From Golmud to Yu Shu (October 2007)
“On the menu there are two dishes: one kilo of beef and two kilos of beef”

Golmud, a modern suburbia with a hollow soul, is the end of the road for now. Tibet is closed and the first chance to apply for a travel permit is in two weeks. After a day and a half of writing travel stories and emails in the internet cafés of Golmud it is time to move on. Time for a plan. Yu Shu seems like an interesting goal. When we ask around people tell us that we can only go to Yu Shu via Xining and for that we have to travel 850 km northwest over the same roads we just came from and then travel 900 km south along a different route. But as the crow flies Yu Shu is only 400 km southwest of Golmud. So the Xining option just isn’t good enough. There must be a better way. After buying a detailed map it seems initially that everybody is right. But after a second look we discover a faint dotted line. It starts 180 km south of Golmud on the left of the Lhasa highway. Maybe a sand road or a road under construction. Anyway: there is hope.

Goatskin, yak steak, mud roads, drafty hotel rooms and an occasional dog fight, here we come.

The next day after an early breakfast and a good swim in the spotless Golmud swimming pool, our tireless work to arrange transportation commences. We talk to eight different taxi drivers, four land rover owners and two travel agencies, but can’t find what we’re looking for. The agencies ask for four times our budget (2000 yuan). Each of the taxi drivers tells us that the road is too rough for their city sedans. The only one we find who is able to borrow a land rover would force us to dig almost equally deep in our pockets. Li figures that we might be lucky in the mountaineers shop she discovered in the center of town. So we are heading for this store and after arrival things don’t look bad. Some wheeling and dealing starts and suddenly our trip seems just a phone call away. But when the driver arrives we discover that he is not as cheap as we were told. We tell him no. A little disappointed, we continue our quest in a new direction, then within a minute the driver runs into us again: here, just out of sight of the shop, he drops the price 700 yuan. But we must be willing to cut out the middleman. For a moment we are hostage to indecisiveness, then we decide that the price is still too high. We decline the offer.

Spurred by our empty bellies our nostrils lead us into a not-so-clean-looking but fine-smelling fish restaurant. The crowded restaurant is on the second floor with a view on a big square. In the middle of the square Chinese people from all over are entangled in a folk dance. We have seen this in many new villages before. Newcomers celebrating their common ground? Maybe. We watch. We eat. Night is falling. After dinner, with the sun gone, it is dark and cold. The fresh wind blows away our disappointment and encourages us to continue our search. As we are walking a young taxi driver arrives. This guy is not cursed with the phlegmatic remains of the long-gone communist system. He is open to negotiation. We agree on a price and he leaves us to get approval for borrowing a friend’s car. After an hour he returns. He has swapped his typical city taxi for a brand new red Japanese pickup. It seems a little fragile but we are not choosy. The next morning at seven we will meet him in front of our hotel. It is supposed to be a ten-hour trip. We have settled on 1250 yuan, fuel, food and the price of a bed. Altogether it keeps us way under budget.

The next morning is a typical Qinghai winter day: clear blue sky, freezing. After two hours driving we take a left off of the highway. In the middle of the first snow we have our breakfast: noodles and some vegetable-stuffed steamed bread (miantiao and shucai baozi). Large dogs are playing in the snow. We take off from the restaurant: the dotted line beneath our wheels. The frozen road of black mud is partly covered with snow. It seems to be endlessly snaking its way through a plain, sometimes slightly sloping white landscape. Every forty kilometers or so we pass a camp with some trucks: road workers undotting the line. Here, in this wintery world, they sleep in their unheated tents between their hills of asphalt and close to their machines.

As we go along we are overwhelmed by the fauna. Snow owls. Hundreds of white-bellied eagles. Lots of herds of different kinds of antelope. Later on, using the internet, we can identify several as the funny white- and sturdy-assed Tibetan gazelle. Then there are yak, sheep and goats pawing through the shallow snow on the same plains where in summer they must be feasting on tasty grass. Also there are foxes and hundreds of small guinea pigs nervously scouting the skies. Because of their size and white camouflaging fur it takes a while before we spot them. After our eyes distinguish them from their background they seem to appear everywhere. Their quick runs never cover more then eight meters. Then they stand on their hind feet briefly before disappearing back into the ground, out of reach of the sharp beaks circling high above them.

After some hours the driver offers to let me take over the wheel. It is already afternoon, the sky has been blue all day and the big lazy sun has turned the frozen road into thick mud. At 30 kilometers an hour I’m avoiding pools of mud and pits and plowing my way over the stubborn road. Now and then we pass a shallow stream. The riverbeds are stony and therefore the water in the rivers is sparkling clear. When we finally stop for lunch, at the second village we encounter, it’s 3:30pm. We are just halfway up the undotted line.

The village consists of several piled stoned houses with thick leather curtains for doors and motorbikes parked in front. Further back from the road prayer flags are nervously flapping in the wind. Tibet is still over 600 kilometers away, but in-between there is nothing but these white plains and rocky mountains.

