Vang Vieng

I have rarely witnessed anything as truly ludicrous as Vang Vieng. Droves of backpackers originally flocked to this town because of its position on the Nam Song surrounded by limestone karst formations and tons of caves, and in response to the influx, Vang Vieng has completely whored itself out. The main tourism-driven innovation here is the TV bar: bar-restaurants where patrons lounge on cushioned platforms, drink beer, eat "happy" pizza and watch multiple, blaring television sets that play DVDs of American sitcoms. It's tacky and horrifying, and I found one with The Simpsons and laid there for five hours.

A visitor to VV is expected to accomplish two things: (1) visit caves, and (2) tube down the river. I did one per day with my friend, Miriam (who is from Boston, but just finished university in London, and who I met in Muang Ngoi and have run into in every city since, because that's how it is in Laos).

There are a lot of caves around VV, some great, some crappy. Miriam and I saw four of them easily because we went by motorbike (sorry, Mom - we did wear helmets [but they were Lao helmets]). The first cave was the least-developed, and required us to shimmy on our stomachs through the mud after a very small Lao boy with a headlamp. We weren't really prepped for this. Miriam was wearing a miniskirt, and I had my eternal purse, which I had to launch down the cave ahead of me and then crawl after and retrieve. After traveling like this for some ways, Miriam and I succumbed to a laughing fit and were unable to squeeze along any further until it passed. We really mystified our tiny, non-English-speaking guide, who frantically directed his headlamp at all sorts of cave bugs and clumps of cave moss - I can only suppose in some effort to sober us up.

The second cave was bigger, with lights and stairs and things. Boring, actually, but there's a lovely blue pool outside by which we swam into the cave (in front of an audience of nine giggling, teenage boys). The final cave was the highlight: through this cave flows an underground river, and you have to sit in a tube and tow yourself through it by rope. The only light is your headlamp. The formations on the walls and ceiling are amazing.

The next day, we dutifully tubed down the Nam Song. Everyone who comes to VV does this, and there are a number of riverside bars, all with zip lines, and all playing the same Bob Marley cd on a loop. There's a hawker in front of each bar who screams 'BeerLao, BeerLao,' at the top of his lungs as you tube by, completely ruining any enjoyment you might have been taking in the truly gorgeous surroundings. As you tube past, they haul you in by bamboo pole (whether or not you care to go). In addition to BeerLao, the menus feature three different categories of substances that are not food. Strangely, the bars are mostly at the very start of the tubing route, and the two biggest are right next to each other. Miriam and I stopped at one of them, and met a hot (if vapid) American guy, but then a pockmarked, middle-aged Thai man who'd sent over an (unwanted) round plopped himself down in our bamboo hut and announced we should pay attention to him now. By the time we ran him off, the American was downriver chatting up some Brits.

I may as well take this opportunity to express my increasing disillusionment re: Laos. The country itself is beautiful, but traveling here is not quite what I expected. I feel I've been sucked into a current of tourism running south along the Mekong that is much more 'Cancun on spring break' than 'hippie trail.' I wanted to travel in order to learn about the world, not really to get trashed against a variety of backdrops. And if I can't manage to communicate authentically with local people, I at least want to meet interesting fellow travelers. I guess I had this romantic idea that I'd meet a lot of war-torn, haggard activists with fascinating pasts and exaggerated notions of their own social responsibilities - and in China, I did meet a few - but in Laos, it's all frat kids. Here's what I'd like to hear more of from fellow backpackers:

'I fear all my efforts in Sri Lanka were futile.'

Here's what I'd like to hear less of:

'Dude, you have to go to Chiang Mai: for ten bucks, you can totally wrestle a bear.'

Also, while I'm venting, all the fat, old white men here conducting around utterly bored and obviously rented Thai "girlfriends" is awakening in me an Eileen-Wuernos-type rage. I hope those girls are taking every last penny the losers have, and then I hope they kill them. Slowly. Perhaps I'm off-topic.

In sum, Vang Vieng = definition of 'clash of context'; backpackers in warm climates = too happy to be interesting; and men = totally ignorant of the concept of "league." I'd love to write something about Laos, but I can't quite make it out through the blinding screen of opium smoke and Friends episodes everywhere. I'm hoping things will get better south of Vientiane; I think most of this crowd hops back over to Thailand at the Friendship Bridge.

Luang Prabang

Between the Mekong and its Nam Khan tributary, Luang Prabang is palm-tree-lined street after street of French colonial architecture, travel agencies and Westernized restaurants and cafes. The city has been placed on Unesco's World Heritage list, so it's quite seen after. The first thing I noticed on arrival is that there seem to be more whiteys here than Lao. I thought perhaps I'd unknowingly flown to Charleston. It's an enjoyable city, however, with the typical, ultra-relaxed Laos atmosphere, and a huge night market with lots of cool linen clothes.

