The market was located in a small valley near the Potala Palace, with rows of small shops lining both sides. Although the Tibetan scripts on the storefronts were indecipherable, one could still tell what was being sold by looking at the goods displayed at the entrances.
Of course, due to regional limitations, the Tibetan market didn’t offer many eye-catching items—mainly things like ox horn knives, horsewhips, roasted lamb, dried yak meat, and various tourist souvenirs hanging on bamboo poles. However, these items were beautifully crafted and vibrantly colored, making them worth purchasing. Some enthusiastic shopkeepers would even present guests with a khata—offering their sincerest gratitude—and it was a joyous moment for both host and guest.
Liu Dashao and his group didn’t walk far before they stopped at a noodle shop. Fan Debiao said this place was famous for its “Xiaodaomian” (small knife noodles). Made from barley flour and hand-rolled with icy water from the Tianshan Mountains, the noodles were then sliced directly into the pot by skilled chefs using large cleavers. The result was smooth, chewy noodles that no factory-made machine could replicate. Additionally, the broth was made by simmering beef bones, making it rich and nutritious. Once cooked, the noodles were placed into large bowls, topped with sauce, vegetables, and a few skewers of roasted meat—so delicious that one might even bite their tongue.
After Fan Debiao’s vivid description, everyone’s appetite was stirred. They quickly found seats and gathered around happily.
The temperature in Tibet was freezing. At this time of year, the outside temperature could drop to minus twenty degrees Celsius or more. Often, a man’s urine would freeze into ice particles before it even hit the ground. Now, the breath from the group had already condensed into tiny water droplets, forming a thick white mist that obscured their vision.
Inside the noodle shop, many staff members were serving customers. To prevent diners from getting hungry, one waiter specially brought around a thermos, pouring steaming butter tea into cups for those who hadn’t yet received their noodles. In such weather, just holding the cup in one’s hands brought a sense of warmth, and drinking it down the throat released an indescribable richness and aroma.
Fan Debiao drank two cups in a row, while Yang Weidong and Cai Qingchong sipped slowly, occasionally blowing on the tea. Liu Dashao, however, took one sip and put the cup down, frowning. He clearly wasn’t used to it.
“What kind of thing is this? It’s neither milk nor green tea. Hmph, and they even added salt,” Liu Dashao sneezed, his facial muscles tightening.
The waiter was standing nearby and, upon hearing this, his expression immediately darkened. Fortunately, Fan Debiao quickly intervened with an apology, managing to coax the waiter away.
“Big Boss, didn’t I tell you on the plane to be mindful of Tibetan customs and etiquette?” Fan Debiao whispered in a low voice while nudging Liu Dashao’s arm.
“But you didn’t tell me what it tasted like! I thought it was some kind of green tea. But just taste it—it’s weird, not sweet, not bitter, not even salty,” Liu Dashao said with a frown.
“When you’re here, once you’ve taken a sip, you must finish the whole cup. Otherwise, they’ll think you’re disrespecting them.”
“Finish it all?!” Liu Dashao’s face paled. He truly disliked that thick, yellowish liquid.
“Finish it!”
Seeing Liu Dashao’s reluctance, Jia Zhuanyuan demonstrated and then calmly explained. It turned out that due to the high-altitude, cold environment of Kham and Tibet, where elevations often exceeded 3,000 to 4,000 meters, the Tibetan people primarily ate tsampa, dairy products, yak butter, and yak meat. In such a cold climate, people needed to consume high-calorie fats, but without vegetables, tsampa could cause internal heat. Too much fat was difficult for the body to break down, so tea helped break down the fat and prevent overheating. Thus, over time, Tibetans developed the habit of drinking butter tea.
Butter tea was made by boiling brick tea in water, adding yak butter (extracted from yak milk), and then vigorously stirring the mixture in a tall wooden barrel with a stirring rod. Another method involved placing the butter and tea into a leather bag, sealing it tightly, and pounding it with a wooden stick. Hence, making butter tea was called “beating” butter tea, and it was a labor-intensive task usually performed by the female host when entertaining guests.
Tibetans preferred butter tea over plain brick tea because brick tea contained high levels of acid that stimulated digestion, causing hunger quickly. Therefore, butter or milk had to be added to the tea. Wealthier households might even add nuts or other fruits to the mixture. This way, even when a man went out to herd horses, drinking a cup before leaving ensured he wouldn’t feel cold or hungry on the journey.
After listening to Jia Zhuanyuan’s detailed explanation, Liu Dashao finally gritted his teeth, tried to understand, and drank the entire cup of thick liquid—though his furrowed brows never relaxed throughout the process.
“The noodles are here—authentic wild yak beef noodles from Tibet,” the waiter announced a moment later, finally delivering five large bowls. Surprisingly, this young Tibetan man could speak Mandarin, albeit with a thick accent.
Looking down at the table, the noodles didn’t look particularly special, but the aroma alone was enough to captivate anyone.
“Little brother, how much is this altogether?” Fan Debiao neatly aligned his chopsticks on the table with a smile.
“Five bowls total—five yuan. The butter tea was a welcome gift, so it’s free,” the waiter replied honestly.
Liu Dashao flipped through the noodles with his chopsticks and was immediately impressed. This single large bowl was equivalent to four bowls of beef noodles he’d had in Hong Kong. The noodles were well-made, and most importantly, nearly half the bowl was filled with yak beef—something unimaginable elsewhere. Truly, it was delicious and affordable.
“Great, great!” He nodded repeatedly.
“Hope you all enjoy it. If you want some side dishes after finishing, just call me. We have many snacks that go well with noodles,” the waiter added.
“Oh, side dishes too?” Fan Debiao’s eyes lit up.
“Yes, yes,” the waiter replied. “We have dried pistachios, lamb skewers, zongzi rice cakes, and more.”
