Qinghai III - The Qinghai Highway: Dulan
“Four seasons in an instant and white fangs on a chain”
The next place on our tour is Dulan. With an altitude of 3600 meters it’s the highest point we have been to so far. It’s only been three days since we left Xining at 2200 meters. When we walk the stairs of our hotel, our bodies feel old and unwilling but in our room on the fourth floor, we have a nice view of the small town and the mountain range behind it.
A good book can be medicine against boredom, but we have also learned to appreciate the quietness of the small towns of China. A walk is usually rewarding: peeking into houses with their meager lighting, buying a soda in a little shop, exchanging a smile, having a short conversation. Tonight our curiosity is tamed by the height. After eating some mutton in a Muslim restaurant, we limit ourselves to a short walk and then retire to our hotel room. This time with heating. The shower is shared and located at the end of the long hallway. On my way there, I notice that most of the other rooms are open and inhabited by four or more Chinese. Some of them are playing cards. Others watch television. The way many rooms are decorated gives the impression of long term stays. I have no idea what keeps people here, because Qinghai is a desolate province with hardly any industrialized activities. Dulan is no exception. They might work in the stone factory that we will find the next day (although it looked abandoned).
We sleep early and decide on an early rising. At the time we get up it’s still completely dark outside. Our bus is leaving in the afternoon, so we have planned a long morning stroll through the mountains. A month ago in Szichuan we took several hikes. The highest being the sacred Emei Shan (3.099m). In Europe I have done some hiking in the Alps and the Pyrenees, but hiking in the sacred mountains of China is an incomparable experience. The sacred mountains are lined with monotonous stairs from bottom to top. Because of the enormous amount of mostly Chinese tourists, repairing these stairs is a constant process, and young men are continually running up and down the mountain with big flat stones on their backs. Occasionally a lazy tourist is dragged to the top, sitting in a chair between two poles resting on Chinese shoulders. Remembering these lazy tourists brings to mind a scene from Jon Krakauer’s “Into Thin Air”, a true tale about a tragic adventure on the slopes of Mount Everest in 1996. It features a 30 year old New York fashion queen who, inseparable from her Cappuccino machine, has her beloved apparatus lifted up into the mountain camps until 6000m. Above that the air becomes too thin to hold the choppers that fly up with the machine and the generator to produce the necessary electricity.
However, the mountain area around Dulan is not considered a tourist magnet, nor does it bear any resemblance to the mighty Everest. We are spared the monotonous stairs and the danger. It’s just beauty that awaits us.
We leave the village in a taxi. The road is fine, but not for long. We have just left the town’s boundaries when the quality of the road forces our taxi to stop. The mountains are still more than two kilometers in front of us. Nearby there is a long trench. The trench is at least 10 meters deep, 60 meters wide and two kilometers long. It is an old quarry: every piece of clay that once filled the space where the trench is now, has been turned into brick. A small factory lies at the center of the quarry. We have to cross the factory premises to enter the mountain range. A pole with a board is blocking the entrance. We can go round it but Li tells me that the board advises differently: ”We have a dog. We can not be held accountable for the consequences if you enter the premises”. Logic leads us to our decision (why is a dog guarding a quarry filled with mud?): we ignore the warning. However, the growling that follows soon after can’t be mistaken, and neither can the white fangs snapping in our face. As the sound of metal on metal from the chain stops abruptly a heavy choking sound takes over. The German Shepherd -which is straining against the chain, standing on his hind legs-is now close enough that we can smell its bad breath.
Eventually we find a way around it. The detour takes us through a hilly heath to the mountains. It is a beautiful day. The scene is constructed according to the rules of classical landscape painting. A clear blue sky showcases high black snowed-covered mountains, which sit close behind somewhat smaller brown hills on the horizon. In front, a yellow undulating heath.
After one and a half hours we reach the hills. We decide to climb a smaller one (perhaps 150m in height). The hill is steep, but the soft loam and the pointing rocks enable us to go up. At the top, we notice that the sky isn’t blue anymore. Dark clouds have gathered above us. It isn’t hard to imagine that rain will turn these soft and friendly hills into a perilous slide. We have to return.
Back on the heath we can see that it is snowing above the highest mountains. As we walk, the black mountaintops become increasingly white. To be here at this moment is fabulous. We are standing in a cool autumn sun, surrounded by all seasons. Simultaneously with the snow, showers of rain are hitting the lower loam hills we just left. On our right, the clouds have burst open, allowing the sunbeams to contrast with the dark clouds on the left. Big parts of blue sky have appeared above the sandy yellow in front of the heath. The variation in landscape and weather is overwhelming. By the time we reach Dulan the sky is completely blue again. The bus leaves shortly thereafter.