The wattage in Luang Prabang is out of control: my Lonely Planet guide says there are 66 wats in town, and it lists full blurbs for 22. I only paid to walk around the biggest one, Wat Xieng Thong, which is very glittery and impressive. Unfortunately, I was sporting my brand new Beer Laos T-shirt, which I soon realized was coming off as disrespectful. It was the only top I had with sleeves, though, and they're big into sleeves here.

During my walkabout day, I also hiked up Phu Si hill in the middle of the town, which offers nice views. Guess what was at the top?? Wats! I had a conversation with a young monk who wanted to hear about my life in America. I asked him how long he'd probably be a monk, and he wasn't sure, but he liked Luang Prabang, and if he quit being a monk he'd have to find some way to get a house. And then, quite apropos of nothing, he said:

'I have never been with woman. I am pure.'

'Well,' I said, after a moment. 'I'm sure it helps in your job.'

'I have no job,' he said, sounding offended.

You can't win with these monks.

Across from Phu Si hill is the Royal Palace Museum, which is totally worth seeing, although not really for the exhibits. The museum is in King Sisavong Vong's old palace, which the French were sweet enough to allow built in 1904, and the interior of the building is beyond impressive. The walls of the main room are covered floor to ceiling in murals of tiny Lao people fighting wars, celebrating, farming and so on, all made of tiny bits of mirrored glass.

After visiting the museum, I sat in the shade on the lower part of Phu Si hill, and was hard at work memorizing Laos numerals when I was approached by three little girls selling bracelets. After a half-hearted stab at selling me something, we moved on to more important matters like how old I was (I busted out my newly learned numbers: I am sip-haa), where I'm from and whether they might have a look in my purse. Presently it became clear that the proper thing in this situation was for me to make each of them a little present. The two youngest quickly grabbed up a pen and my broken mini-calculator and were satisfied, but the 15-year-old had fixed on my Maglite keychain.

'Wouldn't you like these Chinese coins instead?' I offered. 'From China!'

She wouldn't (although the little girls promptly got into a brawal over them). Nor would she accept orange-flavored lip balm, gum or a rhinestone bobbypin. The girl was no fool; she pointed solemnly at the Maglite.

'Look,' I said. 'I need to have this light to find the toilet when the lights go out in Laos.'

Finally, she settled for the lip balm, and we all put some on to seal the deal.

Yesterday afternoon, I took a minivan to the Tat Kuang Si waterfalls about an hour outside town. The falls filter down into a number of terraced pools, which are deep and blue and freezing, and filled with shameless foreigners in bikinis. You can jump from overhanging trees into them, and slide over the falls from tier to tier, and all sorts of good stuff. You can also climb to the top of the falls (which I did), and cross the brink, supporting yourself by a rickety, wooden fence (which I began to do, before coming to my senses). It was the most delightful afternoon I've spent in Laos, but sadly I left my camera at the guesthouse, because I knew I couldn't look after it while swimming, so I have no pictures of the lovely falls.

Upon returning to Luang Prabang, I ate a delightful dinner at a very nice restaurant on the banks of the Mekong, with sparkly lights in the trees and all. I followed that up with a wretched night of projectile vomiting. I won't soon forget it; the very geckos fled my room in disgust, and I fear they may be in for an encore. I'm spending the day recovering in overpriced, highly Westernized cafes, taking tiny bites of bread and pretending I'm at a Borders in the States. This whole city reeks of food. If I've recovered sufficiently by tomorrow, I'll head on to Vang Vieng, but in all likelihood, I'll be dead by then.

Luang Nam Tha, and Along the Nam Ou

Laos is not China, as the three Americans and I immediately realized upon arrival in sleepy Luang Nam Tha. We'd had a long day of taking a minivan over the most dreadful roads I'd experienced in China, crossing the border (totally hassle free - I got a month-long visa and all my RNB exchanged into kip without so much as having to wait in line), and finally riding in the back of a pick-up with a German girl who'd come (as Chris said) from Lhasa with BO.

Laos is all green rice paddies dotted with little thatched-roof huts, and small villages of bamboo bungalows on stilts, and smiling Laos people who don't stare at you and couldn't care less about your money. The Laos are mostly Theravada Buddhists, which means they have a moral imperative not to stress themselves with too much work or worry very much about the future, which really explains a lot of Laos (well, that and extensive US bombing). They also believe it's bad form to show strong emotions, so everyone's very chill, almost sedated.

Luang Nam Tha is a two-street town and consists of a lot of old French colonial mansions turned into guesthouses. We stayed in a gorgeous, spotless place with private bathrooms and hot showers for $2.50/person.

