Distance from Beijing: 16,002km
Distance from Changjiang Wusongkou: 14,815km
Overnight altitude: 1,034m
Yesterday, I left Arnold and his dad behind…and today I miss them already. If it hadn’t been for Arnold’s muscles to pull Miss Daisy across the flowing river between Linzhi and Bomi and if it hadn’t been for his dad to fix Miss Daisy at Tanggula Mountain, we couldn’t have made it…that’s for sure. How will I get on without them?
***
Fifty kilometres out of Xining, Miss Daisy suddenly starts stuttering and loses substantial power. At first, I have no idea what it is. I keep her at 100kmh. Rain sets in. I refuse to put the roof up. Inside it I am still dry.
Why is she stuttering? What’s wrong now?
I call Zizhou in Beijing and tell him about it. He says he has a friend, Mr. Liu Pengcheng (刘�程), at an Audi dealership in Yinchuan. If I can make it there, he can help…yes, if I can make it there.
The rain doesn’t stop.
I have prepared myself for heat; instead, it is freezing cold. My gloves are in the boot. I am too lazy to take them out until my hands are numb. I stop and put them on. Put the roof up? Nah!
***
The landscape is what? Neither here nor there – it’s neither a plateaun or a valley; it’s not a mountain; it’s not a pasture; it’s not a desert. It’s just brown, dry and boring.
***
I get Zizhou’s SMS with details as to how to reach Mr. Liu Pengcheng. Miss Daisy’s stutter gets worse. 400 more kilometres to go. Near Baiyin ( 白银) the highway is closed; it’s under repair. Just as soon as I get off the highway and back onto the G109, I feel like being in Qinghai again…the sparks fly under Miss Daisy’s floor pan…so bumpy is the road. Will I get to Yinchuan? Every minute of today’s drive is filled with anxiety. I realise I am tired, even exhausted from the past several weeks of sweating every minute. I just want to stop, go home and cry.
***
200km to go; then 100km, then 50km. I call Mr. Liu. He says he’ll wait for me at the Yinchuan toll station.
After getting through the toll station, I don’t see him. So I park Miss Daisy by the side of the road and get out. While she continues to stutter and I nervously look for Mr. Liu, a van stops next to me. Out get several men in army uniform. One of them walks straight up to me and says “Welcome to Yinchuan�. What am I doing? Why am I here? Where am I going? What? Stay only one day in Yinchuan? He has hundreds of questions. In between each one he repeats “Welcome to Yinchuan�.
Given how welcoming he is, I ask whether he’s willing to give me his signature on Miss Daisy. Of course he does. Then he whisks his son out of his van, makes him turn around and says, “Please sign on my son!� Now that’s a first – I’m not supposed to do the signing, least of all on another human, but he insists….
***
While all this happens, Mr. Liu arrives. He’s brought a mechanic with him who rides with me to the Audi garage.
As soon as we arrive, Mr. Liu confers by phone with Zizhou. They first suspect that it is the spark plugs or the ignition coils. Fortunately, I have spares of both. We try them out, no difference. Mr. Liu speaks to Zizhou some more. They methodically investigate different possibilities.
After a while they hit on something that seems to correct the problem – the air flow pressure sensor is loose. After re-fitting it Miss Daisy purrs again as if nothing ever happened.
“But,� says Mr. Liu after speaking to Zizhou again, “this might happen again. It’s either a loose cable or the senor itself is near failure. We don’t have spares of these. So, next time it happens, it might not be fixed so easily. Anyway, for now it’s good.�
Need I say that when I asked how much I owe the Ningxia Audi dealership (��奥立�), the answer is “nothing�? I try to make a payment, but he won’t let me. Thank you!!!
Will I get home to Beijing is what remains on my mind?
***
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I am now back in Xining making preparations for the remainder of my journey.
On the way to Xining, Miss Daisy and I drove by the “first bridge” of the Yellow River.
A few weeks ago, when I passed by the first bridge of the Yangtze, I wrote “One down, one to go”. So, I should now write “Two down, none to go”, but that’s just not true. There are really to more major milestones: the first is to reach the mouth of the Yellow River, the second to get back to Beijing.
