The Valley of Shaxi, Yunnan Province, China

(Back in Thailand now so able to format as per usual!  Have to admit, as much as I loved Shaxi I had a hard time writing about it and when I passed it on to Julian it was a pretty rubbish entry.  He pretty much re wrote it and now, its brilliant!  Credit goes to him for this one!)

The smooth surfaces and tunnels we had found on the major trunk roads since leaving Laos disappeared. The bus wound its way down narrow lanes more suited for traffic levels of several generations past, overtaking transport trucks, tractors and ox drawn carts carrying oversized loads of dried corn stalks. Motorbikes and men carrying barrels of hay on their shoulders or women with large bags of rice still in their husks upon their backs, the weight on their necks and shoulders supported by padded head slings, mingled with the heavy traffic passing through. Watching the fields through our bus windows was like stepping back in time. Thousands of people in woollen jumpers, home-dyed blue skirts and straw hats tended the fields with axes, hoes, sickles and machetes or ploughs powered by yaks or oxen. The chinese introduced the concept of farming crops in rows as well as iron tools and animal powered ploughing around 2500 years ago and when you have a population of 1.3 billion, labour intensive farming holds fewer problems than finding other jobs for the populous. Over a decade into the 21st century and mechanized vehicles barely make an appearance here. To be sure, the roads are clogged with vehicles going from one town to the next but 10m off the highway and nothing has changed in two and a half millennia. Vendors lined with streets offering fruits of the autumn harvest, fresh red apples and pink peaches whetting my appetite for a taste of a most refreshing season as we peered through the glass on our way north. 

A new road is in the process of being constructed around the flanks of the mountains and on flyovers through the valleys.  This highway will soon drastically change transport here. For local farmers I am certain it will come as a welcome relief as the pace of life reverts to the seasons rather than the modern rush to be somewhere and it will become much faster and easier to cover these long distances for goods being transported in and out and for the tourists alike.  Despite the slow and bumpy ride through the countryside we were pleased to be here before the opening of this new road. The experience will soon be drastically different; most modern in a sense. Part of the drive to be in China now is the hope of getting these glimpses of ancient traditions before influence from the west pours in, even to these far reaches and that infernal quest for greater productivity and profit margins destroys a way of life long since lost in our homelands. Chinas headlong rush into modernity, their acceptance in the last few years to the IMF and the WTO is a double edged sword and all too soon I fear these scenes will be consigned to the history books, as they take on the mantle (however it may be perceived) of Superpower.

As we weaved up and over a pass offering views of the farmland in the valley below my breath caught in my throat and I poked Julian in the ribs, turning his attention to the horizon.  Above the rolling foothills sharp snow covered peaks contrast against the clear blue skies; our first glimpse of Himalayan mountains proper.  Despite being the smallest, southernmost peaks the tallest of these stretches to nearly 7000m above sea level and my heart raced in anticipation. The love in my soul for dramatic mountain landscapes and having long since dreamed of wandering through the highest range on the planet. I felt a surge of emotion comparable to how I felt as my Mum and I first drove west out of Calgary years ago, the Rocky Mountain range drawing nearer.  The energy of ancient traditional ways,  the golden autumn colours of the harvest and the cool, crispy air driving off the snowcapped Himalayan peaks surged through me and I buzzed as the bus descended into the valley below to Jianchuan where we were to catch our final connection to Shaxi and the village of Sideng. 

Thankfully everyone figured we were en-route to Shaxi. We were thankful that is, as every person and every sign used only Chinese dialect and characters. The people were quite obviously used to the dazed looks upon backpackers faces as they try to figure out just how to ask the usual 'Where?', 'When?' and 'How much?' questions.  We were ushered to the front of the station where mini buses were waiting to fill. We loaded our luggage, secured our seats and were encouraged to enjoy a bowl of noodle soup from the stall in the mini-bus lot which turned out to be flavoured beautifully and spiced very mildly for a change.  Julian gushed on to our chef in english, complimenting her on making the best noodle soup in Asia (a bold statement and exceptional compliment indeed (and a warranted one … Ed)); if only she could understand his words.

We turned southwest with the snow capped peaks unfortunately disappearing into the distance behind us and after a nauseating bus ride up and over two winding foothills we dropped down into a flat bottomed valley.  Approximately 150km2 Shaxi is home to around 25,000 Bai people, one of the 56 minorities spread across Yunnan province. They live in small farming villages of anywhere from 30 to 150 homes dotted throughout the valley, interspaced with fertile farmland. Just a few weeks ago the fields would have rippled in a breeze; lush and green but harvest time is upon us and the colours now are gold and brown in the main. We were dropped off in the central market village of Sideng, the larger community here stretching to maybe a few thousand souls and we were left to find our own way to the guesthouse we sought. The owner of said guesthouse, a man who single handily created the tourist industry in Shaxi, deserving of two full pages in our (three year old) Lonely Planet, apparently speaks impeccable english and offers guided tours of the area.  Arranging a cab to take us to his guesthouse in a neighbouring village we were disappointed upon meeting him to find that since then, he had changed the name of the property, fully renovated and doubled his prices. He no longer caters to the backpacking crowd and was unwilling to negotiate to anywhere close to our budget, despite having an empty guesthouse and it being low season.  There is a brand new 4x4 truck in the driveway and this man of the hills was dressed impeccably in fine city clothes. Clearly he was doing very well for himself and had no desire to accommodate the likes of us any more, no doubt concentrating his efforts these days on the more lucrative wallets of the nouveau riche from Bejing and Shanghai or the more adventurous coach tours looking to leave the beaten path for a day or two between Dali and Lijiang.  

Returning disheartened in the cab back to Sideng we passed over 10RMB to which our driver responded by shaking his head and holding out his hand.  We realized that he expected 40RMB for the 3km drive, 10 times as much as we believed we had agreed upon for a one way trip and almost as much as we might expect to pay for a nights accommodation. We were outraged, having been cheated in one way or another by every cab driver (bar one) who we have ridden with in China and the conversation quickly heated. It was soon interrupted by a english speaking Chinese tourist who translated on our behalf.  Having only 20RMB in our pocket the driver agreed and accepted every penny we had and we stormed off down the street. This interaction and the outdated information with our choice guesthouse, all tied in with the emotions of the first three days in China to slightly taint our feelings of Shaxi in that moment. 