In Laos, you rise with the sun (between the roosters, the pigs and the monks, it's impossible to sleep in even with earplugs) and go to bed when it sets. There's no nightlife in Laos, and sometimes a curfew. I've been up at 6:30 every day and it's all I can do to stay awake until 9 p.m. Other random trivia about Laos: you leave your shoes outside when you go in a house or living area. There's only one beer in Laos, appropriately named 'Beer Laos,' and it's easier to come by than food (which isn't nearly as good as the food in China). One hundred US dollars yields one million kip, and the largest kip bill being 20,000, I'm toting a gangster wad that will barely fit in my purse. Laos is one hour behind China. At the border, I set my watch up an hour instead. I was the only one in the group with a watch, and we didn't realize we were two hours ahead for a couple days. It didn't matter.

I stayed in Luang Nam Tha for two nights and did very little. On Wednesday, I went to the bus station with the idea of proceeding to Udomxai. When I got there, it was 11:00 and a minibus was scheduled to leave at noon. The driver loaded up my bag and showed me a seat I could have, but I was not anxious to sit in a hot minibus for an hour, so I walked up on a porch and started talking to some Aussies. When I turned around not 15 minutes later, the minibus was an absolute clown car of Laos people and I had lost my seat. So had two utterly bewildered European ladies who'd bought their tickets at 9 that morning. 'We have tickets,' they kept repeating, irrelevantly. The next bus was supposed to leave at 2:30, so I ordered a bowl of noodles next door, but before they arrived, a giant bus pulled up and the confused ladies got on it. I paid for my unconsumed noodles, ran over to the bus and put my butt in a seat. And sat there for three hours.

At any rate, I eventually got to Udomxai, spent a depressing, dusty night there, and took a pick-up next morning to Nang Kiew, a small village on the Nam Ou river. The Nam Ou is one of the most beautiful places I've ever been. The mountains surrounding it are high and green, and the vegetation around the villages is tropical: palms and elephant ears and so forth. I tried to take a walk around Nang Kiew on arrival, but the broiling afternoon heat soon drove me back to my guesthouse's shady porch overhanging the river. I spent the evening drinking Beer Laos and talking to other travelers. By the way, I met a wide variety of travelers in China, but in Laos they all seem to be attractive, thin white couples, so to save space, I'll just refer to them as ATWC-[city-or-country-of-origin]. At Nang Kiew, I fraternized with ATWC-England and ATWC-San Diego (actually, he was Vietnamese, but whatever).

Here are some photos of Nang Kiew:











Next morning, I took a wooden long boat upriver to Muang Ngoi, another, even smaller village with a pretty wat at one end. Again, the afternoon walk proved too arduous, so I swung in a hammock all afternoon getting to know the other guesthouse occupants. Eventually, we drug ourselves out for pumpkin curry and sticky rice; I was on my floor mattress under my mosquito net by 8:30.

Here's some photos of Muang Ngoi:











The Muang Ngoi monks begin to bang the temple drums at 4:30 a.m. sharp (bless them), and at 6:30, they proceed down the main street. As the monks chant, the villagers run out to kneel and offer them sticky rice, which offerings constitute the monks' only food (they typically eat one meal per day). I believe most Laos males do a stint as a monk, sometimes just 40 days and frequently prior to marrying at the demand of the bride-to-be's family.

Sunday, I took a little hike up to a nearby cave, which was filled with a cold, clear stream and surrounded by gigantic butterflies. The butterflies in Laos are spectacular: monarchs, and those electric-blue shiny ones, and tiny florescent green and bright red ones, and on and on. Along past the cave, after fording a creek, hopping a stile and winding through a labyrinthine rice field under the roaring sun, you arrive at Banna Village, placed at the edge of a valley of rice fields with mountains on all sides (quite Cades Cove-ish). I walked up the main street, nodding and saying 'sabaidee' to each of the villagers, who were busy washing laundry, bathing children, arranging food in baskets and cutting old men's hair. When I reached the end of the village (which took half a minute), I repeated the whole exercise in reverse, and after that, I had no idea what to do in Banna Village: repeat my one-woman parade five more times? So I just walked the hour back to Muang Ngoi.

Photos of Banna Village:
















The heat really got me on the walk back. I was dizzy and exhausted and spent the afternoon crumpled into a ball under my mosquito net feeling really ill. By dinnertime, however, I'd sufficiently rallied to relocate to my hammock.