The hamlet has a one floor building in which old comfy chairs are planted around a wooden table. The tabletop is slightly lower than a normal dinner table to avoid feeling like a midget when sitting in one of the lazy chairs. The setting is easily associated with a town council but the room is (also?) used as a restaurant. The menu lists but two dishes: dish one - one kilogram of beef, dish two - two kilograms of beef. Although the menu is bilingual (Tibetan and Mandarin), most of our hosts are not. This impedes communication, but their friendliness, the coal furnace and the soup (comes free of charge) make us feel warm and wanted.

As we leave, our driver asks us whether we have objections to taking on two additional passengers. We don’t, we are glad. This will give him the opportunity to earn something extra. As we understand by now, the trip is hard work both for driver and car. Tomorrow a long lonely road awaits them.

Two Tibetans, twenty-five sheepskins and two hundred kilograms of grain heavier we continue our trip. The extra weight presses on the back of the feeble Japanese car: the inevitable happens. Slowed down by a flat tire and a fatigued driver we reach our destination at nine o’ clock pm. It’s a small icy cold town counting about 500 souls. The absence of streetlights and the weak light coming from the houses indicates at least a scarce use of electricity (maybe even no electricity other then batteries). This little village is the crossing point: not far from here asphalt roads take over.

Our Tibetan passengers leave us to spend their night with relatives. We also leave the car and ask around for a hostel. The unpaved streets with their frozen mud combined with the lack of sufficient lighting are turning a small walk into an ankle busting experience. The hotel we eventually find is the only one in town. The three of us are given a two bed, unheated room with a drafty door and without running water. There is no toilet. The only way to relieve yourself is to cross the courtyard and then follow the narrow excrement- and piss-steeped alley towards the cesspool. For the first time during our already-long trip through China I am yearning for comfort. My “tough” inner self’s resistance to this mental weakness is undermined by an aching head and a nauseous feeling. In each others’ arms but with our clothes, socks and even coats and caps still on, Li and I wake up early. The aching head and nausea are still there. Although Li is not complaining as much as I am, she has also felt better. Is the beef to blame? The answer will follow soon.

Li and I go looking for a new ride. Soon a big mellow Tibetan takes us into his family. We are huddled together on the back bench of a Suzuki-sized mini van. Next to us the driver’s brother, an equally big man, is sitting. On our laps are stacks of sheep skin. On the middle bench: an old man, his wife, their middle-aged son and his kid. They are sitting on a hundred and fifty kilos of dried beef. With the driver and his wife we make a total of eight. The car squeaks as we crawl up the mountain. At the top, the little mystery about our health is unraveled by a sign saying “elevation 4800m”. Yesterday morning we left Goldmud located at 2800m. In the afternoon we are released of the small agonies of the mild form of altitude sickness that had given us discomfort: cured by time and a lot of tea. Soon after, we reach our destination. Yu Shu is a crowded, colorful town. It’s easy to feel at home. There are some Han-Chinese walking around but most of the inhabitants look Tibetan. On the main square just in front of our hotel, there is a statue of a proud Tibetan warrior. From our sixth floor hotel room we have a good view of the surrounding area. My eye falls on a monastery maybe two hundred meters uphill. I have regained my energy, and after two days mostly spent in a car, I can’t wait to go for a long walk. Li prefers to stay in the hotel, so I go alone.

Just outside the city a small town of clay has grown against a hillside. The people are outnumbered by the dogs. Most of them are wagging their tails, in the same friendly way as the monks from the uphill monastery are nodding their heads. But as I gain altitude it seems I am losing sympathy. The monks become less friendly and the dogs begin to growl. I try to keep my head up, refuse to get intimidated and continue my walk towards the summit. When I am almost there, a street dog attacks.
He bites my pants but he doesn’t reach the flesh. After some pulling and some angry shouting, the dog cowardishly takes off. From a window above, some monks are laughing at me.

A friend I met in Xi’an was bitten by a wild dog in Mongolia. Because he could not get a tetanus shot right away, he had to recover for no less then a month in a Beijing hospital. But now I am not concerned with that, it is just the primal fear of white teeth that keeps me sharp. It hasn’t ended yet. Suddenly I am surrounded by six knee-high street dogs, growling and flashing their fangs at me. Below the road against the hillside there is a small house being built. No roof yet, just a platform with some walls, hanging over the steep hill. I step off the road into the house. The walls are giving me coverage so I only have to watch what is in front of me. On the floor there are some loose boards with sharp ends. The dogs are still on the road growling at me from above, allowing me to pick up an sharpened floor piece.

The weapon in my hands makes me feel more comfortable; the dogs lose interest quickly. As I step back up on the road the toughest of the bunch is challenging a young yak. The infant cow already has impressive horns and the dog realizes that the attack was silly. To save the day he switches his attention back to me. Me, still armed with the pointed piece of wood, and him: we dance around for a while. He growls, bites in my direction, growls again, then I thrust the sharp end into his mouth, he squeaks loudly, bites the board, lets go and tries to attack me again. It’s a thrilling game but not really a challenging one. My adversary isn’t more than a knee high carnivore. Our dance is over within a minute. As I leave, I am praying that as I descend I will regain the sympathy of the dogs. At the foot of the hill the dogs are much bigger. But I get what I pray for and descend safely.

The next morning we leave for a small mountain town in the utmost south of Qinghai, called Nancheng.