"Well, I don't have a glass."
Nameably, this should not be said in response to someone toasting you from the next table over.
It all started when Landon's iron horse got a flat tire, so really I blame him for this incident. As we were waiting for the guy to repair it ($1.50 for new tire and labor), we took refuge from the chill outside inside a cloud of second-hand smoke in the cafe across the street. We were enjoying our lamb dumplings when we couldn't help but notice the ruckus going on at the big round table next to ours. It was filled with about 10 professional-looking folk who were amiably greeted by everyone who walked into the cloudy restaurant. Village big wigs, we presumed.
As we were scoping out the scene, I unwittingly made eye contact with one gentleman preparing the next round with a big bottle of baijiu and I knew we were in for trouble. You see, baijiu is a horrid alcoholic substance usually derived from sorghum or glutinous rice, and the Chinese love it - even at lunch apparently. Maybe it's the 55% vol alcohol and distinct paint thinner flavor; or perhaps it's the way it makes their little round faces glow red; whatever the reason, real Chinese men down baijiu like water at their little man parties or, better said, try to get everyone else to down baijiu like water with toast after toast. And so I became the toasted.
"Well, I don't have a glass."
I scrambled for a reason to graciously decline his toast, hoping to save face for all involved. Unfortunately, my excuse was too easily resolved and in no time there was not one, but two small shot glasses being filled to the brim. Sorry Landon.
With forced grins, he and I raised our glasses in receipt of their friendly toast and largess, and sipped the clear liquid with as much anticipation as does a 5-year old cough syrup. Head nods, smiles, and raised glasses indicated a successful international exchange and an ambiance of goodwill shared by all. If only there was not 5/6ths of a shot glass of biajiu left.
As Landon and I returned to our lamb dumplings, we discussed our plight and exit strategy. Leave the rest? No, exuent international goodwill. Drink it? No, Mothers Against Drunk Driving would be irate (especially mine). Tea pot? No, might get served to the next unknowing customer. Tea cup? Yes, please.
We furtively emptied the majority of our biajiu glasses' contents into our teacups and casually topped off our cups the green tea. With our dumplings finished and our cover up complete, we stood in reverence of our honorable hosts, raised our glasses (careful to cover it so the actual amount of beverage was indeterminable), and downed the remaining drops, displaying our empty glasses as an act of face for our comrades. And with that, we grabbed our bags and shuffled out the door before they could even think to refill our glasses.
By that time, Landon's flat tire was more than fixed and we were ready to get back out on the road, though perhaps more theoretically than mentally or physically.
Backdated - 10/7
Disclaimer: Neither Landon nor I condone the consumption of biajiu, unless one gets shot by some Indians and has to remove the bullet with a hatchet by campfire.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Friday, October 31, 2008
Inner beginning...and it was good.
Backdated 10/5 - Next stop on this tour was in Inner Mongolia where I met up with Landon, my recording/adventure eating/80分/mountain biking buddy from Nanjing. After another one of those 24 hours trains, I ended up in Hohhot, Inner Mongolia ready for adventure. (Note: I do NOT recommend training it during one of the two week-long national holidays in China. With 1.3 billion people on vacation, it makes it impossible to buy a sleeper ticket. And I can tell you that 24 hours in a hard seat with 1.3billion crowded around does not make for good international relations. Also, with 73% of them males [courtesty of the uno child policy], and 100% of them being smokers, second-hand smoke has a completely new meaning.)
Our tentative plan was to rent motorcycles and dominate the grasslands, stopping at nights with lonely Mongolian herdsmen and dismounting our motorcycles only to mount up on some wild ponies we corraled up. Everyone we told about our vacation plans simply laughed at its inconceivability, but we were not so easily persuaded.
After meeting Landon at the airport (he is rich and so travels accordingly), we headed back into the city in search of our "iron horses". In Hohhot, guys drive around all day on motorcycle taxis, sporting their construction helmets for safety and honking their horns indefinitely to the same effect. We came across two and after an hour of deliberation over cost and deposit, finally came to an agreement. And the bikes were ours! Well, not until after shelling out 2000rmb (300US) for payment and deposit. The street corner probably wasn't the best place to do so as we drew quite a crowd...the more people stopped to watch, the more people stopped to watch and before we knew it there were at least 30 people encircling us watching what must have seemed a sketchy transaction to them, as these Chinese handed over their livelihoods to two backpack-laden foreigners dishing out the big red bills.
