We left the next morning with a new driver and a new guide, who had not been informed that we would be wrangling two bicycles into the back of the minivan. The explanation for having a new driver was that is was "the busy season," whereas our first guide had to report in person to the police for a previous driving citation or risk losing his license. Our new guide, Nawang, looked like he was about fourteen, but claimed to be nineteen. Regardless, his texting habits and general cell phone attachment were on par with his American peers.

Our drive roughly southward brought us to viewpoints of Yamdrok Lake, another holy lake that is shaped like a scorpion from a Google Earth perspective. After traveling along its shores, we stopped for lunch and tried the infamous yak butter tea. We were pleasantly surprised at how drinkable the slightly thickened concoction of black tea, salt, and of course yak butter was. It reminded me a little of plain yogurt mixed with salty soup broth, and it was easy to understand how this is comforting sustenance to Tibetans in such a harsh environment. 

In the afternoon we visited an unique religious structure called a stupa in the city of Gyantse. Imagine a giant white tiered wedding cake, where pilgrims and tourists can walk around each layer, pausing to peer in to small dark rooms holding shrines to deities. This Kumbum stupa is the largest remaining in Tibet with an imposing fortress perched on a nearby hilltop and guard walls snaking along the length of the ridge line. 

Onwards to Shigatse in the evening light, we stayed at an ornately decorated palace-like hotel where confusion surrounding our request for a queen room once again resulted in a nice upgrade. We didn't have much time to enjoy it though as we had arrived late and still had to seek out dinner, successfully keeping with the Tibetan theme. Patronizing only Tibetan-owned restaurants while in Tibet helps their survival in the face of increasing competition from Chinese-owned businesses, as well as raising the percentage of locally produced food in our meals. Besides, we had definitely had enough Chinese food for a while.

Already our seventh day in Tibet, we barely managed to eek out a breakfast at the buffet overrun with Chinese tourists beginning their extended national holiday break. One man piled his plate high with rolls, leaving just one behind. He turned to Matt, pointed at the lone roll, and said "Enough," clearly intended to imply that he was not being greedy because he left one for us to share. Incredible...

Despite the hungry start to our day, we enjoyed walking around yet another monastery. While many elements are the same, the specific history, context, and atmosphere of each one keeps it interesting while experiencing its unique "personality." Our guide was busy getting yet another government permit for us, this one with the lovely name of "Alien Travel Permit," so we were left to simply observe and take in the Tashi Lhumpo monastery on our own. 

Without a guide to focus on, our attention gravitated to the devoted worshippers who dutifully poured more yak butter into already overflowing vats with rows of lit wicks embedded in to them. A monk would dutifully scoop out the excess yak butter into a plastic container, leaving a cavity for the next worshipper to fill. Prostrations and offerings of bills in minuscule denominations, ironically all with Chairman Mao's portrait on them, were also made in front of key statues. It appears that the main occupation of the monks present in the chapels was counting money, secondary only to controlling yak butter levels in the lamps. Most pilgrims whipped through each room at a breakneck pace with so many deities to visit, but their speed conveyed a sense of purpose rather than ambivalence or disregard. More than anything else that we witnessed, these acts of pure and genuine devotion gave me hope for the survival of Tibet in some form, whose religion is inseparable from every other aspect of its culture.

The Tashi Lhumpo monastery was the historical residence of the Panchen Lama, the second most important spiritual figure after the Dalai Lama. Since the invasion, the Chinese government has installed their choice of Panchen Lama successors, of course disregarding the traditional process where the Dalai Lama conducts a thorough search for the reincarnation of the previous Panchen Lama. When the tenth Panchen Lama died under suspect circumstances, having been Chinese-groomed but evolving into a vocal advocate for Tibet, the Dalai Lama identified a six-year old boy as the correct successor. The Chinese government instead bestowed on him the honor of becoming the world's youngest political prisoner and forced the hand of Tashi Lhumpo's lamas to promote the Chinese-approved son of Communist Party members as the next Panchen Lama. The Dalai Lama-appointed boy and his family have not been seen since...so...will the real Panchen Lama please stand up!?!