A guesthouse boasting room prices well within our budget caught our attention and we were offered what we think must have been the 'family suite' with three beds and large bathroom, shutters opening to allow warm sunlight to flood the room.  In the courtyard below hung bunches of bright yellow corn, free of their husks and drying in the sun to be used for animal feed. Above, from the eves, there were large bunches of drying red chilli peppers and hanging from the washing line; a fish.  With no need of so much space we asked to see a smaller room which no doubt would have been cheaper, however were told there were none.  It was clear later having seen many empty rooms, they simply wanted to up-sell to us as much possible, but we were pleased with the large space, advertised at 130RMB yet offered at 80RMB in this late month.

Enjoying an evening walk we wandered through the market square; an area in front of a two tiered, 600 year old theatre standing opposite the Taoist temple of similar age flanked on one side by an enormous tree. The sand coloured flagstones are unevenly set, and the entire square sags towards the centre of one side with narrow alleyways and a cobbled street leading out from the four corners, two downhill and two up. The surrounding buildings are predominantly wooden and appear straight out of a Ming dynasty epic movie and indeed this square has certainly been in some. As the sun begins to set behind the hills and the new moon rises into a clear sky, we can all but hear the clatter of horses hooves as the hero (no doubt) canters in from stage left to dispatch the band of intruders single handed and free the simple farming village from bondage. 

Leaving the square by a downhill alley and an arch in the old town wall, we found ourselves on the banks of a river where a group of people are working, some raking out rice to be dried, others bagging dried rice and another women who was shifting bags of rice from one pile to another.  Watching her carefully place a rope around the bag, position the bag squarely on her back and resting the padded headband across her forehead she stood, marched across the pavement and rolled the bag to one side and off from the support around her head, dropping it onto the heap.  With Julians encouragement I approached her, asking if I might have a go.  Slightly unsure she had interpreted my request properly, I repeated my question and hand gestures until slightly bemused, she handed me the headband and helped me position the rope around the bag.  It was lighter than I expected, about 25kg, and I mimicked her actions holding the headband next to my ears, taking some of the weight of the bag onto my arms. I marched it across the square much to the amusement of the woman and the work party.  They nodded their approval with wide smiles as I returned across the square, handing Julian the headband to have a go.  At this point, it was certainly impossible not to finished the job, and we moved all the bags from point A to point B between the three of us in less than a third of the time it would have taken her on her own.  As the sun set we walked along the banks of the river and over an ancient arched bridge overlooking the residential walls of the old town.  

Returning to our hotel to add on a few layers to compensate for the surprisingly cool climate we met an American man who was on a generally south bound route.  We enjoyed a meal at the only obvious place in the market square serving food, sharing travel stories and eventually, he inspired us to venture future north into China's Sichuan province, north of Shangri-La (our intended turn around point) and on towards Litang. Here apparently we would find Tibetan culture is more alive than in Tibet itself.  Inspired and intrigued we spend a couple of days mulling over ideas and possibilities and realized that Litang actually sits on the highway from Sichuan to Lahsa.  Should Tibet be open to tourism at the moment, we might just be able to yet again alter our route heading through Tibet and Nepal and dropping down into northern India, therefore overcoming the most complicated part of our overland journey, the route between the SE Asian peninsula and India. Intrigued, we opted to speak to as many people as we could find to learn about possibilities for this route. 

Temperatures dropped considerably overnight to close to freezing and I woke to an empty room, Julian having already gone out.  I laid out my yoga mat, though I was unable to warm up, feeling rather distracted by the frigid temperature and further confused by a series of fire crackers being set off.  Moreover, a few weeks ago in Lunag Prabang during my practice I felt something in my shoulder give pain and stiffness which has only gotten worse with time despite attempts to yoga, massage and heat the knots free.  I was in a particular amount of pain this morning, feeling a constant pinching sensation in the shoulder blade and was not at all disappointed when Julian came for me, heralding a gathering at the temple in the square.  I happily threw on every layer in my bag and followed him into the sun. 

Men held large suspended drums whists other beat upon them with leather bound sticks.  A choir sang as pallbearers carried a plain, wooden, black painted casket from out from the temple,  female family members dressed in white on their knees in the cobblestone courtyard, mourned their loss.  Having seen a similar event in Hoi An, Vietnam we recognized this as Taoist funeral, and admired the bright colours and beautiful sounds of the choir.  In Vietnam, we didn't join them to the burial site though this time our interest got the best of us and feeling comfortable with the local people, felt it acceptable to join them.  We followed the procession through the narrow cobblestone lanes and eventually into corn fields, tall golden-brown stalks towering above our heads.  Cocking our heads curiously at each other we followed them deep into the corn fields, being offered handfuls of roasted peanuts and cigarettes by members of the procession en-route.  The group broke into two lines and we picked one, following it to small clearing in the corn stalks, to a set of six tombs.  It wasn't long before Julian pointed out that I was the only female present here and I immediately felt self conscious and unsure as to whether or not my being there was acceptable.  I was soon offered a bottle of water by one of the men when they were being passed around which helped melt away some uncertainty. 

A group of about five of the men trampled cornstalks at the edge of the clearing and sat smoking and talking. Somebody broke out a deck of playing cards and a game got underway. The coffin was laid alongside the grave, already dug under a family tomb and the bright paper banners placed over the top of it, effectively masking it from our view. We picked a vantage point between two of the other graves, about 10m away to one side of the freshly dug earth and settled in to watch. The mood, if not quite a party, was light and there was much chatter and laughter among those present with cigarettes constantly begin passed, baked pastries and drinks of water or hot green tea too. A fire had been lit and upon it rested a much blackened kettle containing tea which too was passed freely and often. About half a dozen men centred their attention on the grave where a man (we assume, the son) of about 25 years old made preparations to the final resting place. Banners were burnt, prayers said and measurements taken (to make sure the coffin would fit) before two long bamboo poles were split with a hammer and laid to act as runners. 

The chinese gravestones cover the entire length of the grave and the earth is dug out from in front and underneath for the coffin to be received down a slope and in through the 'front entrance'. The others gathered themselves from the card games (for there were by now a couple going) and a collective effort was made to slot the coffin and its contents into its final resting place as firecrackers were set off a few metres away to scare off any remaining evil spirits. The bulk of the men (including the 'son') then retired to the edges to continue the card games as a few remained to seal the grave. Two young men arrived with a shoulder pole between them upon which was slung a barrel of water. This was mixed with a bag of cement in a shallow hole quickly scraped in the ground next to the burial site and a stonemason bricked up the entrance with rocks from the field; the deceased forever entombed in the ground they worked their entire lives. The sloping hole in front of the site was then backfilled by three of the younger men. The stonemason meanwhile slotted in a new embossed gravestone in from the top and cemented that too, in place. He followed with small rocks, passed up to him from the men still in support and bucketful's of cement, tapering off the top of the tomb neatly and finally taking a tussock from the field and embedding it in the very middle to begin the growth over the grave and return the body to the land from whence it came.