But so much for the people who said it couldn't be done!
What transpired the following week was a beautiful thing of man, machine, and Mongolia, camping our way through the countryside of grasslands, mountains, lakes, and even a Gobi desert thrown in there for good measure.
Our tentative plan was to rent motorcycles and dominate the grasslands, stopping at nights with lonely Mongolian herdsmen and dismounting our motorcycles only to mount up on some wild ponies we corraled up. Everyone we told about our vacation plans simply laughed at its inconceivability, but we were not so easily persuaded.
After meeting Landon at the airport (he is rich and so travels accordingly), we headed back into the city in search of our "iron horses". In Hohhot, guys drive around all day on motorcycle taxis, sporting their construction helmets for safety and honking their horns indefinitely to the same effect. We came across two and after an hour of deliberation over cost and deposit, finally came to an agreement. And the bikes were ours! Well, not until after shelling out 2000rmb (300US) for payment and deposit. The street corner probably wasn't the best place to do so as we drew quite a crowd...the more people stopped to watch, the more people stopped to watch and before we knew it there were at least 30 people encircling us watching what must have seemed a sketchy transaction to them, as these Chinese handed over their livelihoods to two backpack-laden foreigners dishing out the big red bills.
But so much for the people who said it couldn't be done!
What transpired the following week was a beautiful thing of man, machine, and Mongolia, camping our way through the countryside of grasslands, mountains, lakes, and even a Gobi desert thrown in there for good measure.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Thangkas, and, no, it's not a Tibetan undergarment
Backdated 9/29 - The next step of my journey took me to Tongren, a small village community centered around Longwu monastery and their local Tibetan artisans. And by that, I mean the rest of the village. Essentially everyone is this small town of 300,000 who doesn't wear a robe and shave their head is a painter - or a woman.
Every boy grows up learning to paint from his father, who learned it from his father, who learned it from his father. And so you have an entire town that thrives on this beautiful trade. Being a devoutly religious people, all pieces encompass some aspect or another of Buddhism, often the thousand-arm chick or the freaky blue monster guy. Whatever the subject though, rest assured you will find a vibrant splash of colors or a black backgrounded piece with intricate gold-lined images. These are all called thangkas, and were not made popular by Sisqo.
I was actually fortunate to find lodging with such an artist, crashing at his concrete pad which contained no more than a bed, an electric stove and wok, a crusty piece of nang (bread) the size of a Chicago deep-dish, and his set of brushes. He proved to be an excellent host, even taking me to an authentic musical extravaganza. As custom has it, guests carry a long white sash and present it to one of the performers as a sign of appreciation for their song choice or presentation. Being the dumb foreigner I am though, I couldn't even show my appreciation right since right when I went on stage to throw my sash around their neck, the song was over and they were exuent stage left. Enter Dumb Foreigner, Center Stage. ooops. However, you'd better be believing that I totally redeemed myself when they started the traditional Tibetan dances on stage and I joined in. My square dancing skills from 4th grade involuntarily kicked in and I was even the ONLY proud recipient of a white sash during our performance. No mind that she was three times my age.
Aside from busting moves, I was also invited to share a meal with some Buddhist monks that I was visiting with in the Longwu Monastery. When they find out I am from the US, they are always quick to ask if I've met the Dalai Lama (similar to Han Chinese asking if I know Yao Ming) to which I am proud to reply that I have a friend (Shugfart) who has a friend (Cindy?) who ran into him in a hotel in Seattle. Curt, you should tell them that the appropriate thing to do would've been a little kowtow apparently, though Mr. Dalai is undoubtedly more and more used to pumping fists.
