We have just found out that the lovely lady we stayed with in Moscow was so distraught after our surprise 1am eviction from her apartment, that she went to the British Embassy to tell them about it. The embassy lodged a complaint with the police and the result of this was that the policeman who evicted us that night was fired, as what he did was illegal! In retrospect, we think had we paid him a bribe, he would have allowed us to stay, but we were far too naive to think of that!
Paranoid that we wouldn’t make it to the border crossing on time, we were standing by the roadside at 7am with our belongings to flag down one of the minibuses that shuttle people to and from the nearby town of Xinjie. Thankfully we didn’t have to wait long, as the mist was thick around us and it had just started to drizzle. We picked up a couple of other people along the way and hour later arrived at the bus station. We were pleased to discover that a bus was leaving for Hekou in an hour – everything was going to plan!
We met several other westerners on the bus to Hekou, including an English couple who were also on a year-long around the world trip, but had only three months left, a Belgian couple and another English chap who planned to buy a motorbike and bike around Vietnam. The journey was supposed to take four hours, but owing to a traffic jam in a village market where we were bumper to bumper with worn out lorries and hemmed in on both sides by motorbikes, it took closer to 7 hours. Some bikes had entire families crammed onto the seats and one had a live pig in a bamboo basket strapped to the back.
We eventually reached the border town of Hekou, and as we were all evidently heading to Vietnam, decided to walk to the Red River crossing together. As we disembarked, a taxi driver came up to offer his services in ferrying us to the bridge. We all felt like seasoned travellers and, possibly not wanting to lose face, decided en masse that it was not far, we had a map and would not require a taxi, thank you very much. In fact, it was a rather long walk, and we were all quite sweaty and exhausted by the time we arrived at the bridge. However, there was a suspicious lack of other pedestrians and a surprising number of lorries. We tentatively approached the guards and showed them our passports, hoping (but not really believing) they would just wave us on. They looked extremely confused, had a brief discussion, and then told us we couldn’t cross there. We had walked to the wrong bridge. As we turned to trudge shame facedly back the way we had just come, we spotted the taxi driver from the bus station! He had anticipated our error and followed us, bringing a friend along with him! Grinning, he asked if we wanted a lift now, and sheepishly we all agreed.
Once at the right place, everything was straightforward. We queued up, our bags were scanned and our passports checked and stamped at the Chinese side. We then crossed the bridge on foot into Lao Cai, Vietnam, where our passports were checked and stamped once more. For the first time in my life I succeeded in making a passport control officer laugh because I can’t keep a straight face whilst being scrutinised. Usually they are so deadpan that you don’t even get a smile.
I exchanged the remainder of our Chinese yuan with a dodgy dealer by the border checkpoint. I definitely need to brush up on my haggling skills and not agree straight away out of embarrassment as I got a worse exchange rate than anyone else! However, I comfort myself with the thought that I make somebody’s day a little brighter every time I get ripped off.
The five of us who were heading to the mountain town of Sapa hopped on an electric taxi bus, and our driver hailed a passing coach a little way along the road. We hastily threw our bags in the hold and piled on. It was a one hour winding journey into the mountains, where the scenery was supposed to be beautiful. By the time we arrived, it was dark, misty and gently raining; in other words, worryingly reminiscent of Yuanyang, but we optimistically hoped that if we stayed there long enough the weather would improve.
The alarm rang several hours before we would have liked, but having only one day to see the wonder of the rice terraces in the mountains, we somehow managed to haul ourselves out of bed. It was dark outside and we converged with the trickle of Chinese tourists on our way to the viewing platform for the Duoyishu scenic area. As we were walking we were hailed by shadowy figures trying to sell us things that we couldn’t quite identify in the blackness.
We paid 100 RMB (about £10) for the privilege of looking at the scenery for a day and filed onto the wooden tiered platform where there was already quite a crowd developing. China’s best amateur photographers were out in force, occupying the prime positions with tripods poised at the ready and making last minute adjustments to settings on cameras with zooms so long they needed counterbalancing.
We spotted two young men we had met on the bus, French and Belgian, and joined them on the second tier. Shortly after, the sun began its glorious ascent. With the first hint of light, cameras clicked and whirred in anticipation. The sun was definitely out there somewhere as we were able to see a little more than before. After a couple of minutes, it became patently obvious that no one would be taking prize winning sunrise photos that morning: the thick white mist that had settled in the valley overnight was illuminated for all to see. The cameras, which had hitherto been pointing hopefully towards the shrouded terraces, sheepishly swung their zooms away, and as if wanting to prove their worth (and who needs another stupid sunrise anyway?), turned their attentions to the little row of four westerners on the platform behind them. We smiled our sunniest smiles and exchanged a little rally of shots with them before filing back out onto the road.
