still dark outside. All of us gathered inside in the big airport waiting hall. Under the giant bulbs from the ceiling radiating dazzling blue white light, it was quite bright. We were divided into two groups, to be given the final instruction before boarding the plane. One group was all Chinese; obviously the other one all foreigners. I was with the latter. I looked around my group: all were real foreigners. That was, all had high nose and blue eyes, except me. I felt funny. I was a foreigner. How could this be? Only because I hold a non-Chinese passport? I was feeling all Chinese myself. I spoke Chinese, talked Chinese, ate Chinese food, and even thinking in Chinese. How could I suddenly turn into a foreigner? I asked myself such a question, but obviously got no answer. I saw everyone was exuberantly talking to everyone else, typical of the excitement before any big exploratory journey. I was alone and quiet; I didn’t want to talk with any other foreigners around me. It turned out that all other foreigners were from America: a group of five or six people together, from some place in Ohio. They came to join the older brother of one of them. The older brother, a short and sullen man of about fifty in age, was an English teacher at a local Chinese college, teaching Chinese students English; (I got to know all that later, of course.) There was also one black girl alone from southern United States which I forgot exactly where; and a senior couple I hardly remember anything about them now. That was it. Including me, we belonged to the foreigner group, which would be under close supervision, I supposed. One evidence was that all foreigners’ passports had to be handed to the group leader, a Chinese guy. I was informed beforehand that my passport would be given back to me after arriving in Tibet. Of course all other foreigners could only get theirs back after coming back from Tibet. I felt a little better at this.

 

At this moment I noticed a Chinese girl standing next to the black girl and they were talking to each other. I was intrigued. I approached them and introduced myself. It turned out that the black girl was an international exchange program student at one of the local universities, and the Chinese girl was her interpreter for this trip. They were good friends at school. The Chinese girl’s name was Xiaoli, a very common Chinese name for girls. It literally means “small beauty”. She indeed was tiny, but with large shining eyes full of rigor, speaking both Chinese and English as fast as shooting bullets. Later on three of us became very close while in Tibet. I felt relaxed to be with these two girls, one foreigner and one Chinese. I figured that I was both foreigner and Chinese at the same time. I felt a natural fit.

 

I also saw another Chinese woman, aged about thirty, with that American group of five or six. Was she also an interpreter? I noticed that she hardly spoke to anybody around her, only standing a little closer to the older brother, and occasionally she and the older brother talked to each other furtively. I wondered what the relationship was between them. Would I have the chance to find out later? 

 

The plane took off at seven o’clock sharp. In about two hours, we were told, we would be in Lhasa, the capital city of Tibet. My mind was spinning in highly turbulent state. What would the trip bring to me? What was waiting for me ahead? How long would I stay in Tibet? So far I had no plan about what I was going to do and where I was going to go in Tibet, except the first three days of scheduled staying with the group. Worse, I had a serious cold a few days ago and still in the recovery. Because of Tibet’s high altitude, the sick people, especially those having flu or cold, are not suited in Tibet. Some travelers died of the combination of sickness and high altitude. What would be my fate?

 

 

Two                                         First Day in Lhasa 

 

Our plane landed smoothly at Gongga airport, about 30 kilometers off Lhasa. We were wholeheartly welcomed with the beautiful long silk white scarf called hada and the two smiling faces of our local tour guides, a handsome and energetic man and his beautiful timid wife with a red cheek, typical Tibetan. The meaning of the man’s name, the guide told us, was, FRIDAY. Ha ha ha. It reminded me of Defoe’s famous book, “Robinson Crusoe,” in which the servant’s name is also Friday. What a coincidence! Asked about why he has such a name, he just simply said that he was borne on Friday. I didn’t think so. I even doubted that Tibetan people know or use seven-day-week calendar like we do. But I didn’t want to argue with Friday. He was probably just making up some funny name to entertain us, if you considered the fact that one third of the group was foreigners. Everybody began calling him Mr. Friday.

 

We walked into the outside. Oh, I was dazzled immediately.  The sky was very, very blue and so low as if touchable; the clouds were snow white flowing freely over our heads; the mountains around were brownish with its bare rocks. No tree, no grass, just rocks, pristine and eternal; the air was freshly cool. What else did I need? Just think: I was standing on the highest point, the roof, so to speak, of the world. In other words, I was standing on top of most people. Just thinking like that made me feel jubilant. We started to get on the bus and took off towards Lhasa. It turned out that Mr. Friday spoke perfect English. When asked about how long he has been a tour guide, the answer was eleven years. Mr. Friday was friendly, funny, joking, open; and musical when he started singing, with a beautiful tenor voice, in Tibetan songs. Of course we didn’t understand a single line but we enjoyed it greatly. His wife, the beautiful and shy woman next to him, was not like her husband; she was just blushful all over when asked to sing a song and was quiet and shaking her head constantly and that just added more red to her cheek. I loved it.

 

All the time on the bus I was examining myself, paying close attention to my body reaction to the high plateau; did I feel dizzy? Short of breath or something? Nothing. Perfectly nothing I felt. The bus stopped and we took a short rest. And I started walking towards the river nearby. Yaluzangbujiang, that’s her name; it literally means “snow water from high mountains.” Oh, Yaluzangbujiang, so famous, so brilliant and so I’d longed for; I posed in front of her for picture. I wanted to sing, to write a poem, right there at that moment. Yaluzangbujiang, I repeated and repeated this name and got excited even more. I stepped into the water; it was cold, very cold, dabbling cold. It is snow water; of course it should be cold.

 

Xiaoli, the Chinese girl, young and energetic, was more excited than anybody else the whole time, jumping up and down, turning and yelling, “Wah! look at this; Wah! look at that.” She was constantly busy talking to the black girl, translating everything she heard from our tour guide --- it was not necessary because Mr. Friday would say everything in Chinese and English both; but she translated anyway; and when she was stuck, she turned to me for help; I was more than willing to help. Very quickly I, Xiaoli and the black girl became a threesome small group, ignoring everybody else. But I occasionally glimpsed over my eye corner to search for the quiet Chinese woman with the old American brother. She was sitting at the back of the bus, all to herself, no expression on her face; it was obvious that something was bothering her much. The old brother was always with her. I didn’t see a chance to get close to her. I thought I already knew the answer.

 

We arrived at Lhasa in no time. The hotel we stayed is called XueShanMingZhu, meaning: “Shinning Pearl of Snowy Mountain,” such a beautiful name. How lucky I was when I learnt that only I got a room all to myself; all other people were two persons for each room. Now I realized that we must only have twenty nine people or something, an odd number. That was why I was singled out. Xiaoli and the black girl of course were in one room; and the old brother was with the quiet Chinese woman, I noticed. We were told not to go anywhere for the rest of the day for our body adjustment, or called acclimatization in scientific term. The time was only a little past eleven in the morning now. We had almost a whole day ahead of us doing nothing just staying in hotel? How was I going to spend the rest of the day? I wondered and wandered around and talked to the girls who worked at the hotel. All were Tibetan young girls, with red cheeks and all spoke limited Pu Tong Hua (the Mandarin Chinese); and all were very shy and lovely, not looking into your eyes when talking to you, only looking down at their own shoes. I found a great joy just simply talking with them, asking for this and that, just wanted to talk. It was lunch time now. We’d all eat at the dining hall in the back across the backyard. A big dining hall. In front of the door I saw, I swear to Chairman Mao, a beautiful Tibetan girl, the dining hall hostess, greeting everyone entering the hall. She was tall and thin, with a warm, tender and lovely smile, wearing colorful and beautiful Tibetan attire. (it was a long black skirt with white dots and pink sleeves and collar.) I couldn’t let the opportunity slip by; I went back to my room and took out the camera and ran back to her and asked if I could take a picture with her; the answer was of course a “Yes”. How happy I was! After that I talked a few minutes with her and she spoke perfect Chinese. I wanted to talk more but I saw she was busy with the coming people so I let her go. Later every time when I went to the dining hall, passing her, I would manage to strike a talk with her.

 

I expected Tibetan food but instead only hot and spicy Sichuan food was waiting for us. A little disappointed but I was happy anyway; when I am happy, any food is fine with me.

 

Dawn came. Nothing to do. I got bored watching the TV which was broadcasting the soccer World Cup, a big event. I was a big soccer fan but for no reason that day I had no interest in watching it. I decided to go to sleep. Right at that moment the phone rang; I picked up. A female voice, in Chinese: “Sir, do you want the massage service?” I was stunned, didn’t know what to say. After a few seconds of silence, the voice again: “Sir, you will be satisfied by our service, I promise. We have the best girls in town. Tibetan girl; Chinese girl, girl from Sichuan, girl from Hunan, and other places. You can have it anyway you want.” My Goodness. What place was this? A whorehouse? How did they know I was alone? I didn’t know what to say; I was never in such situation. I didn’t expect getting such crap in the pure and holy Tibet. I was upset. “No,” I said firmly and slapped the phone back and went to sleep. 

 

I was suddenly awaked by a loud thunder in the middle of the night. I looked at my watch in the dark; it was midnight. I looked outside of the window; it was inky dark; and all these thundering, no lightening and no rain; just thunder, the pure, loud, dry thunders, one after another, rolling down from the mountain peaks in the back of the hotel, the big yellow brown barren high mountains towering over the Lhasa city. The thunder was so loud that I simply couldn’t sleep at all and so I sat up in the bed and listened with all my ears. This was Tibetan thunders. How different was it from other thunders? I couldn’t think of anything, just sitting there, stumped and listening. Did it try to tell me something?  A revelation? I had no longer heard that kind of thunders for the rest of the time while in Tibet. But I would never, never forget that thunders of that night.

 

 

Three                                      Second day - the hot spring resort

 

The second day in Tibet our destination was the famous hot spring water resort called YangBaJing in Chinese, which is not far from Lhasa. I brought my swimming pant with me.

