Xidong, Matrimonial Dress and Family

Exit China, enter Tibet.

No welcoming sign marked this border, in fact, a border doesn’t exist at all. Yet something here is different. Faces toughened by harsh sunlight and heavy workloads, Rosy cheeks over tanned skin. Time taken to connect to the earth, to come together in celebration, to give thanks for one’s blessings.


Here alongside the Mekong our group stayed in a small guest house in a town where no internet cafes could be found, no bakeries, no China Mobile shops. A simple convenience store in our guest house was the closest our group came to enjoying treats from the outside world. A sprite, a Snickers bar, a bottle of water. Due to an exciting stretch of river and the relaxing atmosphere of our new home, the group decided to stay here for over a week. It wasn’t until near the end of this time that I began to feel a connection to the amazing family whose home we shared.

I began by entering the kitchen to speak with Zachary, our translator. The great grandmother would usher me in to take a seat and immediately offer me Yak Butter Tea (a warm, salty, slightly thick beverage that while you continue to drink, you’re never really sure if you like it or not) and an assortment of surprisingly flavorless cookies and cakes. The students likened these enticing goodies to eating twigs made to look like rice crispy treats. They, along with the tea, began to grow on me.

One afternoon I asked if I could help cook dinner. I arrived as great grandma was heading to feed the pigs. Ladleing a soupy mixture of our leftovers into two buckets, she began to carry them on her back. I, of course, insisted that I do this work, amazed that she is still able to lift such heavy loads. This naturally relieved her and gave her some enjoyment at my initial struggle with the mechanism.

Returning to the kitchen I helped grandma and a young daughter of hers begin to prepare dinner. Over the deep wok, heated by a small wooden fire enclosed in the concrete structure, we heated oil and began dropping in ingredients and seasonings filling my nasal passages with pure, tasty bliss. The jalapeno peppers more so a fiery, sneeze-inducing bliss. I learned how to stir the fried rice, flatten the peppers and fry the meat. Yet, what I enjoyed the most was spending this time with these women. They laughed at my ignorance and I smiled, knowing that it made them happy I was choosing to spend my time with them. I returned the following day, our last, to help prepare other meals and pass the time in this warm little kitchen where aromas swirled and foreign languages filled the air.

Our group requested the presence of the family members of the household (grandparents, moms, dads, nephews, nieces, aunts, uncles, kinds, etc) for a photo of everyone on our last evening at the guesthouse. The family interpreted this invitation as a call for celebration. The women quickly grabbed Kristi and I, the only two females in our group, and guided us to their rooms. Here all the women of the family began to layer us in traditional Tibetan wear. Silk shirts with sleeves reaching the floor, heavy dresses and layer upon layer of cloth wraps. To garnish, thick necklaces laden with local orange coral beads and large silver pendants hung from our necks while similar ornaments were wrapped around our waists. Lastly, a headdress with tassels, balls and string were placed on our heads. We were instantly 40 pounds heavier and more colorful than a box of lucky charms. Along with a few other transformed male group members, we joined everyone in the family’s worship room. The students and other teachers were shocked, not aware of the reason for our delay. A photo shoot ensued until we all settled into seats, chatting and sipping on our homemade barley wine (or rather the teachers were sipping on the wine).

As is tradition, our young host got up to sing a beautiful Tibetan song. Upon completion it soon became apparent that we were to all individually to get up in from the group to sing, as per tradition. While some of the students had to be dragged to the front and forced out a verse of twinkle-twinkle little star, others rattled off verses of music ranging from country to rap to bluegrass. I chose “Down to the River to Pray”, a short and beautiful tune by Allison Krausse, one of my favorites.

The rest of the night was spent sharing photos and videos of our travels and our exploits on the river. After a hearty breakfast of rice porrage, hard-boiled eggs, steamed rolls and noodle bowls, we sadly bit our farewells to this family with which we all felt a strong connection. When the great grandmother began to cry at our departure, holding our hand and motioning for us to return, we knew we would not forget our time here.