Undeterred, we decided to follow a dirt track that led past a small village and down towards the terraces. The sun began to burn off some of the mist and we got tantalising glimpses of the waterlogged paddies winking in the sunlight. Once below the cloud level, the views got even better and we crept along the edge of the terraces, admiring their snaking formation, and the way the water gleamed like scales of a silvery dragon, as cottony wisps drifted past.
The Hani hill tribe colonised the Yuanyang area around 2500 years ago. In order to eke out a living in this mountainous region, they modified the landscape around them, sculpting the hillsides to create narrow strips of land that curved around the contours of the slopes like haphazard steps. These flat areas could then hold the water needed for growing rice. It was hundreds of years before other civilisations started to use the same technique, which highlights the ingenuity of the Hani people. They still grow rice here to this day, but in spite of the fame of their terraces, the villagers are poor and life here is hard. I hope that a substantial portion of the ticket price for viewing the terraces goes back to the local community.
A smiling Hani woman came towards us, and we paid her for a photograph. Their everyday costume is quite plain; a dark navy smock and trousers and a blue headscarf. She had definitely done this before; she knew how to strike a regal pose! Having exhausted all the photographic opportunities, and feeling hunger gnawing at our bellies, we climbed back up towards the village. Luke stopped to draw some buildings and a gaggle of little children gathered around to peer over his shoulder. After a few minutes an older man came down the path driving a cow. On seeing us, he pointed upwards out of the village, so we took this as our cue to leave. It must be annoying having your village infiltrated by tourists with their fancy cameras when you are trying to go about your daily business.
Back at the hostel, we had a lovely surprise: our wedding photos were ready! Viva La Wedding (my sister Joanna and her husband Guille’s company) had done us proud, and we spent a happy hour browsing through them, reliving the fun of the day, pleased to see the faces of family and friends we are missing so much and marvelling at the stupid faces I can pull!
We joined the family of the hostel owner for a tasty lunch. He spoke excellent English and we were all the more impressed to learn that he was entirely self-taught. In the afternoon, we borrowed bikes from the hostel and cycled along the winding and hilly road to another scenic area, the Bada terraces, which was supposed to be an excellent place to visit for the sunset. People stared as we pedalled past, perhaps because I had my rainbow coloured striped sarong wrapped around my head to protect me from the sun and looked like I was a member of a tribe of my very own. There were lots of women carrying huge loads of firewood, gravel and sand on their backs; sometimes packed into big baskets and sometimes bundled into sacks. Many had the strap across their foreheads. It looked like back breaking work. There was a lot of construction of new buildings going on, and the women seemed to be doing much of the manual labour. Most women were wearing the plain navy clothes, but there were others in colourful beautifully embroidered garments and jingly coin-like headdresses.
Once at Bada, we chained up our bikes and set off for a walk. We headed down a narrow road and Luke stopped to draw whilst I practised my Chinese bamboo flute. A black piglet was snuffling for bugs in the soil at the side of the road, and when I started to play, she came trotting excitedly towards us, snorting and grunting with every step. For a moment, I thought I was some sort of Pied Piper for pigs, but without a sideways glance she ran straight past, so I guess my playing wasn’t that good after all! We continued on down into a village. The road narrowed and became very steep and the houses that were perched higgledy-piggledy on the sharp incline looked like they might skitter down the slope at any moment. A damp mist wreathed the buildings, making the paving stones slippery underfoot. More women with blue headscarves tramped past under heavy burdens, a party of panicked chicks scurried after their mother, two cockerels marched up and down crowing at intervals to announce their presence and a huge black pig slumbered against a wall. Every now and then a couple of cows would wander past. People here were evidently very poor, and I felt a little uncomfortable intruding on their private life, turning their daily grind into a tourist attraction. I also noticed there was a lot of rubbish littering the side of the road; they probably do not have the infrastructure to deal with waste. It is a pity that the scenic sites that attract so many visitors should be kept so pristine whilst the villagers who tend that land live in squalor.
We traipsed back up the road and positioned ourselves on the viewing platform, waiting for the sunset. It did not look promising, as the valley here was also bathed in white mist, but hope springs eternal and we decided to wait in case there was a miraculous gust of wind. The sun occasionally peeped out, but was eventually swallowed by cloud before it touched the horizon, and the vistas of gleaming terraces were nowhere to be seen. The hostel owner had very kindly offered to collect us and the bikes after the sunset, which was extremely fortunate, as the fog hung heavy over the road and there is no way we would have been able to cycle back in those conditions. Visibility was approaching zero and he had to drive with his head stuck out of the window, peering through the haze to follow the curve of the road. It was a bit scary, as we had seen the steep drops on our cycle trip, but I reassured myself with the thought that he must have to do this all the time.