While these two seem easy compared to the first two, I don’t take reaching them for granted. I am concerned about Miss Daisy…she’s getting tired. I also hear about many floods along the Yellow River…will Miss Daisy have to swim again? And I dread the heat…we will have to drive through some very hot areas in the hottest time of the year…so, who knows what’s going to happen…
Last but not least, I will be entering a region that one might call “the cradle of Chinese civilisation”…Xi’An, Luoyang, Kaifeng, Qufu…so much to understand, so much to learn, but so little time…how much will I get out of these in the next few weeks? Will I be able to make any sense out of these at all?
***
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When I met Arnold’s dad in Xining, one of the first things he said to me was something like this: “You’re so lucky. We’ll be in Yushu right at the time of the annual horse racing festival. What’s more, this year it will be particularly large since it’s combined with a cultural festival. They’re expecting over 50,000 people…how lucky you are!â€?
“Aren’t you coming?� I asked him.
“Have fun. You’re so lucky,� he replied.
And so, instead of coming with me, he ended up chatting with some of his friends in the parking lot all day…this should have told me something…
***
What can I say? Without a doubt, the buzz, the colours and the joy of seeing people celebrate their culture was something electrifying…
Yet what really sticks in my mind is something rather different…and it is this: how much I dislike being in large crowds.
“Why are you in China, then?� you might ask. But there is a big difference between, on the one hand, a large number of individuals going about minding their own business as you’d find in any busy market, train or bus. This I don’t mind at all; in fact, most of them I thoroughly enjoy this busy-ness. On the other hand, I am ill at ease with the frantic and blinkered pre-occupation of a crowd with their idol – be that a movie star, a football team, or, as in the case of Yushu, performances symbolising the crowd’s culture. When human beings cease being individuals and instead become members of a crowd, when the human mind becomes dominated by the thinking of the group instead of that of the individual, then, I feel, one person’s kindness and respect for another is easily trampled by our primitive herd instinct, then all civility is lost, then it is only me, me, me or, if there is an outsider, only us, us, us. And this frightens me.
(It seemed to frighten someone else as well – the military was everywhere…it even led the opening ceremony…)
I tried to stay in the crowd for a while, but in the end I fled the jostling elbows and shoulders, the spitting and yelling, and the wanton discard of rubbish, by climbing half-way up the valley in whose lap the festivities took place.
This helped me gain some perspective…perhaps it’s just me…perhaps I don’t fit into this world…given a choice between being with many or alone looking the other way from the festivities, well, I choose looking up the hill…
***
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Yushu lies in the Qinghai plateau at about 3,700 meters. It has a history that goes back a good 1,000-1,500 years. It was a stop along the journey of the Tibetan King Songtsen Gampo (Songzan Ganbu) and his new wife, Tang Princess Wencheng Gongzhu, whom I encountered in the Sichuan town of Songpan. It was also a major spot on the Silk Road. Today it is the capital of the eponymous Autonomous Prefecture of Yushu which has six counties with a total population of 80,000. Trade still plays a major role, mostly in jewelry and gem stones that come from Sichuan, Taiwan and India and which the well-to-do Tibetans love to buy. Yushu is also the home of a well-known monastery and an annual horse racing festival.
So much, so unremarkable. Perhaps it is no wonder that it isn’t featured in two of the English-speaking West’s most popular travel guides, the Lonely Planet Guide and the Rough Guide.
And yet, Yushu is the most colorful city I’ve ever been to in my life. Much of this will have to do with my visit coinciding with the annual horse racing festival that is of a particularly large scale this year. But be that as it may, this place has the most fascinating people I’ve ever seen in one spot…
Here a few shots…
***
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Since Mr. Tu, a Tibetan who’s grown up right here near the source of the Yellow River, shows confidence, we decide to drive in, despite the late hour of the day.
We are now entirely on off-road terrain. Yes, there is a road of sorts, if one can call it that. It is marshy in places, bone-dry in others. It has deep grooves and bottomless holes some of which so much so that they make Arnold’s wheels lift off the ground, it is strewn with rocks is sharp as knives, and it leads across streamlets where water washes up over Arnold’s tall bonnet.
