Tracks to Tibet

Alice Xin Liu

• Last Updated: March 21. 2009 9:30AM UAE / March 21. 2009 5:30AM GMT

The Kunlun Pass, 4,767m above sea level, is one of the highest points on the railway. Colin Galloway / Rex Features

The Qinghai-Tibet sky train, as it’s known, runs on the highest railway line in the world — at $4.5 billion to build it was also one of the most expensive — and is widely-regarded as a fantastic feat of modern engineering. It’s a comfortable trip, and, in the 48 hours that it takes to go from the capital of China to the mystical land of the red-robed monks, there are enough visual treats to counter any feelings of boredom. In fact, like the best railway journeys, passing the time was not a problem at all.

We boarded the train in the evening, and I prepared myself for what someone had warned me would be life-changing views. The four of us stretched out in the soft-sleeper car, one to a bunk. A “soft-sleeper” berth is around US$73 (Dh268) more than a less comfortable “hard-sleeper”. The standard fare is $102 (Dh375) for a hard berth. There are only four as opposed to six bunks in each soft-sleeper cabin and the beds are slightly wider. Our more luxurious compartment still wasn’t big though, and when we sat on the bottom bunk facing each other, our feet criss-crossed as we all attempted to get comfortable.

On the second night, about 24 hours after we stepped onto the train, we waited for something to happen as we slid into Tibet, but nothing did. Cautiously, we went to sleep, with feelings of anticipation and scepticism – but eventually we woke up to Tibet. On the morning of day three, we entered a snowy landscape, and we were well on the way to the highest point in the journey: the Tanggula mountain pass, which is over 5,000m above sea level.

As we went up in altitude, the heating system cranked up and the train carriages became warmer. Oxygen is also pumped in through small vents on top of each bunk to help counter the effects of the high altitude.

Now we were travelling on permafrost. This makes up an area of 1.4 million square kilometres, and is the largest expanse of frozen soil in the world apart from the Arctic. Looking out over the Tibetan plateau, the snow and the sun dutifully reflected each other; the effect was blinding. From our train compartment, the colours never really changed. The sky was a spread of blue and below it we saw, as if the window was a cinema screen, rows and rows of mountains charging past.

Just as the strong sunlight dazzled us, Yuzhu mountain, part of the Kunlun mountain range, took my breath away. Its snow-hat dented the flat turquoise sky, but the white landscape is pierced by great lakes as well as magnificent mountains. We passed Qinghai Lake, which used to be the largest freshwater lake in the Tibetan Autonomous Region before it was cordoned off to form part of Qinghai province. Now, the largest is the Cuona Lake, wide and glittering, and close-up to the tracks. It was nowhere near as beautiful as Namtso or Heaven Lake, though, which is 70 miles north-west of Lhasa. Passing its blue waters, I was reminded that once I arrived at Lhasa, there were stunning lakes, waiting to be explored as part of my Tibetan journey.

Between the Kunlun mountain range and the Tangula pass lies one of the most famous nature reserves in the world. On the third day, as the lady with a lunch trolley shouted from the passageway, “Porridge! Eggs! Mantou [steamed buns]!” we passed through the Kekexili nature reserve, made famous by the Chinese film director, Lu Chuan, in Kekexili: Mountain Reserve, which won the 2004 Grand Jury Prize at the Tokyo International Film Festival. Lu’s film tells the story of a Tibetan patrol team that struggles to save the hunted Tibetan antelope from poachers, risking their lives in the extremely harsh frozen climate.

On my journey, antelopes were visible in the far distance; some passengers gawped, and others raised their cameras. The antelope were not close to the railway line, and catching a glimpse was difficult; excited passengers dashed from one side of the train to the other, changing windows to see where the animals grazed.

Apart from the women who served food, the cabin crew of the sky train were all male. The attendant responsible for our carriage, 21-year-old Xiao Qi, was a handsome boy nicknamed by previous passengers as the Chinese Obama because of a likeness to the US President. Xiao Qi was one of the first ever train attendants on the sky train to the roof of the world: he has been working on the soft-sleeper cabins since the train began running in 2006.

On March 14, 2008, the train arrived in Lhasa in flames: independence uprisings, led by Tibetan monks and then followed by ordinary citizens, were then at their most heated. Xiao Qi stepped off the train to the news that Han Chinese and Tibetans were in conflict. He was stunned and confused, but the next thing he did was tell his passengers to buy a ticket back to Beijing the following morning.

When I got off in Lhasa at the end of the line, after what was a good cruise, I began to admire the architecture. The station looked like a smaller-scale replica of the Potala Palace in an Art-Deco style. Lightheadedness hit me and my lungs began to work harder.

But immediately, I knew I had stepped into a better atmosphere compared to the one I had left behind me in Beijing. The sky, although nocturnal at that moment, would be a pure and inescapable blue the following morning. The air was clean, crisp and unpolluted.

As elevated as the city was, I knew that my feelings of elation were caused by more than just the altitude; arriving in Tibet on the train was an experience that made me want to gasp for more.