After dinner, we turned in early, feeling exhausted. We had to find our way to the China-Vietnam border crossing the following day so we needed to recharge our batteries! It had been somewhat of a mission to get to Yuanyang, and we were a little disappointed that the weather had not been in our favour, but at the same time, the sunrise/sunset experiences had been rather amusing!
We had planned to go hiking, but were so tired that we slept in. This wasn’t such a bad thing as we both had plenty to be getting on with. At lunch, we took a break to wander around Green Lake Park and sat a while sketching and playing Uno, watching the crowds of delicate white gulls waiting eagerly for titbits. The lake’s edge was lined with people young and old throwing food for them. Every now and then, someone would whoop, sending them whirling into the sky in a frenzy, before they settled back down on the lake like confetti. A man who was passing us stopped when he saw Luke’s pictures. He snatched his sketchbook, flicked through it and then seized his pen and right in the centre of a crisp white page, he drew a rather small and childish looking seagull. I could tell that Luke was rather cross about this, but he did his best to take it gracefully! I couldn’t help but giggle!
That night, Flora and Pan came to the hostel again. Flora arrived on two mini skateboards – one for each foot, not joined in the middle and with no straps to hold your feet in place. We all had a brief lesson in how to stand and move on them and Luke, being a keen long-boarder, was smitten. We then joined forces with other backpackers and played cards and a game called Mafia, which is always great fun. Before we headed to bed, we thanked Flora and Pan for their hospitality and wished them luck in their exams. They gave us a packet of flower cakes, a Yunnan delicacy. They are flaky pastry buns, with a sort of flowery jam in the centre. I can see how some people would love them, but to us it was a little too much like eating pot pourri!
The following day, our bags packed, we made our way to the Vietnamese consulate. It was cramped on the bus, and I was stood next to a lady with a baby who was whimpering and crying. The baby was so surprised to see my strange white face that she forgot why she was upset and spent the rest of the journey peeping and beaming at me happily! So cute! Our passports and visas were waiting for us at the consulate as we had hoped they would be. In our glee at having finally obtained the visas, we got onto the wrong bus, but this was soon remedied. Shortly after, we arrived at the station and were boarding a late bus to the Yuanyang rice terraces, our final destination in China.
This was our first journey on a sleeper bus. Instead of seats, there were two layers of bunks: ‘double beds’ on one side and singles on the other. We had a double on the bottom level. Your feet had to slot inside a metal case, on top of which was a basket for your belongings. Pillows and a blanket were provided. It was quite a comfortable set up, and once we were on our way, we decided to watch a movie on my laptop. Troll Hunter is a wonderful, very funny Norwegian film and perfect for a bus journey. We left Kunming at 7pm and arrived in Xinjie, the town nearest the terraces, at 1.30am. I slept in fits and starts, not being used to experiencing the jolting and lurching of a coach when lying down and being sporadically awakened by the lady behind me who seemed to spend a good part of the journey spitting into the bin.
Luckily, we had had the foresight to arrange a pick up from our hostel, as the village we were staying in was far away, and there were no taxis at such an early hour in the morning. Several other travellers had not arranged transport and so our hostel owner made a tidy profit ferrying them to their hostels too! After about 45 minutes of driving along winding roads in thick mist, we finally arrived at the Grain Inn. We were advised to shower before heading to bed as there would be no hot water in the morning, so we obediently had 3am showers! Bleary-eyed, but clean, we reluctantly set our alarm for 6.30am, so we could be up in time to watch the legendary sunrise over the rice terraces.
Having made an early start and after two public buses, a sweet omelette bread and a longish coach journey, we arrived at the Stone Forest region around 10am. We had encountered two young Hungarian chaps on the coach who were based in the huge city of Tianjin (near to Beijing) where they were on a scholarship programme learning Mandarin. Like many young westerners living in China, they were also teaching English in their spare time. They spoke excellent English, as so many Europeans do, albeit with a noticeable Hungarian accent! They told us that schools prefer native English speakers, but if you have white skin and can speak English well, then you look convincing enough to the parents. One explained that in his kindergarten class, he didn’t really have to do much – he would mainly assist the Chinese teacher who took the lessons, although photos were taken to show the parents that they had a white person there. For this reason, black or Asian native English speakers may find it harder to secure work and may even get paid less, even though their English is better! Crazy!
It was a beautiful day and so we opted to walk the short distance to the park entrance rather than pay for the shuttlebus. Once we had purchased our tickets, we hopped onto one of the free electric buses that took us on the first loop. We were dropped off by a lake, and then entered the Stone Forest itself. The first section was very touristy, but even drifting a short way up the paths you could escape the crowds. The scenery was extraordinary; I felt like I had entered Jurassic Park, and half-expected a velociraptor to peer around the karst slabs. All about us, huge shards of limestone soared skywards, amidst an emerald carpet of grass and the lush green tangle of the trees. It was so refreshing after weeks of desert landscapes.
