Berkley Center

What do these three things have in common, you ask? The answer is that you can find all of them in the small city of Xia’he, a culturally Tibetan community located in Gansu province in northwestern China. Xia’he was only one of the many stops on my two week academic excursion throughout northwestern China earlier this semester; however, it was definitely the most memorable. While the entire trip was extraordinary, Xia’he was especially unforgettable because it challenged me in more ways than one.

On August 20, I departed for a two week academic excursion with about 40 other Beijing Center for Chinese Studies students. We started in Beijing and worked our way westward via various modes of transportation: bus, overnight train, foot, and airplane. By the time we reached Xia’he, it was day nine of the excursion.

My body was starting to ache from the long bus rides and bean-bag pillows common to Chinese hotels, and my stomach was struggling to adapt to western Chinese cuisine. A few of my comrades were suffering from head colds and earaches, while one took a trip to the hospital to treat a case of bronchitis. Despite our various ailments—physical and emotional alike—collectively, our spirits were high. As we stepped off the bus in Xia’he, we were greeted by stares unlike any we had received before.

Locals gawked at our uncovered legs and feet, while small children gaped at my fair skin and blue eyes. I went inside our hotel and put on sneakers and jeans, which fixed my fashion faux pas (Tibetan men and women dress rather conservatively—long pants and sleeves all of the time); however, I quickly learned that I was going to need a lot more than a change of clothes to adjust to life in Xia’he.

You see, my body is physically not designed to live on the Tibetan Plateau. While the temperature was mild—I don’t think it was ever warmer than 75 degrees Fahrenheit—the sun was brutal. Every patch of my exposed porcelain skin burned the second I stepped outside. Tibetan men and women, unlike many Han Chinese, have deeply tanned skin. Their features actually appear more Mexican than what one would stereotypically picture as Chinese.

The worst part was the altitude. Xia’he is not technically part of the Tibetan Autonomous Region; however, it sits at the edge of the Tibetan Plateau. It is between 7,000 feet and 10,000 feet above sea level, which according to the more seasoned travelers in my group is really not that high. Having spent my entire life living at sea level (Long Island and Washington, D.C.), I beg to differ. After spending the first day feeling dizzy, walking into pieces of furniture, and starting to hyperventilate during a hike up the mountainside, I realized that I probably should have taken my altitude sickness medication.

I managed to overcome these minor setbacks: a nap and a good meal of braised yak meat cured my dizziness, and some perseverance and a few friends also struggling to adapt to the altitude helped me make it to the top of the mountain. While dining with local Tibetans, my fellow travelers and I were toasted in traditional Tibetan style: we donned a white scarf and drank rice wine while being serenaded by Tibetan folk singers. I can confidently attest to the fact that Tibetan rice wine (which can probably double as paint thinner, lighter fluid, or as a substitute for bleach) is a cure-all for any ailment. But Xia’he was still out to get me.

The physical challenges posed by this city proved to be insignificant in comparison to the intellectual and spiritual tests I would endure. As I have mentioned before, China is full of paradoxes. One only has to step outside for a few minutes in order to observe the most curious juxtapositions. In Xia’he, I didn’t even have to leave my hotel to see things that made me think twice.

Some of the most memorable and extraordinary things I noticed involved monks and nuns. Xia’he is home to both a Tibetan Buddhist monastery and a nunnery. Monks and nuns wander around the city at their leisure, mixing with the lay people as they go about their daily activities. They are easy to spot, since they wear traditional red robes. They always appear peaceful and pious, and move with an awe-inspiring grace. I was astonished to discover that despite all of the holiness that seems to radiate from these people, at the end of the day they are still mere mortals. In fact, they are living, breathing—and perhaps the most intriguing—paradoxes of China.

One time, a few of the boys from my group were tossing a football around the courtyard of our hotel. A few young monks wandered in—they couldn’t have been older than 11 years old—and expressed that they wanted to play. In a matter of minutes, they learned how to throw a perfect spiral and do a little touchdown victory dance. Another time, a few of my friends met a monk in a restaurant and decided to bring him back to the hotel and teach him how to play cards and meet the rest of our group. After a few hands, this clever 20-something was running the table.

On multiple occasions, monks walking down the street casually pulled a cell phone out of the folds of their robes and dialed up a friend. While sitting in on a prayer chanting session with members of the nunnery, a friend and I observed one young nun who seemed to be the troublemaker of the bunch. While the other nuns were chanting with their eyes closed, she peered around the room examining the faces of all the foreigners that came to watch them pray. During a pause in their routine, she took a crumpled piece of paper from her robes and tossed it at another nun, giggling as her friend turned around to see where the paper ball had come from.

There is no doubt in my mind that these monks and nuns are deeply devoted to their vocation, and I truly believe that they take their commitment to learning and celebrating Buddhist doctrine very seriously. I don’t know what I was expecting them to be like, but I can tell you that, if anything, they were more human than I could have imagined. While they represent an ancient tradition, they are very much in touch with the present day. They like to laugh, play, eat, and even enjoy the occasional cocktail (as one of our tour guides at the monastery confessed).

If I have said it once, I have said it a million times: in China, it is very easy to feel very small. In the last three weeks, I have never felt smaller than when I was standing on the mountainside in Xia’he, gazing out at the expanse of mountains and fields below me while struggling to catch my breath and trying to understand the lifestyle the people of Xia’he lead. In that moment, I felt like I had been pushed to my limits—physically, spiritually, and intellectually. When I look back on this experience nearly two months later, I have to admit that I still have more questions about the current conditions in China than I do answers.

As China continues to experience economic growth, even small rural cities like Xia’he are feeling the impact. Ancient tradition is facing the challenge of adapting to modern technology and culture, testing the strength of the ideals of centuries past. Tourism will only continue to increase and government initiatives to promote “civilization”—the English word that is often used by the Chinese to describe economic development—of rural areas will continue to bring new technology into the area. Today, monks in Xia’he tote Nokias and the occasional iPhone. Tomorrow, who knows what their favorite gadget will be; but then again, who knows if by tomorrow, they will even still be monks.