 

As soon as our bus left the city, the beautiful Tibet countryside and fields greeted us from all sides; the endless hills impressed me a lot; but the most beautiful thing was the vegetable-oil-producing plants in the field, endless, all over the place, with hundreds and thousands of tiny yellow flowers and the very green leafs and stems, stunningly beautiful.

 

My body felt totally OK; totally recovered from my illness, I guess. Actually I was in high spirit. We arrived at our destination in such short time that I even didn’t notice it. What a barren place! Nothing like a resort or anything. No tall buildings; no fancy gardens. On the yellowish bare ground emitted hot steam gas here and there. We entered; inside was a big swimming pool with hot spring water and a few people in it. Oddly enough none of my group wanted to go in. What were they afraid of? So in the end, only I, alone, jumped in. Why not? Anyway, what else could you do in this deserted place? I didn’t care what others would do as long as I had a good time, and enjoyed myself.

 

I enjoyed myself quite a lot in the almost empty pool. The water was comfortably hot; the sun was very, very sunny. Lying still and flatl on the surface of the water, a trick I learnt since I was little, I looked up to the sky. The sky was so blue and the clouds, oh, my god, they were so white and low, not moving. It was as beautiful as surreal, not real. Nothing else existed in my world. Only the sky and clouds. I heard nothing either, because my ears were in the water. It was absolutely tranquil and all; absolutely dream. I started dreaming away; and awaked by four old guys in the pool. I didn’t know when they entered. But I heard them laugh loud. They looked like in their sixties, all energetic and speaking loud. I approached and started chatting. It turned out that they were my folks, from Sichuan, all retired, and they rode motorcycles from Chengdu to Lhasa, a distance of 2400 kilometers (1500 miles), in twenty days; and now they were on the way back and stopped to enjoy some hot bath. They told me that the route they took, Chengdu to Lhasa route, is the most treacherous one among all four routes into Tibet; and they encountered countless perils and hardship on the road that included the muddy flood --- June and July are the season of raining and flooding in this area --- high mountains and altitude, pernicious road condition, as well as lack of food and water; but they laughed all the way to Lhasa and now turning back, taking the less difficult route, Qinghai – Tibet route. Their plan was to go to Qinghai, then to Gansu Province, and back to Chengdu, which was much longer than the way they came. I looked at them, dazzled and admiring. THIS IS LIFE, man. This is the life I want to live, to be a fearless and careless wanderer. Forget about the tourist group. Forget about the plan and scheduling anything. Just one person, alone, and go wherever I like.

 

I hardly enjoyed myself in the water enough than was I called up by our tour guide and was told that we were leaving because other people were bored. I regretted to leave; but the best thing that day, out of my anticipation, was going to happen after that. On the way back we stopped at a village and visited a Tibetan family. I was thrilled. Here I tasted for the first time the famous Tibetan hot butter tea (Su You Cha in Chinese). I loved it; most people had only one cup; but I drank two. Several Chinese people didn’t want any. A man whispered to me, with good intention: “the cup is not clean. Look at the way they clean it.” Ignoring him, I savored the tea with mental devotion. The tea, made up of butter and milk and black tea, with a somewhat chocolate color, tasted a little salty. It did have salt in it, I learnt that. I loved it. There was no way to communicate with the hosts since they didn’t speak any Chinese. They just kept smiling at us and kept pouring the tea into the empty cups. Because there were not enough cups for all people at once, we had to wait and drink in turns. I looked around, trying to remember everything. This was first time, maybe the only time, I assumed, to go into a real Tibetan house. Actually, a few days later I got another chance and that time it was me alone.

 

We left the Tibetan home. I was rather contented.

 

 

Four                              Third Day – Lhasa City

 

The third day in Lhasa we had a busy schedule. In the morning we were going to visit the world-renown Budala Palace; afternoon the temple next to Budala, plus shopping tour. Last night I had a peaceful time, no phone call anymore. Xiaoli and the black girl came to my room and we spent time chatting. Most of time it was Xiaoli talking; the American girl was a little shy. That was totally not typical of American, to my knowledge. Maybe it was because she was in a foreign country. Xiaoli was interested in everything Tibetan. But she, just fresh out of college, was too young to appreciate a lot of things. For example, she didn’t like Su You Cha; not the very tea itself she didn’t like. She just said she couldn’t drink out of that dirty cup. I felt sorry for her. She missed a wonderful chance. Anyway, always in high spirit, she was bright and quick. I liked that. It is always pleasant listening and talking to a young female voice. I liked having someone around, especial someone with loud and cheerful voices. Alone, I would easily slip into state of melancholy. Xiaoli was obviously determined to find out everything about me. She just wouldn’t stop throwing questions to me. What was my job? Why Was I alone? Et cetera. I spent hell a hard time trying to dodge those questions.

 

It was the last day for me to be with the group; and I would be myself alone after that. Well, not exactly; another guide, who I didn’t want to see, was supposed to come to the hotel to meet me the next morning. The rest of the group would go to the second largest city in Tibet, Rigeze. I would be left behind, to go wherever I wanted, I supposed. “Do I need to get permission from this guide if I want to go anywhere?” I pondered.

 

That morning at the dining hall I finally had a chance to talk to that quiet Chinese lady. She sat there alone when I arrived. It was seven o’clock, early for breakfast. Not many people in the hall. I walked up to her and invited myself to sit down and started talking to her. After the first few minutes of casual chatting, I directly asked her why she was with the old American guy. She was caught by the question and sat there without say anything for at least one minute. Then she started talking and told me the following story.

 

She was from Zigong, a mid-size city not far from Chengdu. An elementary school teacher before, she used to have a husband and a son. But now she was divorced, after she met with this American guy. His name was Frank. They lived together now, for almost two years. She told me, in a much slow and low voice, that Frank promised to marry her and bring her to US. But after two years, nothing happened. She just felt that he had no intention to marry her at all, because his contract to teach in the local university was going to end at end of this year; and he had hinted to her that he would go back to US after that. She looked at me, and says: “now I’m much in regret. I shouldn’t have lived with him. But all is too late. I don’t know what to do.” I didn’t know what to say. This thing I only read in the book before, but today I faced one myself. What advice I can give? I was just about to say something comforting and Frank appeared at the dining hall door and looked at our direction. I stood up and left, abruptly ending our conversation, the only conversation between us. I had then never talked to her after that.

 

Budala, or Butala, both spellings exist for this magnificent stone castle, sits on a hill, hovering over Lhasa city. Anyone will be awed when standing in front of it. The entrance ticket was seventy Chinese yuan, about eight US dollars. We went to the back of it and walked up a long uphill stone stairs and entered from the back door. It was rather dim once inside. There was no electricity. All lightings were from the butter-lit lamp; smoke from the butter lamps was a big problem. I didn’t remember much except the endless big halls and small rooms in the dark --- it was said that there are total 999 rooms inside Budala --- and the golden statues of past living Buddha, fifteen of them in total. The current Dalai Lama is the sixteenth living Buddha. “Will be his golden statue erected here after he leaves this world?” I wondered.

 

In the midst of the seemingly-endless room visiting and my elbowing through the crowd and feeling dizzy and confusing and all that, suddenly people around me started stirring and everyone was shouting: “Ban Chan’s daughter, Ban Chan’s daughter is here.” What? I was suddenly wide alert. Ban Chan had a daughter. That’s unbelievable; impossible. Who in China doesn’t know Ban Chan, the number two live Buddha in Tibet, only next to Dalai Lama in ranking, and actually after Dalai Lama fled to India in 1959 he was officially the number one in China and was invited to Beijing and lived there until his death just a few years ago. So for more than forty years he lived in Beijing, enjoying a life of peace and worry free and occasionally came in public to praise the communist party and denounced the Dalai Lama’s separatism. But all in all, the Buddha, or monk in that sense, is not allowed to marry and had children according to Buddhism tradition. Tibetan Buddhism no difference. Buddhism strictly forbids sex and meat. They live in the totally ascetic way. Ban Chan had a daughter! That means he broke the Buddhism doctrine; and he remained a live Buddha despite of this breach. It’s simply unimaginable. I was stunned and caught following comments by people around me. The story went like this: Ban Chan, while living in Beijing, had started an affair with one of his nurses and eventually had this daughter who is at her twenties now. Nobody knows this except some very high political figures and of course they all kept quiet. And now with Ban Chan passed away and the daughter grown up, she gradually come into people’s vision and so that the long-kept secret finally revealed itself. And this time she was coming to Tibet and paying a short visit and here she was, at the famous Budala, being watched and talked about by everyone. I got myself thinking, “It must be a very pretty, lovely, and tender woman who can win the love from the living Buddha. Is she still alive? What kind of life is she living now?” This nurse story, I found out later, is not exactly true. But no matter, Ban Chan had a daughter. That part is true.

 

So it ended my Budala pilgrimage. I, following Mr. Friday and the group, happily walked out of there, and crossed the big square and street and came to a small, quiet, and almost deserted place, a place called ChaLaLuPu Temple, a stature cave located in the small hill called YaoWangShan, that is, the Mountain of Medicine King, opposite Budala.

 

It was a place shunned by most tourists; but it was right here where I found the voice I longed for since I embarked this journey of my soul seeking.

 

The voice belonged to a Chinese girl, one of the curators of the temple. In addition to her beautiful and magnetic voice, she spoke of the story and history of the variety of the statures of Buddha and historical Tibetan Shang Shi (Great Master or Rinpoche) in such a touching and moving manner that I was totally traumatized. I couldn’t help but almost moved to tears by those religious stories of ancient Tibetan Buddha and Da Shi who lived a hermit life in these tiny, dark caves, declined all secular attractions, tortured their own bodies in such a way that they literally went on for hunger for long time under their own will, and suffered unbearable hardship that included hunger and thirsty, as well as poisonous insect bites and all. Some of them even grew green moss on their very legs and thighs due to the dampness and lack of light. What the purpose for all these suffering? The young lady told us: their purpose was to find a way to relieve themselves of the physical limitation of human and reach the higher state of being, that is, becoming a Buddha which live happily forever without any pain and suffer. Did they find it? Maybe. I don’t know. Who knows? All I knew was that I tried to get as close to the curator as possible among all the crowds moving along the way. Actually I was so moved by her voice and her stories that I spent three hundreds yuan purchasing three giant sticks of incense right at the spot and another two hundred for a small Buddha jade hanging on my neck. Mind you, it was my very first time in my life to worship anything, Buddha or no Buddha, let alone the incense. I am a non-believer, an atheist. I always laugh at those who worship. Today I was the one to be laughed at. But the better part was just coming. We were told that the Rinpoche who lives here would open the light (Kai Guang in Chinese) for our purchased Buddha jade, which is considered the highest honor among pilgrims. Everyone was excited, except me. I already started to miss my three hundred yuan. I wanted to avoid the light opening; but what a heck, I thought. No more extra charge. So why not? So I waited outside the small room with other people.