When all the practicalities were concluded and as if by magic (but more likely summoned by cellular network) two women appeared bearing a tray of food. This was laid in front of the grave and various offerings, tea, cigarettes, incense and the colourful banners that remained were placed around and upon the grave. Some no doubt as gifts to the spirits, or wards against others, some I assume for the dead, a last reminder of the earthly pleasures of this life before the wheel should turn again. The grave was tidied and the others tended to by those present and then we left them. I do not know how long the vigil beside the grave would last, maybe the rest of the day, I had no way of asking, but with nods of acknowledgement we left them to their bereavement, a little wiser, a little privileged to have been allowed this cultural glimpse, but with grumbling stomachs and things to see, we could hardly stay and play a game of cards with them, for we did not know the rules.

A main attraction in this valley is the Stone Treasure Mountain Grottos in the Laojun Mountain range, a group of three temples which include some of the best Bai stone carvings in China dating back to 9th century.  We were disappointed to find that not only was a guided tour of the area well beyond our budget but admittance to the trail itself was 50RMB each, which isn't exactly atrocious but counting pennies as we are, we planned instead a leisurely cycle through the valley, visiting neighbouring villages for the following day. 

Julian had managed to wake before sunrise and sneak out for an early morning hike in effort to capture a picture of the Shaxi valley in the dawn light.  He had left the town and headed directly for the steep hills flanking the valley where he found a packhorse route up to the ridge beyond. He looped over the top for about a kilometre or so before dropping back down into Shaxi flushed and happy for the exercise in the morning sun in time for our usual shared breakfast around 10.  During his return he was inspired by something which appeared to be a temple entrance three quarters of the way up a hillside and we were soon upon poorly maintained bicycles, cycling through neighbouring villages, uphill and to the mouth of a ravine at the head of the valley.  A concrete path sporadically stepped upward, gradually ascended the ravine, red sandstone outcrops bulged from the cliff faces above.  A Buddha carved into the red rocks greeted us as we crossed a bridge spanning a trickling stream and Julian realized that we had by chance stumbled upon the Grottos back entrance.

He enthusiastically tackled the steps up the hill while I opted to carry my bike, not being much of a mountain biker myself, and eventually locked it and left it behind as the steps became more numerous.  As I walked I admired the rock formations; the red sandstone swelled and cracked with centuries of freezing seepage, appearing like the back of a turtle shells. The ravine warmed by the heat of the afternoon sun.  Finally, the sun actually felt good, unlike the intensity of the tropics.  A Chinese man eyed Julian upon his bike curiously as he tackled a couple more stairs, wondering where he was planning on going with it.  "Up!" Julian told him with a smile. 

About 100m further on and around a rocky shoulder, we found the mans curiosity was justified as we approached a flight of steep stairs rising up towards the doors of what we assumed was a temple about 150m above us and the second bike too was abandoned.  Climbing stair after stair we were soon offered fabulous views of the ravine and the valley of Shaxi beyond, the countryside rich with rice, corn and vegetables yet to be harvested and dotted with attractive villages.  Julian commented that it felt like home, similar to the Whiltshire country side, similar even in age with its ancient stone buildings.  I disagreed on instinct, feeling that England and China were a world apart.

We found the wooden slated gates padlocked and upon peering through the crack found it was not temple entrance but an ornate cover for three rock carvings, surely historically important and were interesting in themselves being ancient rock carvings.  However to our uneducated eyes the carvings were carvings and apparently didn't make much of an impression. As I reflect writing this, neither of us can recall what the carvings depicted.  We followed the path up and then along the mountain side drinking in the refreshing sunlight, admiring mountain top pagodas.  We eventually came across an empty car park with a somewhat confusing map on a wooden board confirming the fact that we had indeed stumbled upon the Grottos.  

Following a path weaving around a hillside The Stone Bell monastery (though at the time we had no idea what it was) sat terraced on the opposing hill.  The pure remoteness and exposure, the peace of the hills in the late summer sun was absolute magic; not a soul on the trail with us nor apparently wandering the grounds opposite. 

Expecting the entrance to this magnificent, seemingly sacred settlement to be beyond our reach, we were pleased when after just a little search we found the path leading to its doorstep.  It was instinct to remove hats and sunglasses out of respect as we climbed the narrow, winding stone staircase upwards.  We were greeted by three guardians who requested 80RMB to pass through the red doors into the hillside temples, home to the most important and well preserved of the carvings.  Unwilling to pay $25 for an afternoon stroll through the mountains we turned around and found our own way through paths up the rear of the monastery. Julian somehow deciphered the carved maps which still didn't make much sense and which appeared to be orientated at random, founding our way back over the top of the hill and down to our bikes.  As the sun set upon the valley we cycled out of the ravine and home to our courtyard guesthouse.

It wasn't until we were on the mini bus leaving Shaxi, as I watched the people working the fields and wandering through the ancient villages, that I realized how much this place did actually resemble the English countryside.  Although the crops are different, the fields smaller and the tools more primitive, the farmhouses are still flanked by barns, the winter feed still collected and the hay stacked. Farming is farming and ruled by the seasons and a farmer from these remote chinese provinces in the borderlands would have more in common and more understanding with his brethren in Wiltshire than in Beijing.  Sometimes it's the similarities between people and places that amazes me far more than the differences.

The Ancient City and Rural Countryside of Dali, Yunnan, China

We clambered through the train carriage with awkward backpacks through a narrow hallway we found our cabin and were disappointed to find our berths were in separate cabins. A moment later a Chinese women, travelling alone, was happy to switch with us.  An english accent greeted us from above in the third (upper) bunk of the cabin, Alex from south London, recently graduated in economics with a first from Oxford, taking some time out before commencing work in October.  There was no need to go out for a cigarette before turning in for the night as the second hand smoke hanging in the air was enough to satisfy anyone.  Slipping my face mask and eye mask on under my headphones I must have been a ridiculous sight yet I slept better than I anticipated on the eight hour journey. 