Next day, I took a longboat back to Nang Kiew (with ATWC-German), where I was immediately approached by three ATWCs (-England, -Belgium and -Unknown) who needed a 7th for a boat to Luang Prabang. We had a placid, six-hour downriver ride, to where the Nam Ou joins up with the Mekong, and into Luang Prabang (Laos's second biggest city and number one tourist destination). We even had little chairs with cushions. Unfortunately, at a landing en route, our driver was given an enormous, not-at-all-dead fish, which he stored under the little wooden platform where he sat. The fish threw itself around with great violence before finally subsiding, much to the horror of all the ATWCs, but (except for the fish) we all made it to Luang Prabang safe and sound, and that is where I find myself today.

Pictures of the Nam Ou river scenery:

Kunming to Jinghong, and China Miscellany

Several days ago I flew from freezing, rainy Zhongdian to Kunming. Kunming is a big, fairly Western city (the last I will be visiting before Laos), and I had an errand list a mile long for my stopover there; however, I arrived exhausted and cranky, and managed to do nothing but stomp around the city acting like a jerk to all the vendors. The only fun thing I wanted to do in Kunming was visit the memorial museum to the Flying Tigers: Kunming was the end of the Burma road, which my grandfather drove in WWII. Turns out, however, that the Flying Tigers memorial is in Hunan somewhere (an older lady from New Mexico told me it's terrific), so no dice on that.

Early next morning, I boarded a bus to Jinghong. It was meant to be 9 hours, and we were sailing along pretty good until we hit the '22 km to Jinghong' sign, at which point the roads totally fell apart and we entered some sort of time warp. It was another two hours before we pulled into town. Also, it poured the whole way (it rained in Kunming, too). Apparently, Yunnan is getting record amounts of rain this year. They're having flooding and all sorts of problems. I did get to see a rainbow over some glistening terraced rice fields. It was the type of rainbow that is usually only a cartoon representation of a rainbow: a perfect semi-circle stretched across the sky, with each band in the spectrum distinct and visible. Of course, it was pissing down again another mile down the road.

Jinghong is really nice. It's a small, laid-back city in the Xishuangbanna Region of China - the little bit hanging down by Laos and Vietnam. After being in the Tibetan mountains just two days before, it was a shock to be surrounded by palm trees and oppressed by tropical heat. I've been hanging out with a group of three Americans also going to Laos (actually, they were in the crowd at the guesthouse at the end of Tiger Leaping Gorge). They're a lot of fun; on our first night in Jinghong, we ate for hours and then started a conga line in a Chinese night club full of preteens.

My Chinese visa was up tomorrow, and today I crossed over into Laos. Before I begin blogging about Laos, however, I have some final thoughts on China I would like to share:

Shopping: I know I've complained quite a bit about shopping in China, and it is one of my least-favorite things about this country. First of all, under Mao, it was official policy to charge foreigners five times the local price for everything, and this mentality persists. Granted, the money is nothing on an American scale, but when you're traveling a good while in another economy, you adjust to it, and it gets really old having to fight with everyone over every, tiny little bottle of water or packet of tissues. The problem, too, is that a lot of tour groups of older Westerners come through for a couple weeks, and they don't bargain or anything - they'll pay the huge sticker price, because to them it's nothing. So the vendors expect that of all Westerners and think you're being cheap when you won't pay four times too much for an ugly tank top. Also, just in general, the Chinese love to shop. There's so much crap for sale everywhere and people just grab it all up like mother's milk. It's worse than America. On the riverboat to Yangshuo, some guy in a boat rowed up to the window selling little marble dogs on necklaces, and everyone went wild - they were so pleased to be offered a purchasing opportunity after two full hours on the river without one. The girl next to me bought two identical dogs and sat there playing with them the rest of the way.

Communications: I think everyone should spend a bit of time in a culture where they don't speak the language. It has completely changed my perspective. You really have to keep your temper. So often, I find myself getting furious at some Chinese person who seems to be obtusely refusing to understand what I'm saying, even though it couldn't be clearer. For example, one time I wanted to buy some pickled apples from this girl, so I pointed to the apples, whereupon she dissolved into giggles and kept looking at her coworker, and just generally freaking out about it. While she was going through all these convulsions, some Chinese person came up, pointed at the same apples and was promptly sold a bag. All the while, the girl kept rolling her eyes and shrugging at me; finally, she gingerly held one apple out to me, as if I were the village idiot. About 98% of the time, people are really good at figuring out what you want from them; they'll focus up and usually they'll keep trying to communicate long after I've given up. But that other 2% of the time, they pretty much decide ahead of time that they won't be able to understand anything you say, and even if you point at Chinese characters spelling it out, they refuse to comprehend them. The other problem is that people get really, really worried about making sure you understand them. I have never been able to get someone to just bring me whatever in a restaurant - they're really afraid you won't like it, and if they can't talk to you, they get really tense. Adam had an interesting strategy for dealing with these situations. He carries around a little laminated picture of David Hasselhoff in his wallet (there's a reason, but it doesn't matter), and when a vendor's freaking out about making the Westerners happy, he slips it out and points at it. They lighten up.