My final highlight was climbing the mountain that overlooks the entire monastery grounds, city, and surrounding countryside. At the top next to the stupa of prayer flags, you can see the steeped hills for miles around where sheep graze at will. In my journey to the top, I came across a sheepherderess with sling in hand. She directed her 90 head of sheep around with flying smooth stones and the whistle-and-grunt technique. She was straight out of National Geographic as she sat atop the mountain with her sheep. Unfortunately, my 5.0megapixel Canon is not. Nor are my skills. But after sharing some trail mix and whistles and grunts (again, many Tibetans speak little or no Mandarin), she warmed up to an all-out photo shoot and even took a headless portrait of me.
Aside from the incredible scenery on this trip, I'm continually amazed at the beautiful people in this world. Whether they are Tibetan artisans, monks, farmers, sheepherders, horse-racers, store owners, or bus drivers, there is a diverse group of people out there that make getting out of the usual social circle absolutely worth it. And again, I'm amazed at how many of them have never heard of the God who created the good earth in which they thrive. Looking at who they are and what they do, I can't help but think that Jesus' method of teaching is still completely applicable in the 21st century today. Who else would better understand the Good Shepherd and the Lord of the Harvest?
Every boy grows up learning to paint from his father, who learned it from his father, who learned it from his father. And so you have an entire town that thrives on this beautiful trade. Being a devoutly religious people, all pieces encompass some aspect or another of Buddhism, often the thousand-arm chick or the freaky blue monster guy. Whatever the subject though, rest assured you will find a vibrant splash of colors or a black backgrounded piece with intricate gold-lined images. These are all called thangkas, and were not made popular by Sisqo.
I was actually fortunate to find lodging with such an artist, crashing at his concrete pad which contained no more than a bed, an electric stove and wok, a crusty piece of nang (bread) the size of a Chicago deep-dish, and his set of brushes. He proved to be an excellent host, even taking me to an authentic musical extravaganza. As custom has it, guests carry a long white sash and present it to one of the performers as a sign of appreciation for their song choice or presentation. Being the dumb foreigner I am though, I couldn't even show my appreciation right since right when I went on stage to throw my sash around their neck, the song was over and they were exuent stage left. Enter Dumb Foreigner, Center Stage. ooops. However, you'd better be believing that I totally redeemed myself when they started the traditional Tibetan dances on stage and I joined in. My square dancing skills from 4th grade involuntarily kicked in and I was even the ONLY proud recipient of a white sash during our performance. No mind that she was three times my age.
Aside from busting moves, I was also invited to share a meal with some Buddhist monks that I was visiting with in the Longwu Monastery. When they find out I am from the US, they are always quick to ask if I've met the Dalai Lama (similar to Han Chinese asking if I know Yao Ming) to which I am proud to reply that I have a friend (Shugfart) who has a friend (Cindy?) who ran into him in a hotel in Seattle. Curt, you should tell them that the appropriate thing to do would've been a little kowtow apparently, though Mr. Dalai is undoubtedly more and more used to pumping fists.
My final highlight was climbing the mountain that overlooks the entire monastery grounds, city, and surrounding countryside. At the top next to the stupa of prayer flags, you can see the steeped hills for miles around where sheep graze at will. In my journey to the top, I came across a sheepherderess with sling in hand. She directed her 90 head of sheep around with flying smooth stones and the whistle-and-grunt technique. She was straight out of National Geographic as she sat atop the mountain with her sheep. Unfortunately, my 5.0megapixel Canon is not. Nor are my skills. But after sharing some trail mix and whistles and grunts (again, many Tibetans speak little or no Mandarin), she warmed up to an all-out photo shoot and even took a headless portrait of me.
Aside from the incredible scenery on this trip, I'm continually amazed at the beautiful people in this world. Whether they are Tibetan artisans, monks, farmers, sheepherders, horse-racers, store owners, or bus drivers, there is a diverse group of people out there that make getting out of the usual social circle absolutely worth it. And again, I'm amazed at how many of them have never heard of the God who created the good earth in which they thrive. Looking at who they are and what they do, I can't help but think that Jesus' method of teaching is still completely applicable in the 21st century today. Who else would better understand the Good Shepherd and the Lord of the Harvest?