 

It was my turn; and I entered with other two people, slowly. Inside it was dim. Next to the left wall sat an old Tibetan man, with two young men flanking him. We knew this was the mysterious and powerful Rinpoche. It was so dark that I couldn’t see clear of the face. We stood there, not knowing what to do. “Come closer,” said one young man, gesturing to us, “and kneel down in front of the Rinpoche.”  Kneel down!? I hesitated a little. In my whole life I never kneel down to anybody except my parents. But the other two people started to kneel down, and I had to follow. “What a heck,” I thought again, “Just follow the flow. Let’s see what it is really there.” So we knelt down in front of the Rinpoche and handed over our Buddha jades with the small red bag. I watched closely. He took a handful of rice from the bowl next to him and started mumbling something in Tibetan, with his eyes closed. That was the prayer, I supposed. After a few minutes, he put some rice in each of our bags and handed them back to us. Now was the water part. That was, he used his hand to get some water, tap water, I figured, and spread over our forehead, one by one, and mumbled at the same time. After that, we were told to kowtow and leave. Kowtow, that was right, in front of the Rinpoche. Suddenly I felt funny. I wanted to laugh but I knew I must not. Anyway, I kowtowed and stood up and turned back and left the room. Mind you, I was a little disappointed. “The Rinpoche might be a great sage,” I consoled myself with such a thought. “There is just no enough time for any meaningful communication between us.”

 

We all left there in a hurry to the nearby souvenir shopping store; but I kept looking back and I didn’t realize at the moment that this was only the beginning of my experience in this amazing place, an experience that would bestow me unforgettable memories.

 

We went back to the hotel for dinner and found out that we would eat out at a nearby restaurant. Of course Xiaoli, the black girl and I sat together, chatting jubilantly all through the dinner, which served all kinds of fishes. All kinds of fish cooking that I had not seen in my whole life; and fish is cheap in Tibet, we were told by Mr. Friday, because Tibetan people don’t eat fish so the fish in the river is just abundant if anything. That made us happy. After fish dinner we walked back to our hotel, still three of us. When I told them --- I didn’t mention it at all before --- that I was going to leave the group the next morning, I saw that Xiaoli showed disappointment on her pretty face. She is the kind of girl who displays every feeling on her face.

 

It just happened like this. After we went back to the hotel, I lay in bed, relaxing. Half hour later, there was a knock on my door.  In came nobody else but Xiaoli. I asked her where her companion was and she said her companion was tired and wanted to rest. So Xiaoli was here, in my room. I turned on the TV and we pretended watching the soccer game on TV and both of us knew that we were not actually watching at all. We chatted casually about this and that. The room was getting a little bit hot; and the air in the room getting dangerous. However, I was as calm as Buddha, a living Tibetan Buddha. So nothing sensational happened. I was not in the mood. I just enjoyed talking with her. That was all.

 

It was getting late and Xiaoli stood up and told me she was leaving. I smiled at her and said good-bye and good night. She turned away and left; that was that.

 

Next morning after breakfast, when I walked up to the bus and said good-by to Mr. Friday and his lovely wife I saw Xiaoli right there, alone, in the back of the bus and looked at the other side, ignoring me totally. I understood. I smiled to her anyway and said good-bye to her and wished her good luck. She was a nice girl, but too young to understand many things.

 

So here I was, alone, in the hotel, waiting for some unknown, no-name guy to pick me up. But wait a minute, nobody was watching me now; and I already checked out of the hotel. I was free to go. But I waited there anyhow; and I waited and waited; and no single soul showed up. Was I just lucky! I looked at the watch; it was almost noon. I was free to go. I decided to leave. In no time I found myself outside, on the bright, wide and clean Lhasa street, like a fish out of the net. A fish? Yes, a fish, free and happy, but not the fish ending up on the restaurant table, gobbled by the hungry customers.

 

I was on the street, as free as a fish, or a bird, pondering where to go, when suddenly I realized that my wallet was getting thin. I definitely needed to get some money from the bank first. I found one right away. I requested one thousand yuan from the teller and she gave me all fifty yuan bills and ten yuan bills. I asked for one hundred yuan bills and was told that they ran out of it. I was disappointed. At that moment a very fashionable Chinese woman walked into the bank. She heard me and said that she was coming to deposit money and she offered to exchange her one-hundred yuan bills with me. But I was cautious. Frankly speaking, she looked like a hooker. I knew, only from my first night telephone experience, that Lhasa was not lack of hookers; and I also knew that the fake money in China was abundant nowadays. So I politely refused her offer. And suddenly she grew mad and yelled at me. I knew she knew I knew her identify and she was insulted. I fled, without uttering a word.

 

First I needed to find a hotel to settle down. The one I just left was too expensive. I had to save money. So I slowly walked towards the bus station, hoping to find some cheap ones. One thing I learnt, in Tibet, you never walk fast, let alone running. Because of the high altitude and thin air, rampant and sudden movement will cause you short of breath and quicker heart beat easily. So you’d better do everything in a slow fashion.  It turned out that all small and shabby motels and inns were full. I didn’t give up. I liked to be near the bus station because it was convenient for the transportation. I kept looking and finally one inn owner told me she had one last room available, it was in renovation, not quite finished; but it was livable. It didn’t matter to me, as long as there was a bed I could lie on. I asked how much; the answer was thirty yuan per day; that was darn cheap compared with the one-hundred-sixty-per-day hotel where I just checked out from. I happily checked in, and ate some simple food downstairs --- the owner owned both motel and restaurant --- and with a light pace I came to the nearby Lhasa River. 

 

I sat there, on the bank of the legendary Lhasa River, under the bright Tibetan afternoon sun, staring at the brown barren mountains far and near, the blue sky, the flowing clouds, and the eternal Lhasa River, at the meantime trying to figure out the life.

 

It was getting dark and cold. I couldn’t figure the life out. I figured that the life is just like the water in the Lhasa River, coming from nowhere, and passing me by in a blink, and going away to nowhere. Who would bother seeking out its origin and its destiny? Even you know its origin and destiny, what’s the use? You can’t change its path a bit. I gave up; I walked back to the hotel and slept a sound sleep.

 

 

Five                               Fourth day – Lhasa

 

I was fresh when waking up at five in the morning; but I found myself again in the blue. What was bothering me? I lay in bed. Finally I decided to go back to that temple I went the day before. I would walk there this time, I decided, just to dig the city in zero distance. It turned out that it was a one hour walk. But the city was fresh, early morning without many people. It was a nice walk. When I arrived at the temple, everybody was still in sleep. The front door was not locked. I pushed open the door slowly and sneaked in. I saw the old Rinpoche of yesterday, alone in the yard, brushing his teeth. He was the one I wanted to see and talk and he might give me some answers I was searching. Rinpoche in Tibetan Buddhism is only next to Buddha in ranking. All Rinpoches are supposed to be wise and sage. Unfortunately he didn’t speak Chinese; so we ended up standing there and looking at each other and smiling to each other, for how long I forgot. I saw one Tibetan woman walking up the stairs among those caves and statures, holding something in her hand, and mumbling something I couldn’t figure out. It must be prayers. In such early morning, she must be doing her morning worship here. I tried to strike a talk with her but no avail. She ignored me totally.

 

Everybody, that was to say, all monks living there, got up at this moment. And about nine o’clock all curators --- they lived elsewhere, not in the temple --- came to work. I stood at the court yard, greeting each one of them. I counted, six of them, four girls and two young men. I immediately identified the one with the beautiful and magnetic voice. She was obviously surprised to see me again, even though she remembered me from yesterday. That was a good sign. I tried to make friends with everybody because I knew I was going to stay there for a while. They were not busy, I could see. Only occasionally when tour groups came, usually one girl and one young man would go for guiding the tour. The rest and the rest of time they just gathered in the small office next to the front door, resting, talking, reading book, and playing cards. From chatting I learnt that they all graduated from some kind of religious school and were assigned to this place as the tour guides, a full time job. They earned salary from the government.

 

I only wanted to talk with the girl of yesterday. Her name was WANG Yi, I found out. And Yi was the busiest person there because she got up and went to work the most frequently.  And I could see that she was extremely popular among this place because all the tourist leaders knew her and a lot of them only asked for her. It was all because of her beautiful voice and her sincerity, I guessed. But how I hated to see that she got dragged away again and again. I wanted to talk with her as much as possible, and I didn’t know why, I just wanted to tell her my story, tell her everything of my past and my journey. It seemed to me that she would understand everything I was going to say. It was actually the case. Even though she was younger than me, she understood. After a while, everybody in that room knew why I was there. They all tried not to interrupt our conversation except one young man who, I didn’t know his name, was very unfriendly to me. Whenever I was with Yi, he presented himself without invitation. Even if only thinking in my toes, I knew that they were at a special relationship; at least the young man thought that way because he acted very protective towards Yi and he didn’t like me at all, that I could see; but I didn’t care, as long as Yi didn’t mind my being there; and Yi didn’t mind, I could tell. And Yi finally got so irritated by the young man that she told him to leave her alone. After that Yi was all to myself, listening to every word I said, very pleasant and patient with me. I felt blessed.