Posts tonen met het label qinghai. Alle posts tonen
Posts tonen met het label qinghai. Alle posts tonen
donderdag 5 februari 2009
Qinghai I - Xining (October 2007)
“Watching a documentary on a broken color television”
The origin of the famous yellow river is 1,000 km away; but close to Xining the river is still relatively small. We arrive on a gloomy drizzly afternoon. Without any blue in the sky and with the brown clay landscape wrinkled around black rocks and cut in half by the yellow-brown water, it’s like watching a documentary on a broken color television. Higher up, the water of a small side river is blood red and with the roaring sound of a constant thunder it is squeezed through its savage surroundings. The houses we find on the lower parts, close to the city, are paved with cow dung but the porches are square, typically Chinese. Mostly from red brick. Sometimes shiny white.
Xining is the capital of Qinghai. It’s built on a 2,200 meter high platform and embedded in a ring of 4,500 meter high mountains. The little center, approximately two km from the station, has some skyscrapers and breathes a tidy western atmosphere. But the district that borders the station is completely different. The streets are raw and poor. A piece of paved sidewalk is the exception in a desert of muddy sand with now and then a lost brick. The scenery makes me think of the dentures of old men. Between the ruins and an occasional building the cold October wind howls. Nevertheless this environment is the backdrop to a lively market and some very hospitable restaurants.
For the first time in China I notice the widespread presence of Muslim people. On an earlier occasion I visited the night market in China’s old capital Xi’an: a crowded tourist heaven, with lamb kebab, red paper lanterns and Turkish folklore. Muslims are no exception there either, but outside the night market the Muslim people disappear in a sea of Han-Chinese. Here things are different. Except for the western center, which is claimed by young modern looking Han-Chinese, Muslims dominate the streetscape. Most men are wearing flat white caps, the kind that butchers ought to wear in old movies, only round. Some women wear headscarves. Most restaurants are run by Muslims and don’t serve beer, but their policy towards alcoholic drinks is sympathetic. Bringing your own is no problem and a small Chinese supermarket is never far.
All over China hotpot is considered a popular treat for both tourist and Chinese. The West (Qinghai- and Xinjiang Province) is the cradle of the hotpot. It’s mostly served by Han-Chinese but in Xining it’s served differently from, for example Beijing.
In Beijing there are lots of restaurants from cheap to relatively expensive in which the dish is served. There it’s like fondue. They bring one round pot of broth to your table. A spicy broth is separated by a metal wall from a neutral one. The wall has a soft “s”-form, together with the round outline of the pan it forms the yin and yang sign without its two dots. Dishes of vegetables, mushrooms, wafer-thin beef and mutton and all kinds of tofu are served separately. The customers can cook the vegetables and meat themselves in the preferred broth. Here almost every street has several hotpot restaurants but the cozy inviting atmosphere of the Beijing restaurants is nowhere to be found. In Xining the dish is served as a quick snack. Not a pan per table, but one immense pot of broth boiled on a coal furnace per restaurant. The ingredients are limited to vegetables, mushrooms and tofu. They’re pinned on wooden skewers an neatly shelved, side by side, in a showcase. My favorites are the cauliflower and the oyster mushroom. The vegetables chosen are removed from their skewer and put together in a sieve. The sieve is put in the big hotpot to soak. The broth is (probably) drawn from mutton with seasonings. After boiling, the vegetables can be served with or without noodles and some additional hot sauce. A stomach-filling meal costs 10 yuan . The doors of the eateries are wide open. In one or two months It will be minus twenty celsius. Therefore the present afternoon temperature of around plus ten degrees is considered warm.
The traffic is also different. In spite of the flatness of the cityscape, rickshaws and bikes are no part of it. For transportation you can use the city bus or a cab. More fun are the motorbikes. They’re illegal, but outside the city center they are tolerated. On every corner groups of young men are waiting on their shiny machines. Long thick gloves attached to their steering wheels are hanging to the ground, ready for their arms to be put in whenever the have a ride. It is early in the morning when I ask for one. I am looking for transportation to go to a swimming pool. Most Chinese can’t swim. Moreover, a pool is an expensive thing for most locals. This means that they’re scarce and not well known. The chauffeur can’t help me. I decide on taking a ride anyway, so I pick a place on the map close to the center and ask him to bring me there. From there on I walk.
Eventually I find a pool behind the center. It’s something in between a normal swimming pool and at hot spring. Underwater lamps make the water translucent yellow. A little like the water of the river but much more transparent. It is said that the thirty-degree-celcius water has healing powers but for me it is mainly too hot to swim my laps. I think, maybe this is how the Chinese accidentally invented hotpot: a guy who forgot to take the vegetables out of his pockets while swimming in this hot soup. However, I must say the soaking is a good experience. In the pool I have a nice conversation with an English-speaking Chinese man. He tells me that there are a lot of foreigners in Xining. I am surprised because I haven’t see any so far, but everything is relative: as he continues he talks about 200 foreigners in a population of almost 800,000.