JingNee, the Tibetan with Indian English accent
Remind me to tell you the story about this guy who spent seven years out of Tibet. Then eight months in jail.
This Sino-intranet might not be the time or place.
This Sino-intranet might not be the time or place.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Tibetan Church Camp
My trek to China's largest lake (what Chinese used to call the West Sea) ended up providing more adventure than just compelling scenery. On my long and winding bus ride through rolling grasslands with nomads perched every step of the 300km way (that's approximately 200 miles for you United Statesians) and sheep dotting the fields like cotton balls on a golf green, I met some young folks that were heading to the same stop as I but with an altogether different purpose - they sought Tibetan festivities. Now for a guy who's just been coldheartedly rejected from such a place, this is welcome news and I was not disappointed as my planned two-day trip quickly extended into four.
Stepping off the bus, the air was uniquely un-Chinese. Perhaps it was the people milling to and fro, browned from years under the sun and bundled up in their full-length wool-lined robes, wrapped around them in fine hobbit fashion and secured firmly in the back with a colored sash. Perhaps it was the "Oh-ma-na-ay"s flowing down from the monastery on the hill as the monks carried on their daily prayers. Or perhaps it was the simply fact that the air really was un-Chinese, far from the industrial revolution at work here and as blue as I've seen since the government shot rockets at the permanent inversion that is Beijing. But mostly I think it was the yak.
Niao Dao (aka: Bird Island), where I now found myself, is unquestionably an agriculture based community with creatures roaming freely around and in the city. The occasional herd of sheep would maraud through the streets, leaving behind a wake of defecation that locals gathered up to feed their ever-glowing stoves. But my favorite was the yak. I awoke one morning to one of these long-haired cow cousins munching outside my "homestay" door. Thankfully, they aren't known for their temper - after all, how could they get all of that yak butter out of them, if they were? And Tibetans do love their yak butter. They even make yak butter sculptures, appearing more like culturally supreme cheeses than your lowly block of margarine.
Another beautiful aspect of yak in Niao Dao is breakfast, a grainy mixture composed of yak butter, yak milk tea, milk powder, a powdered grain, and lots of sugar. They throw it all together in a small bowl and then go about mixing them together in a clockwise motion, cupping the top so as not to spill (unless you're me mixing over someone's bed, oops). After about 50 times around in the bowl, they end up with a substance reminiscent of Play-doh in consistency, but much better tasting. And that is breakfast. Everyday.
What I stumbled upon in my good fortune was a week-long Tibetan Buddhism church camp, if I can call it that. People came from miles around, set up their tents as they pleased on the grassland, and trudged up to the monastery each morning, noon, and night for prayers led by a head lama who had come especially for this event. I must admit, I fear that attention shifted from this man center-stage to myself entering the side-door. Throughout what felt like a cold warehouse, people sat on their homemade cushions, swinging their prayer maracas and thumbing through their prayer beads involuntarily, their hands having memorized every bead after years of faithful prayers. The hands continued as always but all eyes turned in my direction at the crash of the aluminum doors behind me, their eyes as wide as my sheepish grin. The monks were very welcoming and encouraged me to take photos and the locals themselves were quick to offer me a seat on their cushions as they continued their "Oohming" amidst an occasional chorus of "Whoops". Their faces were curious and inviting, shy to the camera, yet a people quick to smooth out their robes and check their posture when the lens was upon them. Beautiful faces. Gentle faces. Even those of the elder women, any of whom at first glance might easily be cast to play the part of creepy witch lady in any given movie. They all wear their hair in braids the size of half of my pinky and look like they haven't washed it in years - which is probably not far from accurate. But their gracious spirits shine through the movie stereotypes and we exchange smiles, theirs almost as wide as my mine.