 

The pretty and delicate Yi was petite and exquisite.  Oh, man, eyes, her eyes. How can I describe such a pair of eyes? They were not big. But so bright and understanding that when that eyes looked at me it seemed that they were talking to me.  And when Yi did speak --- she didn’t speak much --- she spoke slowly, and such a lovely voice. I found myself, several times, enjoying that voice so much that I didn’t get what she said. Just being at her side was very soothing. And all these didn’t cause any base ideas inside my mind. I was as calm and peaceful as a mountain. It seemed that her body radiated an aura of sacredness or holiness that any such secular or vulgar intention would find no place around. It was a hot summer day but I felt so cool.

 

It turned out that Yi was from Chengdu, the same place where I came from. But she didn’t like to talk about herself. So all I knew was she lived with her grandma since she was very little. She is a Chinese, not Tibetan. Her parents went to work in Tibet and left her at home with her grandmother. When she grew up somehow she decided to enter the religious school and after graduating asked to be assigned to Tibet, partially to join her parents.

 

Yi loved Tibetan people and Tibetan everything. She told me she found her destiny here. Her parents already retired and went back to Chengdu to settle down but she decided to stay. I asked her how long she was going to stay in Tibet and she said she didn’t know and as long as possible. I asked her how about her boyfriend. She dodged that question. I could see that she and that young man were not finalized. By the way, that young man was a Tibetan. I don’t think he was a match for her. He was too coarse to match for her delicacy. I didn’t mind at all his rudeness to me.  I wish Yi could find a better man, if she ever wants one.

 

So here was I, at the most impossible place in the world, away from the secular world, away from everything, chatting with Yi, reading the book “The Tibetan Book of Living and Death” recommended by Yi, playing cards with other three girls, two of them were twins who were agreeable and friendly. By now everybody knew I was from America; and they acted no differently as I was their neighbor. I felt so at home that I wished the time stops. But the time didn’t stop. It was five o’clock in the afternoon and they were off work and were going back to their dorms. I grasped the last chance to ask Yi to recommend a place I could go and find some wise Tibetan Shang Shi and answers. She mentioned to me someplace called Linzhi. I asked what that was. She said Linzhi was very famous for its pristine forests and she heard that in the mountains over there there might be some real Tibetan Rinpoche living like hermits in the caves. She said if you wanted to find the real Rinpoche, go to find them in the far and away places, not in the city. How right that was! Then I would go to Linzhi tomorrow, I told myself. I started joyfully walking back to the hotel, full of new hopes. That was my day at ChaLaLuPu.

 

Six                                 Fifth Day --- on the road to Linzhi

 

 

It was a long and boring bus ride. It turned out that Linzhi is about four hundreds kilometers away from Lhasa. And the road condition was terrible. The trip took us almost twelve hours! I was utterly exhausted at end of the trip. I quickly found a hotel near the bus station and went to sleep immediately.

 

By the way, I found my secret weapon, the out-of-date residential ID card, very useful, as good as new. The hotel owners, they never checked the valid date or anything; all they needed was the ID number on the card. That was all. I found they didn’t even look up at me to compare with the photo; or I guess I didn’t change much after all these years. That was another minor reason for my journey. All my friends said I looked too young to be forty years old.  I didn’t like that. I wanted to look older, looked the age as I was. I hoped Tibet would add some ages on my face; I went to Xinjiang after Tibet. I walked diligently and ardently in the desert of Xinjiang. That worked something out. Anyway right now I was just one-hundred-percent Chinese citizen with that ID card wherever I went. I felt good.

 

It was a long day and short day at the same time. Nothing interesting happened except that three young Tibetans, two man and one woman, got on the bus in the midst of our trip and they were so a care-free people, I had to say that, for as soon as they sat down they started singing aloud, without looking at anybody else who, by the way, was all Chinese Han people, most of whom were migrant construction workers. The three young Tibetans sang and sang, with the bus windows open and their heads sticking out. I didn’t understand a single word but I loved it so much. I wished they sang like that forever. All the sudden they were quiet and I looked back. Oh, man, they fell in sleep.

 

 

Seven                                      Sixth Day -- Linzhi

 

The next morning was fresh again. It was too early to go outside. I sat in the bed, eyes half close, half open. With my legs in the lotus position, I practiced the Tibetan Qigong based on the book I bought the day before, “The Tibetan Book of Living and Death.” It was a new experience to me. I mean with my eyes half opened, because all my previous qigong practice required the eyes closed. I felt harder to concentrate with eyes half closed because my eyes either tended to close fully to see nothing, or open widely to see everything. The book told me that I was supposed to see, through the half open half close eyes, the gate of heaven, or hell, I forgot. I’ve never practiced qigong that way again after that first experience in that Tibetan hotel.

 

It was time for breakfast. I walked out of the hotel and across the street I found this little cozy Sichuan style restaurant. I was definitely an early bird because I only found myself there. It was open, though. But no food was ready yet. I waited, patiently, watching the two female owners running like crazy back and forth. Their ages looked like between thirty and forty. I later found out that they were both from Sichuan, left their home and husbands and came to Tibet to open this small restaurant. They brought their children with them. The kids went to the local school here. Such is life! In order to survive people will do anything, leaving their lovely home behind, leaving their loving husbands or wives behind. Am I one of them, leaving my hometown and going abroad? What’s the difference? I just went further. If they can go abroad, they probably do the same thing. I’m just a little luckier than them. That’s all.

 

Anyway, I asked them if there was any thing worth to do or any place worth to go in this seemingly dull city.  Cypress Park came out from both their mouths at the same time! And all the cypress trees there, I was told, are gigantic, and very old. A few minutes later I found myself outside, standing on the street, looking for cab. Within five minutes I found myself inside a cab; the driver was a woman. Of course she was from Sichuan. Of course she left her eight-year-old child back at home and came to Tibet to earn a living but this time she was with her husband together. They drove the same taxi; she drove the day time; he the night. I could easily tell that she was from the countryside, not much education. I later found out I had to teach her how to use my camera. And my camera is one of those simplest and easiest kinds. She couldn’t just simply hold it steady when she pushed the button. Oh, my goodness, I never see in my life there is such clumsy person with the instruments. So here I was, at this supposed to be the biggest, oldest Cypress park in the world. It was deserted; that is, no single soul in the park except the person at the ticket booth; I bought tickets for both of us --- I needed to go back in the same cab and I also needed someone to take picture of me inside the park. The trees are big, very big. The biggest one is 50 meters high (150 feet), 5.8 (17 feet) meters in diameter; and is 2600 years old! But I was also much impressed by the greenness of this place; in the park, outside the park, everywhere in this eastern corner of Tibet is green, green. Green trees, green grasses. I completely forgot this is Tibet. How could this not be the beautiful JiangNan? Why are there so many greenness here separated from all other Tibet? I had no clue. All I saw, heard, smelled were greenness, and some white clouds floating at my feet and tiny red azalea flowers blooming sporadically here and there. I was drunk from all these.

 

We were going back to city. This time we took three more people with us so the driver could earn ten more yuan for each additional person; plus my twenty yuan, she would earn a decent fifty in total in half day. Everybody in the car was happy and chatting loudly until we came to a sudden stop. I looked out. The traffic police were in front of us. They were in the middle of the road, stopping every passing car. They were not there when we passed there two hours ago. They ordered every one of us out of the car; and they counted four passengers, which violated the traffic law in the area, we were so told. So they had to fine the poor driver fifty yuan for violation and let us go and of course those three persons had to walk by themselves. What happened now? The miserable driver was almost crying. I could see that. We arrived at my hotel. I got out of the car, reached to my wallet, fetched seventy yuan, and handed to her, twenty yuan for my taxi fee plus fifty more, making up for her lost of the fifty yuan fine. I didn’t want to see her crying. I’d like to see everybody happy and smile in this beautiful place. Everybody, including my taxi driver, there was no doubt about that.

 

It was a bright Tibetan afternoon. I was wandering in the streets of Linzhi aimlessly when I heard faint noise not far. I hurried up. It was unusual to hear noise in this place. When I got closer the noise became louder and eventually changed to people’s shouting, full of excitement and cheering. Around the corner I suddenly found myself facing a big green field of grass, and, oh my, on the field were Tibetan youth who were playing soccer! On the side there were hundreds of spectators, most of them were young people among them a great amount were Tibetan girls. The loud cheering was from them. I had never imagined in such a remote place I could find such entertainment. As a soccer fan, I watched the game with great interest. All of the players were handsome, young, strong Tibetan boys. They might not play professionally in terms of their skills but they were young and full of vigor. Everyone was running ceaselessly, with such a speed and ease. Watching them, I hardly realized that this was Tibet, the highest place, which holds the thinnest air, in the world. Just imagine, what it would be like if they played at lower altitude. They would crash, in terms of physical strength and endurance, any team that encountered them. Thinking of the notoriously inferior performance of the Chinese national soccer team, I couldn’t help thinking that they should all be replaced with these Tibetan youth, who, though not perfect in the technique, played with such energy and enthusiasm, which were the foremost element required for any sports.

 

I watched the whole game. Then, with great satisfaction I sauntered back to my hotel. Lying in bed, the excitement gradually faded away and I slipped into melancholy again.

 

 

Eight                             Seventh Day -- LuLang

 

I was lost. Where were the pristine forest and the Rinpoche that Yi told me about? That was the purpose of this trip. Linzhi is a city with many modern buildings and swamp of Chinese Han people. It was at a fast pace to become modernized. It was not the place I expected for, or as Yi told me. I asked the hotel receptionist. She told me the pristine forest is at a place called LuLang, which is about thirty kilometers far from here. But the road to there was notoriously bad; and not many cars went that way. So next morning at dawn I was at the bus station trying to find some van or bus going to LuLang. She was right. There were very few vehicles going LuLang and the people going LuLang was even less; most of time we were waiting for more passengers showing up, because if the bus was not full the driver wouldn’t go. Finally we collected a dozen people, enough for a van. And off we went. It was already ten o’clock.