Julian, Alex and I were the last off the train and my breath hung in the air with every exhale.  I inhaled the cold air deeply, only to find myself choked with yet more cigarette smoke (every man, woman and child smokes excessively here and my refusal at ever offer of one is met with looks of confusion).  Still, the cold air is enough to satisfy and I smile as I slip on my hooded sweater.  Avoiding the trough stye toilets I waited for the men outside before we refused the offer of a 50RMB cab ride into the old town, opting to take the bus instead.  Turns out, 1.50RMB (US$0.20) each got us 30minutes down the road to the ancient city where Alex and we parted ways in search of different hostels.  

The beautifully named Colours of the Wind Hotel was unfortunately full and we paused our search for accommodation for a bowl of freshly prepared noodle soup with a handful of spring onions and dried beef, spiced (though Julian might disagree) to perfection.  As I finished my bowl of soup Julian set off in search of a guesthouse and soon returned with a twinkle in his eye, unwilling to offer any details.  Half a block away he lead me into a stunning traditional courtyard house into one of the most beautiful rooms I have stayed in for 80RMB. Once again our timing appeared impeccable and we had hit the winter season price, a huge drop from 278RMB in high season, almost had the hotel to ourselves and the weather was still warm enough for T-shirts and my Laos sarong during the day.  A rooftop terrace offered views of the rolling foothills of the Himalayas and surrounding rooftops, stunning in their own right.

After a refreshing hot shower and a cup of Chinese black tea we set out for a walk in the old town, passing through a park where locals engaged in thai-chi, badminton, enjoyed a game of cards or played traditional instruments.  Children in their blue and white school uniforms, typical of the communist regimes as we saw in Poland, Vietnam and Cambodia, although here the boys wore Mao style, high collard over shirts, buzzed through the streets on their way home, bowl of noodles in hand.  Bamboo baskets of dim sum and vats of boiling broth steamed the air, chefs needing dough and stretching noodles long.  Stalls and shops line the streets tended by women in traditional tribal dress, some of their patterns recognizable to us as the H'mong or Akha as we had seen in northern Thailand and Vietnam, along with many other designs not familiar to us.  Yunnan is home to more than half of Chinas 56 ethnic minorities, and here we meet the Bai people with their pinks, puffed arm white shirts and wonderful headgear.  Silversmiths beat their material flat with hammers on anvil at 100 shop doorways, making me cringe with every strike, wondering how these people were not wearing earplugs while they worked.  Hand weaved shawls and skirts, jade in every shape in size from necklace pendants to large intricately carved tables, jewellery and paintings.  The place was busy with Chinese and Koreans in large tour groups, being led by women in yet more traditional attire.  We would have to move to the side of the street to allow the big groups to pass us and we pleased that we were here in low season, wondering how packed the streets must get in high season. 

We bumped into Alex again, and as we stood talking we drew many stares, some sneaking pictures of us from across the square, some pretending they were shooting something behind us, others raising their cameras up only paces away and some coming and putting their arms around us, posing for pictures with the white skinned foreigners, stroking the arms of Julian and Alex, as Chinese men don't grow much body hair and tend to shave with tweezers rather than razors.  It was an amusing 20 minutes as we chatted and had random requests for photos, enjoying the good natured fun of it, as we were as much an attraction as the city itself.  Dali is one of the biggest travel destinations for the Chinese for its traditional architecture and large percentage of minority people, and everyone; on holiday and a tourist themselves, were in good spirits and the place was buzzing with fun energy, some dressed in the finest attire, taking as many people pictures as shots of the city.  The three of us agreed to meet the following morning for breakfast and and cycling tour of the countryside. 

Following Alex's advice, as we approached the next gate south we turned and followed the high stone old city wall west and up a set of stairs, avoiding another fee.  We followed the top of the wall hand in hand, admiring views of the city and greeting others as they passed.  A couple; him in a cowboy hat and her head wrapped in a red headscarf, were a particularly attractive and flamboyant pair.  A group of men sat smoking cigarettes, staring at us as we passed though refusing to greet Julians repeated greetings, some in mandarine, some in english, german, french and eventually in laos and thai, still they didn't mutter a word.  As we neared the eventual end of the wall overlooking the main highway, tour groups beneath us boarding a bus raised their cameras at us.  The men had continued their walk, wandering behind us and as we passed them on the way back, finally returned Julians persistent greetings with rueful grins. 

We decided to return home to freshen up and change, as our current backpackers attire and Julians unshaven face was hardly up to the regular photo-shoots.  Clean shaven, showered and me in my Laos sarong we felt more up to the task and enjoyed the evening wandering the streets of old town, alongside trickling streams with stepping stones to pagodas under weeping willows, admiring handicraft we couldn't afford (though my mind wheeled over a gorgeous skirt for our entire time there), drinking Yunnan coffee and munching on street food, avoiding "Foreigners Street" with unique restaurants and high prices and instead, followed the school kids to find a meal. For US$2 we filled two bowls with the numerous dishes on a buffet, lots of veggies, spiced (as usual) hotter than Julian cared for.  Dishes in this part of the region are spiced fairly hot, being meshed between India and Sichuan (Sechwan) and pretty much everything is seasoned with grated chilli as a minimum. 

We met Alex under the south gate in the Old Town and after a bowl of noodle soup for breakfast, hired out some bikes; Julian and I sharing (for the first time) a tandem.  Cycling down cobbled streets towards Chinas second largest lake, Lake Erhai, the skies were a brilliant blue, the air crisp and sun warm.  We shared the road with many other cycling tourists, all waving as we passed, that same infectious energy as was in Old Town the previous day.  On the shores of the lake we filled a bag of unknown, sugared, sun dried fruits at a small market by the ferry dock.

The once brilliant green rice paddies were now a faded gold, rich in autumn colours. Fields just recently harvested, the stubble standing at just a few centimetres where a week or two before the crop had been waist high and rippling in the breeze.  We have now observed an entire rice season, starting with the newly planted fields around Paula's stone house in Pai, northern Thailand, the growth of the stalks throughout Vietnam and Cambodia, the smoke drifting south into Laos from the Chinese burning the first of the stubble in the north and finally, the cultivation of the harvest and replanting of the seeds in in Yunnan province.  Dried rice stalks were being chopped down with dajas; scythe like tools with a handle around 50cm long and a wicked looking curved blade at the business end. The farmers wearing traditional dress, western style having influenced only a portion of population in Yunnan's countryside, stacked the stalks in sheaves after threshing or once dry piled them high upon small three wheeled trucks, handcarts and trailers pulled by oxen, bicycles, tricycles, husbands and wives.  

