Pulses, Pee and a Prescription: Xining's Tibetan Hospital

There's something a little monastery about Xining's Tibetan Hospital

I had a 9:30 unofficial appointment with the lady doctor at Xining's Tibetan Medical Hospital. 

As I was told not to eat anything or drink anything except some water, I was faint with hunger and caffeine withdrawal by the time I made it to the out patients building.

I was clutching a Kewpie mayonnaise jar filled with my early morning, mid-stream urine. It was a lurid orange, perhaps the hue of a wrinkled post-Christmas tangerine. It did not look healthy. 

When you see the doctor put it on the floor between you and her, a friend had instructed me. It's protocol. I wondered if she was setting me up.

Xining's Tibetan Medical Hospital is a grand affair. Tibetan touches like rooftop motifs, slanted windows and golden temple rooftops give the place a grand feel. Inside it's calm, and clean, and modern. Monks swish past, mobile phone pressed against ears, doctors smile and nod and take the time to ask you where you are from, nomads in full regalia wander halls, opening doors at random to check what's inside, faces full of curiosity.

Unlike the rest of China it's nice and quiet and smoke free in the hospital

Follow the monk for some out patient action

Particulars on each doctor such as name, speciality, clinic times are broadcast on a TV in the front hall

I was headed for the third floor.

I am hustled past the three or four families swarming around the lady doctor's consulting room, heads poking through whenever the door is opened, like chickens peeking through the wire mesh of their coop.

I wait. Nervously.

Suddenly it's my turn.

I sit on the stool next to the doctor. She has a kind and commanding air. She tells me not to be nervous and takes my pulse in both wrists. 

There are 5 or 6 interns gathered around her desk. Several are nuns, their red robes poking through under their white coats. They are scribbling away on pads of paper.

Behind the doctor is a small glass bookcase full of Tibetan volumes. Above her head is a smallish Tangka.

"Have you ever had children?" she asks.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I've never been married?"

"Why not? How old are you?"

...deleted...

There's a why in her eyes.

"I'm not in any pain. I just felt a hard spot near where my uterus is and so I thought I was pregnant, so I went to the Red Cross Hospital last week but they said I had a tumor."

I show her my ultrasound.

Her eyebrows shoot up. "You thought you were pregnant? How could you be pregnant if you've never been married?"

I go beetroot as the nuns and the one male intern start tittering.

"Um... I had a boyfriend."

She smiles.

I had forgotten about my Kewpie jar of piss. It seems the moment for that has definitely passed.

She scribbles out my prescription in a Tibetan scrawl.

I have six different kinds of medications -- three types of pills, two packets of powders, and two packets of round pills the size of a mouse's eyeball that I am supposed to soak in hot water overnight.  They prove stubbornly insoluble.

She tells me I cannot eat  spicy food or sour food (that basically translates as savoury).

A friendly man doctor -- who is helping me negotiate me all this -- laughs and says that doesn't leave me with much to eat so I should just ignore that!

As I wait to collect my arsenal of pills and potions downstairs, a monk in tinted glasses comes and sits next to me. 

I see he is impressed by my lengthy prescription. He has only three items on his.

On my way out I throw my Kewpie jar in the rubbish bin.

Springing Xining

Spring has sprung in Swinging Xining!

As Beijing is greeted by the twin delights of snow and David Beckham, Xining's trees are budding, cardigans have replaced down jackets, and the sky blushes an eggshell blue.

Spring breezes are here too, to scatter the evil pollution which blanketed the city last week, causing wheezing of the old folk and myself, Dickensian grey skies, and the air quality indicators to spin off the scale. 

Our PM10 slithered past 1000! Beat that Beijing!

Here are a few moody black & white shots of Swinging Xining as it shimmies into Spring!

Hallelujah, as the Xining missionaries like to say on occasion!

a toddler learning to drive, and like many of the adult drivers, on the pavement!

this award-winning shot if only i had entered it in a contest is xining's nandajie (big south street) from the 85 bus (handy for the coffee shops)

you can just see the frog-green buds on the trees. xining's spring has sprung!

mysteries of monlam

After Losar, Tibetan New Year, comes Monlam -- the Great Prayer Festival.

Swinging Xining with its mosques, KFCs, crazy drivers and neon chickens doesn't offer much in the way of Monlam so I took myself off to Rebgong (Tongren in Chinese), a Tibetan monastery town, a two-hour drive on a new highway to see the monks in action.

The great wonder of Monlam is the swarms of Tibetans who swamp the town to attend the festival. I'm not much good at estimating numbers, but I'd say 10,000 was in bouncing distance of the ball park.

Families, grandparents with sun-sleepy infants perched on their shoulders, individuals, old ladies with sticks more boisterous than most were everywhere.

And all the monks of course.

And a sprinkling of aggressive Chinese photographers, who manoeuvred infants into cute poses for whatever blog, magazine, weibo they were posting to.

I complained to one lady from Xining. 

"Yes," she said, with a little laugh. "You foreigners are very polite at things like this. But us Chinese we're not like that. We just like to take our pictures."