After some drive time and lunch break, we visited--you guessed it--another monastery! This one was memorable for its immense library; the high-ceilinged corridor felt like it was lifted straight out of Hogwarts. This feeling was enhanced by the fact that the sacred texts do not look anything like a regular book. They are long rectangular bricks of pages sandwiched between a thick wood cover and wrapped in brightly colored cloth. 

Regional clouds rolled in as we finished our visit at Sakya monastery, thus obscuring what would otherwise be our first views of the Himalaya and Mt. Everest as we crossed over a 5400 meter (17,700 feet) pass and headed to the highway strip of Shegar to overnight before heading toward Everest Base Camp early the next morning.

Leaving with the first morning light did not equate with an early arrival at EBC, as the majority of the 100 kilometers (62 miles) were along a rough bumpy road in a vehicle less than ideal for the trip. We were informed that the four wheel drive vehicles had all been rented by Chinese tourists at highly inflated prices, so travel agencies put foreign tourists in all the leftover vehicles, since they are generally unwilling to pay any more for their already expensive tour. 

The vehicle turned out to be the least important thing we were competing with the Chinese tourists for. When we finally arrived at Tent Camp, a collection of 40 or so black tents set up in an inward-facing rectangle on a barren rocky field, we discovered that the alleged reservation we had for beds in a tent was supposedly outbid by Chinese tourists. Our guide and driver seemed at a loss for what to do, but eventually began timidly poking their heads into a few other tents, coming back to report that all of them were full. Here we forcefully suggested to our guide that if the Chinese were "stealing" reservations, then he simply needed to pay more than what they offered to re-secure our reservation. After some more time wandering around, we don't know how he did it since communication was not his strong point, we ended up in a tent with a beautiful and friendly hostess. 

After a quick but less than filling lunch of instant ramen, we walked the remaining four kilometers up to the official Everest Base Camp. When we arrived, the all-important peak was hidden by clouds. We decided to wait for an opening from the viewpoint bedecked with mounds of prayer flags, perhaps due more to a few persistent prayer flag salesmen pestering the tourists than actually being a location of great spiritual value to Tibetans. Combatting the biting wind with only a light jacket and scarf wrapped around his head like a ninja, our guide quickly got too cold and opted for a bus ride back to tent camp while we huddled in a windbreak. Our patience paid off and the panorama of white colossal mountains soon cleared of clouds for longer than our dropping body temperatures allowed us to remain stationary. We warmed up quickly though on our brisk walk back down to tent camp, peering back often at Qomolangma, the Tibetan name for the highest mountain on Earth, meaning "Goddess Mother of the Universe."

The tent was cozy from the wood burning stove, as well as six Czech cyclists who we talked with enviously. The twenty days it would take to cycle the same route we were doing in a week was simply out of range for our travel budget. Since the guide and driver would still be required to follow slowly in a vehicle behind us, our environmental impact would have been greater as well. We could have at least cycled from tent camp up to the viewpoint, but we did not want to deal with the hassle of getting the bicycles out of the van. Ironically, when we returned on foot, our driver made us unload everything so he could rescue a fellow driver and passengers from a vehicle breakdown along the rough road. Wedging the eight panniers into every nook and cranny of the tent certainly added to its coziness as well. 

Our two beds were really one long narrow ledge, which really didn't work with our one Big Agnes double sleeping bag. Meanwhile a perfect double bed sat empty, reserved for some Chinese tourists who never showed up. Perhaps from altitude, but more likely from the uncomfortable bed situation, we were awake in the middle of the night to witness the bizarre police patrol that silently entered the tent, shined bright flashlights on all the sleeping folks as well as us, then left. Apparently, they visit each tent every night to ensure that no one is over their quota of guests in order to keep the profits equitable among all tents. It seemed unnecessary this particular night as every bed in tent camp was full. This is the work that occupies police at the highest police station in the world, and by police station I do mean police tent. On the other hand, the highest post office (tent) in the world was a happening place, with nonstop postcard selling and stamping, thus sending hand-scribbled musings of the novelty of it all 'round the world.

