Yak Truck

"Uncle Tom! Uncle Tom! Yak truck!"

I don't know if that exact slew of words have ever been uttered before in human history. But they were yelled from the top of my lungs on October 4, 2013 around 10:04pm. Here's the story...

THE PLAN

Over October Holiday (Chinese 4th of July), Ben Berger, Peng (aka - Dirty Dog), Thomas Carmichael (Uncle Tom) and I took a 24 hour train ride on a hard seat to Qinghai Province - the Montana of China. Our original plan was to rent bikes and bike around the biggest lake in China. We planned to accomplish this manly mission in four days.

We strapped our huge bags (filled with food for a week, camping gear, long johns) on the back of our rented mountain bikes and set out from the capitol city of Xining. We were biking uphill from around 10:00am till 1:00. We stopped for a lunch and looked at the map. We had only biked 60km and still had 100km to go before we got to our campsite. This wasn't an Illinois bike ride; it was a steep uphill climb. Our bodies were not ready for this challenge. 

THE GULLY

The sun was falling in the west and we were still slowly biking - our legs feeling like overcooked noodles. Uncle Tom's knee was on fire. And we were pretty discouraged. We decided to find a spot to camp in a farmer's field. There was a woman tending some cattle and she gave us permission to set up camp wherever we wished. I got out my camp stove and whipped up some manghetti (manly spaghetti) and we crawled into our sleeping bags without doing the dishes. 

The next morning I woke up and my legs felt about as limber as a two by four. Brewed some coffee, had a devotion and right when we said, "Amen" a flock of sheep appeared at the top of the gully. It was a great way to start the day!

THE FRIEND

We started biking that morning with the hopes of making it to the lake before nightfall. We biked uphill for an hour, but it was pretty clear we weren’t going to make it. Thomas’ knee was turning into a cartilage casserole and we all knew our bodies weren’t ready for this mission at this altitude. We stopped pedaling and made the call to coast down the hill we had just climbed and would try to hitch a ride to the lake.

I flagged down a few trucks, but no one would take four sweaty dudes and all our gear. I eventually found a guy sitting in a pickup truck smoking and offered him 100元 ($15) to take us to the lake. He countered with 200元. Deal.

His name was Zhao Ge (Brother Zhao). He had horrible dental hygiene, huge aviator sunglasses, calloused hands and a genuine smile. We hopped in his truck and he drove us through the mountains to Qinghai Lake.  

We got to the lake, but it wasn’t quite what we expected. It felt more touristy than natural. Tibetans own the land surrounding the lake (The Chinese government treats Tibetans a lot like the American government treats Native Americans:  first stealing and then gifting land) and were charging cars ridiculous fees to even go down to the water. We wanted to find a quiet and safe spot to set up camp, but it would be easier to find a pork chop in Jerusalem.

Zhao Ge didn’t really trust Tibetans. He said they would steal our bikes at night and their huge dogs would destroy in the night. He offered to take us to the dam – a safer place to camp in the mountains. We trusted Brother Zhao. This stranger turned into our paid tour guide and soon became our true friend. I may or may not have second-hand smoked 2.3 packs of cigarettes in the car.

THE FAMILY

As we were driving to the dam, Zhao Ge invited us to sleep at his house the next night. But his house was on the east side of the mountains and we were driving farther and farther west. Thomas' knee, Peng's legs, Ben's bladder and my hippocampus were completely exhausted from our first day of biking. I thought, "The farther we drive, the harder tomorrow's ride is going to be." So I told Zhao Ge to stop the car and suggested we camp on a shepherd's field. So he reluctantly stomped on the brakes and we got out.  

 

We were in the middle of nowhere. But man, nowhere was gorgeous. Pure blue skies, a brownish plain dotted with sheep and yaks grazing, Teton-esc mountains on the horizon, clouds playing bumper cars above.

I saw some smoke coming over a hill and said, "I see smoke. There's a house over that hill. Let's go make friends with those people and they'll let us sleep on their land. They can't not like us." Zhao Ge didn’t like the idea because he didn’t trust Tibetans. But I believe you can eliminate your fear by befriending it.

So we rolled down their "driveway" and stopped in front of a cement shoebox house, probably the size of an F-350. Out walks a portly man in a dirty suit. Zhao Ge offered him a cigarette (the equivalent of a hug for a Chinese man) and politely asked if these mangy foreigners could camp on his land. He laughed and then said, "Come in for tea first." 

We walked into their home. The smell of burning goat feces as fuel, bare cement walls, a fire at the foot of a bed, a tile floor and a pretty naked pantry. This house was like the Chinese version of Little House on the Prairie – not much to look at, but was warm and cozy and enough. There was a little toddler and an old Granny with a raisin-like face.

They didn’t have a table so we crawled on their bed and Granny served us yak milk tea and freshly baked bread. We were speechless.

Subah was the name of the patriarch. He told us we could camp and deficate anywhere we wished. Since we had a huge surplus of food in our bags, I offered to cook some manghetti for everyone tonight. Subah looked at me with a carnivorous twinkle in his eye and asked, “Do you have lamb?” I answered, “No.” He smiled as he took a pull from his cigarette.

After getting camp set up, we saw the sheep coming over the hill. Subah and a few helpers were bringing the flock into the pens for the night. It was an incredible sight. I’m filming this on my camera and just as the last few sheep are trotting into the enclosure, Subah swoops in like a vulture and snatches an unsuspecting lamb by the hind leg!

THE SLAUGHTER

Subah drags the resisting lamb to the porch of the house, throws it on the ground and then binds up its feet with the rope of a slingshot.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing! Subah and his Muslim friends (a Grandpa and his son who I think were business partners with Subah) found a knife sharp enough to do the deed.