After the church camp was over, they rounded off their gathering with some great horseracing, traditional dances, and, something I will never understand, lip/instrumental synched performances. On the banks of the largest lake in China, individuals would come out bearing guitars or mandolins and then, courtesy of the monks sound system, the monk DJ would pump up the Tibetan jams and they would mouth all the words and pluck away at their NOT amplified instruments - and, oh, how the people would clap! The horse races were a highlight as the hundred or so men got pumped up by riding around in a circle, hooting and hollering, throwing Buddhist paper prayers in the air as confetti, and flying their Tibetan prayer flags high. If it weren't for my extreme horse allergy, I'm sure I would have commandeered myself a stallion and shown them what we Western cowboys are made of. Though, I admit, I did willfully abstain from the brawl that broke out at the end for good measure.
Aside from the beauty of the religious community and festivities, I managed to escape to the wilderness refuge of Qinghai one day, hitching a ride on a local motorcycle. This refuge boasts Bird Island, one of the most famous breeding grounds and migratory stops for various kinds of birds in China (stop drooling, Hille). Those seasons have come and gone; however, I was far from disappointed. What I found instead was a geographic treat, where rocky outcroppings jutted out from the turquoise lake, this lapping at the edge of the grasslands which rolled down into the golden desert, the waves of sand rising in the distance from those of turquoise. Wow. I can't wait to be able to download my photos here, as my words don't do Him justice.
The highlight for me was coming back that evening and walking out into the fields that surround the community. I came across a Tibetan family of three, scythes in hand, reaping their harvest in the field. The father chatted with me for a bit, through intermittent swaths of his blade and translations for his wife and daughter, neither of whom speak Mandarin. Pretty soon, I picked up the girl's scythe, as she was binding the stalks together, and I tried my hand at the harvest. They make it look so easy, one fluid swinging motion and they have a handful of stalks. For me, it was a barrage of inaccurate hacks and a flutter of greenery in every which way. But little by little I got the hang of it - and a blister to boot. As casual conversation, what I imagine would be the case for many Buddhists, he asked if I was Buddhist and was surprised that I was not. I shared a little bit about the one God who created the mountains and fields and blue skies that surrounded us. He said he'd never heard about this God or Jesus. In our broken Mandarin, as it is not his native tongue either, we talked about God and Buddhism and Jesus and creation and the Dalai Lhama, and it impressed me deeply as I saw him gesture with his finger and a swoop of his hand about one God who made all of creation, as this man translated into Tibetan for his wife and daughter these simple truths. How foreign these ideas must seem to someone who has only known Buddhism all his life! Yet, for a man who gains his very livlihood from the good earth, I wonder how entirely foreign the God of creation is.
Stepping off the bus, the air was uniquely un-Chinese. Perhaps it was the people milling to and fro, browned from years under the sun and bundled up in their full-length wool-lined robes, wrapped around them in fine hobbit fashion and secured firmly in the back with a colored sash. Perhaps it was the "Oh-ma-na-ay"s flowing down from the monastery on the hill as the monks carried on their daily prayers. Or perhaps it was the simply fact that the air really was un-Chinese, far from the industrial revolution at work here and as blue as I've seen since the government shot rockets at the permanent inversion that is Beijing. But mostly I think it was the yak.
Niao Dao (aka: Bird Island), where I now found myself, is unquestionably an agriculture based community with creatures roaming freely around and in the city. The occasional herd of sheep would maraud through the streets, leaving behind a wake of defecation that locals gathered up to feed their ever-glowing stoves. But my favorite was the yak. I awoke one morning to one of these long-haired cow cousins munching outside my "homestay" door. Thankfully, they aren't known for their temper - after all, how could they get all of that yak butter out of them, if they were? And Tibetans do love their yak butter. They even make yak butter sculptures, appearing more like culturally supreme cheeses than your lowly block of margarine.
Another beautiful aspect of yak in Niao Dao is breakfast, a grainy mixture composed of yak butter, yak milk tea, milk powder, a powdered grain, and lots of sugar. They throw it all together in a small bowl and then go about mixing them together in a clockwise motion, cupping the top so as not to spill (unless you're me mixing over someone's bed, oops). After about 50 times around in the bowl, they end up with a substance reminiscent of Play-doh in consistency, but much better tasting. And that is breakfast. Everyday.