The next morning dawned cold and clear, with a dusting of snow covering the ground as well as our bicycles locked up just outside of our tent. Throngs of people wandered out across the open expanse beyond tent camp to photograph Everest in the early golden light. Even more throngs of people were lined up to take the shuttle bus up to base camp; you could feel the tension in the air as people calculated how many bus loads were ahead of them and would they miss the morning light? Would they beat the clouds? We were relieved that we had visited the afternoon before at our leisurely pace of walking both ways.

Surprisingly, our driver returned from his overnight rescue mission right on time. We reloaded the van with our bicycles and gear and mentally prepared for another long day of sitting in the vehicle. Except for a brief visit to Rongbuk Monastery, the highest in the world (of course), the only other sightseeing stops were for roadside photos and more roadside time-killing before reaching the speed checkpoints. Amazingly, in one day we descended from EBC at approximately 5,200 meters (17,000 feet) to lush, humid forest with waterfalls cascading down every slope at the Tibet-Nepal border, hovering around 2,700 meters (8,850 feet). We literally drove to the edge of the Tibetan Plateau and nose-dived down the steep side of it until we reached Zhangmu, a border town that looks and feels a whole lot more like China than Tibet.

That evening we shared a really nice dinner with our guide and driver, as well as a few beers. Ironically, this farewell evening held the best conversation of the whole trip as they seemed to suddenly open up as well as take a personal interest in us for the first time. I am sure the beers had something to do with it. The conversation did hit a standstill when I asked what they think foreigners can do to help Tibet. Some words were exchanged between them, but nothing got translated back to us. It was a question we had been pondering on our tour, and one with no easy answers of course. While the thought of Tibet regaining its political sovereignty seems far-fetched after so many decades of occupation, there is still a cultural and spiritual Tibet worth fighting for the preservation of. "Free Tibet!" is not yet an irrelevant slogan of the past.

One of the Chinese government's main justifications for its behavior in Tibet is that it is bringing economic prosperity and development to the region. While to a certain degree this is the case, Tibetans largely remain excluded from well-paid and/or powerful positions and have to compete with highly-networked Chinese businesses on all fronts. For example, in the tourism sector, there are many Chinese companies that provide a mass tourism experience at a cheaper cost. A simple but powerful choice that foreign tourists should definitely make is to book a tour with a Tibetan-owned and operated company, especially one that is listed on the excellent website Tibet Ecotravel Collective. These companies not only give Tibetans employment that encourages them to take pride in sharing their culture, but they pledge environmental and social responsibility as well. For example, we chose Explore Tibet who gives ten percent of its profits to assist rural communities in improvement projects requested by members of the community itself. This in turn helps maintain the integrity of a traditional lifestyle and provides resilience against influences such as the urban migration of young people. The funds donated by these responsible companies are lifelines to Tibetans in need since international NGOs are generally banned from working there by Big Brother.

The other important lesson learned from our visit to Tibet was this: go to Tibet, support Tibetans, but whatever you do, do not go to Tibet any time close to the Chinese national holiday that officially begins on October 1st, but in reality seems to begin two weeks prior. The code words for this time are "peak season" and the real meaning is that foreign tourists get the leftovers of everything from vehicles to hotel reservations. Because many ex-pats working in Beijing and Shanghai also use the holiday to travel to Tibet and are still required to have a guide, this period also results in a shortage of quality guides. Even the least talented and experienced ones will be picked up for tours just so companies can cover their bases.

The next morning we went through the tedium of a busy border crossing, waiting in line for over an hour while being thoroughly entertained by the most ridiculous Chinese propaganda video imaginable, then getting our many bags trampled (by Chinese tourists) after we were required to unhook them from our bikes and put them through the security X-ray machine. We said goodbye to Nawang and Tashi, farewell and good luck to Tibet, and see you later to China. Then we pushed our bikes across the Friendship Bridge into Nepal, looking forward to a new country and getting back to our preferred travel style: on our bikes and on our own.