Fishing nets were laid on the pavement, the aroma of drying fish lingering in the air. We came across whitebait farms, four or five people working each net, gathering and beating alternately to bounce the small fry together at the bottom of the net. On the lake, the occasional flat bottomed, high sided row-boat plied the shallows for a days catch. All along the roadside rice, chills, corn and winter feed was laid out for drying under the late summer sun and everywhere people tended the fields with hand tools, the passing of centuries barely noticed. As the paddies were cleared from the seasons crops, in places already we saw the planting underway, digging stick in one hand punching a hole, then the seed dropped in with the other. Repeat until field is full! 

 

Small villages dotted the countryside; each home of traditional courtyard style with elaborate gateways, some in various stages of decay, many of the outer walls lined with painted chinese characters and gong-bi style landscapes.  

Guarded by two stone lions, we paused in front of a small temple in the midst of one such village. On one side, a basketball court temporarily commandeered for drying rice grains whilst to the north side, several men of advancing years sat enjoying the warmth of the day and each others company, no doubt putting the world to rights with their discussion, maybe to exercise the mind a little later with a game of mahjong, Chinese chess or a few hands of cards.

It was all very relaxed in the late summer afternoon until a gaggle of school kids making their way home paused where we were, their laughter and chatter breaking the peace of the place and we continued on our way. We rode through the fields, interspaced with small farming communities briefly joined by another group of (Chinese) tourists as we made our way up the lakeside before one of them succumbed to a passing motorbike which clipped him, sending him over the handlebars and forcing his friend behind to take avoiding action into the ditch. We left them to gather themselves and patch up any scrapes, our language and first aid skills of little use once we had seen the riders were conscious and cursing the motorcyclists dust. In Asia it is not the done thing to stop at an accident if you are at fault, the result can be expensive or painful and the chances of getting away great and easy, especially in rural areas, especially when motor power is pitted against pedal power.

On we rode until we came to a small town and protesting stomachs persuaded sustenance sought. We found an establishment to suit our needs and were treated to a wonderful (if somewhat expensive) spread by the proprietor and his daughter before heading off for a wander around the surrounding streets. Finding a barber of which Julian was in desperate need, we stopped in for a head chop and for US$2 he managed to strike gold with a wonderfully skilled woman, cutting with absolute professionalism, fading the cut and even after a little persuasion, trimming his bushy eyebrows. Making our way back to the central square we met up with Alex who had gone in search of some socks and we sat and ate a couple of wonderful, thick pancake made from corn flour off a street vendor, obviously a local speciality, before remounting for the ride home. Mindful that it had taken us nearly three hours to get this far and our hire time for the bikes was due, we opted for a return route along the main highway, Julian setting a fast but consistent pace, encouraging me to keep up as he called into the wind at me and farmers we passed, greeting them in mandarine. Many of them well older than retirement age in the west would rest their spades just for a moment and glance up, smiles spreading across their faces, returning our greeting as we passed, pedalling with ferocious energy.  We returned to the confines of Old Town in under an hour, breathless and buzzing from the strenuous blast.

The following day Alex departed north for Lijian whilst we lazed around the city and enjoyed its charms for one more day whilst making our own plans to leave the next day for Shaxi. It should have been relatively straightforward to get from our hotel to the bus station; we had instructions from the hotel both in english and chinese but still managed to make a mess of things. We caught the local bus from Old Town with no problems but had already passed the north bus station and were heading into the new city before we realized and had to backtrack some two or three kilometres on the return route, passing a particularly strange sight on the way; a Walmart.  We were pleased to find our favourite bus ride snack and bough a bag full of longan berries we initially fell in love with in Vietnam for our bus trip north. 

A New Day in Kunming, China

WIth an unexpected day to explore Kunming before our overnight train north east I woke and hopefully stated to Julian that "China is going to be different today". After a lazy morning doing luxury things like shaving legs and washing hair in steamy showers we set out into the city on a brilliant, cool, cloudless day.  Picking out a rough route passing through Green Lake park en-route to Yuantong Temple, I gave into an Asian bakery, another luxury (much to my distress) often enjoyed by Julian that I usually attempt to turn a blind eye to.  Today though, I was quite happy to pick out my own piece of savoury, yet sweet, pastry topped with bits of spicy sausage and cheese.  We neared a small lake with large floral centrepiece.  The paths through the park were lined with floral arrangements on their last legs and we wondered if perhaps some sort of flower show or festival had recently occurred.  In the south east Asian peninsula people would often watch and greet us with smiles, encouraging their children to do so as well as we passed.  Walking around here felt different.  The stares felt more intense (though still only curious) and often no other acknowledgement was initiated.  Our greetings towards young children were often responded to in open mouth stares, only a few overcoming the initial shock to wave in return before looking to their parents for approval.  Adults are the same, quite happy to blatantly stare but will either quickly avert their eyes when they meet ours after looking at us bottom to top, some quickly nodding in response to our greetings and a select few responding whole heartedly.  This was only an initial observation as we walked through the park, admiring the autumn colours and watching a pair of exceptionally large ducks (about twice the size of the mallards in the west) preening.  

Autumn.  Through the intense heat of south east Asia I have been dreaming of autumn;  one of my favourite times of year, especially at home in southern Ontario.  When the heat ceases, leaves turn and colours flourish.  Ignorantly, I wasn't expecting to come across autumn this year, yet of course as we moved north out of the tropics in October, what else should I have expected?  Somehow we have managed to plan this trip perfectly, without actually planning anything at all. We have managed to avoid the high season in the most popular of places, we have followed the monsoon; only once intercepting it, experiencing the intensity of the rain for just a short while.  Now, as high season is about to hit in SE Asia, we ventured north into China, missing their holiday weekend at the start of October by a fortnight and avoiding the crowds completely, dipping our toes into cooler seasons but avoiding the early snows coming off the Himalayas.  

As we wandered up the main road towards the temple complex we admired the the Chinese characters on every building, completely normal here, though so beautifully foreign to our eyes.  A sign for a hospital has never been so pretty.  Approaching the stunning entry gates to the temple an elderly man sat upon the steps with a long, wispy grey beard and his hair tied back in a loose ponytail.  Normally shy about approaching people for a photograph, Julian was captivated enough with his look that without hesitation he ventured the question and was soon given whole hearted permission for a portrait.  He was certainly one of the most distinguished men I had ever seen and it didn't take long for us to realize how many of them there are.  Fact of the matter is, old Chinese men are exceptionally beautiful, smoking their pipes, long wispy silver hair and sun kissed skin so leathery it almost takes you back in time.