 

I’d never seen such treacherously bad road in my whole life, all dirt, narrow, curve, and ragged. Worse, it rained heavily last night; so it was wet and muddy. Our struggling van drudged on at a speed of about ten kilo per hour. I can even run that fast! In the midst of it we encountered the worst situation of traveling in China. Road construction work blocked the road in both directions. Line of vehicles was waiting on both sides. Best of all, the workers were not hurry at all. They didn’t look at any of us, as if we didn’t exist. They acted as if they had all the time in the world at their hands; and none of the drivers or passengers said one word to them. We just waited and waited, with engines shut down and patience up. I started praying for the miracle. Thirty minutes later, miracle happened. Two black cars rushed behind us and several people with suit jumped out of car and walked up to the workers and ordered them to make way immediately. They obeyed. In no time we found ourselves on the other side of that impasse, laughing. I was intrigued and was told that those black cars were from the road construction company headquarter, the workers’ boss. Of course they obeyed.  Pure luck! I felt like we just won a battle.

 

I couldn’t help noticing the road workers on both sides of the road. There were hundreds of them scattered along the way, working basically by their bare hands. They were Chinese Han people, not Tibetans. They were migrant workers. They repaired the damaged road, made the road wider.  It was hard labor, especially in the high altitude mountains. They breathed heavily; bent down most of the time, curving like a shrimp; they paid absolutely no attention to the passing cars or people or anything happening outside their world; their faces didn’t show any emotion. They made good money, I was told. About three thousands a month. That’s indeed good money. But look at what life it was. Where did they live? Right on the road site, in small old shabby tents. I saw women too. They were right off the road, busy with cooking and washing. They gave their men strength during the day and warmth during the night. It was cold during the night, even in the summer. It is common in this place to snow a lot all year round. Actually we were hit by one big snow right when we reached one of the peaks. It only lasted a short while. But it reminded everyone of the harshness of the nature, the Tibetan nature. I didn’t know what my feeling was towards the workers and their wives. A mixture of sympathy and admiration, I guess.

 

I started a conversation with the man next to me. And, you know what, you never know what’s waiting for you the next moment in your life. He was from the same city as my wife. He even knew my father-in-law; actually he used to work with my father-in-law; so when I mentioned the name of my father-in-law, he nodded several “yeses” and we felt closer towards each other. He retired now. He told me he was in the tree logging business. That is, he goes to all those forests across the country, buying and selling log and timber. It is very profitable, he told me; but it is also full of danger and risk. He also told me this virgin forest in LuLang area is the second largest virgin forest in China in size, only next to DaXinAnLing virgin forests in Northeastern China. And the government had already made all tree cuttings in LuLang illegal. He told me this was his last trip here to wrap up some unfinished business and then he was going to abroad, Burma actually, and try to find the same line of business there. Oh, man, he knew everything about tree and logging business, about timber, tree cutting, buying and selling. He was friendly and he likes talking. He would keep going after LuLang since the very LuLang is only a small town. He was going to the deep, deep forest, the actually tree cutting place. He invited me to go with him when he saw me showing great interest. I asked when we could come back and he said at least three days later. I hesitated. I wanted to go very much. But how about my hotel? If I didn’t show up in three days, I was afraid that the hotel manage would report to police and there would be a big mess. I should have checked out of the hotel this morning. With regret I turned down his invitation.

 

As exactly I was afraid of, LuLang was another disappointing place, a tourism place. All those restaurants and horse riding stuff. But I tasted a little of the virgin forest when I saw lots of logs all over the place, especially along both banks of the brook that flows out from the mountains.

 

It was dark when I got back to the hotel. After some thinking, I decided to go back to Lhasa tomorrow. Linzhi is beautiful; but it didn’t have the thing I was looking for.  I learnt one thing. That was, you wouldn’t find Rinpoche in the city, among people; but I didn’t know where and didn’t know how. Or I just didn’t have the courage, I guess. So why not go back to Lhasa and talk with Yi. I found myself yearning for her voice again.

 

 

Nine                                        Eighth Day -- Back in Lhasa

 

Two days later I found myself back at the ChaLaLuPu temple. It was another sunny and hot Tibetan summer day. This time Yi was not surprised to see me again. It seemed that she knew I would come back. I asked her if she expected to see me again. She said no. She didn’t expect to see me. Then I asked why she was not surprised at all. She said, “Why. It was all coming and going. Everyday I see people coming and see people going. You are not the first one; you are certainly not the last one. That’s the cycle of life.” She finished talking. What a talk! I loved it dearly when she said things like that. I loved it when she, with all her understanding and casualness, treated me like one of THEM, a piece of passing clouds. I felt I could talk anything to her in this way. So just like that right there I grasped every opportunity talking to her. I told her my past, my thought, my confusion, my struggle. She just listened, with that smile and understanding. Finally I got myself interested in her, because it seemed that she knew all these stuff I was talking about and she was still as calm as a rock, or a Buddha, I would say. So I asked her, “Do you have any thing you want to do?  Or simply you just stay here forever, live like this forever, no drama, no story, no interesting things happening to you?” “Sometimes, I do want to go to other places,” she said, after a long pause. “I want to go to places like Shanghai or Shenzhen; to see more things, do more things. Anyway I’m not thirty yet. But I also want to stay in a temple, not this one, a big one. Actually, not long ago, a Lama from Taershi temple in Qinghai province came here to pay a pilgrimage and he invited me to go to his temple and promised me a good position and bright future at that temple. You know Taershi is one of the most prestige Tibetan Buddhism temples. If I go there, that means I’ll devote my whole life to Buddhism. I haven’t decided what to do, and where to go. Shanghai? or Taershi? But certainly I’ll leave here at end of this year.” She looked at me. I saw some spark this time in her eyes. Her pale face reddened a little. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to tell her do not go to Taershi, don’t devote your whole life to Buddhism. That would be a waste. But I was not so sure about that. Anyway, what was I doing here? What life she would find in big city, in bars? How can she survive?

 

“Well, whatever you do, I do wish you happy,” I mumbled with some difficult. “Don’t worry about me,” she smiled. “I’ll be fine. Worry about yourself. Really, what are you going to do after this trip? Have you learnt anything meaningful and helpful from this trip? Have you found your answers? I can see that you are not a religious man at all. This kind of place is not for you. You should find something suitable for you.  I see that you are very intelligent and have read a lot of books. Maybe too much.” She paused a bit and then continued, “I mean sometimes simplicity might be better than complexity. Thinking too much just doesn’t help much.” “I know, I know,” I nodded frantically, “but I can’t prevent myself from thinking too much. I can’t erase all that in my mind. You see. That is my problem.” We stood there, facing each other, understanding each other, but knowing that there are no easy solutions to our problems. I wanted to cry.

 

It was the ending time. I invited Yi to dinner with me. She turned it down politely. She said her boyfriend would not be happy. By the way, the whole day that boy just stared at me like a darting knife. I paid absolute no attention to him. This time I was really enraged. “He is really your boyfriend?” I protested, “I thought that couldn’t be possible.” “Why, he is not bad,” said she. “How much do you know about him?” “He is so rude,” I blurted out. “He is only rude to you. Ha, ha.” She laughed. I hated her innocent smile this time. I saw the ending coming. I would be left alone again.

 

It was time to say goodbye; and I stood outside of the temple, saying goodbye to everybody, and watching all girls and boys including Yi walking away back to their dorm. Their direction was westward.  The slanting Tibetan afternoon sun projected their long shadows on the ground. I stood there, alone, for a long long while, until all of them disappeared into the golden Tibetan sun light. I then turned back, walking towards my hotel. That was the last scene I remember between Yi and me.  I have never heard of her since then. She remains a mystery to me. Whenever I think of her, I can’t help contemplating, is she really that naive, or she has endured all the sweet and bitterness of life and finally harvested the wisdom of it.

 

Ten                                Tenth Day -- On the Lhasa Streets

 

It was the tenth day of my Tibet journey. I found myself alone in the Lhasa streets, looking at people passing by. I made up my mind today to dig this city with all my feet and heart. I walked in different areas of the city, wide streets and small alleys. I talked with Tibetans, smiling to everyone I met. I asked a Tibetan old woman to let me try her handheld metal prayer wheel. Oh, it was heavy. She didn’t understand what I said but she smiled at me all the time while showing me how to rotate that golden wheel which is supposed to pray to the Buddha when rotating. I kept saying ZhaXiDeLe --- “how are you” in Tibetan language ---- to her again and again. Just ZhaXiDeLe, that is good enough when you are in Tibet. And that smile, that typical innocent Tibetan smile. Every Tibetan I greeted on the street had that smile on their face. So pure, so innocent, and pristine, without any mask of modern civilization. It’s a smile from their heart and their soul, totally open to you. When they were not smiling their faces were emotionless, plain. You seemed to see all the hardship and difficulties of life there.

 

I came to DaZhaoSi, the most sacred Tibetan Buddhism temple in Lhasa. I saw many Tibetans doing kowtows in front of the temple; men, women, old and young, even children, all with sullen faces and reveries for Buddha, doing some form of kowtow I had never seen before. First they stood straight, both hands together, palm to palm, in front of their chests. Then they kneeled down, both legs, upper body lowered down, then quickly slid forward over the ground, spread out like eagle-spread, first belly touching the ground, then chest; now the whole body lied belly-flat, with both hands on the ground at the shoulder level supporting, like doing push-ups; last was the head going down all the way, with forehead hitting the ground, hard and loud. That finished one kowtow. Then they stood up straight and repeated the above again, and again, doing all this with amazing speed and rigor. I was standing by, counting one young guy who did three hundreds in thirty minutes! And they would do that for half a day or longer, which would add up to ten thousand? Twenty thousands? I didn’t know. Maybe more. I stared at them. They paid absolutely no attention to me or any spectacular or tourist around. They were totally in their own worlds. I saw blankets and water bottles besides them. Obviously they were from far-away places. “At least it is a very good exercise,” I thought.