After a few relaxing days Li and I have planned a little trip to a park with a mountain lake approximately 140km from Xining. We hire a taxi. The road meanders its way through the mountains. At some points the mountains are covered with iron netting to prevent boulders from smashing on cars. These precautions are not taken everywhere. As we continue, rocks with a diameter up to three meters are vertically planted on the road. “Fallen yesterday, because of the rain”, the driver responds to our curiosity. The way he is maneuvering around them shows that he is not intimidated at all.
The streetscape of the little village where we spend the night doesn’t score high on the romance meter. The streets are wide but without the allure the words “wide streets” refer to. The big square in the middle isn’t different. The streets, the square and the boring buildings bring to mind a society where aesthetics make way for functionality, forgetting that beauty is a function on its own. The village is surrounded by the same clay mountains that we found outside Xining. Here they are within walking distance and start directly behind our hotel. In spite of the rainy weather we try to climb them. But we don’t get past trying, they are too slippery. Dirty pants and all, we return to our hotel for a hot shower and a clean bed.
The next morning we have no trouble finding a driver to bring us to the mountain lake in the protected resort. When we reach the park entrance we seem to be the only visitors. We continue by foot. As we are walking uphill towards the lake it starts to snow. In an hour we have reached the lake. But we cannot see it. It is covered with a thick layer of fog. However, the woods surrounding the lake are clear and the half foot of snow carpeting, leaves a fairytale impression.
As we return it’s almost five o’clock. It will be dark soon but the driver insists on taking us to a nearby ravine. The sight is promised to be magnificent. We agree but with hindsight we suspect that he had a hidden agenda. The sight is spectacular but at the lookout point there is also a gathering of Chinese workers just back from working in the mountains and waiting for a bus. The driver asks us if we can take two of them. We make room and he makes a little extra money.
When we are almost back we reach a village with all kinds of little vegetable gardens. The village and the gardens are surprisingly well taken care of. On the last corner of the village two women signal the driver to stop. Not far from them there is a large quantity of sacks of red peppers. October is in the middle of the harvest season. With the commuters already out of the car there is space for some new business. For 10 yuan the chauffeur drives up and down a few times. We are compensated for our patience with a bag of peppers. It’s on our lap as we enter Xining after another satisfying day.
“Watching a documentary on a broken color television”
The origin of the famous yellow river is 1,000 km away; but close to Xining the river is still relatively small. We arrive on a gloomy drizzly afternoon. Without any blue in the sky and with the brown clay landscape wrinkled around black rocks and cut in half by the yellow-brown water, it’s like watching a documentary on a broken color television. Higher up, the water of a small side river is blood red and with the roaring sound of a constant thunder it is squeezed through its savage surroundings. The houses we find on the lower parts, close to the city, are paved with cow dung but the porches are square, typically Chinese. Mostly from red brick. Sometimes shiny white.
Xining is the capital of Qinghai. It’s built on a 2,200 meter high platform and embedded in a ring of 4,500 meter high mountains. The little center, approximately two km from the station, has some skyscrapers and breathes a tidy western atmosphere. But the district that borders the station is completely different. The streets are raw and poor. A piece of paved sidewalk is the exception in a desert of muddy sand with now and then a lost brick. The scenery makes me think of the dentures of old men. Between the ruins and an occasional building the cold October wind howls. Nevertheless this environment is the backdrop to a lively market and some very hospitable restaurants.
For the first time in China I notice the widespread presence of Muslim people. On an earlier occasion I visited the night market in China’s old capital Xi’an: a crowded tourist heaven, with lamb kebab, red paper lanterns and Turkish folklore. Muslims are no exception there either, but outside the night market the Muslim people disappear in a sea of Han-Chinese. Here things are different. Except for the western center, which is claimed by young modern looking Han-Chinese, Muslims dominate the streetscape. Most men are wearing flat white caps, the kind that butchers ought to wear in old movies, only round. Some women wear headscarves. Most restaurants are run by Muslims and don’t serve beer, but their policy towards alcoholic drinks is sympathetic. Bringing your own is no problem and a small Chinese supermarket is never far.
All over China hotpot is considered a popular treat for both tourist and Chinese. The West (Qinghai- and Xinjiang Province) is the cradle of the hotpot. It’s mostly served by Han-Chinese but in Xining it’s served differently from, for example Beijing.