Food and Its Effects: Speaking of food, it's really good here, and really cheap, and it usually likes me back, but not always. Of course, I am not as careful as many travelers; I'll eat anything. Last night, I had a chicken foot on a stick from a streetside barbeque (gristly). I can't resist anything weird. I prefer the Chinese restaurants to the Western ones, as the food is much better and cheaper, but the Chinese don't do ambience. They eat crouched over low tables in hot, noisy kitchens, and they down the food and go. Western restaurants are more set up for having a beer and reading your novel, so sometimes you pay for the peace. Speaking of beer, it really only comes in giant, 640-mL bottles here.

Toilets: Food leads to toilets, and if given the choice, I'll use a squat any time. Squats are great, because nothing touches any part of the bathroom except the bottoms of your shoes. Granted, they are usually pretty disgusting; however, troughs are much worse - long trenches with little half walls for privacy and no doors. Everyone lines up and lets loose. The Chinese often smoke while they go. Also, you can't flush toilet paper in China, no matter what type of toilet it is. It goes in the bin. I would think China would want to remedy this unfortunate situation immediately - a thriving economy's great and all, but you'll never get respect if your poopy tp's just lying there in plain sight.

Spitting: One thing China really is trying to remedy (via public service announcements) before the Olympics is the nationwide spitting problem. It's worse than you can imagine. Everyone - men, women, old folks, babies - has an absolute compulsion to hack up a giant loogie about as often as Westerners need to blink. You really never get used to it. The guy in the bus seat behind you, the little girl at the next table, the lady you're trying to buy a hat from: HWRAAAABRAAAGCCCCCCC-phtoooo. What do they have IN there?! Gerbils?

Responsible Tourism: Traveling through China (and I imagine other countries that don't see a mass amount of Westerners) you quickly realize that as you behave, so the entire West will be judged. So I really do try to keep my temper and be friendly and polite, no matter what. I'm not always successful.

Children: I have revised my previous opinions as to children. I love them now. Whereas adults always think you should give them money or sleep with them, children never want anything from you, except to look at your hair and your sandals and maybe have some of the cake that you're eating. And then if they say hello and you say it back, and you're willing to repeat that exchange ad infinitum, they'll think you're the coolest person on God's green earth. Speaking of children, babies and toddlers in China wear crotchless pants, and when they need to go (either way) someone just hoists them over a nearby bush or ditch.

Animals: There are a lot of young animals in China. There are no old animals. There are also very few birds.

Expense: I changed over $1,100 US in China. That's for one month, and I spent a bit less than that because I carried about $100 with me into Laos. Another person could have done this trip for a lot less: I did not bargain for the entire first two weeks, and I slept in single rooms rather than dorms. But then, I didn't buy beer for the first two weeks either. I did buy a good deal of bus tickets, a train ticket, two visas and a plane ticket. And a bunch of other stuff too. So, China is expensive for Asia, but compared to the US, it's very cheap.

Backpacking: I am quite likely the first backpacker ever to feel she brought too little with her. I brought a very light pack and I'm sorry for it. I've needed a lot of stuff that I did not bring, and I haven't wanted to spend my traveling time searching and haggling for it. I would rather have bought it in the US and brought it with me. Other travelers hate their giant packs. No matter how bulky your bag, however, the worst, most exhausting traveling companion is your own mortal body. Our bodies are super high maintenance. They have to eat up to three times a day, they need a lot of water, then they need to pee, then they're too hot, then too cold, then too wet, then they shut down for eight hours, then they start to stink and need to be bathed, then they're sick or burnt, then they need to crap, but they can't crap just anywhere...it never ends. I'm ready to divorce my body and carry on without it.

Photos! Photos! Photos!

Here are some photos! Because I'm so behind, here's just a random collection. I will try to be better about posting photos now that I know how.

Here's a young monk in Zhongdian (he's hopping off the roof):



And the monastery from a distance (note those blue skies):



Tibetans in a wagon:



Me at Tiger Leaping Gorge (yeah, this is actually how I look now):



Snow-capped peaks at TLG:



TLG:



Guests and dogs at the Higherland. This is where I dozed away three days:



A funny Buddha at the temple below the Higherland:



Bai dancers in Dali:



Views from the Cang Shan:

















The Erhai Lake (which I biked around):






The city walls of Dali:






Well, that's it for now. That actually took me forever, but now that I know how to do it, there will be more to come.