There are two main theories as to how the landscape was formed. The first explanation comes from the local Sani people of the Yi minority. They tell of how the gods smashed a mountain into hundreds of pieces to create a hiding place for two young lovers. The second theory is less poetic and a little harder to visualise! I will do my best to explain.
First of all, imagine a vast ancient sea, teeming with life. As the little sea creatures die, they settle on the sea bed and become compacted, layer upon layer. Fast forward several millennia, and the sea has receded. What you now see is a huge rocky landscape, where the skeletal fragments of sea creatures have turned into limestone sedimentary rock, which is composed of calcium carbonate. Limestone, given enough time and the right conditions, is water-soluble. Rain that has reacted with carbon dioxide in the air and in the soil enters cracks in the rock. The weak carbonic acid that is formed dissolves the limestone and the cracks become fissures. Over millions of years, the progressive erosion causes the fissures to widen and deepen until we are left with the karst landscape we see today. At Shilin, it resembles a forest of stone. Karst landscapes can be found all over the world and can vary widely in appearance – the limestone pavement at Malham Cove in England is another example. They can also be formed from other water-soluble rocks, such as gypsum and dolomite.
The limestone at Shilin is around 270 million years old and the region covers an area of 400 square kilometres. The tallest of the rocks is around 30m in height. The karsts vary in topography and the outcrops are given fanciful names that reflect their appearance. ‘A mountain of knives and a sea of fire’ is a Chinese proverb that suggests a dangerous and difficult situation, and in this region the stones were closely packed, jostling together and stabbing their sharp blades towards the heavens, whilst slightly softer forms licked around them like flames. The paths wound around the base of the rocks and sometimes you had to squeeze or duck through the gaps, climb down into a deep gorge or cross a small stream. Every so often there would be a pagoda from which you could look out over the landscape and marvel at the view. It was easy to lose your way in spite of the signs and we encountered one Chinese man again and again. He was on his phone and seemed quite agitated. After seeing him for the third or fourth time, we turned a corner and saw a family also on their phone – we triumphantly waved them together and gave a little cheer!
Some of the tallest rocks were named after characters or scenes from Sani folklore: ‘The Shepherd Wu’, ‘Woman and child’, ‘Woman expecting her husband’. The most famous of these was ‘Ashima’, a beautiful Sani girl who was deeply in love with a young man called Ahei. The head of the village wanted Ashima for his son, and she was kidnapped. Ahei came to her rescue and after a three day long singing match, he was declared the winner and the couple were reunited. However, in a fit of jealousy, the evil son called up a flood, which drowned Ashima and she was subsequently turned into a rock (and grew in height by several metres!). Her namesake stone is supposed to bear a striking resemblance to a Sani girl with a head dress and knapsack on her back. We could just about visualise this one, but some of the so-called likenesses were rather more tenuous! We amused ourselves by spotting our own animals and people and making up stories for them.
As the day wore on, we meandered into less frequented sections and had a picnic lunch at a secluded viewpoint. The karsts were more spread out now and we passed a small lake and some farmland before entering into the Eternal Mushroom zone. This sounds a little like a drug addled episode of the Magic Roundabout, but Dylan the Rabbit was nowhere to be seen. Here, the rocks really did resemble giant mushrooms, with fat stems and bulbous tops. In the distance we could see skyscrapers of a cityscape ranged like the display on an equaliser, and the contrast between the cluster of stone mushrooms and the urban forest on the horizon made me feel like we were at the junction of two separate worlds.
We finished by taking a quiet route back towards the exit and paused a while at the Lion Pavilion, which afforded superb vistas across the park. It was a peaceful end to a wonderful day. We could easily have spent a couple more days there, as we had only visited a tiny snippet, but our time was running short and we had to head back to Kunming.
As the park was only just closing, we assumed we would be in time for the last bus. Unfortunately, we were wrong! An enterprising individual with a minivan was hanging around for stragglers and called out to us that the last bus had just left. Feeling sceptical and like seasoned travellers wary of a scam, we traipsed into the silent station to see whether he was telling the truth. He followed us at a distance and after we had ascertained that he was indeed the only form of transport available, we sheepishly asked for his services. He charged us an appropriate amount for a pair of idiots and took us to a local town from where we could catch a bus to Kunming. As the Chinese say, ‘dripping water can eat through a stone’ – perseverance will lead to success. We feasted on tasty street food whilst we waited, feeling like everything had turned out for the best in the end anyway.
The train pulled into Kunming around midday. We emerged into blazing sunshine, and were immediately aware of the unnecessary weight we were hefting around with us. We weren’t going to be needing the legwarmers, body warmers and thick jumpers for a while! We had lunch in a café next to the station and browsed through our travel guide, before selecting a hostel near to Green Lake Park at which to try our luck. We also had to locate the Vietnamese consulate so we could get our visas organised.