I strolled among the crowd along the street that circled the DaZhaoSi. The street was swamped with people; this is the busiest area in Lhasa, both in commercial and religious rituals. It is believed that if you walk in this street, named Balangjie, circling the DaZhaoSi, in a counter clock way --- remember, it has to be counter clock --- you are paying pilgrim to the holy Buddha, having the same effect as the prayers. So right here at the busiest area and most sacred place of Lhasa, among the numerous street peddlers selling all kinds of stuff and numerous tourists bargaining for good deals, you saw Tibetans practicing their religious acts, walking several steps then stopping for kowtow, the whole eagle-like spreading out thing; then stood up and walked another several steps, and repeated the kowtow, on and on, in a big circle around DaZhaoSi. Other people, mainly tourists, including me and many foreigners from US and Europe, managed to yield space to them whenever they stopped for their kowtow. It was the most bizarre mosaic in this remote ancient Tibetan plateau, a mixture of ancient vs. modern, west vs. east, spiritual vs. terrestrial, religion vs. secular.

 

I came to realize that since coming to Tibet I hadn’t had chance to taste the famous Tibetan barley wine, Qing Ke Jiu in Chinese.  I immediately set off looking for barley wine at every deli and grocery store I could find. It was to no avail. I did not find any barley wine for sale in Tibet! I couldn’t believe it. Finally someone told me the barley wine in Tibet is too common and cheap to be for sale. That is, every home, every house in Tibet makes lots of it, and drinks it themselves all year round. That is it. “I just want to buy some and have a taste,” I said. “Then go to any Tibetan home in the city and ask for it,” the person said. Sure enough, there are lots of residential houses in the Balangjie area; I started looking. I had to find some Tibetan who understands my language. I went to the deep end of a small alley and found this middle-age Tibetan woman standing outside her house. She looked like an educated woman. I asked her if she understood my speaking. She said yes. I then asked if she had barley wine for sale and I would like to buy some. After hearing that, she gave me a broad typical Tibetan smile and said why, just come in and drink as much as you want. Was that simple! I followed her into her house. As soon as I stepped into the room I was stunned. I couldn’t believe my eyes. In front of me sat four Tibetan people, three men and one woman, all middle aged; and guess what they were doing. They were right there playing Mahjong!

 

They saw me and everyone said “ni hao,” hello in Chinese. I stood there, had a thousand questions but didn’t know what to ask. The woman went to the next room. A few seconds later, she came back with a big plastic coke-cola bottle, full of barley wine. She handed it to me. I asked her how I was supposed to drink this. She said I could drink it just like water, or I could mix it with the dry barley powder. She took a small bowl, put some brown flour-like barley powder in it and poured in some wine and mixed well. I started eating. After that I started chatting with her. It turned out that her husband, one of those Mahjong players, was a retired government official. They are Tibetan but they have many Chinese friends and their Chinese friends taught them how to play mahjong. “Do you also gamble when playing mahjong?” I ventured. “Oh, yes, otherwise no fun.” She replied. I could see that they belong to those well-being Tibetans, the beneficiary of new Tibet. They spoke fluent Chinese, knew everything happening outside Tibet; actually they had two daughters who were studying at certain Beijing college and would be home soon for the summer vacation.  In the end, I thanked them vehemently for their generosity; and I walked out, and it was completely dark outside.

 

I looked up at the sky; the sparkling Tibetan stars all blinked at me as if they were talking to me in a mysterious language. I thought to myself: “at least tonight I have barley wine with me.” I started going back to my hotel. That ended my second and last encounter with Tibetan family.

 

 

Eleven                           last day in Lhasa

 

I decided to leave Tibet. I found nothing in the Promised Land. Lhasa was changing into a very modern city, to my knowledge, with swamp of Chinese who came mainly from the neighboring Sichuan province; wherever I was in this holy Tibetan city I would be greeted with the too familiar Sichuanese dialect. And with its ever increasing modern buildings, bars, KTVs, and of course, prostitutes, I saw the gradual disappearance of difference between this holy city and other large Chinese cities. I heard that the railroad that will connect Lhasa with Geermu in Qinghai Province has just started to be built this month. It was estimated to take four years to finish. By then there will be more dramatic changes brought here from outside world, that’s for sure.

 

I decided to take the bus leaving Tibet. The best route is from Lhasa to Geermu, the second largest city of Qinghai province. The trip between Lhasa and Geermu is 1,165 kilometers (728 miles), ranging over the two famous mountain ranges, Tanggula Mountain and Kunlun Mountain, among which there is the magnificent and famous Tanggula Mountain Pass, of which I had dreamed of since I first saw it on a photo several years ago. I had to find a bus that would be at the Tanggula Pass when it’s daytime. 

 

It was dawn. I packed all my stuff, checked out the motel, and came to the bus station. I had already calculated well. The trip would take about a whole day. And the Tanggula Pass is right in the middle. So I needed to get a bus that would leave Lhasa at night so that it would be the day time when it reached the Pass. To my surprise and big dismal, I found out that all buses at the station leaving Lhasa in the morning. That means that it would be dark at the Pass. I couldn’t accept that. I hang around, asking, requiring anyone I met, and hoping some miracle would happen. I prayed, of course.

 

Someone told me that there was another bus station at another side of the city. I went there. No luck. Same thing. All morning buses. I left there and started wandering aimlessly on the street when I suddenly saw a small Tibetan sweet tea shop. I went in and bought a bowl of the sweet tea, so it’s called. It is made of black tea and milk and sugar. Not bad. But I preferred butter tea to sweet tea. So after sweet tea I bought a bowl of butter tea and enjoyed it slowly. I looked around. The shop was quiet and small. I only saw myself and a couple of old Tibetan men at another table who were playing some kind of board game called Geerrang, similar to Kelangqi, a game you use your fingers to bounce the marbles back and forth on the board, trying to knock the opponent’s marbles into some bad position. It was believed that both sweet tea and Geerrang were brought into Tibet one hundred years ago by British army when they invaded Tibet. The two old Tibetans were so in the game and obviously enjoyed it tremendously. I ventured myself up to their table and asked politely if I could watch them play. The answer was of course “Yes” and both of them smiled at me warmly. But without much talking they went back to their game again and talking to each other frantically. I didn’t understand what they were talking, of course. But no matter, I enjoyed so much watching them, in such a peaceful and sunny Tibetan morning. I forgot all my troubles in the world at that place that moment, until one hour later I realized that I had to go to look for my bus. I reluctantly said good-by and left the shop. I decided to go back to the bus station I went first this morning.

 

It was noon and I was still at the station when the silence of the station yard was suddenly broken by big noise. And a large group of Tibetan youth was gathering. I immediately realized that it was a goodbye group. They were obviously college students, probably just out of college and saying good-by to each other at the time of the year, time for separation, for seeking everybody’s own future. I watched them. Everybody was having tears in their eyes, everyone was hugging, waving, talking, and the most fantastic scene was that everyone had a bunch of the traditional Tibetan white long silk hada hanging around their necks; and everyone was frantic to take off their own hada and trying to put on other person’s neck. It was like a group fight, man to man; man to woman, and woman to woman, everyone to everyone else. It was a happy and exciting and hilarious mess. All the audience around, including me of course, were staring at them, smiling serenely and with total understanding. They couldn’t care less. They are the authentic, happy, and energetic Tibetan youth; and they are the real owners of the land. I gave them the warmest wishes from bottom of my heart.

 

It was past noon now and I still had not found my bus. Was I going to be stuck here today? Why nobody cares about Tanggula Pass? I started to grow more anxious. Right at that moment a sneaky-faced man approached me from behind my back. He said he had been watching me for a while and he asked me where I was going and I told him. He told me he knew a bus, not here, some place else, that would go to Geermu and it costs only half the price. He figured I was looking for the bargain. I had no time to explain and my only question was when that bus would leave Lhasa and after I knew it would leave this afternoon I almost jumped and ordered him, “Let’s go.”

 

Ten minutes later we came to this place, a gated and enclosed yard in some ragged street. The man got his ten yuan commission from the driver and left. I learned that the bus would leave at six o’clock that evening and it would arrive at the Tanggula Pass the next morning or afternoon, definitely day time. I happily bought the ticket, eighty yuan, really only the half price compared with that of the bus station. That was a bonus. I didn’t realize at that moment, however, that I was going to embark on a journey of hardest and most dangerous in my life.

 

No sooner I settled down and started waiting patiently than I realized that this place was ran not by Tibetan people, nor by Chinese Han people. I was right. It belonged to a minority people called Sala, a branch of Chinese muslin. It was my first encountering Sala people and I was curious to know them. The bus driver looked friendly and I chatted with him to kill the time. He spoke perfect Chinese.

 

The time seemed tremendously slow; finally it was six o’clock and the bus didn’t seem moving at all. “We need more people”, the driver simply said to me. We waited for more people. I understood perfectly. Because it was so cheap they had to fill it up. More people came and it was soon full. Almost all of passengers were migrant workers, Chinese. You could tell from their appearance. And probably they all were from Sichuan. We were still waiting. The driver disappeared now, obviously into some place to eat dinner. Nobody answered my question. We waited and waited. It was getting dark now. I looked at my watch. It was past eight. I felt a little something spooky going to. I grew impatient. But everyone else was just spreading around, waiting patiently. It was nine o’clock now. Finally the disappeared driver showed up, with another driver and a fat woman this time. We were about to take off, we were told. So everybody got ready and got on the bus. I found my spot. I forgot to mention that all seats on the bus were kind of bed. That meant you could lie on it. There were total about thirty of them, in layers.  And, everyone got a thick and dirty blanket for covering our body when sleeping; and I swear to Chairman Mao that it was the dirtiest and filthiest blanket I ever see in my life. Nobody protested. “I may not need it,” I comforted myself with such thought. The bus was still not moving. What’s going on? But I took it easy. No matter what, we would be at the Tanggula Pass tomorrow before dark.

 

A young kid was running into the yard and talked to the driver furtively. We couldn’t hear what they were talking. After another twenty minutes, the bus finally started moving; it was ten o’clock!