In Beijing there are lots of restaurants from cheap to relatively expensive in which the dish is served. There it’s like fondue. They bring one round pot of broth to your table. A spicy broth is separated by a metal wall from a neutral one. The wall has a soft “s”-form, together with the round outline of the pan it forms the yin and yang sign without its two dots. Dishes of vegetables, mushrooms, wafer-thin beef and mutton and all kinds of tofu are served separately. The customers can cook the vegetables and meat themselves in the preferred broth. Here almost every street has several hotpot restaurants but the cozy inviting atmosphere of the Beijing restaurants is nowhere to be found. In Xining the dish is served as a quick snack. Not a pan per table, but one immense pot of broth boiled on a coal furnace per restaurant. The ingredients are limited to vegetables, mushrooms and tofu. They’re pinned on wooden skewers an neatly shelved, side by side, in a showcase. My favorites are the cauliflower and the oyster mushroom. The vegetables chosen are removed from their skewer and put together in a sieve. The sieve is put in the big hotpot to soak. The broth is (probably) drawn from mutton with seasonings. After boiling, the vegetables can be served with or without noodles and some additional hot sauce. A stomach-filling meal costs 10 yuan . The doors of the eateries are wide open. In one or two months It will be minus twenty celsius. Therefore the present afternoon temperature of around plus ten degrees is considered warm.
The traffic is also different. In spite of the flatness of the cityscape, rickshaws and bikes are no part of it. For transportation you can use the city bus or a cab. More fun are the motorbikes. They’re illegal, but outside the city center they are tolerated. On every corner groups of young men are waiting on their shiny machines. Long thick gloves attached to their steering wheels are hanging to the ground, ready for their arms to be put in whenever the have a ride. It is early in the morning when I ask for one. I am looking for transportation to go to a swimming pool. Most Chinese can’t swim. Moreover, a pool is an expensive thing for most locals. This means that they’re scarce and not well known. The chauffeur can’t help me. I decide on taking a ride anyway, so I pick a place on the map close to the center and ask him to bring me there. From there on I walk.
Eventually I find a pool behind the center. It’s something in between a normal swimming pool and at hot spring. Underwater lamps make the water translucent yellow. A little like the water of the river but much more transparent. It is said that the thirty-degree-celcius water has healing powers but for me it is mainly too hot to swim my laps. I think, maybe this is how the Chinese accidentally invented hotpot: a guy who forgot to take the vegetables out of his pockets while swimming in this hot soup. However, I must say the soaking is a good experience. In the pool I have a nice conversation with an English-speaking Chinese man. He tells me that there are a lot of foreigners in Xining. I am surprised because I haven’t see any so far, but everything is relative: as he continues he talks about 200 foreigners in a population of almost 800,000.
After a few relaxing days Li and I have planned a little trip to a park with a mountain lake approximately 140km from Xining. We hire a taxi. The road meanders its way through the mountains. At some points the mountains are covered with iron netting to prevent boulders from smashing on cars. These precautions are not taken everywhere. As we continue, rocks with a diameter up to three meters are vertically planted on the road. “Fallen yesterday, because of the rain”, the driver responds to our curiosity. The way he is maneuvering around them shows that he is not intimidated at all.
The streetscape of the little village where we spend the night doesn’t score high on the romance meter. The streets are wide but without the allure the words “wide streets” refer to. The big square in the middle isn’t different. The streets, the square and the boring buildings bring to mind a society where aesthetics make way for functionality, forgetting that beauty is a function on its own. The village is surrounded by the same clay mountains that we found outside Xining. Here they are within walking distance and start directly behind our hotel. In spite of the rainy weather we try to climb them. But we don’t get past trying, they are too slippery. Dirty pants and all, we return to our hotel for a hot shower and a clean bed.
The next morning we have no trouble finding a driver to bring us to the mountain lake in the protected resort. When we reach the park entrance we seem to be the only visitors. We continue by foot. As we are walking uphill towards the lake it starts to snow. In an hour we have reached the lake. But we cannot see it. It is covered with a thick layer of fog. However, the woods surrounding the lake are clear and the half foot of snow carpeting, leaves a fairytale impression.
As we return it’s almost five o’clock. It will be dark soon but the driver insists on taking us to a nearby ravine. The sight is promised to be magnificent. We agree but with hindsight we suspect that he had a hidden agenda. The sight is spectacular but at the lookout point there is also a gathering of Chinese workers just back from working in the mountains and waiting for a bus. The driver asks us if we can take two of them. We make room and he makes a little extra money.
When we are almost back we reach a village with all kinds of little vegetable gardens. The village and the gardens are surprisingly well taken care of. On the last corner of the village two women signal the driver to stop. Not far from them there is a large quantity of sacks of red peppers. October is in the middle of the harvest season. With the commuters already out of the car there is space for some new business. For 10 yuan the chauffeur drives up and down a few times. We are compensated for our patience with a bag of peppers. It’s on our lap as we enter Xining after another satisfying day.
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