Only a few nerve-wrecking kilometers into the track, we hear a ‘clonk’. Sure enough, a rock on one of the grooves’ crests has torn off Arnold’s bottom-mounted spare tire. Fortunately it is the one with a puncture. Mr. Zhang inspects the damaged item and decides to discard it. We press on.
It becomes harder still to believe that there is a school at the end of this road.
It is now 6pm, and we’re not yet half the distance in. Then, suddenly, our second car, driving ahead of us, stops moving and mud flies from its wheels.
The second car’s driver, Mr. Bai, tries to engage four-wheel drive by turning the front-wheels’ four-wheel drive mechanism into the “lock position‿, but the front wheels don’t engage. The mechanism apparently is broken. There is only one way to proceed – Arnold needs to pull out his brother. It is a straight-forward operation, but meanwhile the sun has moved inexorably lower. My fear of being stuck in the dark rises.
Along the way, we see the occasional home of a yak-herder, some of them earthen and beige houses, others large, black-brown tents.
About 10km from the school, Mr. Tu Sang makes us stop at an earthen dwelling on the open plain. Why, I don’t know. He gets out and begins to speak with a lady milking yaks.
He comes back smiling: “If we come back out too late, we can stay here overnight,‿ he says reassuringly. Mr. Zhang is happy too, but reminds us that if it rains tomorrow, then we be confined to staying in this Yak herder’s dwelling for some time to come. I think of Angie who would be mortified if she did not receive news from me by tomorrow noon. (Needless to say, there is of course no mobile phone coverage where we are.)
The news of a safe place to stay overnight restores our confidence a bit, and we continue driving. After not more than one kilometer, Arnold’s brother gets stuck again. Mr. Zhang engages his own four-wheel drive and confidently drives past Mr. Bai’s car…only to get completely and utterly stuck himself in the deep mud. What now?
Out come the four wooden planks which – irony of ironies – we originally took onboard to help Miss Daisy, but haven’t had to used once. We shove them under each of Arnold’s four wheels and assemble behind Arnold to help push. Have you ever attempted to push a 2.5 ton car at 4,700m altitude? I haven’t until now. I cut a pretty miserable figure, especially begin splattered all over with mud. But, most importantly, Arnold makes it out of his own predicament. Then he pulls his brother out.
While we’re straining to accomplish all this in a race against the setting sun, a motorcycle arrives. From it dismounts the yak herder at whose house we might need to spend the night. He parks his motor cycle and decides to come with us to the school. His daughter is still there. He wants to take this opportunity to pick her up.
Can there be a school at the end of this forsaken parcel of China’s land? It becomes increasingly hard to believe. Where is it? Where is it? Please, please let it be near.
It is well past 7pm now. Mr. Zhang assures me that the school lies right over and behind the next hill. The sky is a patchwork of blue heaven and dark-clouded hell. For a few minutes, hail swirls around us. When it clears and we get to the top of another hillcrest, at last there lies before us in the distance a spec of a building. Is this the school?
We’re now less than 8km from this symbol of man’s determination to make life better for his children, but the road, as if with the intent of making my anticipation unbearable, winds through more riverbeds and across hill more tops. And the sun, now partially hidden behind rain clouds, continues makes its way toward the horizon.
Slowly, ever so slowly, we approach the school until it lies before us in the open expanse.
And then closer still until we see the letters above its entrance: “The first school of the Yellow River‿.
Since summer vacation has started, there are only a few children at the school, among them the daughter of Hong Wei, our host for the night should we need accommodation. His daughter comes running toward him. He hugs here. Behind her comes a whirlwind of five other children.
We quickly unload our gift of clothing and gather for some photos. I want to stay and look closely into these children’s faces; I want to stay and form an impression of the school. But since we’re still racing against time, I can’t and so all that remains in my mind is an impression of utter desolation and profound admiration for those who have erected here a structure of learning and assembled the teachers and carers required to give some of China’s poorest children a chance in life.
