Xining in the Forbidden Zone

Travel Story by Diana Lee

Xining, China

To visit Tibet , a Buddhist kingdom shrouded in mystique and political turmoil; a rugged landscape that is secluded in the mountain fortress of the Himalayas, has always been one of my ultimate travel destinations.

Working in China as foreign teachers at a university, Sal and I shared a rare opportunity to gain access to Tibet from China . During a winter semester break, we checked whether entering Tibet was still permissible after a demonstration crackdown on December 10, 1988, at Jokhang in Lhasa. According to foreign news, many Tibetans died, were injured and arrested. When the response came that no travel restrictions to Tibet were currently imposed, we felt ecstatic!

On January 23, 1989, we arrived in Chengdu to purchase plane tickets to Lhasa. The ticket agent gruffly told us Tibet was off-limits to foreign tourists. In limited Chinese, I tried to explain that we weren't just tourists but had working visas. The clerk slammed the window in my face.

Feeling disappointed, I spent that evening alone in a hotel room while my friend went for a drink in the lobby. As I was reading about the giant pandas in Sichuan, Sal barged in and spoke in a rapid high-pitched voice: "You won't believe what I just learned from a Chinese scholar in the lounge! We could still see a bit of Tibetan culture at a lamasery near Xining."

"The city in Qinghai?" I asked.

She nodded.

"Well, Qinghai is the home of labor camps and ostracized people," I said.

"That explains why the lamas are living there," Sal answered.

A tingling sensation for adventure swept over us. We broke into smiles.

"So, what are we waiting for?" I said. Jumping out of bed, I quickly started packing.

Early next morning, we took a long train ride to Xining, passing through the vast arid landscape of the forbidden zone. Xining, the provincial capital of Qinghai, was once hailed as a booming commercial center along the famous Silk Road. Sadly, not much of the glorious days of the past lingered as a sprawling, rustic city dotted with factories and industrial plants greeted us at the railway station.

What struck me the most peculiar about this city was that the Chinese soldiers outnumbered the civilians in the streets and that we stood out not only as foreigners but also as women!

"Let's not spend TOO much time around here," said Sal, as she glanced at the men staring at us.

After checking into a nearby hotel, we were hit by sudden fatigue. The anxiety from unexpected changes and traveling long distance has finally caught up with us as we crawled into our beds in the late afternoon. I soon dozed off into a deep, tranquil sleep. In my dream state, I heard pounding and muffled voices. The noise got louder and nearer.

Sal shook me up and spoke in a low tone: "Someone's at the door. Should we open the door at this time of the night?"

I dragged my bone-tired body out of bed and made for the door with Sal following. As the door swung open, two Chinese soldiers walked in, demanding to know why we were in Xining. I explained to them that we were teachers on our way to Lanzhou, passing through Xining for a night. The short soldier in a full-length green coat checked our IDs and papers while the muscular one told us to get on the next plane out of Lanzhou. He pointed out that we had entered the restricted area without permission. On that note, they banged the door behind them.

After that rude awakening, we were more determined than ever to see a bit of Tibetan culture. The next morning, we hopped on a train to the largest lamasery in China , Ta'er Monastery, just 25 km southeast of Xining.

Upon arrival, the long sought "little Tibet " materialized before our eyes. Tibetans, dressed in long, oversized yak-skinned coats and wraps, were tending their market stalls, selling Tibetan artistic goods, trinkets, and fruits. They seemed gentle and shy as they gestured to communicate with us. What I remembered the most was that they returned our smiles. Strolling along the streets were also some Muslims in white kapiyohs, a few Chinese tourists, and the ubiquitous Chinese guards.

Over a cup of yak butter tea in a restaurant, I showed Sal the new beaded bracelet on my wrist. She winked and whispered, "Look at what I picked up." She pulled something out of her pocket – an old photo of the Dalai Lama.

"Let's hope you don't get caught with that," I muttered and nervously checked the room for men in uniform.

She quickly slipped the photo back into her coat pocket and took out a cigarette. It was the first time I've ever seen her smoke.

Situated on the mountainside, the Ta'er Monastery is a large complex consisting of many halls and towers designed in colorful Tibetan and Han architectural styles. As the largest lamasery in China , it is famous for its original yak butter sculptures, vivid mural paintings, and superb workmanship of appliqués (silk fabric-cuttings).

After receiving a tour around the monastery, we requested a room for the night; the lama in charge shook his head. I pulled out money; he still shook his head. Sal pulled out her photo of Dalai Lama; the lama flashed a warm smile and he showed us to our rooms.

The room was sparse and clean with eight wooden beds. A lama brought in an oil lamp and five thick blankets for the freezing night. How thoughtful of him! He knew I wouldn't survive the winter night with just a white sheet for cover. It was the most restful and peaceful time of our entire trip!

After returning to the hotel in Xining to pick up the rest of our belongings, we were glad to leave the military garrison behind as we boarded a train to Lanzhou.

*

Setting my burlap sack down on a small table between the seats, I caught a glimpse of a civilian with glasses in a grey coat seated across from me.

When I finally sat down after putting away my belongings on the overhead rack, I realized my sack had disappeared.

"Where's my sack?" I blurted and stood up.

Glancing around, I saw only military officers surrounding us. They were looking at me.

Then I noticed the seat across from me was now empty.

As the train started to pull out, an officer seated across from Sal also noticed the empty seat and hollered "thief." By now, men in uniform rose to their feet.

Then a loud whistle blew, the train stopped and started rolling backwards to the station. I looked out the window and watched a row of soldiers with rifles marching to the platform and another row of soldiers guarding the entrance and exit of the station. No one could leave or enter the place.

A young officer came on board and asked questions in a dead serious tone about the missing sack. At that very moment, I remembered reading news about the harsh Chinese policy in carrying out public executions for thieves who stole from foreigners, as a way to set examples. I couldn't believe that I was put in a position to condemn a man's life.

He asked me for my ID, a list of the missing items, and a description of the suspect. I told him that the sack contained nothing important and I couldn't remember what the suspect looked like. But the police officer insisted that I walk through the train, not once but twice, to identify the thief.

The train was packed with men and many of them were in military uniform. For the thief to commit a robbery in the midst of all these soldiers meant that he was either extremely brave or desperate. In either case, the thief would be terribly disappointed to find what he'd stolen from me.

After I didn't point anyone out, the young officer finally took his leave and the train started rolling again.

As Xining was fading in the distance, Sal turned to me and asked in a caring voice, "Say, what was in the sack?"

Turning a bit red, I answered, "Umm... my dirty laundry."

We exchanged long looks. Then we burst into hysterical laughter, puzzling everyone around us as the train picked up speed and headed towards Lanzhou.

Read more about the author of this story:
Diana Lee