What I stumbled upon in my good fortune was a week-long Tibetan Buddhism church camp, if I can call it that. People came from miles around, set up their tents as they pleased on the grassland, and trudged up to the monastery each morning, noon, and night for prayers led by a head lama who had come especially for this event. I must admit, I fear that attention shifted from this man center-stage to myself entering the side-door. Throughout what felt like a cold warehouse, people sat on their homemade cushions, swinging their prayer maracas and thumbing through their prayer beads involuntarily, their hands having memorized every bead after years of faithful prayers. The hands continued as always but all eyes turned in my direction at the crash of the aluminum doors behind me, their eyes as wide as my sheepish grin. The monks were very welcoming and encouraged me to take photos and the locals themselves were quick to offer me a seat on their cushions as they continued their "Oohming" amidst an occasional chorus of "Whoops". Their faces were curious and inviting, shy to the camera, yet a people quick to smooth out their robes and check their posture when the lens was upon them. Beautiful faces. Gentle faces. Even those of the elder women, any of whom at first glance might easily be cast to play the part of creepy witch lady in any given movie. They all wear their hair in braids the size of half of my pinky and look like they haven't washed it in years - which is probably not far from accurate. But their gracious spirits shine through the movie stereotypes and we exchange smiles, theirs almost as wide as my mine.
After the church camp was over, they rounded off their gathering with some great horseracing, traditional dances, and, something I will never understand, lip/instrumental synched performances. On the banks of the largest lake in China, individuals would come out bearing guitars or mandolins and then, courtesy of the monks sound system, the monk DJ would pump up the Tibetan jams and they would mouth all the words and pluck away at their NOT amplified instruments - and, oh, how the people would clap! The horse races were a highlight as the hundred or so men got pumped up by riding around in a circle, hooting and hollering, throwing Buddhist paper prayers in the air as confetti, and flying their Tibetan prayer flags high. If it weren't for my extreme horse allergy, I'm sure I would have commandeered myself a stallion and shown them what we Western cowboys are made of. Though, I admit, I did willfully abstain from the brawl that broke out at the end for good measure.
Aside from the beauty of the religious community and festivities, I managed to escape to the wilderness refuge of Qinghai one day, hitching a ride on a local motorcycle. This refuge boasts Bird Island, one of the most famous breeding grounds and migratory stops for various kinds of birds in China (stop drooling, Hille). Those seasons have come and gone; however, I was far from disappointed. What I found instead was a geographic treat, where rocky outcroppings jutted out from the turquoise lake, this lapping at the edge of the grasslands which rolled down into the golden desert, the waves of sand rising in the distance from those of turquoise. Wow. I can't wait to be able to download my photos here, as my words don't do Him justice.
The highlight for me was coming back that evening and walking out into the fields that surround the community. I came across a Tibetan family of three, scythes in hand, reaping their harvest in the field. The father chatted with me for a bit, through intermittent swaths of his blade and translations for his wife and daughter, neither of whom speak Mandarin. Pretty soon, I picked up the girl's scythe, as she was binding the stalks together, and I tried my hand at the harvest. They make it look so easy, one fluid swinging motion and they have a handful of stalks. For me, it was a barrage of inaccurate hacks and a flutter of greenery in every which way. But little by little I got the hang of it - and a blister to boot. As casual conversation, what I imagine would be the case for many Buddhists, he asked if I was Buddhist and was surprised that I was not. I shared a little bit about the one God who created the mountains and fields and blue skies that surrounded us. He said he'd never heard about this God or Jesus. In our broken Mandarin, as it is not his native tongue either, we talked about God and Buddhism and Jesus and creation and the Dalai Lhama, and it impressed me deeply as I saw him gesture with his finger and a swoop of his hand about one God who made all of creation, as this man translated into Tibetan for his wife and daughter these simple truths. How foreign these ideas must seem to someone who has only known Buddhism all his life! Yet, for a man who gains his very livlihood from the good earth, I wonder how entirely foreign the God of creation is.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Tibet is far from free!
Things are not going as expected. Then again, as I'm in China, I suppose that's to be expected.