The time had finally arrived to face the one aspect of logistics we had been nervous about for months: getting our bikes on the train to Lhasa. Despite our best efforts to research the situation ahead of time, which included scouting out the train station and causing major confusion because we did not yet have our permits in hand, we still did not feel confident as we rolled up to the station on the afternoon of our departure. We wheeled them through security without meeting resistance and promptly spotted a bad-ass solo Chinese cyclist on her way to Lhasa as well. She insisted that the best strategy was to board the train at the last minute so as not to get crushed in the rush of people. This seemed to work well for her since she simply curled up in a sleeping bag on the floor next to her bike at the end of a car. While we were relieved to at least get everything on the train before it departed, we had to put our bikes in one car, some of our luggage in another, and sit with the leftover pieces wedged around us in the very communal seating area. We were too cheap to book the pricey "soft sleepers," or even the "hard sleepers" for that matter.

As soon as we were settled in our tiny non-reclining seats facing three Chinese in the row across from us, the reality of the next 24 hours set in. While sleep was essentially out of the question, the experience did end up being masochistically enjoyable. Besides some incredible scenery of the Tibetan Plateau, especially as we were crossing the high passes in the early morning light, we particularly enjoyed the camaraderie that developed in our little seating unit. Everyone shared food, dried yak meat, citrus fruits, and we even got a lesson on the quintessential Chinese time-passing snack of cracking sunflower seeds with our front teeth as the shells piled up on the little tray table between us. We made small talk with the couple across from us. The woman serves in the police force and is not allowed to travel internationally because of it. Her husband was surprised to hear that, as foreigners, we are not allowed to travel in the Tibet "Autonomous" Region (the official misnomer for what is commonly called Tibet) without special permits, a predetermined itinerary, and a guide. Then he surprisingly emphasized, especially given his wife's profession, "I hate the government!" In contrast to us, they were headed to the TAR like so many other Chinese without an itinerary, free to do as they please.

Since the completion of the high-speed rail line to Lhasa in 2006, Tibet has become a trendy national vacation destination for middle and upper class Han. The situation is comparable to Americans traveling to Hawaii for the beautiful scenery and exposure to an exotic culture, one where the cultural fabric is certainly faded and tattered but not totally torn apart from being forcibly brought under the rule of a superpower. Likewise, it seems the vast majority of Chinese tourists arrive to Tibet with about the same level of awareness of historical context and concern as vacationing Americans have for the perspective of native Hawaiians, which is to say: not much. Tragically, the Chinese stranglehold on Tibet gives it about the same odds as Hawaii has in obtaining native sovereignty. This reality is not lost on His Holiness the Dalai Lama. He has, in fact, advocated for a Buddhist-inspired "middle path" solution since 1989, whereby Tibet would accept certain aspects of governance from China such as foreign and military affairs in exchange for autonomy in matters of spirituality, education, and the environment. Chinese politicians simply denounce his plan of compromise as an example of perpetuating "splittism," defined as pursuance of factional interests in opposition to official Communist Party policy.

The train itself attracts travelers who wish to experience a ride on the highest rail line in the world. Eighty six percent of the line is above 4,000 meters (13,000 feet) and if that is not impressive enough, it also crosses a 5,000-meter (16,400-foot) pass. Supplemental oxygen is piped in to each rail car to ease the risk of altitude sickness. The train is lauded as an engineering marvel, requiring great ingenuity to successfully cross huge stretches of permafrost that make of half of the route. Frequent cooling pipes driven deep into the ground alongside the track stick out like tall fence posts minus a fence between them, effectively keeping the permafrost frozen year round. According to Lonely Planet, this achievement came at the absurd cost of $4.1 billion dollars, which is a greater sum than China has spent on hospitals and schools in Tibet over the last fifty years!