“Before we return, you must go to source of the Yellow River. It’s only 4km from here,‿ declares Mr. Tu in an even voice that betrays not the least worry about either the approaching night or the prospect of bad weather.
“If you say so,‿ I acknowledge hesitatingly.
Thankfully the road to from the school to the officially marked source of the Yellow River is short. There I find a large stone, donated by Jiang Zemin, and because it is the raining season, a small of amount of water flowing from a tiny opening in the ground. This source of life is not marked by a government engraving, but by small, lose rocks and the skull and horns of a rather large mountain goat.
See the tiny puddle of water…it is here that the Yellow River begins and …
slowly grows larger…
Seeing Hong Wei and his daughter, Xiongqunzhuoma here at the source of the Yellow River not only making a living, but being determined to make tomorrow better than today, I conclude that this is the most meaningful journey I’ve ever taken in my life.
But there is no time for further reflection, we really must be going because the sun is about to set.
By 8:45pm, we arrive back at Hong Wei’s home. His humble, earthen home engenders in me a stronger feeling of having arrived at a save haven than the best hotel I’ve ever staid at. While in my mind it is clear that we should stay, Arnold’s dad still expresses concern over the possibility of rain the following day. In the end, he agrees – it is safer to stay.
Hong Wei and his wife bid us welcome. For the first time all day, I feel I am in no rush. I have time to observe. Before entering their dwelling, I see Hong Wei’s eldest daughter tying up their yaks for the night. As I step through the doorway – a curtain followed by a creaking door – I am amazed because I expect Hong Wei’ home to be as barren inside as it is looks from the outside. But I could not haven been more wrong. While the floor is hard earth, the decoration and furnishings are cosy and colorful. In the kitchen glows a welcoming stove.
As soon as we sit down, the smoothest and tastiest yak yogurt is served from a wooden pot…
Before dinner is served, I step outside again. All the clouds that threatened us so much all afternoon have vanished. Overhead, the sky is now dark-blue. Where the sun is about to set, it dazzles with the purest evening colours.
Just a few hundred meters away, there is a small pond. It is the truest reflection of the magic of this place.
When the cold air begins to bite into my skin – even through the multiple layers of clothing – I return to the warmth of the kitchen where dinner is sizzling in the wok.
The kitchen is a paragon of a Tibetan home. In one corner leans a prayer wheel which Hong Wei picks up and turns while his wife cooks dinner. One long wall is hung full with photos, most of them of important Buddhist figures, some of them the snap shots taken at important life events.
In another corner, I see the Xiongqunzhuoma‘s study books for arithmetic, Mandarin and Tibetan. They are given to all students by the school for free.
Proudly, her father also shows me some of her exam papers…
The kitchen-cum-dinning room is the only place in the house with electric light. Where does the power come from? A solar panel that stores the plateau’s abundant sunshine’s energy in a small battery.
After dinner, Hong Wei’s wife brings out futons of sorts and thick blankets.
“Good night,‿ he says. “When you here a noise at about 3am, don’t worry, my wife will get up to milk the yaks.‿
Just before going to sleep, I step outside one more time. The evening glow of the sky has meanwhile been swept away by the freezing night. In its place has appeared the starriest of firmaments I’ve ever seen – unbelievably, I think there more twinkling stars than patches of black. The whitish, foggy band of the Milky Way is so bright that I want to touch it. I can’t, of course. Touching the Milky Way from our earth is an impossibility, but it seems no more impossible than that a school should exist. They Milky Way and this school, the both are otherworldly. And these two have something else in common: they both inspire dreams.
I lie down and wrap myself in warm blankets. Before sleep overcomes me, I listen to the ticking of a wall-mounted clock and, through my have-closed eyes, squint at a lonely candle flickering.
***
I sleep straight through Hong Wei’s wife getting up at 3am to milk the yaks, but do wake up at 6am when the sun shines into the kitchen and she enters to make breakfast.
Xiongqunzhuoma helps out by purifying milk…
Outside, the earth is covered in frost and sparkles in the bright morning sunlight.