Well. It's up to the Tibetans to complain if they didn't like it, I conceded. "But if you want to take my photo I want 10 yuan."

The Tibetans showed remarkable patience just sitting around in the sun for whatever religious ceremony was played out that day. But when any religious relics appeared on the scene, they were like a beast with no head in their single-minded pursuit to touch the holy object. 

It was a real monlam mash.

The town itself, a scruffy medley of tower blocks, Hui butchers and concrete fronted storefronts had a carnival atmosphere, albeit subdued.

Tibetans filled up hotels and hostels and sat snacking on sausages, noodles, and fried pancakes peddled by the entrepreneurial Hui's, some of whom had set up plastic-sheeted makeshift huts which served as canteens.

Here are some images from those three days:

Day one: sacred relics are taken out of their dusty temple corners and displayed to the public. It is good luck to touch the relic with your forehead.

Day two: This monk uses a bendy branch to make space in the courtyard. This is your best chance to get whipped by a monk and have a good excuse.

This little boy gets the royal view on the bony yet sturdy shoulders of his lovely grandpa who offered me his stool so I could see over the crowds. I declined. I had put on a little holiday weight and the stool was on its last legs.

The giant tangka emerges like a supreme sausage. It is also holy and people surged forward to touch their foreheads to its snaky body.

The tangka is unfurled on the hillside. As the covering is raised, the women around me -- grandmothers to teenagers started prostrating while others began singing a wonderful religious chorus. I felt like I was in a National Geographic documentary.

Day three. The monks gather in their Monlam best to blow conch shells in a circle.

Big shoulder pads on this monk. This is in the square. Mountains with slivers of snow in the backdrop. Lovely!

Several monks had ipads which they used to record Monlam.

I followed this beautiful Amdo boy around all day. He agreed to the photo but was too shy to talk to me. Better than any Khampa Hanzi any day.

 That's Monlam for you. Bloody marvellous!!

Snow in Xining

An overnight snowfall earlier this week turned Swinging Xining into a snow wonderland. Briefly...

Two days later the sun and human activity has melted the snow away, except for small patches of dirty brown in the city's nooks.

Is the Water Snake shedding her skin?

crusty snow underfoot is fun to walk through

xining's twin towers, home of teachers and missionaries

I've lost my momo!

If Austin Powers came to Swinging Xining, he could get his mojo back with a plate of these juicy and plump dumplings, called momos in Tibetan.

Lovingly stuffed by young Khampa boys in the kitchen of The Black Tent, these mashed potato dough pillows have kept us going in the culinary dark hole of Swinging Xining.

Despite a family of cheeky rats living in the rafters, the occasional guest appearance of my mojo-extinguishing Khampa-ex with his Bert Reynolds sidekick, and the owners' obsession with Phurbu T Namgyal (his CD is on repeat, repeat, repeat) this Yushu-owned Tibetan eatery is a veritable Friday-night treat. 

Here is a photographic ode to Xining's finest momos.

some tangkas need to be veiled like a young bride

lobsang, tastier than his potato momos

even the ceiling is beautiful at the black tent

Lobasang's older brother and now main man at the black tent

every table gets a pot of tea, in 3D. 

paying their respects

Loopy New Year

With 5,000 years of history, you'd think China would come up with a more sophisticated way of celebrating Lunar New Year.

Something beautiful. Something creative.

But the Lunar witches have the following three ingredients in their Chinese New Year cauldron:

1. sulphurous, dangerous, ear-splitting, pointless firecrackers. don't stop till you drop, sonny boy. they were banned in China until 2005.
2. Presents that range from cartons of teeth-rotting sweet milk to the liver-rotting shiny cases of rice wine.
did i mention eggs? 
3. Celine Dion singing in Chinese on the CCTV new year gala variety show!

in Hong Kong Chinese New year is rung in with flower shows, lion dances, and temple fairs. 

"You're wasted," I said to a very drunken Chinese man in Aili bakery. "I'm wasted," he parroted swaying ever so slightly as I bought my sliced wholewheat loaf. 

"Have you been at the baijiu (rice wine)?" I asked in Chinese. 

"Yes of course," he smiled. "All Chinese men must drink at New Year."

Indeed they must!

Here are some shots of the debris on my campus, the morning after. I'll leave you to guess which one is Celine's fault.

Exiting my apartment building

The entrance to my mansion

Cultural hegemony

Practicing depth of field. Empty firecracker crap

A nice tree. More depth of field practice. Pretty good if I say so myself.

A university building with smelly toilets

haunted university. pocket shot.

collateral damage

Swinging Xining

You've heard of the Swinging Sixties. Well they have nothing on Xining: the city of swingers. And Hui Muslims. Yes there are more mosques in this city than you can waggle a white skullcap at but in the meantime here are some white, black and pink shots of the swinging city. All snaps were taken on a Samsung child's smartphone with the snazzy little Vignette app for Android (available here for free).

Xining pretending to be Paris: Thoughtful man on bench, Qi Yi Lu, Swinging Xining

Swinging Xining cares for nature

Swinging Xining embraces alien cyclists

Kumbum Monastery: a teaser for the next post...