Tuesday January 13, 1998

Rise and shine at the ungodly hour of 0530h, into a taxi by 0600h for the twenty minute ride to Ximen bus station in Chengdu. My Danish friend Daniel and I had decided to take a horse trek in the mountains of Northern Sichuan province, reachable by a twelve hour bus ride. Our bus turned out to be not too bad, by local standards, and the driver reasonably sedate. It was crowded, of course, with the usual smoked-filled cabin but the guy sitting on the spare fuel tank didn't blow us up with his cigarettes and nobody was puking so who could complain?

The scenery was pretty awesome as the road tracked a winding river north beneath snow-capped mountains. It was better to look up to the right than down to the left, for there, on the other side of the southbound lane, the road touched the edge of a rocky precipice above the churning waters of the river. After six hours we stopped for lunch at the usual roadside stop where they did the usual overcharge-the-foreigners thing. Ten kuai per plate - Detlef wouldn't have paid but Daniel and I just took it in stride. The bus continued ever northward and pulled into Song Pan at 1830h shortly before dark.

We had read that the touts for the horse treks would meet the bus looking for business but we were unprepared for the scene of bedlam which took place upon our arrival. Before anybody even had a chance to get off the bus five of the touts jumped on board and made a beeline straight for us, the only foreigners on board. "Horse trek, horse trek?" they yelled. I confused the hell out of them by telling them that we had just come to see Song Pan and didn't like horses. While they were scratching their heads over that one we managed to get off the bus, ending up in the middle of another scrum. Most of these guys were touting hotels and, it being winter - the slow season, they were touting hard. I asked about a particular hotel and one guy told me that the police had closed it because tourists were being robbed there. Another guy took offence to this and shouting quickly turned into pushing which then became punching and kicking. Neither were very good fighters but the larger of the two was clearly more incompetent and, after getting a few initial weak kicks in, took several good smacks in the face. Once they began to roll around on the ground Daniel and I took advantage of the distraction to head east into the centre of town in search of a place to sleep.

Two people had noticed our departure and followed us down the street. The woman lead us to her hotel and the guy, who spoke a little English, told us about the horse treks he had to offer. His name was "Rick" and he was the manager of Happy Trails Horse Treks. He said he had just taken a Dutch girl on a three day trek which she had enjoyed immensely. In fact, the Dutch girl was staying in the same place they took us to and it turned out that Daniel had met her a couple of weeks before in Beijing. She gave Rick a good word and by the time we had registered into our two-bed cell we had agreed take a four day trek for 60 kuai each per day, all inclusive. We had to go back to Rick's office, near where the bus had dropped us, and after stepping carefully over mounds of produce (the "office" was also doubling as a vegetable warehouse), we gave Rick a deposit of 100 kuai. "To buy food.", he said.

Food was already on the agenda since we had promised Janekka, Daniel's Dutch friend, that we would stop back at the hotel and get her on our way to dinner. We got a recommendation from Rick to go to the Yu Lan Cafe which coincidentally turned out to be the place Janekka had heard of. We ordered a few beers, French fries, fresh tomatoes, stir-fried mixed vegetables, chicken with peanuts and something called "flat duck" - visions of road kill danced in my head. The meal was excellent, we couldn't tell what kind of trauma had done-in the tasty duck but enjoyed it nonetheless, and we even had a bucket of smouldering coal under our table to keep our legs warm in the sub-zero atmosphere (naturally, the front of the restaurant was a roll-up garage door opened to the night). The only complaint was from Daniel who protested that he did not like tomato quarters with sugar on them and refused to eat any. While sugar on tomatoes is unusual where I come from, this is China - so I ate them.

/mjp

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Wednesday January 14, 1998

Our hotel in Song Pan wins the dubious distinction of having the worst shitters I have ever seen. Ever. And I have seen some ugly places. I am just grateful that it was below freezing so the faeces and urine scattered liberally around the dirt floor and eight wooden squatting platforms were not a threat to my olfactory (or other) organs. In summer the place must be ripe beyond belief and full of insects. As it was, it was best not to look too closely at anything and to do the business as quickly as possible. Sanitation is not one of the strong points in this part of the country.

By 1000h we were mounted up and on the trail with our two guides, Mr. Li and Mr. Dong. To ward off the cold, I was cloaked in a traditional Tibetan wrap provided by Rick; I was essentially immobilised within the bulky garment, my hands hidden within the reaches of the sleeves made intentionally about twenty centimetres too long. Our horses were not as large or tall as horses back home, like an Arabian or an appaloosa, but they were furrier, stockier and tougher. In addition to carrying us, they carried all our provisions and our camping gear; each horse must have been carrying close to 250 pounds. My horse had a bit of an attitude and insisted on leading all the time. Daniel's horse would try to take the lead every once in a while and then we would have to trot for a bit until my horse forced his off to the side.