The yaks enjoy the morning sun and being set free again…
Right after breakfast, Hong Wei’s wife and his eldest daughter don a mask – like those many of us wore when SARS was upon us four years ago.
“What are you up to?‿ I ask her.
“We’re off to collect yak dung,‿ she explains as she walks out in the freezing cold.
“We dry it and use it for heating,‿ adds Hong Wei himself as he continues his breakfast.
Tending the yaks, cooking dinner, milking the yaks, preparing breakfast, collecting yak dung, what else? I’ve often heard that in many cultures women shoulder much of the burden of work, but never seen it so close-up. I rather like it when women do all the work, I think to myself, and make a mental note to discuss this matter with Angie, but then decide to scratch out this thought since, in fact, our arrangements are already pretty much like this yak herder’s family: Angie holds down a steady job and makes money while I do what? Travel through China with a mistress called Miss Daisy…
And with this it is time to go. It is a difficult good-bye. In the last twenty four hours I’ve experienced more new things than in most other twenty four hours of my life. I will never forget last night’s Milky Way and the school that offers hope right under it.
***
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Our two cars, Arnold and his brother, another Toyota Landcruiser, head into a cold, but clear morning. For once, I am a passenger. Since Mr. Zhang says he’s been to the Yellow River source before, I don’t bother to look at the map again. When in my half-asleep state I see a sign for Xining, far north of Yushu, I ask Mr. Zhang, “Shouldn’t we be driving west?� He replies that the turn-off will come in a minute. For a moment, I consider digging up my map and my reading glasses without which I can’t read a thing these days, but then don’t. He knows the way, I say to myself, and doze off.
I awake with Arnold purring in the still freezing and dark night. Arnold’s dad is not in his driver’s seat, but his headlights cast a broad cone onto the road ahead and also illuminate some houses. I wonder where we are.
A minute later, Mr. Zhang returns and wordlessly turns Arnold around. I am not sure in which direction we’re heading. In the twilight, I see human figures, faint silhouettes, guiding yaks through faint mist. At last, a glimmer of light appears in the direction we’re now heading, it must be east. To make a long story short, I discover that we’ve been driving in the wrong direction for two hours. I am furious, both with Mr. Zhang for not having confirmed the route with locals and with myself for not having bothered to read the map myself. But there’s nothing to be done, except to head back to Yushu where we arrive by 8am. Four hours wasted. When will we get to the school? I try not to think too much about it.
As the sun rises and casts off the land’s dark, night cloak, the features of the plateau we’re driving through become discernible: undulating, smooth hills – hills that rise to 5,000 meters, mind you – daubed in rich green and dotted with yaks, as always, but also with myriad spring flowers.
On a larger scale, where the pattern of the good-weather clouds’ shadows intersect with the texture of the rolling highlands, a spectacular mosaic of dark and light green plays across the land.
These grasslands are the smoothest manifestations of the grandeur of the universe, I think to myself.
For food-lovers, here’s a recipe for creating this landscape comes: whip up egg white and a dose of sugar until it is stiff, put it into a baking try, smooth it out with a ladle, back it, then paint the brown top green, and sprinkle poppy seeds (the yaks) on top…voila, the Qinghai plateau from Yushu to Qumalai.
***
We arrive in Qumalai, the government seat of the county of the same name, by 11:30, having driven about 250km on paved roads. There the Chief’s driver, Mr. Tu Sang, greets us. After a very brief lunch, we are on our way again.
The afternoon brings many changes. The shape of the landscape is still the same, but the earth is no longer dark green, but increasingly brown and grey. The road is now a single-lane gravel road and sand road. It is raised a meter above the ground to avoid being swamped by the summer rains and reasonably smooth. It is called the 337 county road and throws up an enormous dust cloud that extends, depending on the strength and direction of the breeze, for over one kilometer. Our average speed drops considerably.
Also, the morning’s blue sky and white clouds have given way to an increasing number of dark storm clouds and patches of rain. It seems only a matter of time until we caught and drenched in one of them.
After some time of dusty driving, Arnold’s dad suddenly hits the brake hard and pulls to the roadside.