Lijiang to Tiger Leaping Gorge to Zhongdian

Well, I hated Lijiang. I suppose I was tired, or in a bad mood, or maybe it was the holiday crowds, but my immediate reaction to the most loved spot in Yunnan was, 'No. Just no.' I did not like it. Yangshuo grew on me, and I found Dali enchanting for whatever reason, but I couldn't swallow Lijiang. Too touristy, too garish, too Disneyworld-ish. I was not charmed by the old architecture, the peaked slate roofs and winding cobblestone lanes and little bridges over canals. I was not delighted by the minority costumes, or the neverending stalls of printed bloomer pants and marble bracelets. I couldn't find a hostel I liked and then the one I finally took had the shower right smack in the tiny squat toilet. And folks, that's where I draw the line. I am not a princess: I will shower in front of, next to, beside, over, on top of, or even astride a toilet, but I will not shower in a toilet. That's counterproductive. So, I was dirty and tired and cranky, and I bailed out of Lijiang first thing the next morning. Every tourist I've met since says I should have given it a better chance, that it has quieter streets and so forth, but I'm not going back, so if you want to hear about Lijiang, you'll have to read it in someone else's blog.

North of Lijiang is another Yunnan must-do: Tiger Leaping Gorge. The Yangzi River flows through this gorge, which is one of the deepest in the world, and there's a trail winding along one side, overlooking the wide, muddy river, and dotted heavily with little mountain guesthouses. The mountains on the opposite side of the gorge are much higher, so much so that the uppermost peaks are actually snow-capped, so the views are really spectacular. Most people hike the gorge in a couple of days, staying overnight in one of the guesthouses. I planned to hike to Walnut Gardens, an area nearly to the end, but not quite, in one day, and then just catch a bus back to the beginning.

I met a fellow on the bus from Lijiang, Maarten, a coastal engineer who's been working in Sydney for the past couple years and is traveling on his way home to Holland. We stayed that night in Qiaotou, the little village at the start of the trail, and met up with two other travelers: Torsten, a Swede in conflict resolution, whose most recent assignment was Sri Lanka, and Kirk, an environmental enforcement agent from Sydney, who might fine you $200 if you flick a cigarette butt out the window in his neck of the woods. We all drank and talked politics and decided to get up at 7 to start hiking.

When I woke up, it was pouring. I had absolutely no desire to be battered and defeated by another muddy, flooded mountain trail, and thought I might just go on to Zhongdian, but then it stopped coming down, and I realized I could hike in my Keene's, which are waterproof (although open to mud and chicken droppings), so I chanced it. It turned out to be a great day: heavily misty and raining off and on, but we didn't get flooded, the mud wasn't too slick, and the trail, although steep at first, was a total picnic after my Cang Shan experience. We hiked at a good pace. Alongside the chasm, there were horses and mules grazing with bells around their necks, and many goats (Kirk let one suck on his finger for some reason, and of course was promptly bitten). The trail also heads through some pine forests and is crossed by a few impressive waterfalls. We met very few other hikers.

We reached Walnut Gardens by 5:30, but there were no buses going back to Qiaotou until 11 the next morning, so we all ended up staying at a guesthouse with this enormous collection of young and drunk Americans, Irish and Brits. The four of us sat up talking to a 65-year-old guy from California that we'd played tag with on the trail. Tom had actually planned to run the trail, but soon realized that was overly ambitious. I did not sleep, in part because the revelers didn't pack it in until late (drinking leads to dares, which lead to spats and domestic disputes), and in part because of the snoring of my traveling companions.

Next morning, we all split a minivan back to Qiaotou with a couple of the Irish kids. Maarten and I then caught a bus to Zhongdian, a Tibetan town that everyone had told me was disappointing. Many towns here and in Tibet claim to be Shangri-La, but the name is most frequently applied to Zhongdian. It's just an ugly little town, at 3200 m. and surrounded by almost desert-like terrain, but I find it charming, and it's nice to be somewhere that is not crowded. We spent yesterday looking at the massive prayer wheel that looms over the town (prayer wheels are cylinders, usually of gold-leaf, that are spun to release prayers into the heavens, and they come in all sizes, from the personal hand-held models monks carry around to huge ones like the one here), and the big monastary North of town. The monastery was a lot closer to what I'd expected Buddhist temple complexes to be like: packed with crimson-robed monks of all ages and reeking of yak butter (they make the candles out of it, and it is potent). Incidentally, there is yak in absolutely everything in Tibet: yak noodles, yak rice, fried yak, stewed yak, yak toast, yak tea, yak jerkey (which is actually delicious). I've eaten my weight in yak.

Yesterday was blazing hot, but because I arrived, it began to pour last night and hasn't stopped. I'd wanted to bike through the countryside today, but now I'm sitting by the stove at the hostel. Tomorrow morning, I fly back to Kunming and head South again. I'm mostly looking forward to changing clothes - I only have one warm outfit and have been wearing it every day and sleeping in it every night since I came down from Zhonghe mountain.