Then why was it so important to force a high-tech train across the inhospitable Tibetan plateau? As always, it is about politics. In an intriguing book we read called China's Great Train: Beijing's Drive West and the Campaign to Remake Tibet, the point was driven home that in addition to allowing increased military presence near the disputed borders with India, a rail line inextricably links Lhasa to Beijing. The train encourages not just Chinese tourists, but the settlement of Chinese in Tibet, especially when coupled with favorable tax breaks and salary incentives for them. The officials claim that this facilitates necessary economic development of the region, but the result is a Chinafied Tibet were the wealth largely recirculates within the Chinese community and Tibetans are intentionally excluded from opportunities.

So then why were we supporting this phenomenon by arriving on the train? We might have ridden our bikes to Lhasa, but of course, that's not allowed...unless you are Chinese. Even if non-Chinese tourists have to arrive by train or plane (or risk the consequences of sneaking in overland), His Holiness the Dalai Lama encourages foreigners to travel to the region as a means of building awareness and inspiring action. In the preface of the latest Lonely Planet Tibet guidebook, he writes, "At a time when many people are not clear about what is actually  happening in Tibet, I am very keen to encourage whoever has the interest to go there and see for themselves. Their presence will not only instill a sense of reassurance in the Tibetan people, but will also exercise a restraining influence on the Chinese authorities. What's more,  I am confident that once they return home they will be able to report openly on what they have seen and heard...[As] more people visit Tibet, the numbers of those who support the justice of a peaceful solution will grow." With the blessing of the Dalai Lama, we felt that our presence in Tibet was justified, despite arriving on the controversial train.

At each stop approaching Lhasa, the ratio of tourists to real live Tibetans began to balance out and the train got even more "cozy." A Tibetan man took an interest in our binoculars and offered to buy them. Although we declined his proposal, our banter managed to attract the attention of half the rail car who surrounded us as we then progressed to comparing IPhones (his was newer), sharing photos, and practicing some Tibetan pronunciation. Meanwhile, he completely ignored his poor wife as a very drunk Tibetan man passed out on her! Once Matt and a few others dragged him back over to his own space, we were offered some treats she had made, clumpy noodles added to yogurt that were quite tasty, and multiple rounds of dried yak cheese, which was about like chewing on a fossilized dirty sock.

As the train pulled into the Lhasa station, we said goodbye to our travel companions, all of us going our separate ways. The Tibetan couple was coming to the big city to sell yarchagumba, nicknamed Himalayan Viagra, a bizarre organism coveted for its aphrodisiac properties as well as its ability to cure ailments ranging from asthma to hepatitis to hair loss. Although I could never afford to test its efficacy myself, since it fetches around $10,000 per pound, I have developed a slight fascination with it. A brief summary to pique your curiosity as well: The ghost moth larvae burrows into moist soil at high altitudes where a specific fungus (Cordyceps sinensis) infects it and essentially mummified it. The fungus then pushes a single grass-like blade to the surface where a hard-searching soul spies it and feels the exhilaration of striking gold.

Although we did not know it at the time, sadly our conversations with the outgoing Tibetan couple on the train would be our most in-depth and genuine interaction with people of a traditional lifestyle on the entire trip. The Chinese couple kindly helped us unload our panniers and bicycles in a rush to get off the train, then we followed our bad-ass solo cyclist mentor to pay a fee of approximately 25 dollars imposed at the last minute for excess baggage. Apparently, we three were simply unlucky with our timing. Usually the charge is not enforced by train staff, but a supervisor spied our wheels and decided to assert his authority. A fitting welcome to Tibet in keeping with the theme of obsessive control!

Leaving Xian, we were faced with a route dilemma. We could tackle some major elevation on a longer--but likely more scenic--route, stopping over in a few places nicely described in our guidebook. Or we could take the direct route with exactly zero Lonely Planet-approved points of interest, knowing by now that an easier elevation profile equates with more truck traffic. Given that we were operating under deadline to catch our train to Lhasa from Xining, we feared the scenic route would be too rushed to enjoy it, or if we fell behind schedule we would simply be too stressed. So we decided to bust a move directly to Xining, as quickly as our bicycles could carry us.