The first taxi we stopped held up his hand to indicate ‘seven’ for the price. He had a bit of a swagger about him, so we decided to verify the price by writing it down. He then took the pen and added a zero to the end. This would have been around £7 for what we could see from the map was not a very long distance, so we declined and continued our search. Every single taxi we hailed refused to take us and we had no idea why! We were getting hot and frustrated, but managed to board a bus that seemed to be heading in the right direction, and got off once we were within walking distance. The hostel was great and luckily they had space for us. There was a lively communal area with a bar, restaurant and pool table, and a patio where you could sit out and enjoy the sun. We had spent a long time off the beaten track and so we enjoyed the opportunity to socialise and meet other travellers. Once we had dumped our bags in our room, we set out in search of the Vietnamese consulate. It was important that we handed our passports in as soon as possible as it would take three days to process the visas and our Chinese visas were due to expire soon. We had heard that the address had changed recently, so asked at the hostel reception and a girl wrote it down or us in Chinese, so we could show it to a taxi driver. That was our first mistake!
Once more, we were out on the streets trying to hail a taxi, and once more, no taxi would take us! I was beginning to feel quite irate, but no driver had the English to explain why. We walked in the general direction and showed the address to passers-by and police officers. After umming and aahing everyone pointed us in different directions! One policeman told us to get on a bus as it was a long walk. We did this, and whilst on the bus I noticed a number amongst the Chinese characters: 507. Surely this was the building number! Feeling like we might be getting somewhere, we got off the bus, believing it to be taking us in the wrong direction. We marched back up the busy main road to the area where 507 should have been. All we could see were two enormous banks, so we showed the address again, after which ensued more discussion and gesturing in various directions. After two hours of fruitless searching, we had to give up, as the consulate would now be closed anyway, so we trudged back up the long road (which I was sick of the sight of by now). Halfway there, we treated ourselves to an ice cream, rested our feet, and let our emotions simmer down a bit.
We asked once more at the hostel, and the girl tried her best to assist, but we ended up more confused. Eventually we found an address on the internet which made more sense to us: the address was number 157, ROOM 507! We had been on the right road but were several blocks out. It was so annoying! Regardless, we still had time, and we decided to make our second attempt the following morning.
I collapsed on the bed for a couple of hours and in the evening we had pizza in the bar. We were joined by two young Chinese girls, Pan and Flora, who spoke excellent English. Pan was in her final years at high school and Flora was an undergraduate. They had started to come to the hostel bar in order to meet foreigners and practise their English. Pan was planning to go to Melbourne University and Flora really wanted to move to Canada after completing her studies. They were both very intelligent and a pleasure to talk to. Pan was petite, self-assured and bubbly, whereas Flora was taller, quieter, took more time to consider her opinions and was a little ditsy. She would often open her eyes wide in disbelief and gasp in ladylike astonishment, blinking like an alarmed gazelle. They offered to give us a tour of the Green Lake Park the following day, and we gratefully accepted.
That night I slept SOOO well. I woke feeling refreshed, full of renewed optimism and confident that we would be able to locate the Vietnamese consulate. It was indeed ridiculously easy once we had an address we could read! We also discovered from the receptionist that the taxi drivers did not have an aversion to our custom, but that each cab was marked according to the areas of the city they could drive in, so all was forgiven. The consulate was tiny and virtually empty; just a small room in a massive multi-storey building, with a couple of desks and a glass fronted counter, behind which sat a jovial Vietnamese man. The procedure was remarkably quick. We each filled in a simple form, handed in our passports and photos, paid the fee and received photocopies and a receipt in return. As each hotel in China requires a passport, we were limited to day trips from Kunming until our passports were returned in three days. Sadly this meant we would not have enough time to visit the incredible Tiger Leaping Gorge, but there were plenty of other interesting places nearby and we consoled ourselves by thinking of all the other marvellous things we had seen and done, and were yet to do.
As we were sick to the back teeth of traipsing up and down the same stretch of road, we took a different route back and stopped outside a temple, where a middle aged blind man was playing a double stringed traditional instrument along to a backing track. It was a little like a small cello and played with a bow. A merry little boy of about four years old was fastened to the leg of his stool by a string around his ankle. We tossed some money into the pot and sat down to sketch. The little boy found us hilarious, and every time we waved or smiled at him, he waved his arms furiously and fell backwards in fits of laughter. His dad couldn’t really tell what was going on and I think he started to get a bit annoyed with his irrepressible son, so we tried to be more sensible so he didn’t get in trouble. The sun was so hot that it made the ink in my brush pen expand, and it leaked blobby splodges all over my page. There had already been quite a crowd around the temple entrance, what with the street side food stalls and vendors of incense, but now the focus was turned on us. One woman grunted at Luke and snatched his book from him; looking very stern, she flicked through it. Her friend complimented him on his drawings, but the woman just grunted once more and gave it back. A little girl who spoke a small amount of English came up to me and I showed her my pictures and explained to her how my pen had exploded and that the ink was wet. She was very sweet and flicked through carefully. She told me she was 11 years old and wrote her name in Chinese in my book along with a little love heart. The grumpy lady then came up to me and grabbed my book too, but the little girl explained to her that the ink was wet and that she should be careful and she was better behaved then! I think she was genuinely interested in our sketches, but just didn’t like to show it in a friendly way!
