Home / Haixi Mongol-Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture culture
Nestled in the northwestern corner of the Qinghai-Tibet Plateau, Haixi Mongol and Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture is a land of contradictions. Here, glacier-fed rivers carve through Martian-red deserts, Tibetan prayer flags flutter beside solar farms, and nomadic herders share WeChat contacts with urban migrants. In an era of climate crises and cultural homogenization, Haixi offers unexpected lessons on resilience.
The Tibetan herders of Haixi’s Tsaidam (Qaidam) Basin have tracked seasonal pastures for millennia, but climate change is rewriting their maps. Satellite data shows the basin warming three times faster than the global average, with 37% of alpine meadows degraded since 1990. Near Dulan County, I met 58-year-old Drolma, who now buys hay for her yaks. "The snow melts before the lambs are born," she said, kneading dried yak dung into fuel cakes. "Our ancestors’ songs don’t teach us about dust storms."
Yet Haixi is adapting ingeniously. The world’s largest "agrivoltaic" project near Golmud grows goji berries beneath solar arrays, providing shade for crops while powering 200,000 homes. Tibetan herders lease land for panels, creating a bizarre but effective symbiosis—their sheep trim grass under the structures, earning extra income. "My grandfather rode horses to collect salt; I check my photovoltaic earnings on Huawei Pay," chuckled Tashi, a former nomad turned solar technician.
Beneath Haixi’s Chaka Salt Lake lies 60% of China’s lithium reserves—a treasure for EV batteries. Mining companies promise "green extraction," but locals recall the salt caravan routes that once connected Tibet to Xi’an. At Xiligou, an abandoned Ming Dynasty relay station, brick tea and wool were traded for Himalayan rock salt. Today, a startup employs Tibetan women to package Chaka salt with blockchain-tracked authenticity, selling it to Shanghai gourmet stores.
Every summer, hundreds of Tibetan Buddhists modify their motorcycles with prayer-flag poles, retracing the ancient "Tea-Horse Road" to Lhasa. Unlike their walking ancestors, they document the journey on Douyin (TikTok), attracting corporate sponsors. "Shell lubricants paid for my tires after my last video got 2 million views," said 22-year-old Kelsang, showing me his GoPro-mounted saddle.
Haixi’s Delhi (Delingha) city embodies China’s ethnic integration paradox. The 1950s brought Han oil workers; now Tibetan cafes serve yak butter lattes beside shared office hubs. At "Nomad Tech Space," startups develop apps for grassland monitoring using AI trained on herders’ traditional weather proverbs. "We call it ‘Buddhist agile development’—sprint cycles aligned with lunar phases," joked co-founder Tenzin.
Near the Lenghu Mars Base (a research station mimicking Martian conditions), Tu ethnic minority families were relocated for China’s nuclear program in the 1960s. Their descendants now work as "extreme tourism" guides, leading hikes through the Qarhan Playa’s otherworldly salt crusts. At night, they perform "Guozhuang" circle dances under rocket launchpad floodlights.
In Tianjun County, a collective of nuns runs a "Thangka NFT Studio." Using mineral pigments from sacred mountains like Nyenchen Tanglha, they paint digital mandalas sold as NFTs, with proceeds funding a girls’ school. "The Buddha’s teachings must ride the blockchain horse," said Ani Lhamo, adjusting her VR headset to inspect a virtual Kalachakra mandala.
At Haixi’s annual Eco-Fest, Mongolian throat singers collaborate with electronic musicians using samples of melting permafrost. The event’s centerpiece is a "Sand Organ"—an instrument played by wind blowing through 3D-printed dunes. "This is what happens when your conservatory floods," said composer Batu, whose piece incorporated recordings of disappearing glaciers.
The stories of Haixi resist simple narratives. This isn’t just about preserving traditions or embracing modernity—it’s about rewriting the rules of survival at the roof of the world. As the planet heats and cultures collide, Haixi’s nomads, miners, and innovators are composing a new anthem from the echoes of caravan bells and the hum of lithium batteries.