What's that saying about the best laid plans…? 

On the outskirts of Xian, a friendly bicycle commuter decided to adopt us while on his ride home in a neighboring city. Right away, he invited us to lunch, which we gratefully accepted. He rode while typing in translations on his phone with both hands, not even glancing up at the road. Meanwhile, Matt and I were swerving around potholes and braking for the chaos cropping up around us. Somehow he just gracefully glided through it all at his very leisurely pace. We followed him for what seemed like hours, wondering if lunch was actually going to happen. But after a tour of the attractions in his hometown, including a lake, temple, and rebuilt bell tower, he led us in to a covered market, a real locals' place, and ordered us huge bowls of delicous spicy noodles. We don't normally eat so much while riding, so after we said our goodbyes, we pedaled away even more slowly than when we were pacing with our spontaneous friend.

As if that wasn't enough, then the brazen connecting Matt's front rack to his fork broke off without warning. We figured it would be an easy fix with countless truck repair shops on the edge of every town we passed through. We would just wait until we saw sparks flying as we passed by one, then point to the machine and Matt's bike to get it welded back on. Of course, we were used to seeing welding in action on every day except the one time we needed it. So we approached a shop and began the pantomiming routine. As tends to happen, a crowd gathered and two younger guys translated for us. The mechanic said no, so we kept going. About a mile down the road, the guys who translated tracked us down and told us that the shop actually did have a welder, so we turned around. When we got back to the shop, they then said, "Sorry, actually it is broken." Before we started riding the same mile-long stretch for a third time, Matt had the genius idea of having them write a note in Chinese explaining what we needed. We handed to the next shop we saw and it worked brilliantly. The piece was back on in a matter of minutes. The mechanic insisted on also putting the front rack back on himself, even though Matt was gesturing to let him do it. Not a big deal, except…

While he was tightening one of the screws, it snapped off inside the fork! This began a several hour saga of a rotating team of mechanics trying to drill out the screw after we rejected their idea of welding an improvised rack connector onto his bike. They broke two drill bits in the process, but persisted until they drilled through the original hole and continued on, accidentally or intentionally (we're not sure!), to create a new hole on the other side of the fork! This was perplexing, but our nervousness subsided once they rustled up a bolt big enough to go all the way through the fork and the rack appeared to be secure once again. I think the original mechanic was more relieved than we were and refused any payment for the whole ordeal. We rustled through our bags for something to give them, but could only come up with random things like an open pack of cookies and such. Sadly, the perfect solution did not occur to us until we were many miles gone: buying a case of beer at the convenience store and sitting down for a happy hour with them! Perhaps that was for the best though, since we were riding long after dark to make up for all the ground we didn't cover during the day.

The next challenge we faced was four days of rain for at least part of each day. This actually had the opposite effect of slowing us down. Being less inclined to stop for photos or food, we just rode and rode to keep warm, hovering around 70 miles on most days. However, our bodies and our bikes reached new levels of dirtiness. The dusty coating of road grime we had become so accustomed to was now dark-grey splatter paint on everything despite our fenders' best efforts. If a hotel actually let us in the door, it was quite a process of wiping down eight bags and two bikes and heading directly into the shower so that we did not wreck the room. Our bikes seemed to be protesting their abuse as they developed a strange grinding feeling vibrating up the pedals. After checking the drive chain multiple times and seeing nothing unusual, we became convinced that the gunk had somehow gotten in to the crank sets. At the first break in the rain, we asked an employee of a Giant bike shop to clean them out. He set up his bike stand and spread his tools out all over the sidewalk in front of his shop, so we also got to entertain a crowd of random people with nothing better to do than watch our bikes get taken apart. He also did some other basic work, like lubing the chains, as well as a practice we had not seen before of filing the teeth of the cassettes. That made us a little nervous, but he seemed to know what he was doing. In the end, our bikes felt great again...right up until the next rainstorm when the same weird grinding feeling returned. This time we just ignored it, and when the roads dried the sensation disappeared. We don't totally get it, except that rain on Chinese roads makes for cranky bicycles.