“We have a dead tire,� he declares without much further comment and prepares to change it. I don’t worry too much since Arnold has mounted two spare tires: one to the back door, one underneath the luggage compartment.
When Mr. Zhang begins to take down the latter, I ask him why, since it’s clearly the more troublesome to remove.
“Because the other one isn’t inflated,� he replies slightly irritated.
With the help of the second car’s driver, the tire is changed swiftly, but still fifteen more minutes have passed.
The kilometers we drive are irregularly marked by the 337 county road’s milestones. Some of them are in tact, others are broken, as if even the burden of indicating the distance in this remote place is too large for a stone to bear.
Countless, tail-less mice dash off in all directions from the centre of the road, in a sometimes futile attempt to safe their lives.
The further we drive, the more palpable the sense of remoteness becomes. We have another 200km to go, and yet already I can’t imagine how even right here there could be a school. Here, there is open space as far as the eye can see. Here, I can see so clearly that there is hardly another soul within reach. Here, if anything goes wrong, what will it take to get help? Does anyone here have spare parts for a Toyota Landcruiser that has 215,000km on the clock? Here, our earth is a forbidding place.
After several more hours of driving, our second car with our guide, Mr. Tu, slows down and comes to a halt. He gets off and walks over to our car.
“Here is the turn-off to the school and the source of the Yellow River. The weather is generally good. We could drive in now. Who knows what the weather will be like tomorrow,� he explains.
It is 5pm. It is only 40km to the school, but where up until now there has been a road, to remainder of the way is entirely off-road. It will take us at least two hours in, and two hours back out. Add to that at least a half hour at the school and we won’t be back out until 9:30pm. By that time night will have fallen. Not a safe time to be driving in this part of the world.
On the other hand, if we don’t drive in now when the weather is good, then, if it rains tomorrow, we may not be able to drive in at all since the off-road terrain could become a swamp.
What to do?
(continued)
***
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“You really should go there. How meaningful it would be if you could make it there,‿ is what Zizhou said to me about the school that he had visited during the May Labour Day holiday this year. “You simply won’t believe that there is a school a few kilometers from the source of the Yellow River in the Qinghai plateau.‿
At first, I dismissed the idea. It’s not a place that Miss Daisy can get to, so why go?
“I’ll think about it,‿ is what I said to Zizhou, and I could see the disappointment in his eyes. “If everything has gone smoothly by the time I arrive in Yushu, lets talk about it again.‿ And that’s how we left it.
Yesterday, I called Zizhou: “I am in Yushu and thinking about making the journey to the school you mentioned. You said you could arrange some local help. Now would be the time.‿
A few minutes later, I got an SMS from Zizhou. It said: “I’ve spoken to the doctor. He in turn has called the assistant secretary of Qumalai County. He will be coming to Yushu tomorrow for the horse racing festival. Here is his number. Please call him.‿
Then my phone rang. I was Zizhou in order to explain a bit more. “The doctor‿ is a local physician from Qumalai County hospital who accompanied Zizhou’s group to the school in May. When Zizhou’s girl friend came down with a very serious case of altitude sickness, the doctor got her well again, and they all became friends. Qumalai County is the Qinghai county in which the source of the Yellow River lies. The assistant secretary, Mr. Peng, is the second in charge (di er bashou) of the County. Zizhou’s information slowly began to make sense.
The following day I call Mr. Peng. He has just arrived in Yushu, he says, and would be happy to come to my hotel for a chat. When he comes, I show him Miss Daisy, tell him about my Nokia-sponsored journey, and my intent to step into Zizhou’s foot steps by undertaking a journey to the school to take some much-needed supplies there.
“Can you help?‿ I ask.
“It would be my honor,‿ he replies.
While Mr. Zhang and I make preparations for the journey – buy the clothes for the kids and organize a second car since Mr. Zhang does not dare to drive to such a remote place in the summer rainy season on his own– Mr. Peng makes arrangements for us to join him and the County Chief, Mr. (Ren Qing Cai Ren), for dinner.