I was fortunate to get a train ticket to Tibet on my thrid attempt AND going two hours before tickets were officially on sale. And I guess I was forunate to even get on the train. The unfortunate part about it is that it wasn't until 24 hours into my trip - and only halfway to Lhasa - that the train police decided to tell me that I needed a special travel permit just to get into Lhasa. So they told me to get my bags ready cause I would be getting off at the next stop. My five local bunkmates/80point partners (the longest Rook-like card game ever) were quick to jump to my defense that the train station shouldn't have sold me the ticket without telling me about the regulation. Nor should they have let me on the train without checking for a permit. But they did. And there I was, 24 hours away from home and 24 hours away from my destination. Boo.
After they kicked me off the train, I quickly made friends with the local train police and they made a few phone calls. We call this "guanxi". It's what greases the wheels in China and gets things done - unfortunately for me, it just doesn't get things done cheaply. That is to say, we got in touch with a place that would process a Tibet visa for me immediately; unfortunately, courtesy of the government regulation that all foreign travelers must do so by themselves and hire a car, driver, and tour guide for the entire length of their stay in Tibet, it would cost me one limb too many to make the trek. And so my Tibetan dreams have died. And I conclude that Tibet is far from free; rather it's about $800 overpriced.
Fortunately, I find myself here in the middle of nowhere, which isn't a bad place at all to be. It is beautiful country with naturally steeped mountains that make me ponder if God didn't put this part of the world together using one of those 3-D puzzle sets. I made it to a beautiful Tibetan Buddhist monastery today (next best thing to one actually in Tibet) and was pleased to chat with a few monks, exchange e-mail info (21st century monks!), and play pool with some Muslim kids. The lamb kebobs here are plentiful, though given the bathroom conditions, I'm kind of dreading when that plentifulness makes it through my system.
Tomorrow I'll be heading on a two-day trek to the supposed largest freshwater lake in China - Qinghai Lake - so I'll keep you posted on that and more adventures to follow!
I was fortunate to get a train ticket to Tibet on my thrid attempt AND going two hours before tickets were officially on sale. And I guess I was forunate to even get on the train. The unfortunate part about it is that it wasn't until 24 hours into my trip - and only halfway to Lhasa - that the train police decided to tell me that I needed a special travel permit just to get into Lhasa. So they told me to get my bags ready cause I would be getting off at the next stop. My five local bunkmates/80point partners (the longest Rook-like card game ever) were quick to jump to my defense that the train station shouldn't have sold me the ticket without telling me about the regulation. Nor should they have let me on the train without checking for a permit. But they did. And there I was, 24 hours away from home and 24 hours away from my destination. Boo.
After they kicked me off the train, I quickly made friends with the local train police and they made a few phone calls. We call this "guanxi". It's what greases the wheels in China and gets things done - unfortunately for me, it just doesn't get things done cheaply. That is to say, we got in touch with a place that would process a Tibet visa for me immediately; unfortunately, courtesy of the government regulation that all foreign travelers must do so by themselves and hire a car, driver, and tour guide for the entire length of their stay in Tibet, it would cost me one limb too many to make the trek. And so my Tibetan dreams have died. And I conclude that Tibet is far from free; rather it's about $800 overpriced.
Fortunately, I find myself here in the middle of nowhere, which isn't a bad place at all to be. It is beautiful country with naturally steeped mountains that make me ponder if God didn't put this part of the world together using one of those 3-D puzzle sets. I made it to a beautiful Tibetan Buddhist monastery today (next best thing to one actually in Tibet) and was pleased to chat with a few monks, exchange e-mail info (21st century monks!), and play pool with some Muslim kids. The lamb kebobs here are plentiful, though given the bathroom conditions, I'm kind of dreading when that plentifulness makes it through my system.
Tomorrow I'll be heading on a two-day trek to the supposed largest freshwater lake in China - Qinghai Lake - so I'll keep you posted on that and more adventures to follow!
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
In the beginning...
...there was a blog. And it was mine, though not necessarily good.
Hope you enjoy those to come.
Also, a special thank you to Sarah Hille for getting me technologically updated and setting up this blog for me. And thanks to David for marrying her - I wouldn't have this blog if it weren't for you, my friend.
Matt the Chit
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