We made a plan to meet Flora at our hostel after lunch. She sent us an endearingly formal message saying that we would meet ‘Miss Pan’ later at the park. When Flora arrived, she had armful of library books – parallel texts (English on one page, Mandarin on the opposite) of Charles Darwin’s ‘On Natural Selection’ and Sherlock Holmes. I felt somewhat ashamed that I had attempted neither of these myself, despite them being in my native language! We stashed the books in our room and meandered our way to the park, chatting away as we went.
The park consisted of a large lake, split into four by picturesque bridges. We passed a lively group of men and women dancing around a speaker, some of whom were in traditional dress. Flora explained that they were from a Tibetan minority. They moved gracefully around in a circle, elegantly waving their arms, stepping forwards and backwards and crossing their feet in time to the music. Once again, we attempted to join in, but could never quite keep step.
A little way along, we came across a beautiful statue of an old man, gazing round with a rapturous expression at the seagulls that covered his body. In the winter of 1985, a small group of red-beaked seagulls stopped here on their migration from Siberia. The people of Kunming were enchanted by these pretty white birds, and none more so than Wu Qinghen. Despite being an elderly and poor man, he spent around half his pension money on food for them and would walk miles to the park every day to see them there. The birds clearly realised what side their bread was buttered on and returned year after year with their young to spend the winter in the sunshine before returning to Siberia in the spring to breed. Wu died, but his love for the birds lives on in the spirit of the Kunming citizens who flock to the lake every winter to welcome their friends back, who now number in their thousands. He is known now as the ‘Father of Seagulls’. I wonder what his previous story was, that he should have found such solace and joy in the birds here.
Shortly after, we were joined by Pan and had a peep into some minority culture stalls. I had a delicious cup of walnut ginger tea and browsed the selection of needlework, textiles and handmade paper. Of course, China is massive and whilst Han Chinese form the vast majority, there are 55 ethnic minorities dispersed around the provinces, each with their own traditions, beliefs and ways of living. Of these, 25 can be found in Yunnan alone. As we wandered, we had a thought-provoking conversation about politics; the girls were very switched on and refreshingly open-minded.
We left the park and went for ‘over the bridge noodles’ at a local restaurant. This is a traditional rice noodle dish from Yunnan province. The legend goes that a woman wanted to cook a special dish for her husband who was studying for his Imperial exams on a small island. She experimented with recipes and would cross the bridge each day to deliver dinner to her beloved. His favourite was a noddle soup and she found that it was at its best when the boiling broth was kept separate from the other ingredients until shortly before the dish was eaten. Another slightly less poetic explanation for the name is that the ingredients ‘cross the bridge’ into your bowl as you add them to the broth.
After dinner, we crossed the road to look at a teahouse. The shelves were stacked with discs of compressed tea, and there was a glass cabinet filled with tea sets and ornaments. On the traditional tea tray, there were some stone animals, which were a little smaller than a chicken egg. They had funny faces and pleasing curves. Pan explained to me that these were ‘tea pets’. They are kept on the tray and you pour the dregs of any tea you don’t drink over them to feed them. Over the years, with daily use, the pet changes from a dull stone colour to become quite shiny. I loved the idea, and purchased a plump little baby dragon, grey in colour and studded with colourful raised dots. If I feed it until I am 90, it should eventually have a pleasant sheen.
Back at the hostel bar, we met two American girls who were teaching English in a rural area of China and were travelling around on holiday for a few weeks. They were Yale University graduates and had been in China for 8 months and were already quite proficient in Mandarin – I was very impressed! They told us about the children at their school and how hard they had to work in comparison to the US. The school day starts at 8am, but many arrive earlier to clear the classroom and prepare for the day. They don’t leave until 9 or 10pm at night! It seems crazy, but they have to study hard as it is so competitive. In China, everything rides on the high school test score, particularly if your parents cannot pay to send you to a university overseas. If they don’t get excellent grades, they are unable to attend a good college and then their future prospects are poor. Well paid jobs are hard to come by and it can be difficult to obtain loans to set up a business as people will not believe you are capable if you didn’t do well in school. With such a large population, you have to be an exceptional student to shine. It is very hard to get a second chance as there is always someone else eager to take your place.