When we woke up to the fifth day of rain in a row, we conceded to the demands of our bicycles and declared it a rest day. Even then, as we were drifting off to sleep, a loud hissing noise suddenly emanated from the corner of the room where the bicycles were propped up. My bicycle had blown a flat without even being ridden!

In Langzhou, our least favorite city in China thus far, we had one last epic time-suck before reaching Xining. We rode circles in the city looking for an affordable hotel that also accepts foreigners. I found it savagely ironic that hotels with English names and signs that said "Welcome" would deny us. To be fair, local governments require hotels to be registered for accepting foreigners in these western provinces, but still, don't waste our time by advertising in English then! Despite arriving before dark, we finally checked in after 10pm to a 7 Days Inn for twice the cost of what we usually pay. 

The next morning, rainy no doubt, we were delayed on our way out of town by something we had been hoping for since we left Beijing: we crossed paths with our first foreign cycle-tourers! They were three guys from Germany, of course, supporting my conviction that 80% of the world's cycle tourers are German. While they were happy to chat with us, they didn't quite share our level of enthusiasm since they had met many cyclists en route from Europe through "the Stans" and into far Western China. I suppose own our personal experience explains why it is not so popular to cycle China from east to west...oh well, we survived!

As it turns out, we arrived in Xining with ample days to spare. Settling in to a room at the chill Lete Youth Hostel for a week was both relaxing and productive, as we actually had time and energy to write blogs, edit photos, and other projects that long days in the saddle don't easily allow for. Almost every day, a new European cycle tourer arrived at the hostel (but strangely no Germans...) and we enjoyed hearing the stories of people who we can truly relate to. We cooked most of our meals on our camp stove out on a terrace in order to use up fuel we couldn't take on the train to Tibet. Sadly, we failed at camping on the sly since launching this cycle tour and our punishment was hauling pasta, tomato sauce, oatmeal, sugar, and dried fruit over 1500 miles before consuming it. When we got too restless in the hostel, we ventured out to a few cultural sites around the city. In the Qinghai Tibetan Cultural Museum, we perused quality exhibits about traditional medicine, artisanal woodwork, metalwork, calligraphy, and regional dress, only occasionally cringing at verbiage about the "liberation" of Tibet. The real draw of the museum is an astounding thangka scroll that is 2027 feet long, a collaboration of over 400 artisans chronicling Tibetan history, culture, and perspective in an extremely detailed painting with elaborate fabric designs sewn to the edges above and below. Photos were not allowed, but I snuck one anyway since words cannot accurately describe the large room where the scroll repeatedly curves back on itself, allowing for the entire masterpiece to be viewed, although it would require multiple visits to fully appreciate its intricacy. 

We've developed quite a fondness for the Chinese Muslim cuisine since first sampling it in Xian, so we frequented many spots for grilled spiced bread and lamb noodles in this one-third Muslim city. However, on the last night we branched out and went to a Tibetan restaurant called Black Tent. We happened to walk in on their opening night after being closed during a change of ownership and upgrade to the decor. The young friendly new owner, Tenzin, explained that as his first customers, we would join him and his friends for dinner free of charge. He chatted with us while the chef put the finishing touches on the generous feast, then we sat down to our first yak meat momos (dumplings), rich mutton soup, lovely vegetable dishes, and a delicious dessert of fresh fruit covered in yak milk yogurt. We also got to try Tibetan barley wine, much different than the barley wines at craft breweries back home, but still quite enjoyable. The evening was a totally unexpected and generous treat from a sincere host. It was one of those moments that reminds us of why we travel.

Despite a successful week of "catching up" in Xining, the more scenic route we didn't take still nags at me. Was taking the straight shot a mistake? Considering that it rained more days than it didn't during our extra time in Xining, perhaps it was meant to be.