At 7pm, Mr. Peng picks us up. We make a little convoy: his car in front, Miss Daisy in the middle, and Mr. Zhang bringing up the rear guard. Mr. Peng leads the way to the enormous compound of the soon-to-begin Yushu horse racing festival where Qumalai county has set up several tents.
The County Chief welcomes us warmly and, over a pre-dinner drink of milk tea, we exchange thoughts. I share with him my story of how I’ve come to be here. He introduces his county to me and repeatedly thanks me for my willingness to undertake the trip in order to help out the kids.
“Ours is still a very poor county,‿ the chief says, “We have about 30,000 souls spread out over an area of 52,000square kilometers [that’s just a bit more than one human being for every two square kilometers]. Our resources are, literally, spread very, very thin. Still, since the central government’s increased investment in our country’s remote West, things are getting better. Nonetheless, it’s a monumental and slow-going task.‿
Later on, when I show the doctor in Qumalai my pulse-oxymeter, I learn that the financial situation of the county is still very dire, indeed. (A pulse-oxymeter is very helpful in assessing whether a person is suffering from altitude sickness. It reads within seconds a person’s pulse and oxygen concentration when clamped to one’s forefinger). My pulse-oxymeter is a tiny US-made gadget that I bought in Hong Kong. The doctor admires it and sighs: “We at the hospital can’t even afford a China-made version that sells for 1/5 of the price of yours‿. Anybody wants to donate one to the hospital?
Over dinner the conversation with the Chief continues about this, that and the other. With his gentle smile and warm eyes he keeps thanking me and says: “I will make my personal driver available to you as a guide to the school. He knows the route like no one else. He will wait for you tomorrow morning in Qumalai and then go with you all the way.‿
To my left, Mr. Peng, assistant secretary; to my right, the Chief
After dinner, a photo opportunity with two Kangba fighters who have come to the festival.
These Kangba fighters – how friendly they look in this photo! And yet, when you look closely at their size, their fierce features and their large, stock frames – woe betide him who encounters them in rage!
Our visit concludes with the county Chief signing on Miss Daisy.
I am in bed by 9:30 since we have decided to leave at 4am. This way we should be able to cover the 500km journey to the school by mid-afternoon, early enough in order to be able to return to Maduo Xiang, the nearest safe settlement to stay over night.
(cont.)
***
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As many of you know, Liu Zizhou and I have become good friends. (For those who don’t know, I met Liu Zizhou at Baideli dealership in Beijing…he’s been maintaining and repairing Miss Daisy ever since she’s entered China.)
In May, Zizhou, together with a friend, led a group of eleven volunteers on a charity holiday to the “First School of the Yellow River” with the aim of making the lives of these poorest of poor children a little better. So they took with them food, clothing and study materials.
When he returned, Zizhou showed me pictures of his journey and encouraged me to follow in his foot steps.
Well, I am now in Yushu, and have decided to take up Zizhou’s suggestions.
We’ve now bought clothing for the fifty students of this school and will set of tomorrow morning at 4am to this remote school…
PS: I should add that we will leave Miss Daisy in Yushu…the road we will drive is beyond Miss Daisy’s capabilities…
***
Sharing this experience with you is made possible by Nokia and my N73
(Yes, I’ve switched to using my N73 to get a broader perspective of the Nseries.)
Distance from Beijing: 14,588km
Distance from Changjiang Wusongkou: 13,401km
Highest altitude: 4,644m
Overnight altitude: 3,685m
A long drive of over 450km from Changdu to Yushu…over 160km of dirt road that made the previous day’s 40km and 72 switch-backs seem like an easy drive…do I need to say more? But now we are in Yushu, and from here on the roads are paved…as roads should be..
Obstacles on the way…
Nomads with tents and other basic necessities like cars…
Interesting people…
Several repairs along the way…first the mud-flap almost falls off…with Mr. Zhang helpful as ever…
Then the bracket that holds up the exhaust can breaks…Mr. Zhang ingenious as ever…fixes it temporarily with a tire attached to the bottom of my seat…
…but it is also beautiful in its ruggedness…
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Sharing this experience with you is made possible by Nokia and my N73
(Yes, I’ve switched to using my N73 to get a broader perspective of the Nseries.)