Re: Postcards and Pictures

A couple things:

I don't have many people's addresses, so if you want a postcard, you have to email your address to me at eurello@gmail.com. So far, the only people to get postcards are my grandparents and parents, Aunt Joan, Rheagan and Jenny. You guys should all receive yours in a couple years or so.

As to pictures, I deeply apologize for the lack of photographic evidence on this blog. I have to get someone to explain to me how to upload the photos, and then I have to spend the necessary 3-4 minutes per photo that it takes to upload them here. I promise I will try to take the time for this soon.

Higherland Inn

I returned to struggle again with the mountain, and the mountain won.

I'm just back from three amazing days staying at the wonderful Higherland Inn on the side of the Cang Shan. The Inn is run by Li Ping (sp?), who could not be nicer or more helpful. It's peaceful up there, and beautiful. It's cozy and the food is great. I wanted to live there, but all good things must come to an end.

My first night, there was only one other guest - David, from Mexico City via San Fran, who'd been up there several days and is about to do a 10-day silent meditation in India. It poured all day, so we sat around the main room, which is a glassed-in dining/sitting room, with a great view, a woodburning stove and a sort of sitting platform with cushions and blankets. At 7:00 every night, there's a big family-style dinner, and afterwards Li Ping taught us how to play mah jong.

I'd planned to hike the peak the next day, but it was still pouring, so I ended up drinking tea in the lodge all day, chatting with the drenched tourists wandering in from time to time. I was served three meals without moving an inch. Throughout the day, other guests arrived: Abby and Adam, two young guys from Colorado on a round-the-world, and a very quiet German girl who studies in Kunming. All the guests were exactly who you might expect to find in such a setting: backpackers heavily into outdoor activities and Buddhism. That night, over mah jong, we all (except for the German girl) determined to get up early and hike that peak, weather be damned.

Thursday morning was beautiful. We all had breakfast, and Li Ping made us sandwiches. We set up off the trail in good spirits. Everyone else was in nylon clothes and boots, with daypacks. I was in jeans and running shoes, wearing a pair of David's socks, and carrying my purse with a huge bottle of water sticking out of it and Li Ping's raincoat sort of jerryrigged onto it. I really need to go shopping for gear. We hiked for about an hour, and it began to drizzle. Then it stopped. Then it started again. Then we arrived at an outcropping of rock, and our joy at the unbelievable view (an entire unbroken mountain range spread away at our feet) was somewhat dampened by the storm clouds rapidly rising up from the valley.

We continued on up the trail, which by now was a series of rock cliffs needing to be scaled. It started to pour. The trail turned into a stream, then a creek, then a river. We'd been hiking in pretty consistent pattern: Colorado boys and David up front, me straggling along a bit behind them, Abby and Adam bringing up the rear. So I was by myself for each new challenge, and when I reached what was basically a rock wall with a waterfall crashing down it, started to scramble up it and nearly lost my lead-heavy and drenched jeans, I decided I would not be conquering the peak that day. I waited for Abby and Adam, and told them to tell the others I'd turned back. Not long after I'd begun gingerly picking my way down the river, I was joined by everybody else. We all slid down the mountain in the pouring rain. I was the last to reach the Inn, mainly because I stopped to eat my tuna sandwhich mere feet from the door, thinking there was a lot longer to go.

Li Ping, after she finished laughing at us, spent the afternoon constructing an elaborate forest of clotheslines and chairbacks around the stove, and tended to all our wet things in a sort of rotation system. All the other tourists who came into the Inn that day got to have their tea and cake under a dripping forest of Cool Max and North Face fleece.

Next morning, everyone said their goodbyes. Traveling is so strange - you spend a good bit of time with people, and then you exchange emails and all go off to other countries. It's a lot like summer camp. I was in no hurry to leave, because it was still pouring. I'd thrown away my soaked and muddy jeans, and my sneakers had only just dried (and been sort of burnt) by the stove, and I didn't want to start all over. David and I, and this really interesting older guy named Larry (who had come up the night before, and who's lived in China for six years now and all over the world before that) had lunch, and then sucked it up and took the chairlift down in the rain. It wasn't raining when we alighted in Dali.

Yesterday was the Moon Festival, and Li Ping had invited David and me to a party she and her friends were having at the Bookworm Cafe. It was a lot of fun. I ate until I couldn't move, and drank a good bit of this weird, mint green Yunnan liquor that makes your throat numb. Met a very interesting fellow - an older American with a long white beard who goes up to the Inn every Christmas dressed as Santa and bearing presents. He lives part of the year in China and the rest in Ireland, and has been in mainland China since 1980. I guess he has some bucks; he seems to have provided the seed money for a lot of the cafes and hostels and so forth run by the other guests. Li Ping's friends all seemed very cool and artsy. I didn't feel any more awkward than I always do at parties where I don't know anyone, even though at this one I also couldn't understand anything anyone said. It's amazing how little that matters: you just laugh when everyone else laughs and try to look self-sufficient and comfortable. And before long, everyone has too much to drink and starts to make fools of themselves, and then you don't have to speak the language to get it.

