Even on the tickets, Tibetan was "forgotten," Chinese characters and Pinyin glosses were "格尔木(Geermu)-拉萨(Lasa)." In my understanding, to respect minorities, the place names of minority areas have always rejected Pinyin. For Geermu, for example, Golmud is used, and Lasa uses Lhasa.

No matter how other tickets are printed, the Qinghai-Tibet railway is such a special case that I think there should be attention to detail.

...another story said that the Qinghai-Tibet railroad will bring myths and stories "closer" to the common public: entering Haiyan in Qinghai, people will recall Wang Luobin's "In that far-off place"; at the Kunlun Pass, they will be able to see the "Ancestral Mountain" of "Chinese ethnic cultural history"; passing the Sea of Stars, they will extol Louis Cha's Demi-Gods and Semi-Devils; nearing the Tongtian River, they will recall Wu Cheng'en's Journey to the West, where Tang Seng and his disciples laid out the scriptures to dry.

Tsongkhapa? Atiśa? King Gesar? Tsangyang Gyatso? We can't find their names here!

So we unleash our anger on the heads of the foreigners. We criticize them because they have said that the Qinghai-Tibet railroad is the destruction of Tibetan culture. However, I wonder whether this isn't in fact because our publicity efforts have been too clever by half, giving those folks this kind of feeling.

Han Song addresses similar issues in fiction. He recently posted an excerpt from his story "A Special Train Ticket to Tibet" on his blog. Here's a translation of the post (untranslated are his characteristically cynical photo captions):

Starting from 30 June there has been a "collective publication" of articles on the opening of the entire Qinghai-Tibet rail line - things have been quite lively. Seeing the reports sent back by journalists, I feel strongly that they are extremely inauthentic. Back in the previous century I wrote a few words describing how a future train would enter Tibet (the noun 'Qinghai-Tibet Railway' didn't exist at the time). I imagined the railroad would open in 1999, but the starting point would be Chengdu. At the time, after a young national government official killed someone in Beijing, he decided to flee to Tibet. So he bought a "special train ticket." The truth of what he saw on his journey into Tibet is as follows:

"Snowland" sat silently, a massive vessel moored at the station, so new that no one dared touch it. The gleaming, streamlined silver body was a relative of high-speed trains from Japan or France; it resembled some computer-designed science fiction tool that arrived via wormhole and was powered by nuclear energy or antimatter. The front of the train was painted to resemble a black demon mask, a mix of ferocity and naivety. Alongside a conventional electric train, it certainly stood out, inviting suspicion and envy.

"Snowland" was one of five new-model tourist trains that belonged to the Chengdu Rail Bureau. The others were "Snow Mountain," "Snow Peak," "Snow Lotus," and "Snow Lion." These were truly advanced models that used hydrogen power systems. Together with maglev trains, they were the cleanest, fastest, and most practical systems for ground travel.

Each car reportedly could carry 108 individuals, a number that happened to be a Buddhist constant. Apart from tourists, there were monks, Buddhist worshipers, businessmen, students, reporters, and Aid Tibet cadres. A large number were Tibetan. Seven or eight Kamba men carried a dozen cases of barley wine; after boarding the train they divided it and started at it hard - no snacks, either - drinking until the face of each was fiery-red amid incessant laughter and commotion.

Swiftly, the train snaked its way into the Tibetan Plateau raising no cloud of dust. The dazzlingly white mountain range covered the horizon like a fortress, or like a specimen of some ancient beast that sat where it pleased, unafraid of man. There was an explosion of fresh flowers, the rivers ran deep, the snowcaps shimmered, and the sky was a retina-piercing, unnatural blue. With a rush, a fiery-red fox leaped up beside the rails and madly chased the train for an hour.

"The snow is fake. Due to the greenhouse effect, the peaks below 6000 meters on the Tibetan Plateau are snowless this season. Artificial snowfall has been implemented to attract tourists from the interior. This is supported by the Tibet military area." The voice of the tour guide Yangjin was gentle and chirpy.

Perhaps because of the perfect magic of Yangjin's explanation, the scene outside the train windows vanished. Following this were armies of amber hills thundering by, against the glittering wilderness and streams so clear you could see the bottom. A heavy wind brought the remains of a savage fortress flickering into view, as if its spirit was being erased from the pages of history. Was this the true face of the world, reflected by the train entering Tibet? It felt like traveling in Xinjiang, or on Mars, where no one had been before.

Yangjin's voice once again echoed softly: "Look, to the left is the Sichuan-Tibet Highway! Our country's increase in national might made construction of the Sichuan-Tibet highway possible. This is glad tidings to the Tibetan people!"

This was indeed the voice of surrealism. But the passengers were already disposed to accept the allure of those words, and like dolls they turned their eyes to the heralded Sichuan-Tibet highway. What they saw was desolate and abandoned, a road edged by deep black gorges, with white bone shards scattered like flames and the rusted skeletons of Toyota Land Cruisers and Blackhawk helicopters.

The train stopped at a station on average every two hours of travel. On the platform, elderly people dressed in Tibetan cloaks offered zanba, eggs, and butter tea for sale to the passengers. And children extended their hands to beg for money. There was even a begging lama asking for just "one jiao"; if passengers gave him one yuan, he would certainly give back 9 jiao in change.

Before long twilight fell. Night on the plateau was unearthly cold. Starving wolves emerged, a thousand to a pack, racing like mad against the stars blanketing the sky, their innumerable eyes flashing green before watching in despair as the train lept away like a tiger.

At dawn, the Potala Palace at last appeared, hazy, as if built of blocks. At the foot of the red mountain, there was an enormous, unfamiliar manmade structure that became clearer on approach - it was the famous M insignia of McDonald's.

Rising like a luxuriant forest at the bank of the long-dry Lhasa River were two titanium-steel skyscrapers more than 100 stories high, outclassing even the highest snow-capped mountain. The passengers gaped in amazement. In the valley created by the two peaks, there sounded a sudden tsunami-like roar of the horns of countless luxury cars, rocking the city of Lhasa like a small boat on the waves.

The transformation of Tibet into the most popular tourist destination at the end of the century - was it not because everyone's heart shares a common guilt? This is the ticket you must buy to go to Tibet.