Waterless Lakes

Sunday morning began, as usual, without the faintest trace of religious significance. After a jarring wake-up call, we all mustered for breakfast in the hotel dining room, and then boarded the familiar buses. That day, it had been said, we were going to paddle on one of China’s largest inland lakes. Sometimes, the head guide told us, wind blew from the wrong direction, making the lake too shallow for boats.

Thirty minutes later, we were tumbling down a mud track in my first off-roading bus experience. Off to our right, groups of peasants were slowly working away at a new highway that would presumably bring future tourists to the lakeside resort area. Periodically, the bus would jar to the left or right to avoid hitting a grazing cow or sheep.

Finally, now quite impressed not only with the driver’s audacity but also with the versatility of our bus, we popped over the last hill and beheld a vast expanse of lake. An audible “Whoaa!” rose from the passengers, as we beheld a limitless expanse of gray flatness. But closer examination revealed not an actual lake, but an enormous muddy flatland where a lake had once been. There was not a boat in sight. Instead, an enormous, rainbow-colored umbrella rose out of the flats about two hundred yards out from the cement board walk.

Even closer observation discovered a string of ponies and a cluster of four-wheeler go-karts parked halfway out to the umbrella. Clearly, there had been no water for a long period of time – long enough for some enterprising fellow to collect a fleet of 4-wheelers and for another man to build a sign saying how much it cost for pony and camel rides. When I asked one kabob salesman about the lack of water, he shook his head depressingly and muttered something about the water disappearing three years ago. He was quite happy to tell me though about his son who was at a university in California, though I had to reassure him multiple times that California’s universities were better than Qinghua University.

Some said that rainfall had fallen off while others mentioned something about a large factory elsewhere on the lake. Our guide, it seemed, had not been entirely up-front with us about the lake. But nevertheless, none of us would have passed up that morning. Partly because none of us could actually make any sense of what we were seeing – a lakeside resort town with no water in the middle of Inner Mongolia – a large rainbow-colored umbrella in the distance – and nationalistic music emanating from the kitchen of a nearby restaurant.