Part 1: "I'm gonna go visit the yak." - Qinghai

Tomorrow morning at 11am when the first train of many pulls away from the platform I guess I'll find out... sigh. Learning to trust is so difficult.

My mind swirled with these thoughts as I boarded the 25 hour long train ride taking us to Xining. I have mentioned that I love trains so I won't go into this particular ride, besides it was only one part of three which would take us to our first destination: village.

A three hour bus ride into desolation, and a forty-five minute taxi ride over the most pot-holed, about to drop off a sheer cliff face, winding dirt road you can imagine left us at the gate of our abode for the next week. Picture mud walls, mud streets, everything the same milky tea color of brown, and the most mind numbing view of sparse open mountainside you can dream of. And while you're at it, think cold... that that clear piercing cold that you can't shake off and you can't anticipate.

For one week we had a routine: wake up in the late morning to one of the brothers stoking the room's stove with yak dung, mosey into the family's room to eat our fill of freshly made bread, and drink our fill of milky, salty, stick tea. Do one (or more) of the following: ride motorcycles down that ridiculous dirt road that brought us to the village, herd the (singular) yak, make some pitiful attempts to gain respect of other villagers at archery, attempt to and succeed at riding wild donkeys and family yaks, wander around the village and chase pheasants, hang out with the brothers, play with local children, eat pig's tail, raw meat, blood sausage, glass noodles, or momos, watch an NBA game with the old Amdo mother, pester sister in law by insisting on helping with household chores, roast peas on the stove before calling it an early night.

For one week we didn't change a single lick of clothing. We didn't have any kind of access to plumbing (unless you count the really deep hole outside occasionally blocked by the family's (singular though formidable) yak. We didn't even once bother to look at our watches because it didn't take us long to realize that time stands still in a place like this.

However, we did get to be a part of an overwhelmingly hospitable and hilarious family. We were stuffed to the brim with all kinds of delicious, though predictable, food. We had the most amazing view of the stars at night. We had freedom to do or not do whatever we liked.

And how do I begin to describe to you what it felt like to have this Amdo Tibetan family (with no English skills aside from one member) teach us patiently to make momos and square noodles? Or how thrilling it can be to move from a guest of honor to someone who is asked to help feed the animals or allowed to dry the dishes? Or the singularity of having my hair brushed and braided by two brothers who have never attempted the feat before, and that with a foreigner? Or how, in the midst of langugae and culture barriers to the extreme, moments of sincere understanding can make one rise from the round piece of wood being used as a stool to give a hug to an unsuspecting sister in law?

I am indebted to this family and my time here far more than I can describe or understand. One week which felt like a heartbeat (albeit a progressively filthier one) and then a forty-five minute taxi ride, three hour bus ride, and twelve hour train ride to the next stop...

and so ends... or so began... my journeys.