“Alright then, take this money and bring us some snacks. And give us extra lamb skewers. The rest is a tip,” Fan Debiao cheerfully placed a hundred-yuan note on the table.
Nowadays, a hundred yuan wasn’t much, but back then, it was a significant sum—especially in a remote area like Tibet, where it could support a Tibetan family of three for several months with a comfortable lifestyle.
The waiter was stunned. He hesitated to accept it at first, but Fan Debiao insisted. Eventually, the honest Tibetan took it. Soon after, several large platters of snacks arrived, and even the lamb skewer grill was brought right to the table so the waiter could roast fresh meat for them.
With large bowls of noodles, big chunks of meat, and mild barley wine, Liu Dashao no longer frowned. He and Yang Weidong and Cai Qingchong feasted heartily. Fan Debiao ate so enthusiastically that his mouth was dripping with oil. Only when his stomach was full to bursting did he reluctantly wipe his mouth, light a cigarette, and start chatting with the shop owner.
Just then, Fan Debiao’s phone rang. It was their prearranged guide, who had now arrived. Seeing that the group was still enjoying themselves and wanted to explore the market a bit more, Fan Debiao decided to ask the guide to come directly to the noodle shop to meet them, saving the trouble of meeting elsewhere and avoiding any awkwardness later.
About fifteen minutes later, the guide arrived with a grin. Dressed in a fur coat, with a dark complexion and sharp eyes that occasionally flashed with cunning, he introduced himself.
“Bosses, my name is Barto. I’m a native Tibetan. If you have any questions on the road, feel free to ask me. Don’t be shy, hehe,” the guide took a pair of chopsticks from the holder, wiped them on his sleeve, and began devouring the bowl of noodles handed to him by the shop owner like a whale.
“Big Boss, take a look. Isn’t this guy sharp and energetic?” Fan Debiao seemed very satisfied with Barto.
“Very good, very good. Young man, what did you do before?” Liu Dashao casually asked while biting into a skewer.
“Nothing worth mentioning. I tried a few businesses before, but they all failed. These days, tourism is booming, and with my good speaking skills, I can make a living,” Barto replied. “But I’m not bragging—there’s no place in Tibet I don’t know well. Hiring me will definitely make your trip convenient and worry-free.”
“Oh, really? We’ll need your help this time. Here, have a skewer!” Liu Dashao took a roasted lamb skewer from the grill and handed it to him.
“Thank you, boss!” Barto accepted it with flattery. However, he didn’t notice that the moment he opened his palm, both Liu Dashao and Jia Zhuanyuan narrowed their eyes simultaneously.
Sensing each other’s reaction, Liu Dashao and Jia Zhuanyuan exchanged a glance and smiled.
“Barto, you haven’t eaten breakfast yet, right? Here, eat more. We ordered a lot, and it would be a waste to leave it,” Liu Dashao pushed the entire plate of roasted lamb skewers toward Barto.
“Boss, you’re too kind,” Barto said, slightly embarrassed.
“Hehe, it’s nothing,” Liu Dashao waved his hand and patted Fan Debiao’s shoulder. “Hey, Fatso, come on. My stomach is full, let’s take a walk around the front and come back.”
“Alright!” Fan Debiao, not sensing anything unusual, assumed Liu Dashao genuinely wanted to stretch his legs. He said goodbye to the others and followed Liu Dashao out.
They walked down the corridor for about fifty meters before Liu Dashao suddenly stopped.
“Didn’t you want to walk? Why are we stopping?” Fan Debiao turned around, puzzled. “If we walk a bit further, there’s a souvenir shop. I’ll take you there. It’s a good place.”
Liu Dashao didn’t answer. He lit a cigarette and furrowed his brows.
“Big Boss, what’s wrong?”
“I’ve felt something strange about you since earlier,” Liu Dashao said.
Fan Debiao was taken aback but didn’t respond.
Liu Dashao tilted his chin slightly. “Debiao, how reliable is this guide?”
“Why are you suddenly asking that?” Fan Debiao looked confused.
“I just want to know—reliable or not!”
Fan Debiao hesitated for a moment before nodding. “He should be reliable.”
“But what about his hands?”
“Hands… hands are just hands. Unless they’ve turned into claws,” Fan Debiao was getting lost in the conversation.
“You idiot,” Liu Dashao exhaled smoke. “That Tibetan man has thick calluses on the second joint of his right index finger and the outer side of his thumb.”
“Calluses? What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing by themselves, but when they appear in those two places together, it can only mean one thing,” Liu Dashao said calmly.
“What thing? Just say it clearly!” Fan Debiao was almost ready to curse in frustration. He noticed Liu Dashao was starting to sound like Old Jia.
“You should take a look at Yang Weidong. You’ll find that the calluses on his hands are in the exact same places as Barto’s. And Old Jia noticed it too.”
“You mean…” Fan Debiao’s eyes widened.
“He’s handled a gun before—and he’s an expert,” Liu Dashao crushed the cigarette butt under his shoe.
“You think an unemployed drifter would have access to military assault rifles?”
“Well…” Fan Debiao’s face turned pale. “Maybe the local culture here is rough, and hunting rifles are common. Besides, gun control in this area is practically nonexistent. It’s possible for a young guy to have a few guns. And the guy seems honest enough. Maybe you’re overthinking it?”
Liu Dashao nodded slightly. “Let’s hope so.”
“But our mission is confidential, and you know the rest. I hope we don’t run into any trouble. Be careful. Don’t show off your wealth! After learning from the Big Cricket for so many years, did you learn nothing but how to sit on your ass?” Liu Dashao patted Fan Debiao’s chest and walked back alone.
Fan Debiao stood there for a while, shook his head, and followed with a bitter smile.
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