Which moment made you truly fall in love with Tibet?
2008 was a year full of stories, a year when Chinese people experienced many major events together — large parts of the south were hit by a rare ice storm; an 8.0-magnitude earthquake devastated Wenchuan, Sichuan; Beijing successfully hosted the Olympics and Paralympics; the Sanlu milk powder scandal broke; astronaut Zhai Zhigang completed China's first spacewalk, proudly displaying the five-star red flag in space... For me, too, 2008 was a year of stories, but the only big event that happened to me that year was failing the college entrance exam.
"Study till you drop, or you'll never make it!" "Ignite your passion, let your dreams fly!"... Slogans like these were everywhere in schools as the exams approached. What filled my ears—aside from the nonstop urging of teachers and parents—was classmates reading aloud in a monotone. The noisy environment made me increasingly anxious; seeing my scores stuck no matter how hard I tried left me numb and desperate. In April, when birds sang and grass grew tall, I started finding excuses not to go to school, shutting myself in my room and shutting out the outside world.
I wasn't one of the top students the school prioritized. My so-so grades meant that even if I missed the final two months, teachers wouldn't pay much attention. As adults put it, "If you just maintain your level, you'll at least get into a second-tier university." But in the end, I didn't even meet the second-tier cutoff. Studying at a third-tier college, a vocational school, or retaking the exam: those were the paths before me. My parents disapproved of my negative attitude towards my own future and suggested I consider retaking the exam for another year. My mind was blank; I just bowed my head, unable to give them the answer they wanted. Seeing me still so listless, my typically rigid and stubborn dad did something unexpected: he brought home a globe and asked if I wanted to go out and clear our heads together.
"What? I point somewhere and we go? What if I point to a foreign country..." I looked at him in disbelief.
"Exactly—wherever you point, we go! Even abroad, no problem, as long as it's still on Earth," Dad replied without hesitation.
"Since when am I a secret rich kid? Forget it, let's just stay home..." Though I lacked academic smarts, I had some emotional intelligence. A trip, such a costly activity, would only add financial pressure on the family. I said no, but inside, I still had a little hope of traveling. Just as I expected, stubborn as he was, Dad went right on planning his travel proposal. To stop him from worrying, I casually said I wanted to go far, as far as possible.
Of course, that didn't discourage Dad; instead, he came up with a list of possible destinations. Back then, my hometown was in Shandong. Heading north, we could see the great grasslands of Inner Mongolia. South, to Sanya in Hainan for the sea. Far to the northwest borderlands, there were Xinjiang and Tibet, places rich in ethnic culture. After much thought, my parents decided to take me into Tibet along the Sichuan-Tibet route, with Lhasa as our destination.
Due to practical factors, the decision to go to Tibet was tangled and complicated. But what tipped the scale was, on one hand, that my parents had once traveled there together when they were young and cherished special memories and a fondness for everything about the place; on the other, they hoped that through the high-altitude challenges along the way, I would shake off my negativity, get back on my feet, and learn to face difficulties bravely. Looking back now, I have to admit: that decision was remarkable.
This journey from east to west cut across nearly half of China. We saw landscapes I'd never witnessed before—plains, hills, then the high plateau. Terrains that had only existed in geography textbooks now passed right before my eyes, so real. Even weighed down by failing the exam, at those moments I could let go of the burden and truly relax. Yet more than the scenery, one moment stands out: as soon as we entered the high plateau, all three of us got altitude sickness and slept groggily in the car all the way until the tour leader woke us at our lodging.
In recent years, road conditions on the Sichuan-Tibet Highway have improved a lot, but a decade ago, it was a different story. The rainy season in Tibetan areas had just ended, so although the roads were passable, many sections were strewn with gravel and scree. Dirt roads not yet dried by the sun were muddy and slippery, and much of the route wound around mountains and water—one careless move could mean disaster. Luckily, though the conditions weren't ideal, we passed through without serious mishap.
The Sichuan-Tibet Highway is a place where danger and beauty coexist. The journey was harrowing, but it gave us a travel experience like no other. The unique high-altitude scenery was a constant surprise; the Tibetan region before the cold set in was full of natural wonders, and even the torment of altitude sickness became a kind of exclusive sensory experience. Though I was young, my stamina was no match for my elders'. Every time we crossed a high pass and stopped for photos, my parents would eagerly drag me out of the car to strike outdated poses. At first it was annoying, but after many times, I got used to it and just played along. I'd thought the trip would be filled with well-meaning lectures from adults, but beyond travel-related topics, they never brought up the things that gave me a headache. Instead, it was me who, in quiet moments, pondered the past and the future—my thoughts flying past the window across thousands of mountains and rivers, drifting farther and farther away.
The day we reached Lhasa, a light rain was falling. Early that morning, heavy fog in Nyingchi had delayed our departure by nearly half an hour. The gray skies felt a bit depressing. To keep my mind from wandering in the back seat of the bus, my parents went through the photos we'd taken all along the way. Looking at the scenery we'd passed, at every picture that had me in it, the meaning of this trip quietly shifted inside me.
Around three or four in the afternoon, we arrived in Lhasa. From the street outside our guesthouse, we could see the Potala Palace in the distance, a haze of disbelief that in just over ten days we'd traveled across half of China, from east to west, and ended up here. The sun broke through the clouds at just the right moment, making the wet streets sparkle. The air around the guesthouse carried that unique butter-scented smell of Tibet, and everything felt so relaxing that I didn't even notice when Dad had taken my suitcase from my feet. As my parents stood beside me, looking towards the Potala Palace, I thought for a long moment, then told them: I want to retake the exam for another year.
That was the answer I wanted—and, I think, the answer they wanted, too. We spent three more days in Lhasa, then returned home. I got myself organized and went back to the school's retake class to prepare again. The outcome might not be what you imagine. Retaking the exam didn't suddenly unlock some hidden genius and earn me top marks. Instead, I performed as usual, passed the second-tier cutoff that year, got into a university I was quite happy with, and ended up studying a major completely unrelated to my current job. Now, as I'm about to enter my thirties, life still has its ups and downs with family, work, and relationships. But whenever I think back to that trip I took that year, my heart overflows with thoughts and emotions. And because of it, Tibet has become a place filled with meaning for me.
The moment I fell in love with Tibet shouldn't be pinned to a single point in time. For me, it was that whole stretch of travel with my parents that summer that truly made me love it.