 

Entering Yuantong Temple we followed flagstone steps under an archway and around the first of the buildings which forms the east side of a courtyard complex. Within the area that is usually an open space, there is a pond, home to hundreds of turtles and golden koi. A walkway surrounds all four sides and a pair of white arched bridges lead to the centre of the water and the pagoda there. We stood before large vats of ash with burning incense, plumes of smoke lingering in the air; offerings made by the devoted.  Lingering around the outer edges of the pagoda island I watched a gorgeous woman sat on the lower steps near the water, stroke the shells of many turtles surrounding here.  On the other side, a group of three blessed the contents of a bag before releasing two small turtles into the water. It was then I realized that the turtles here were actually devote offerings to the temple. We later concluded they were representative of 'good deeds', people addressing their personal karma and attempting to tilt the balance before their final judgement and placement in the next life. If one releases a captive animal it is inherently a 'good' and 'selfless' deed. Of course with a cynical and western viewpoint one might argue the animals would not be captive in the first place were it not for the market surrounding such efforts to alter the balance of ones own life; perhaps a neutral deed at best then and not accounting for those animals caught or bred and perished before they could be sold to a 'good person' for release. 

In awe we crossed the bridge and payed our respects to golden statues inside: Buddha on one side and the Goddess of Mercy on the other. We circled the pagoda and admired the workmanship.  Greyscale 'Gong-Bi' paintings of mountains and temples along with some minutely detailed animals and plants adorned plaques set high in the brightly coloured, complex eves, the structure of the building left bare and the fabulous curved chinese roofline providing as much a wonderment as the complex curves and bosses that make up the ceiling of Bath Abbey in England. Julian spent maybe 45 minutes just shooting around the pagoda whilst I was busy getting told off by a groundsman for stroking the turtles by the waters edge, before we moved on.

Beyond the pagoda stands the main hall which unfortunately was covered in a big blue tarp but the interior shrine was one of the most stunning we had ever come across.  Three statues of Buddha face outwards flanked by two dragons, one yellow, the other blue, circling up the central pillars to face each other in an apparent stand off, as if ready to defend; for the mythical beings are regarded as representations of great strength and protection among the chinese.  Admiring the striking beauty, a man approached me with a baby in his arms and holding up his camera.  Assuming he wanted a picture taken of him and the child I help my hand out whereupon he put the child in my arms. With a huge grin he took multiple photos of his son in the arms of a person with white skin.  As the bare bottom of the child's crotchless garments rested agains my arms I wondered how parents knew it was time to hold the child outwards when nature called. 

Atop stone steps carved into the hillside at the rear of the temple itself, a small pool of water reflected light onto the smooth stone above, deeply carved with ancient writings.  There was something magic about this pool and we spent an extended period of time just sitting in contemplation, admiring the dancing light and a long billed bird that fished for minnows off the surrounding wall in the corner. Drips regularly seep down the lichen covered limestone rock face and drop into the pool, the bright sunlight reflecting back up the walls as the ripples chase each other and criss cross the surface providing an endless dance to captivate the eyes. We later learned that weathering the elements for centuries since being carved by monks, these are some of the most ancient inscriptions in Kunming and are one of the most important historical relics in the city.

We lingered around the temple grounds for hours, pausing for a few minutes here or there to admire some detail that had caught our eyes and making friends with the temple cat, an enormous, long haired black and white, with a fine plume of a tail and only one eye. Finally we took a leisurely stroll back down the street from whence we came.  Pausing for a refreshing drink, we sat and amused ourselves people watching until a middle aged women approached us, talking at us in mandarine.  We responded as we usually do, in english, to whatever she may have asked.  She nodded as though clearly understanding us, and continued nattering on at us.  We held a full blown conversation for a good twenty minutes, each nodding as though fully comprehending the other.  Finally she took off back in the direction that she came from, only to return a five minutes later to continue the absurd ramblings.  Passersby stared in confusion as we continued as though making perfect sense to one another.  WIth a final good hearted laugh she returned the way she came (again).  She must have been the neighbourhood crazy (as opposed to a visiting one….. Ed) which made for an amusing half hour.  She peeked out from behind a stone wall once again and we took the opportunity to smile at her before heading in the general direction of our hostel. 

Following the advice of our Lonely Planet guide we made for a sub level food court of sorts where many stalls cooked up Chinese dishes, local to Kunming or stretching to reach the provinces afar.  We added 100RMB to a refundable card and picked out some dishes to share; the first broccoli dish I have had since coming to Asia!  Tofu, sweet potatoes, and fresh veggies were all nurturing and satisfying.  The atmosphere was buzzing with families and friends sharing meals and chefs working flaming woks and bubbling hot pots, aromas of spicy peppers and tobacco smoke lingering in the air. We concluded the meal with a couple of tea concoctions two ladies were plying from a stall within the food court.  When offered a menu in chinese we blindly pointed on a whim, hoping we made good choices.  Julian enjoyed his milky lime beverage and I, my floral liquid, rich with roses and ginger. We later found out this was a chain of stores we would find as far afield as Lijiang and Chengdu in Sichuan.

It turns out that Kunming had more to offer than we initially anticipated and perhaps being stuck there for another day wasn't the end of the world, despite it feeling desperate at the time.  Pushing the first few days in China to the back of my mind (and the pages of a blog entry) this day in Kunming was a good, proper introduction to China and the Han that live here (although they themselves are a minority in Yunnan outside of Kunming).  The autumn temperatures, magical temple, random ramblings and savoury delights whet my appetite and I can only anticipate with some excitement, venturing further back in time into a culture I know very little about and which has changed very little in something approaching 3000 years as we head further into the Middle Kingdom. 

Panic, Chaos and Culture Shock: Welcome to China

The bus heading for the chinese boarder swelled with tobacco smoke, half the passengers smoking at any one time, the other half biding their time before tagging in when the air cleared a little.  I buried myself under my filtrating face mask with my window wide open, much to the distress of the smokers who insisted often that I close the window due to frigid gale force winds. Refusing to sacrifice the only source of fresh air circulating through the bus I ignored them, to which the man behind me responded to by closing my window himself.  It wasn't until Julian took a stand that my request to keep the window open was respected.  The bus had left three minutes prior to scheduled departure, a shock to the system when used to 'Laos time'; clearly the Chinese keep to a slightly stricter regime. 