We also talked about Mandarin, the most widely spoken language of China. It is a tonal language, so the meaning of a sound is altered by the pitch at which it is spoken. This goes a long way to explain why we were so often misunderstood when we attempted Mandarin. To illustrate the comedic potential of this, the Americans told us that if you mispronounce the tones in the sentence, ‘can you help me?’ it can sound like, ‘can you kiss me?’ Mandarin has four tones: high, rising, falling-rising and falling. If you think that sounds tricky, Vietnamese has six and Cantonese nine! Add to this that the writing system is not phonetic, and you have one fiendishly difficult language to master. There are around 3000 characters that are used regularly, and you simply have to learn these by heart. Sometimes a character may have more than one meaning, which you must infer by the context in which it is placed. Chinese characters are still used for other languages as well, for instance in some of Japanese and all of Cantonese. They are simply symbols, so you just say the word the character represents in the language in question. If a symbolic script was used in Europe, ‘*’ would be read aloud as ‘star’ in English, ‘étoile’ in French and ‘Stern’ in German. Of course, learning the intricacies of 3000 characters is incredibly time consuming. Vietnam had spent 1000 years under Chinese rule and until fairly recently, had traditionally used Chinese script. However, in the 20th century, the country officially adopted a previously little used phonetic script, which was based on the Roman alphabet, possibly in order to improve literacy. As for the Chinese, Pinyin is the way of representing Mandarin phonetically using the Roman alphabet. This enables people to write in Chinese characters on computers – the Pinyin format is typed in and the computer translates it.
The next day we planned to go on an excursion to Shilin, the region’s famous karst stone forest. We were both looking forward to getting out of the city and seeing the bizarre landscape.
We got up very early to catch one of the first buses to Zigong. When we arrived, we took a taxi to the train station, bought sleeper tickets for Kunming and looked for the left luggage, but couldn’t find it anywhere. The station was very small. A guard saw us wandering round and beckoned for us to follow him. He led us out of the station to a public toilet, where a stooped, toothless old lady had living quarters between the two blocks. She shuffled up and gestured to her bedroom, where we deposited our bags, paid her and received a small wooden token in exchange. I am not quite sure why, but we had the feeling this might be the safest left luggage deposit of our trip so far.
We spotted a street-side hotpot café that was packed with locals and decided to stop for lunch. The menu consisted of a tick sheet of a list of ingredients written in Chinese. We had no clue, so a waitress led me into the kitchen so I could point at things! The staff were very excited to see us and one girl took a photo of me! I avoided the suspicious looking innards and chose beef slices, pea leaves, other types of greenery and dumplings. Our broth already contained barley and red dates and was soon bubbling away with the additional ingredients. We were in charge of the spiciness this time, so we could be easy on ourselves in preparation for the night on a train! Each table was supplied with a dish of gwadzerr (sunflower seeds), but being slow westerners, we didn’t manage to finish them. The lady thought it funny we hadn’t got through them and emptied them into a bag for us, adding an extra handful for good measure to send us on our way.
We then had to make a difficult decision. Dinosaur museum, or the deepest salt well in the world? I think my six year old self would have been very disappointed in me, but we opted for Shenhai well, as we had never seen a salt well before and we needed to satisfy our curiosity! It was a tiny museum, but fascinating. It was constructed in 1835 by traditional percussion drilling and is the deepest such well to have been made using this technique. It is over 1001.42m deep! I love how they have to put ‘over’ in there, as if the .42 isn’t accurate enough already! There was a huge tower made of bamboo and branches bound with twine, which resembled the scaffolding of a giant wigwam. The tower housed a pulley system that stretched across the yard to where an electric motor drove a wheel which lowered the rope into the well. Adjacent to the motor was the original set up – a huge wooden wheel set horizontally which used to be driven by two teams of men jumping on and off a treadle, and later was driven by buffalo. They mechanised the action in recent years to increase efficiency. The well itself was tiny to look at – a mere 22cm in diameter. The mine is still used to produce salt, and at intervals during our visit, a bell would ring and we were able to watch the process. In true Chinese style, one visitor walked up to the well, peered down it and then spat, just in front of it, so that everyone else who came to look at the well was confronted by his little pile of gob. Nice! We have visited several Chinese tourist attractions with signs that say, ‘please do not spit everywhere’, and this was a little lesson in why this is necessary.
To draw brine from the well, a metal pipe is lowered by rope. As it has to travel 2km, it takes quite a long time to reach the bottom and then surface again! Now the process is electric, it is a matter of minutes; before this it used to take half an hour! There is a valve inside the pipe and a metal hook is used to release the brine into a bucket. It gushes out and is funnelled via tubes (which used to be made of bamboo) into another barn where the salt is extracted. They obtain three types of brine from the well – black brine, yellow brine and rock brine. I never knew it came in different types anyway! Natural gas is a useful by-product and is used as fuel in the extraction barn. They had a selection of tools that were used to perform various tasks at the bottom of the well; for instance, one that is used to grasp objects that have fallen down. It reminded me a bit of endoscopy, only without the camera! There were also the tools that were used to drill the well. As the rocks were broken up by the drill, fresh water would be added to make the debris into mud, which could be siphoned off.