We headed west out of town and took a steep trail up the side of the mountain between Song Pan and the next valley. The horses carried us impressively up the slope, forty to sixty degrees in some places, at a steady pace. After 45 minutes of climbing we crested the pass and dismounted for the descent, following the horses down the trail to the floor of the valley below.

We rode south through a village of Tibetan-style wooden houses, many flying prayer flags and a few, incongruously, sporting satellite dishes, and proceeded down the lone dirt road until we came to the entrance to the "park". Here it was 33 yuan each for the foreigners to get in as opposed to 18 for locals. Soon we were amidst the trees on a snow-covered lane climbing gradually towards the western hills. Just after two in the afternoon we had reached our campsite and the horses were unburdened. They immediately took the opportunity to roll liberally in the dirt to get rid of the sweat before it began to chill. They then melted into the ravine in search of something to eat and drink.

Mr. Li began to build a fire. The trees around the campsite having been stripped of branches to a height of seven or eight metres, Mr. Dong went off into the trees foraging for firewood to maintain Mr. Li's impressive habit for feeding huge amounts of wood into the blaze. It didn't take long before we were served a meal of stir-fried cabbage and warm, flat bread filled with a sticky, sweet syrup-like substance all washed down with scalding hot tea.

After lunch, while our guides set up the tent, Daniel and I walked up the road another 500 metres to its terminus. Another couple of hundred metres down a few boardwalk paths was the waterfall, the park's main attraction, still partially frozen and actually quite pretty. The stream bed was a light brown colour from some kind of mineral build up, the frozen falls were icy white, and green conifers on either side framed the picture capped by a blue sky. We explored the falls and the surrounding area, took a few photos, and hiked back to camp in time for the evening meal of noodle soup garnished with pickled cabbage and dried meat fragments.

We sat around the bonfire until it began to snow around seven o-clock then climbed into our beds - piles of blankets on pine boughs laid over the ground inside the tent. The sides of the canvas shelter didn't reach all the way to the ground so a small breeze blew in to the tent beside me as I tried to conserve body heat. Hiding beneath two blankets, I slept with everything on except my boots - the night was long and cold.

/mjp

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Thursday January 15, 1998

My bladder had wanted me to get out of bed for about three hours but the rest of my body refused, understandably, on account of it being so damned cold out. However, time favoured the smaller, but louder, voice and the gurgling of the nearby stream did not help; I was the first to rise at about quarter past eight.

Following a brief, brisk walk in the woods I wrote my initials in the snow and returned to stoke the still-glowing embers and built a modest fire. I warmed myself comfortably until Mr. Li got up and piled a few trees onto my fire. Then I stood a respectful distance away from the leaping flames while he, apparently immune to the effects of the blaze, prepared our breakfast of potatoes and bread. Daniel, meanwhile, discovered that people who wear contact lenses should keep them overnight someplace warmer than freezing. He was able to thaw them out by dunking the container holding them into his tea-filled vacuum flask.

We were packed and saddled up by quarter after ten and on our way through the light snow which had fallen while we slept. Our posse headed north for a few hours in the cool shadow of the mountains overhead eventually reaching a meadow and partially frozen lake a little after noon. Our guides clearly did not relish the thought of another night in the elements and recommended we push on to the "Tibet House" just over the mountains. Our agreement was easily secured.

The horses again amazed us by climbing steep verticals at a steady pace. Halfway up, the ascent was hindered by a frozen steam which had turned the trail into a treacherous hazard. We had to dismount as the horses were led across the safest part. My horse decided to take his own route and soon paid the price. One misplaced hoof and he fell, kicking and sliding down the slope and mowing over dried-up bushes, until he came to a stop against the trunk of a tree. He got right back up again, looking a little embarrassed and continued up, albeit a little more carefully.

After the horses had crossed the ice we mounted up and rode on to the summit of the pass. The views of the surrounding mountains reminded us that the highest peaks in the world were only next door in Tibet. On the other side of the pass we descended back to the village we had passed through the day before and took lodging at the "Tibet House". After a lunch of bread and cabbage Daniel and I went to hike up the ridge to the west but we missed the trail among all the trees so we ended up merely scouting out the next village.