 

But now some very odd thing happened. After a little while on the road, the bus left the smooth and wide main Lhasa asphalt streets, and darted into a narrow and bumpy side road. It suddenly came to me that this was an illegally operated transportation agent. Now everything explained itself. Of course it was cheap because they didn’t pay tax to the government; of course they had to leave late at night because they had to wait when the traffic police went home; and of course they took the side road because the main road must have the police twenty four hours a day somewhere outside the city. I gave up any speculation now and everything was clear to me. Still, it didn’t matter to me, legal or illegal, so long as it would be day time when I arrived at Tanggula Pass tomorrow. And I was positive about that.

 

Soon we started going uphill. The shabby and creaking bus crawled slowly; the outside became inky dark. All passengers fell into sleep. I was widely awake. At the front of the bus the two drivers and fat Sala woman of course were not sleepy and they were talking in small voice in their language. They looked mean and spooky under the dim yellow light. I watched them intensely, wondering where we were now and at the same time trying to figure out what their machination was. For how long I didn’t know, suddenly a light appeared in the dark ahead; and the bus shuddered towards the light. Finally the bus stopped at the front of a house. One of the drivers got off the bus and went into the house. It was so dark outside and inside and silence covered everything. Occasionally some dog barks broke the silence. The air was full of unexplainable danger. Other passengers must be awoken by the extreme quietness but nobody spoke. We just waited there. I couldn’t help thinking that we might have run into the hands of gang or mafia; were they going to rob us? They didn’t dare to kill us. This place was still not far from the city.

 

Finally after a seemingly endless waiting, the driver came out of the house, with some big bag in his hand. Our journey resumed. Nothing happened. But this time, the hills obviously became much steeper and the bus dragged along with tremendous effort. The small hills changed to big Tibetan mountains. And it started to rain. The cold, sad Tibetan rain. The bus had no heating; and the temperature dropped to freezing cold.  And the worst thing in the world happened to me: the window next to my seat leaked. Soon my blanket was half soaked. I managed to use the half wet blanket to block the leaking window and another half to cover my shaking body, hoping the nightmare pass quickly. But the sleepiness gradually grasped me and I slowly dozed off despite of the wrecking coldness and dampness and the filthy smell because I pulled up the blanket right under my nose for as much coverage as I could possibly got.

 

I was awakened by a sudden jerk of the bus. The bus stopped. I looked outside. Still peach dark. I looked at my watch. It was four in the morning. What was it this time? I saw both drivers jumping off the bus and came back immediately. They yelled everybody awake and announced that the road was damaged by the flood mud of the mountain; and everybody had to get off the bus and help moving the bus across the area. We were stunned. It was freezing cold outside and it was still drizzling. Looking at the damaged road, there was about fifty meter long. It was all mud and sand and bad, bad, bad. How could we pass this? The bus simply wouldn’t move, too slippery. Everybody tried to push hard. No use. After a few tries, we gave up. I stood there, with my body shaking all over from the coldness and hunger. I tried to make out the surrounding area but except the silhouette of the black mountains, nothing else exists. Cell phones had no signals at this area. That meant no rescue until I don’t know when. I couldn’t help pondering was I going to die here. I was not scared of death at that time. I started to reflect on my trip not long ago from Taibei, the capital of Taiwan, to Hong Kong. I remembered clearly that day was May 25. Only when I settled down to my seat on the airplane that I looked at the newspaper and saw the headline that the day before, exactly the same airline, same route, a plane, on the route from Taibei to Hong Kong,  mysteriously exploded above ten thousand meters in the air. And all passengers including crew died. That was why that day on my plane there were so few passengers. But I was so calm sitting there. I watched the lovely stewardess running back and forth with ease and without a bit of nervousness, thinking, “if we go down, I’ll die together with those beautiful girls. No matter where to go, heaven or hell, I’m with beautiful girls. Am I lucky?” That was exactly what I got in my mind on that plane. No more, no less.

 

But now we were stranded in the remotest barren mountains in the world; and there was no beautiful girl dying with me in this deserted Tibetan mountain. Only the miserable and ragged migrant workers and that fat Sala woman. I don’t want to die here.

 

Finally we had to get up and back to working on the bus. Now the dawn started hovering on the tip of the mountains. We could see a little. The only way to move the bus across the damaged road was to find rocks and stones to cover the muddy and wet road surface. We realized that and started to look for rocks, big and small. We collected all we could find and fed them all under the bus wheels and make the bus moving. Inch by inch, it started rolling. I found myself not that cold after heavy laboring but was I hungry and dizzy. Picking up rocks, carrying them and throwing them, pushing the bus, I breathed so heavily. I heard my heart beating loudly.  Finally we moved our bus over. And our journey started again. But how long had this treacherous trip have to last? When could we see the real road?

 

 

Twelve                                      On the Road

 

We started going downhill now. The rain stopped. I saw the hope. Yes. The hope was coming. At about eight o’clock in the morning we cut into the main road. I immediately recognized this place. It was the YangBaJing area, the hot spring resort I came the second day in Tibet. That was to say, we spent ten hours since ten o’clock last night and only covered ninety kilometers, less than one tenth of the total distance. I would give them another twelve hours to reach Tanggula Pass, before eight o’clock this evening, which would still be bright enough. If not, I would curse them. I started worrying seriously, anyway.

 

The bus stopped; Time for breakfast. The virulent Sala woman demanded us all go to the muslin restaurant but everyone went to the Sichuan restaurant next door; who would listen to her? I got a chance talking to the driver I knew and threw my serious doubt to him but he assured me that there was no problem to reach Tanggula Pass before dark. We finished our breakfast in less than thirty minutes. But it took those Sala people two hour to finish theirs. They were really relaxing and enjoying themselves. Obviously the restaurant owner was their friend; and we couldn’t do anything except waiting. Finally we got going again. The good thing was that the bus survived last night’s torture and now the road was smooth and straight. The bus roared along in a good and pleasant speed. That was good. I’d already figured it out. At this speed, we wouldn’t have any problem reaching the Pass before dark, even I gave them another two or three hours eating time on the way. Now I was ready to enjoy the beautiful Tibetan scenery.

 

I looked at my Tibetan map. I saw that we were now at the DangXiong area, the starting point of Northern Tibetan plateau.

 

Oh, my goodness, the NaMuCuo Lake, one of the three holy lakes in Tibet, is nearby. How I yearned for her since I came to Tibet but never got a chance to be near her. Now I was passing by her and of course it was too far away from the road to be seen. But the Northern Tibetan Plateau itself was worthy everything to have a look. The endless green prairie rolled all the way towards every direction until the snowy mountains which was far, far away, spreading out like a vast green carpet. Occasionally the Tibetan tents and yaks passed by us. It is so peaceful. Time stops here.

 

But time didn’t stop and we stopped again. This place is called NaQu, the last town city before leaving Tibet. Time for lunch this time, we were told by the Sala woman. How I hated her. It was only one in the afternoon. Nobody was hungry; we all refused to eat lunch. We just stood on the bleat dusty street, waiting. So two drivers and one Sala woman alone spent another hour inside the restaurant. They must hate us too because we refused spending any money on their choice of restaurants which of course were their friends. The driver I knew was better than other two. He was the first to come out and started the bus. Rolling again we were!

 

The bad luck started striking on us. Our bus broke down in the middle of nowhere. It was three o’clock. And the two drivers were trying to fix it. We waited on the road hopelessly. I stood there imagining what if I walked away from the bus, from all of them and began my own travel by foot. It was a wild thought. But it was so tempting, under that bright Tibetan sun and innocent white clouds and among the delicious grasses. I seriously contemplated and savored the idea for ten minutes. But finally I gave up. So two hours later I found myself again among that filthy blanket and off we started again. If they stop again for dinner, I’m going to kill them. I promised myself. Of course they stopped for dinner at exactly six and I didn’t kill them because I was hungry myself too this time. “How far are we from the Pass?” I asked the driver. “Not far,” he told me.  But my hope had now started to diminish with every minute went by. We left the restaurant at seven. But now the road started going uphill and wound up and up in big S curves, seeming never ending. The bus reduced to a slow crawl. The sky was getting dark. The last red sun was sinking, with my heart sinking with it. My hope almost reduced to zero now. I couldn’t look at anything but ahead, hoping to hear the driver saying that here we are. No. That never happened. That didn’t happened until the time was almost ten o’clock and it was totally dark.

 

The bus stopped and we were told here we were, the famous Tanggula Mountain Pass. Everybody got off the bus. It was so dark outside; I couldn’t see anything clear in the dark. I was so disappointed.

 

I stood in front of the Tanggula Mountain Pass monument, a small stone about the size of a small desk. Under the flashlight I saw that on it carved several Chinese characters that read Tanggula Mountain Pass and a number of 5231 meters in altitude. That is 17,162 feet. This was the highest point I reached so far in my life. I breathed consciously. Everything was normal. The oxygen bottle I bought before leaving Lhasa proved useless to me. I stood there, in the darkness and coldness. I stared back. The whole Tibetan was at my back. Forward over this pass will be Qinghai. No more Tibet. I promised to myself at that moment that I would be back someday in the future, would go higher next time. Maybe Mt. Everest.

 

So far we had traveled for twenty four hours and we only covered half the distance. We resumed our journey. But I lost all my enthusiasm and interest. I slept in the dampness and filthiness until next morning.  I only woke up once, when we passed a river. From the map I knew the river has a name, TuoTuo. A strange name. but only several years later I came to know that the strange TuoTuo river is considered the origin of Chang Jiang, the world famous Yangtze River, the longest river in China, and third longest in the world. And, in 1985, 17 years before I was there, the first historical Yangtze drifting event happened right here at that place, by a Chinese college student named Yao Maoshu, from Sichuan University. Unfortunately, he died during that drifting. But his name is remembered forever. He becomes part of history.

