No Bestride Line Drive

I've only been here for a few days, but, when I tried to write about what has happened to me last night in my journal, I felt like I was trying to cram an elephant into a sandwich bag. Likewise, the following update is but an exercise in failure--these words cannot be infused with the rush of Washing Machine Hunt in Xining, the beaming smiles of so many Tibetan children, and the subtle scent of green tea. I hope, however, that I can at least gesture at this experience as it unfolds.

The journey here was LONG (according to the chronometer on my watch, the time from Coburg, Oregon to Jian Za, China was approximately 42 hours). It went something like this: Portland to Tokyo, Tokyo to Beijing, night on the airport floor (woken by giant squeegee machine at 4am), Beijing to Xining, and, finally, Xining to Jian Za.

Miles and I were greeting in Xining by a beaming brigade of Americans and Tibetans from the Home of Hope, and then we ate an extravagant lunch that included, but was not limited to, sheep tendon (difficult with chopsticks!). We then went on the aforementioned Washing Machine Hunt, which ended successfully with a new washing machine for the orphanage. Vaguely delirious, we wandered around Xining, procuring a few basketballs for the kids and battling post office bureaucracy. Then there was a bumpy van ride to Jian Za, our driver, Chunter, yelling "NO SLEEPY!" at regular intervals. "No Bestride Line Drive" is a road sign we passed on the way to Jian Za.

And then we were here: the Amdo region of Tibet, where old mountains, striped red and white, fulfill every expectation of what mountains should be like on the roof of the world. The bread is so fresh that it was photosynthesizing yesterday (our host family owns a mill), my glass of tea
is ever-filling, and the people here smile more than I ever could have imagined. There are monks on motorcycles, escaped goats in the house, pit toilets, night invasions by cat, lunches called "yuckggt," and much, much laughter.

And I haven't even mentioned the children. They greeted us at the orphanage with dozens of ceremonial white scarves; they followed us up the driveway chanting the Tibetan equivalent of "Welcome! Welcome." They are better students than any elementary schoolers than I have ever seen in the states (they know three languages with three alphabets!), and they smilesmilesmile.
The prospects for the Tibetan National Frisbee Team are promising only insofar as the players are not distracted by a) balloons or b) chocolate. When I arrive at the school in the morning, they greet me cheerily with my Tibetan name: Lhamou Jhoma.

Yes. So this is where I am. I will conclude with a few textual postcards:

Miles Plays Jazz Violin to Tibetan Children
Steve accompanies on the keyboard. The kids react with a mixture of rapture and befuddlement. They are trying to decide when to clap, but can't find the rhythm of the blues. Their hands hang in the air, waiting for something that they cannot name.

Aiee
Aiee is the matriarach of the Tibetan family with whom I am staying. She has probably stolen all the vowels in Tibet, but she deserves them. Her face is a perfect reflection of these weathered mountains, and it wouldn't surprise me if she were at least as old. Her wisdom is obvious. She tries to make us eat more. We stand when she enters the room.

Three Hundred Thousand Million Cups of Tea
This is how much green tea I will drink while I am here, I am convinced. I won't be able to prove it, however, because my cup is always refilled before it is empty. It has even come to pass that my cup has been topped off after I don't drink any tea. Hmmm.

That's all! Must escape this smoky wang ba!
De moa!