Lastly, we visited the salt extraction room. This was in a beautiful wooden barn, with a high ceiling. Before us were numerous squat vats of bubbling brine, each heated by natural gas fires, from which rose a curtain of steam. The edges of each container were encrusted with salt crystals. It felt a little like we had stepped into a potions lesson at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, although the atmosphere was somewhat more laid back than a class with Professor Snape; the men in charge of the process were relaxing in deckchairs in the middle of the room. Behind us there was a stack of salt sacks; the salt from this well is highly prized and renowned for its flavour. In order to ensure the salt is of the best possible quality, pure water and crushed soy beans are added to the brine. The soy absorbs any impurities, leaving a yellow layer on the surface, which can then be skimmed off. All in all, it was an enjoyable, but rather unconventional tourist attraction, and we left feeling like well-seasoned travellers.
Our final stop of the day was the Wangye Temple teahouse, an amazing 100 year old building on the banks of the Fuxi River and a wonderful place to pass the time. Sichuan is famed for its teahouse culture, and Wangye is thought by many to be the best of the best. The tables both indoors and in the courtyard were full of people, young and old, playing cards, mah-jong and Chinese chess. The rooftop was embellished with beautiful Confucian stone statues, and inside, dark wooden beams, creaking staircases and picturesque balconies enhanced the sense of history. On the opposite bank, there was another temple. The pair had been built to ensure the safe passage of boats carrying salt along the river. We selected a reasonably priced tea (some were really expensive!) and settled ourselves down with our china cups and thermos of hot water to make like the locals and play cards. A quick glance around confirmed that we were the only ones playing the ancient and venerated game of Uno. Luke got a little grumpy because I won nearly every single round, so I had to give him some pro tips.
The tables gradually emptied, and eventually we were the only ones left, so we took our cue to leave and went for a stroll along the river. We were stopped halfway over the bridge by a strange man who spoke good English. He had the strained friendliness of someone who is either trying to sell something or swindle you. The conversation went a little like this:
‘Hello! Where are you from?’
‘Oh! England! You are so beautiful and so handsome! What do you do for a job?’
‘Computer programming.’ – ‘I am a vet – an animal doctor.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I am a doctor for animals. When animals are sick, I try to help them.’
‘This doesn’t make sense.’ ….I tried my best to explain more.
‘Oh. You should learn to communicate better. You SHOULD say you are a doctor for treating animals!’
‘???’ I gave a weak, slightly exasperated smile.
‘You are very beautiful, and you are very handsome.’
‘Er, thanks.’ We shuffled sideways.
‘Do you know god damn? What it means?’
‘It means the Jews betrayed Jesú.’
‘Ah. We don’t say that anyway, it is more of an American phrase.’
‘I know a little about Christianity.’
‘Oh.’ We twiddled our thumbs and glanced about for an escape route.
‘I have an American friend called Michael. Do you know Michael?’
‘No…’ At this point there was an awkward pause.
‘…Okay! Let’s go to the church! The church is just over there; do you want to go for some tea?’
‘Thanks, but no, we just drank a lot of tea and we have a train to catch!’ (It is wonderful when you don’t even have to think of a lie).
‘But you need food first. A café, a burger!’
‘No, we are not hungry.’ Then he turned to Luke:
‘Are you sad?’
‘No, I am happy. Are YOU sad?’
‘Michael is sad.’
‘Oh dear. We really need to catch a taxi so we don’t miss our train!’
He kept trying to restart the conversation, whilst I was waving to cabs and Luke was shaking his hand and pointedly saying it was nice to meet him. Eventually he wandered off and we got into a cab. I think he was probably harmless, but he was very full on and intense and it was a little scary! Thankfully, we were in a public place and I think we didn’t make him cross or upset. Wherever Michael is now, I hope he is happier.
We returned to the toilet block as night was closing in and collected our bags from the elderly lady. We gave her a tip and half a bag full of red dates; she was very pleased with them! Our walk had been cut a little short by having to escape in the taxi, so when we saw a group of women line dancing by the station, we decided to join in. We stood at the back and tried our best to follow the moves. It was good fun, similar to step aerobics minus the step, and predictably, I was terrible at it! I can move in time, but I cannot make my limbs do the things other people want them to do. They are just not disciplined enough, they have their own ideas about how things should be done.
An hour later, we were perched precariously on top bunks of the sleeper train to Kunming, the capital of Yunnan province in the south of China. We were looking forward to warmer temperatures and being able to shed a few layers.