The lamb lay motionless. But I could see the fear in its eyes.

They placed a plastic blood-catching bucket on the ground and Muslim Grandpa got into position. He held his left hand underneath the lamb’s chin and with his right hand positioned the blade right at the jugular. He whispered an eerie chant in his dialect and then started sawing at the lamb neck.

The lamb flailed. The blood gushed. My heart was pounding.

It was an extremely spiritual moment. This is what the Israelites did every morning and everyday for 1,500 years. How many times are there analogies of shepherds and sheep and sacrifice in your Bible? Now, those references have sounds and smells and traction with my senses.

 

“For you know that it was not with perishable things such as silver or gold that you were redeemed from the empty way of life handed down to you from your forefathers, but with the precious blood of Christ, a lamb without blemish or defect.” 

1 Peter 1:18-19

It was one of those life moments that steals your words. We didn’t really say a lot after that. What incredible generosity! That lamb is their savings account, their mutual funds. That was not a cheap gift.

Unbelievable.  

The Muslim men skinned and cut apart the lamb while Subah told us to hop in his little car and he drove us to his relative’s house on the other side of the valley to show off his foreigner friends. If you looked out the window you’d think we were in Arizona – kind of a dry and desolate beauty.

When we got back home, we brought our bag of food (dried noodles, sausages, spicy pickled cabbage, tofu jerky, Oreos) to contribute to the meal, but really we were just saving face. There was nothing that our measly supermarket crud could add to this epic meal.

Granny put lamb ribs and legs into a boiling caldron of water, sprinkled in salt and cut up some onions. We lounged on the bed soaking in what was happening – on the bed of strangers we met hours ago, about to eat a lamb that was “baaaing” minutes ago.

Granny put the fattiest pieces on a plate and put it in the middle of the bed. I really don’t like eating fat (major gag reflex), but I refused to gag. We gnawed on the fat and gristle till it looked like month-old tapioca pudding. We gulped down bowls of scalding lamb soup. We laughed and smiled and ate till we could eat no more. Our fingers were so fatty from the feast they looked like little mirrors.

Around 10:00 we left the house, staggering with contentment and an armload of blankets they gave us for the night. We were staring at the stars when a truck rolled up the driveway. It was a truck with four yaks tied up in back. The truck drove past us and then started rolling in reverse. Uncle Tom must have been pretty absorbed with the starry hosts because the yak truck was within about two feet of his rumpus when I screamed, “UNCLE TOM! UNCLE TOM! YAK TRUCK!”

Uncle Tom jumped to his left and wasn’t yakked, but came closer than any white man this side of the Mississippi.

We laughed about it later. Precious time and syllables were wasted on a stupid nickname, but sometimes nicknames must be honored in times of peril.

THE JOB

The next morning I woke up around sunrise and could still feel lamb grease on my fingers. I hadn’t washed my hands or showered in three days.

I walked to the house and Granny handed me a bowl of yak butter porridge, a cup of tea and some handmade bread that was still warm.

Happiness.

When I walked back to our tents, I noticed the Tibetan men were going into the sheep pen. They owned 200ish sheep. I followed them in and asked if I could help. Grandpa motioned for me to follow him. He would point out a sheep to me and then I would lock in and snatch it like a pubescent wolf and drag it to the painting station, where a lady would paint the right horn red and then I would release it out to pasture. I’ve always wanted to be a shepherd and this was my chance!

I grabbed, dragged, pounced on and carried sheep for about an hour and then told the other boys to come join us. Pretty soon we had a pretty slick system where two older men would point out sheep to the foreigners and we would grab them and drag them to the painting station. We caught 100ish sheep before it was time for a siesta.  

THE AWKWARD MOMENT

Muslim Grandpa walked up to the top of hill and was napping when I joined him with a couple of pears and a cup of instant coffee. We built up a bond when working in the sheep corral. I could tell he was a good and gentle man with above average facial hair. But nothing would prepare me for the following course of events.

Grandpa leaned over and put his finger within millimeters of my manhood and held up two fingers with a curious look on his leathery face. My alarm morphed into laughter. I informed him that I just had one, like him. Thankfully I had the pears handy and properly used them as an object lesson. Then he placed his hands about twelve inches apart and pointed again at my goods. I moved his hands to a less fictional yet not quite honest length. Then I pointed at him with a quizzical shrug. He shook his head in shame and put his fingers about an iPod Nano-length apart.  I patted him on the shoulder and then went back to the corral.

If someone had filmed this interaction it would’ve won the Silently Awkward Film of the Year.

THE DEPARTURE

We went back to the corral and wrangled the rest of the sheep, pried their mouths open as the Tibetan woman came around with a funnel and poured hot medicine into the sheep’s mouth. I think we actually were helping them. I couldn’t tell if they had planned this day for a while or they just called up their neighbors and rescheduled sheep-medicating day when four tourists randomly walked into their lives.

 

We finished medicating the flock around 2:00pm. My body was completely drained. I hadn’t used those sheep-tossing muscles since fourth grade, so I was pretty sore.

We packed up our tent and bags, climbed on our bikes, said goodbye to the strangers who treated us like family and started the long ride to Zhao Ge’s house.

As we biked up the driveway we had just come down a day earlier, I couldn’t help but laugh. We had such a grand plan – bike around the lake. But God had a better one – let our bodies break down so we could experience something more lasting than bragging rights.

“In his heart a man plans his course; but the LORD determines his steps.”

Proverbs 16:9