In a little minute here, I'm getting on a bus to Lijiang. I've really sunk into Dali, but it's more than time to get back on the road.

Dali

Yesterday, I viewed the three pagodas outside of Dali. According to the Lonely Planet, these pagodas are "among the oldest standing structures in southwestern China." Also according to the LP, they are free, but in fact, they are walled in and cost Y121 - Y62 if you have an old student ID (which I do). The pagodas are at the bottom of the park, and behind them is a never-ending series of temples with stairs behind leading to yet another temple, like those Russian stacking dolls. I hadn't gone far when I was abducted by some monks and bundled into a nearby temple. Before I knew what hit me, I'd lit incense, bowed all over the place and was seated at a table where complicated blessings were said over me and one of those freaking Buddhas on a string was lowered around my neck. I was then asked to sign a little book with my name and hometown, and then the monk shook me up for some dough. He thought a couple hundred would be appropriate. I did this really great thing I do where I lay my open wallet on the table and display the unimpressive contents.

'Eight yuan,' I said helpfully.

'No, no, no,' the monk said. 'Money! For the temple! One hundred.'

'I have Y8. As you can see.'

'No money?' whined the monk.

'No money,' I lied. Whereupon my necklace was repossessed and I was told to have a good day. I put Y5 in the donation box anyway, and the monk gave me a folded bit of paper with printing on it as I left, and shook my hand. 'For luck,' he explained.

Today, I'd planned to hike Zhonghe Shan, the big mountain to the West of Dali. Abby and Adam had done it on Saturday, and said it was terrific. The first leg of the hike consisted of flight after flight of well-maintained stone stairs. This is typical in China, where they think the only way to scale a mountain is to hew stone steps into the side. The stairs eventually gave onto the "Cloudy Tourist Path," which runs along the edge of the mountain, and affords what I'm sure are breathtaking views, although not today because it was raining and a big wall of white mist hung all around the mountain like a curtain. But that was dramatic in its own way, so I didn't mind too much.

At about 9:30, I arrived at the Higherland Inn, an adorable little lodge at 2590m on the side of the mountain, just above a temple. I went in to get some water, and met some chill Germans, and American and a gregarious Belgian. They were all staying at the Inn and having a leisurely breakfast, looking out the windows at the rain dripping through the trees. I told them I was going to climb up to the peak, on the path that runs behind the Inn and is supposed to be about a 5-hour hike. They said it was pretty muddy, what with the rain. I said I was sure it would clear up, and took off.

Well, it didn't clear up. And the path wasn't just muddy. It was washed out, not being very well-worn in the first place. And before very long, I was soaked and freezing, and realizing that I was doing a very foolish thing, and would likely end up sliding down the entire moutain on my bottom. And just as I was thinking this, a man plunged out of the bushes with a giant knife. He said something to me, and gestured at me with the knife. According to Lonely Planet, a German tourist was killed on Zhonghe mountain. I was thinking of him (or her) as another man with a knife joined the first. But then I realized that the man was just saying, 'Don't go up this path, you moron,' and that the knives were probably just for cutting the mushrooms they were each toting a sack full of. I agreed to turn back, but gestured that he and his friend and their knives should go on ahead of me. Before long, they headed off the trail into the woods and disappeared.

When I showed up at the Inn again, humbled and dripping, I was given a towel and some tea, and I sat around for awhile waiting for the rain to let up. About noon, it cleared up a little, so I headed home and promptly made another really stupid decision. I figured that, rather than go down the nice stone steps I'd come up, I'd instead descend via a trail marked on a little map I'd found at the Inn that seemed to go more directly into Dali. I forgot all about that mud. Oh, it was a long, slow trip down the sheer mountain side. I picked my way down a muddy creek bed, dotted with ice-slick rocks, and usually traveled by horses, whose hooves had further destroyed any footholds that might once have existed. The entire time, I was underneath a chairlift full of Chinese tourists ('Hello! Hello!'), and for a good three-fourths of the way, I clutched my giant water bottle in one hand, until I finally realized it was more of a drawback than an asset, balance-wise.

But at long last, I arrived back in Dali, now overrun with National Day tourists. I think tomorrow morning, I might head back up Zhonghe mountain with my pack and stay at that little inn for a night. It was a really cool place, and certainly more peaceful than here. And maybe the paths will dry out enough by then to hike. Right now though, I'm going to go sit in the courtyard and drink a giant Chinese beer.