 

We passed ErDaoGou, a small town. At dawn we came to a place called WuDaoLiang, a one-street small town. There was still 250 kilometers ahead of us. We stopped for breakfast. After rushing down some noodle, I wandered up and down the street. Suddenly I saw a small red taxi parked on the road side. I walked up and asked the woman driver where they were going. The answer was Geermu. She was more than happy to take me. Actually they had three passengers already and were waiting for one more to take off. How much?” I asked. “Forty five?” the driver replied. Without one word, I walked back to the restaurant and asked the bus driver to open the trunk to get my bag. He was stunned hearing me leaving and taking the taxi. He tried to persuade me by saying that it didn’t make much difference because after this there would be no more delay. I was determined. I was fed up. I got my bag, walked away from this dirty and ragged bus, under everybody’s astonished eyes, came to the taxi. And off we started roaring.

 

All three passengers and the driver were Chinese. We started to take on to each other immediately. I learnt that they came down from the nearby Feng Huo Mountain, literally translated into Wind and Fire Mountain. They were construction workers, building the tunnel for the Lhasa to Geermu railroad. With an altitude above five thousand meters (more than fifteen thousand feet), this tunnel is the highest railroad tunnel in the world! The reason they came down this time was that one of them injured his arm and needed to go to Geermu hospital. The other two just accompanied him. I asked them how difficult it was like working up there. They said nobody wanted to work their blood and sweat out in that treacherous place, all snowy even in this July season. I asked why you guys went there. And they said because the money was good. I understood.

 

The quiet Chinese female driver was about thirty five years old. But her face looked older than her age. She was tall and thin, speaking perfect mandarin Chinese. She was from Geermu. Imagine that she drove all the way from Geermu to Feng Huo Mountain to pick up the injured person and rushed back. Of course it was all because of the good money. I admired her.

 

Soon after leaving WuDaoLiang we came to another stop behind a long long line of vehicles. What happened? Everyone was asking everyone else. No one had the answer. Finally we got the words that the river ahead has no bridge and one truck stuck in the middle of the river and blocked the traffic both directions. And the only solution was to tow it out of the muddy river; and there was the towing truck nearby just ready for this --- this must happen everyday. However, the towing guy obviously drank too much last night and was still in sleep. So we waited for the drunk guy to wake up. At last we couldn’t wait any longer; so someone went up to the tent where the drunk towing truck driver slept and woke him up. Ten minutes later we started roaring again.

 

The magnificent Kunlun Mountain loomed large in front of us. We arrived at the Mountain Pass at about eleven in the morning. We stopped for a rest. I got off the car, looked around. The mountain and its vast slopes are all yellow and barren. Low, heavy grey clouds wrapped up the Pass and everything. It was sad; it was ominous and menacing; and it was sacred. The sacred Kunlun Mountain; the forever Kunlun Mountain, where every pebble and dust are more sacred than any human being on earth. After a few photos, we started rolling again. This time without any further delay or stop we rolled all the way to our destination.

 

 

Thirteen                                  Geermu

 

We reached Geermu at lunch time. The taxi stopped at the big square outside the train station; and three other passengers left. I gave the driver fifty yuan and expected five back. But she didn’t have five yuan. So I just said that was fine and keep the change. Suddenly out of the blue she asked me, “Do you want to come to my home to stay for the night? It will save you the hotel money.”

 

“Sure, that will be wonderful. Thank you very much.” I accepted the offer without hesitation. So ten minutes later I found myself in her shabby home with her two daughters, both about the age of ten or eleven. “My husband is not home,” she explained to me, “let’s have something to eat first.” “OK.” I said. It was noodle from this morning or yesterday. I was hungry. I gobbled down two big bowls of noodle. While eating I looked around the house. Obviously they were very poor. But the two little sisters were all manners and lovely and shy. Then she told me that her husband used to be a government official. But since the couple gave birth to the second child, which violated the government one-child policy, they got punished. The man was out of job. And now both of them were taxi drivers. One car, two drivers. The wife at day time and the husband at night time. Another miserable and struggling family in China. I had all my sympathy for them. Oh, I did want to help them. I decided to give them some money tomorrow when I leave.

 

The woman went out looking for her husband. I took a nap, with the sisters at next room doing their homework. It was quiet and peaceful. I woke up and found the woman was back. Her husband was not with her. “He is busy now and will be home later,” she explained. She proposed we all go out to have a walk in the city. I eagerly agreed.

 

It was five o’clock in the afternoon. I found the city neat, clean and full of life. I loved it very much. Everywhere we went, people smiled at us. We went to the busiest business area; big department store, crowded market fair, fruits, beautiful grapes, watermelon, this melon and that melon. You see all the fruits in the far corner of high plateau of western China. Traditionally, Geermu, and even the whole Qinghai area are under strong influence of Tibet.

 

We were getting tired from walking. We sat down at a road side food peddler and ate something that was so delicious. After that we came back home and found her husband was home this time. She introduced me to him. The husband was short and thin, without many words. You could see all the life’s burden and troubles carved out on his hard face. At this point I decided to tell them my real identify. Before that time I didn’t tell anything about myself; and they didn’t ask. So I told them I was from the US. Somehow I saw them appearing shocked. The husband and wife went to the other room and discussed in low voice. When they came back a few minutes later the husband very politely said that they were sorry but they couldn’t let me stay at their home for the night. He didn’t explain why and I didn’t bother to ask. “That’s OK,” I said, “then could you please send me back to the hotel at the train station and tomorrow I’ll take a bus from there?” Without further delay, I left their home. When we arrived at the hotel, I tried to give the husband ten yuan as taxi fee but he refused firmly. Then we said good-by; he left and I walked into the hotel.

 

Fourteen                         Leaving Geermu

 

Waking up to another fresh day, I found myself in the big and comfortable bed of the spacious hotel room. I was glad that the exhausting and daunting trip from Lhasa to Geermu was behind me. I was very tired and sore all over every bone and muscle of my body last night when going to sleep. Now I was new and fresh again. I came to the bus station and bought the ticket to Dun Huang of Ganshu province, about four hundred kilometers north, and between here and there I would travel through the famous ChaiDaMu Basin and a vast salt lake --- the bus runs on the salt road --- and from Dun Huang I would take the train westward, to Xinjiang, the largest, and most westward area of China. The bus would leave at five o’clock this afternoon. Now it was only ten in the morning. I had seven hours to spend. I didn’t want to go to the downtown so I stayed in the train station area and wandered around, trying to find some interesting thing to do to kill the time. What could interest me more but a book store! It has a very strange name though, Post Office Book Store. I walked in, not expecting much from a shabby book store at such a remote place. Quite to the contrary, once inside I couldn’t believe my eyes. I found one of the best book stores in the world, not in terms of size, of course. It was a hot day. And the book store was air-conditioned, very quiet, neat and clean, with few people inside. They have the best book collection on the shelf. I spent a good four hours there and bought a bunch. It was such a pleasant experience.

 

Feeling hungry, I looked for the restaurant. I avoided the big and shinny restaurant at the main street and found a small Sichuan style restaurant two blocks away in the back street. I had a real, authentic Sichuan meal there. I was much contented and promised the owner that I would recommend it to all my friends I know. Finally, time for departure. I boarded the bus and sat next to the bus driver. I was ready to go.

 

The trip to Dun Huang was smooth and uneventful. As the bus was rolling fast across the vast ChaiDaMu salt lake I paid close attention to the road under the wheels. It was all salt, black salt. I first didn’t understand why the salt is black; then I realized that it was because the traffic and the dust make it black. I also noticed some factory-like facility spreading out on the salt plain, obviously digging and packing up the resourceful salt.

 

During the night of tedious and boring travel the bus spent long time and tremendous effort climbing the DangJing Mountain that separates Qinghai province and Ganshu Province, another mountain above five thousand meters. The road becomes very steep and winding and dangerous. Everybody on the bus was at sleep except the driver and me. This bus didn’t have substitute driver so the drive had to drive all the way along. I strived to keep awake, raking my brain for topics to discuss with the driver and keeping lighting the cigarette one after another for him. I was just trying to keep both of us awake in the darkness and silent world. I was also prepared to take over the wheel if necessary. It was good that nothing happened and we arrived at Dun Huang bus station at five o’clock in the morning. The city was still in sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

Fifteen                                     The End

 

Dun Huang is of course a famous place, for its magnificent cave paintings and sculptures for thousands of years. But I had no intention to stay here. “I will be back here in the future,” I told myself. “and this time I’m just not ready for this. Plus all I wanted now is going to Xinjiang.” So I decided to go to the train station immediately. Unfortunately Dun Huang has no railroad. The nearest train station is about one hundred twenty kilometers away from the city, a place called Liuyuan; and the bus to Liuyuan train station won’t leave until eight o’clock. Going by taxi was another option here. I and two other people jumped into one taxi and off we started.

 

Just about twenty minutes out of the city and the dawn was slowly appearing on the horizon, when I was eagerly breathing in the fresh and cool morning air, suddenly we saw a police car in the middle of the road ahead; they stopped us and ordered everyone out of the car. One policeman started searching through our bags while another demanded our resident id cards. My heart started jumping. I handed over my invalid ID card, trying to stay calm as much as possible. To my great relieve he didn’t notice anything wrong and returned the card to me without saying anything. “What happened?” I ventured. “There is a murder in the city last night. We are here trying to stop the suspect from fleeing,” the police said, unemotionally.

 

Two hours later I found myself at the train station. Here my bags suffered second rummage by the railroad police. They were doing the routine safety check and they found my oxygen bottle and confiscated it without saying one word. I protested but no use. It was explosive material. That was the only explanation I got. I didn’t want to get into further trouble here. So I let it go.

 

At last the train from Beijing to Wulumuqi, the capital of Xinjiang, had arrived. It had already traveled thousands of kilometers and spent several days on the road. Now it was on its last stretch. After another ten hours, it would reach its destination.

 

I was ready to board. I realized that once I stepped on that train, my Tibetan journey would officially end. I was rather calm at that moment; and I was looking forward to the next episode of my adventures. I stepped up on the hissing and exhausted train. I didn’t look back.

 

 

 

The End

 

June 2009