Yaks, goats and dogs that look like bears

What is it about Yushu that makes me want to forgive the distressing absence of toilets and showers, the bone-chilling cold, the lack of running water or any plumbing whatsoever?

It might be the mangy mobs of goats that wander the streets, rooting through the ample supply of roadside garbage and ducking into your yard whenever you forget to shut the gate, refusing to allow angry and horn-happy drivers to disrupt a casual afternoon stroll down the center of the street.

It could be the slow-witted yaks who lumber around town, and graze at the school next door. (I know, I know: What is this inexplicable fascination with yaks, you ask?)


Maybe it's the monks on motorcycles, the hive-drone of the Buddhist chants that are broadcast over loudspeakers twice a day, or the fresh yak yogurt sold in plastic buckets by robed women in Yak Square or served in restaurants with a side order of sugar and tiny sweet potatoes. Might be the fact that the world's most expensive dog -- one of the fierce, bear-like Tibetan mastiffs that are in every yard here -- hails from Yushu.

It could even be the students here, who are oddly enthusiastic, a little boisterous and more than a little punk rock (if largely unconcerned with regular bathing), and shout "Hello Teacher!" without discernible irony when I walk in the room.

Even the accomodations have improved significantly, ever since I found the showers downtown, and a six-fingered man showed up to "fix" the electricity (which as far as I can tell meant rigging up some wires to steal from the orphanage next door), so I could terminate my tumultuous relationship with the yak stove once and for all.

It's the little things.