My mind swirled with memories and emotion of profoundly enriching moments in Laos and my heart soared, yet tempered as our 20 seater local bus bumped and wound its way up and down the partially paved mountain passes in the northernmost reaches of the country.  Laos had managed to get under my skin in such a way that only a few places have and I felt similarly to leaving the rockies of the Canadian west, flying out of New Zealand, or taking the bus through Glen Coe out of the Scottish Highlands for the last time.  The smiling hearts and patient ways of the local people had calmed my mind after the chaos of Vietnam and Cambodia and mouth watering selections of local foods and dramatic mountain landscapes have nourished my body and mind; the simplicity of beautiful lives has left its mark on my soul.  

Five hours after departure the bus pulled up in front of a large golden archway stretched across the road marking the Laos / China boarder.  Upon receiving my passport the Laos boarder official asked me where I was from, slowly and carefully repeated after me, "Can-a-da, Can-a-da".  I repeated it again for him, my heart warming with fondness for the laosians as he stamped me out of the country.  We soon approached the square, white, very official looking building that marked the chinese border with a passport check so formal and regimented.  X-ray machines and lines to stand behind, we may as well have been going through an airport security process rather than crossing a land border.  The chinese official hardly said a word as he looked me up on his computer and stamped me into the country.  The difference was immediate, a contrast so profound it was stimulating.  The roads were seamless, a perfectly manicured flower garden down the central median and modern multi story buildings lined the road.  Tunnels have been dug through every mountain, eliminating the nauseating, winding mountain passes but in turn taking away some of the magic of the journey, cutting travel time down considerably but bypassing the contours and topography of the mountains.  The Roman alphabet all but disappeared, the artful chinese characters adding to this overwhelming different world leaving us in no doubt we had left SE Asia and entered one of the worlds superpowers. 

We arrived in the town of Mengla early, the bus driver waving away our questions about onward travel, unwilling to take make the effort to attempt to overcome language barriers.  Our intention was to catch the next bus out towards the Yuanyang rice terraces, considered to be one of Chinas most spectacular examples of mans resourcefulness overcoming natures obstacles; terraced rice paddies scaling the mountainsides, but first and most importantly, we had to get local currency (the Chinese yuan (RMB) impossible to obtain in Laos).  A newsagent, noticing our bags, asked if we would change money with him to which we quickly refused, cautious of the low exchange rate offered on the black market.  Our Lonely Planet guidebook informed us that buses only left early morning, so we followed its advice by heading north behind the bus station for convenient accommodation.  The women took our 100Y, wrote a receipt in mandarin and refused to give us our 50Y change.  Language barriers in full effect, she raised her voice until she was almost yelling at us, repeating herself over and over again until she stormed out, refusing to take the time to make herself understood and hoping in vain that if she talked louder and slower we would understand.  Her young daughter was more patient with us, using a basic on-line translator until finally she helped us to understand that 50Y would be kept as a deposit and we would receive our change upon checkout. 

The following five hours were spent stomping around the city in a desperate attempt to obtain local currency.  Residents would often stop dead in the tracks to stare at us as we walked down the street and when we greeted them with smiles and the all purpose 'Ni Hao' their blatant stares turned to shock and were abruptly averted as they continued on their way, turning back every so often for another glance.  None of the ATMs would accept our cards and bank upon bank turned us away, simply shaking their heads at our debit card, credit card, travellers checks and american dollars.  Early evening was upon us and and we had not eaten since 7am and our water supply had run out hours ago.  No attempt was made to explain why they would not change any money for us until finally, after an emotional outburst from me towards a clerk behind the plexiglass (in a room full of onlookers) a security guard took us aside and using numbers, we learned that no foreign exchange was available at weekends.  Outraged, hungry and overwhelmed we gave in to the newsagents awful exchange rate and changed over US$50, loosing about US$13 for his commission.  Defeated and drained we found a shop off the street with pictures on the wall, the only place with a menu we could decipher. I pointed at a dish which appeared lush with green veggies and Julian selected his own. Our chef was soon stretching freshly rolled dough into long noodles, dropping them into a vat of boiling water and we were shortly presented with our noodle delights.  A disappointing lack of actually containing meat of vegetables but with a satisfyingly lush broth which I spiced to taste using the dark mixture of crushed sun dried chill peppers swimming in oil.  We were in bed by 2100, though woken often throughout the night by the large german shepherd which was caged in the car-park outside in a space just large enough for him to turn around in.  

At the bus station the following morning we were staggered at the high bus prices and somewhat overwhelmed as we began to realize that our $30 per day budget wouldn't even cover the costs of transport around the province.  Only cash is an acceptable means of payment and to purchase bus tickets today (being Sunday) would mean exchanging more of our US dollars at the awful exchange rate, increasing the cost considerably.  We opted to forgo the rice terraces of Yuanyang, having had an exceptional experience in northern Vietnam, and make our way towards the provincial capital of Kunming in an attempt to conserve funds.  At this rate, we would be in and out of China in a quick two weeks!  As we went to visit the newsagent to trade more dollars we were stopped by a man who asked "Kunming?  200Y?".  A good 105Y ($15US) cheaper than the prices at the terminal. We stopped short and counted our money in hand.  We had just enough to cover the cost with about 20Y left over.  Knowing we would be able to obtain local currency in Kunming, we decided to go for it, with just enough left over for a bowl of rice with spicy meat and veggies for breakfast before our departure.  Our saviour joined us, picked out our meal and treated us to a glass of very carbonated, white chinese beer.   As we ate, he sat beside us and lit a cigarette, tearing off the filter and sticking the tobacco into the bowl of a large bamboo water bong.  About four minutes and four bong hits later the tobacco had been consumed and we sat in a haze of smoke.  I remember the first time I smoked a cigarette, the intense head rush which absolutely floored me and wondered how he could possibly still be in a conscious state.  In awe, I watched wide eyes as he insisted Julian try.  Initially refusing, our friend was persuasive and soon Julian attempted to get his mouth around the large opening in vain, unable with his thin face to create the seal necessary to smoke from this bong.  I wasn't too disappointed. 