The compound actually contained two houses, the one we were in and another almost exactly like it; two-storey wooden affairs painted with the customary yellow trim. The house was somehow associated with Mr. Li but we couldn't figure out exactly how. Mr. Li looked to be about fifty while the other occupants of the house were a girl of about fifteen and a boy around ten. Another young boy and a little girl who looked to be near five years old seemed to live in the other house with a young man who I took to be their father. I thought Mr. Li might be the grandfather of the two kids in our place but I couldn't figure out where the parents were; I didn't want to pry so I didn't ask.

This was a poor place. All of the kids clothes were patched multiple times and their shoes were full of holes. The house had no running water or electricity and the only heat came from the wood stove belching flame and smoke in the kitchen; so much smoke, in fact, that it was difficult to breathe or see in the gloom of the dark room. The lack of water partially explained the thick dust everywhere. The kid's hands were so dirty that it looked like he was wearing gloves. The boy fancied himself a kung fu artist, practising his moves on the other kids and even trying us on. His reactions were slow, though, so it was easy to immobilise him with a joint lock then subject him to a little arm or ear twisting. We found he liked to mimic so we taught him to say "I'm a goof" which he repeated a few times to our amusement.

Mr. Li soon had supper ready: potatoes, rice and cabbage. We had wondered what they had done with the money we had given them for food and it seemed that we were going to find out just how much cabbage, potatoes, rice, noodles and bread you can get for a hundred kuai.

It turned out that there actually was meat in the house but we were to sleep with it, not eat it. Our room was serving double duty as a larder with the dismembered remains of a pig strung from the ceiling joists. The head was left lying on the table beside the door, to keep an eye on things I suppose. Despite the grizzly decor I was warm under my blankets on my pallet.

/mjp

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Friday January 16, 1998

After a leisurely breakfast of fried rice and onions we saddled up and rode north along the basin of the valley, heading for another park and its promised hotsprings. The horses were having an easy day of it with no mountain climbing required so they had plenty of energy. This they expended by maintaining a brisk pace and trotting frequently; the rivalry between the mounts continued and my steed kept his lead through a combination of dirty tricks and well-timed bursts of speed. In only a few hours we reached the park entrance and the wooden hut where we were to spend the night.

Mr. Li quickly demolished a handy bench to start a fire inside the hut while Mr. Dong set about ripping pieces of wood from the exterior of the hut for more kindling. Judging from the airflow inside the hut a fair amount of the structure had been put to this use already - it promised to make for a cold night once the fire was out. Now, however, plenty of heat and smoke were being generated from the hearth so, accordingly, Mr. Li whipped up a batch of spicy noodle soup for lunch. It wasn't the Ritz but it was basic yet tasty, and filled my two main requirements: hot and a lot.

Bellies full, Daniel and I were prepared for the walk up to the hot springs through the shallow covering of snow. The trail was easy enough to follow, comprised mostly of boardwalk laid down on either side of the narrow valley to the east. We passed several dried up pools before arriving at a small pagoda overlooking several potholes and a small empty lake, a half-dozen Tibetan prayer flags fluttering in the breeze in various staged of disintegration. I briefly considered taking one as a souvenir but decided it would be unwise to incur the wrath of whatever supernatural beings were being signalled by the intriguing ensigns. Not to mention the fact that it would be just plain rude to do so.

Continuing east we began to see signs of water, little pools of it in the bottom of some of the depressions, then trickles, then a running stream of it despite the frozen surroundings. Before long we reached the Hot Springs at the end of the valley, overlooked by snow-covered peaks. There wasn't any steam coming off the water and the place was deserted. We had been warned that the springs would likely only be about 20 degrees and the proof was in the putting. We put our hands in the water and decided that these were not actually "hot springs" but could possibly be termed "not-cold springs". A wooden bathhouse at the sight seemed to indicate that the temperature must at least sometimes be warm enough for bathing but today it was not to be.

Our attention quickly turned to the peaks surrounding the valley. The peak to the north west looked like it would have a great view but appeared to be too far away to summit and return before dark. From that peak east to camp a series of lower peaks formed the north side of the valley. Directly to our north was a lower peak which we figured we could summit and return to camp before nightfall so we headed on up. An hour of moderate climbing brought us to the broad summit with views of mountains all-around. Daniel was convinced that some of the distant peaks were glaciated; he maintained this argument against my dissenting opinion until the wind came up and blew the "glaciers" away. The wind brought with it cooler temperatures as we headed over the crest to the west. We briefly considered taking the saddle over to the next peak until it began to snow lightly. Discretion being the better part of valour we opted to follow the slope of the land back into the valley to connect up with the trail to the south.