After our meal we sat on the street with him, engaging in conversation barely understood by either yet which was had in good humour.  Passers by would stop on the street and natter at us in mandarin.  We would respond with something comical to which they would reply and this sort of interaction went on for a good hour with random characters on the street. eventually one particularly encouragable man was more than enough for our host to take and he escorted us away from the scene into the comfort of his wife's pharmacy, where she and her five year old daughter tended shop.  Soon, the young girl had a notepad out and was teaching us mandarin pronunciations.  Going to use the squat toilet out back I found a room with five beds in it, three of which contained people hooked up to IV's and I realized that this was not only a pharmacist but also small hospital of sorts.  At 1400 we were taken on the back of a motorbike to the side of a highway to await a bus coming up from Vientiane and were soon squashed on the back five seats with six people and broken air conditioning.  The seats were in fact fully reclined beds upon which we were suitably uncomfortable for the first nine hours of the journey.  When we stopped for dinner our empty wallet forced us to forgo a plate of food and instead, we went to use the conveniences which provided our first experience of 'open concept' squat trough style toilets; two foot high walls providing 'privacy'.  As we waited, those with full stomachs came out, smoking cigarettes and hocking phlegm up from deep within their throats and nasal cavities, repeatedly. Babies are dressed in clothing without fabric covering their genitals and whenever nature calls, they are held out to do their business on the streets, diapers non existent here.  We were surrounded by about 60 people doing this and I found myself disgusted with this side of Chinese culture.  The spitting doesn't even stop whilst on the bus, the woman beside me regularly clearing her throat and spitting into a plastic bag.  The four we were sharing the seats with got off at a stop three hours short of Kunming and we were left with a king size bed to sprawl out upon for the rest of the journey. Mercifully, the left a bag of six packaged cream cakes and two sealed bottles of water.  Dinner. 

As the lights turned on at midnight and the bus came to a halt, a good majority of the passengers got off.  Asking the driver "Kunming?" he confirmed and shooed us off the bus.  We were met by taxi drivers and hotel owners who offered us a bed for the night.  Turning down a hopeful rate of 100Y per night we quickly bargained down 50Y and were soon whisked away in the back of a very plastic, very chinese MPV.  With no city in sight, he drove down the dark alleys, an impression of space on either side until, negotiating his way around piles of bricks left at the roadside we wound into a very quiet section of concrete buildings.  A man wheeling a cart of pink roses was the only person in the streets as we checked into our room.  It appeared we were in the outskirts of the city, and with no definite idea as to where we were and still with no money in our pockets or food in our stomachs, we slept. 

Julian left before dawn in search of the nearest ATM.  I woke some hours later; outside, transport trucks noisily ground in and out of a factory complex and I concluded that we must be in the industrial part of Kunming.  Exceptionally hungry and thirsty I did yoga to try to calm my mind, showered, and still Julian had not returned.  Anxious and concerned that he may have gotten lost he finally returned six hours after he had left, still with no money in hand.  His wanderings had taken him around modern retail complexes, housing estates, shopping streets and the grounds of a huge athletics stadium. The Bank of China (the only bank in China where our debit cards will work) was prominently represented with a 25 story building and broken ATM's. Eventually he had found a swish hotel with an english speaking concierge who advised him he was still several kilometres off our Lonely Planet map, to the south west of Kunming, our abrupt bus driver had apparently let us off a stop (or two or three) early.  Having not eaten in 24 hours now we were both at our wits end as we walked to a bank he had noticed down the street in the hope we might be able to exchange more of our limited US$. To our dismay it had closed 20 minutes prior to our arrival.  Tears welled in my eyes and we approached the hoteliers hoping they might take US cash as payment; our final resource.  Our proprietor sensing our situation motioned to us to pack our things and took us to the nearest Bank of China.  Finally with cash in hand, we handed him 100Y, expecting 50Y change and the situation quickly heated as he demanded 200Y for the room and the transport he provided.  Shocked, we spent a good half hour drawing pictures in an attempt to communicate.  Our 50Y hotel room had now tripled in price and we were unwilling to give in.  Finally, we both compromised and he drove away with 100Y, leaving us at the local bus station.  Distressed and exceptionally hungry we found the first buffet style meal we could and finally ate, some 29 hours after our last meal. 

Certain that the nearby bus station would provide means of getting us into the city centre of Kunming we were unable to decipher the Chinese writings on the wall.  Several local people refused to help us, shaking their heads and turning us away, refusing to attempt to understand what we were asking.  Finally, we gave up and got into a taxi and realized on the ride in that we were not even in Kunming to start with.  20km later our driver took a roundabout route into the city. Despite our protests, with our map and compass in evidence and knowing full well he screwed these lost, unknowing tourists, he dropped us off, an hour later, in the centre of Kunming.  Our heads clouded with stress from the previous few days all we could do was give in to the nearest Starbucks, a homely comfort we had not seen in months, and use the internet to form our next plan of attack.  The prices in Kunming were a shock to the system and upon learning that two beds in a eight bed dorm room would cost us double what we had been used to paying for private, en-suit we decided to catch the overnight train out of Kunming to Dali.  The walk towards the train station to buy tickets included my first taste of Chinese architecture in China. Whilst the majority of the city is a modern bustling metropolis we found one road, flanked at either end by the East and West Pagodas. Between these centuries old structures lay a building the purpose for which we never did establish (maybe a hotel) that looked like a medieval Chinese castle and to either side rows of shops with beautiful traditional style curved roofs. 

At the railway station we were surprised when we were asked for our passports, which until this point we had never carried around with us. Unable to purchase tickets without them were told it would be no problem to return that evening, buy tickets and board the train.  We enjoyed a few hours exploring the city and later that night, loaded with our bags, we hiked the 45 minutes to the station. To our extreme discouragement were told tickets had been sold out.  Out of my mind I insisted we give up on China and demanded that Julian book the next train south to Bangkok which he appeared to consider, yet refused, unwilling to give up one of the most anticipated parts of his journey.  Exhausted I succumbed to my emotions and tears flowed freely.  The first few days in China had been so absolutely overwhelming.  In the seven years since I left home I have never been so run down and overwhelmed in a foreign land.  It wasn't until the next day that I admitted to having been consumed with culture shock so completely and that it clouded my head so intensely that I felt a similar mental state comparable to that of going through a crumbling relationship.  Not only had the situations been overwhelming but the treatment of the local people and their refusal to take a moment to understand us, especially after the relaxed generosity of the laos, was so baffling and discouraging.  We considered laying out sleep mats in the station and spending the night with the other waifs and strays on the street but finally gave in to the high prices of a dorm room and I slipped into restless dreams.