Walking back I speculated that dinner would be cabbage, potatoes and bread - a combination of our principal food groups that we had not yet tried. We arrived back at the hut shortly before dusk to a meal of cabbage, potatoes and noodles so I had to eat my words - so to speak. Still, two out of three ain't bad and the noodles were a treat, handmade by Mr. Dong in front of our very eyes. The soup was pretty tasty although I couldn't seem to eat enough to satisfy our guides. Every time I would think I was done they would fill up my bowl again, over my protests, and then add a dollop of fiery red spice paste.

Outside the snow was still coming down lightly so we stayed inside by the fire, gradually getting poisoned by the thick black smoke filling the place. Our little shack was about 75 metres from a large, two story wooden building which appeared to be a hotel for the hot springs. I tried to convince Mr. Li that we should stay there instead of in the draughty hut but he said it was not possible - closed for the winter.

A couple of other guys joined us and smoked cigarettes and talked for a while with our guides then they all left except for Mr. Dong who stayed with us and tended the fire. Soon he, too, left but only for a little bit. When he came back he was in the mood for singing and he rendered a string of popular tunes in his inimitable, yet enthusiastic, style. Daniel and I tried to drown him out by singing songs of our own but we had too much trouble remembering the words. Mr. Dong really liked the verse in Surfin' USA that goes "bushy, bushy blonde hairdo...surfin' USA".

By the time it was bedtime the smoky atmosphere had given me a throbbing headache of the monster variety. Our beds were made of pine boughs and hay covered with a ox skin to lie on; on top of me I had my Tibet coat, a blanket and the canvas tent. Between all the shivering and the pounding in my head I was awake until five in the morning. I finally got to sleep by breathing slowly and deeply, counting each breath - the last I remember I was up to 442 because I thought of the Oldsmobile 442 muscle car of the sixties. Must have been all the surf music.

/mjp

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Saturday January 17, 1998

It was with some relief and surprise that I awoke this morning with no headache and feeling refreshed even after only four hours of sleep. Mr. Dong baked some bread for breakfast in a pot over the fire and we were on the trail by 1100h. The trail climbed steeply up to an elevation that again provided spectacular views of the freshly snow-covered terrain.

Once we had crested the pass the trail skirted the shoulders of a couple of mountains. The horses had no fear, jostling for the lead beside steep drop-offs into the valley below. They knew this was the home stretch so they kept up the pace despite the apparent danger of a misstep. The occasional slip would send my heart into double time but there were no accidents. We reached the ridge overlooking Songpan from the north by about 2pm and dismounted for the steep descent. Here the horses threw caution to the wind and hurried down, bumping into each other and falling every now and then.

Back at Rick's place we had lunch (noodles, of course) and paid for the balance of our trip. We asked to keep as souvenirs the park entrance tickets we had paid for on the trip and Rick said he would get them for us later from Mr. Dong. Meal and business concluded we walked downtown to book passage out of Songpan for early the next morning. Again, the foreigner price was 75 yuan while the local's price was 42.5. We checked into the same hotel as before and went for a walk on the busy main street, muddied by innumerable carts drawn through the snow and dirt as the temperature warmed. It was market day and locals from all the surrounding hills were in town to buy and sell all manner of things - from shiny pots and pans to posters of pop idols to dried up bits of animals. Tibetan families wore their traditional long coats with storm sleeves, one side pulled down to leave an arm free for examining merchandise or eating a snack purchased from one of the many street vendors.

As darkness came Daniel and I went to our old standby, the Yu Lan Cafe, for dinner. Rick came by with a very clean and well-dressed Mr. Dong and explained that there were no tickets because the park offices had both been out of 1997 tickets and the 1998 tickets were not yet ready. We had, of course, no option but to accept this unlikely explanation but told Rick we suspected that there were no park fees in the winter. He said there were, foreigners paid 33 yuan and locals 18 yuan even though it was low season.

The owner of the cafe then came over with a photocopied page advertising a martial arts studio in Dali, written in English and directed at travellers. Translating this simple document was within the scope of my limited vocabulary so I told them what it said. This amazed the hell out of Rick and Mr. Dong, who appeared to be thinking quite hard about things he might have said, unaware that I knew a little Chinese.

Back at the inn, I was disappointed that the manager would not let us light a fire in our room. The darkened concrete showed that previous occupants had kept warm in this way and I wanted to be able to say I had lit a fire on the floor to keep warm. But I guess she figured there was too much of a risk of us burning the place down. She introduced us to a couple of guys a few doors down who were recording weather observations for the government. They had a small heater in their office and we sat around for a couple of minutes to warm up. The one was bored with his job and the other was just his friend, there to keep him company. I was intrigued by the fact that they were using an old Casio programmable engineering calculator with a 300 baud modem to send weather data in to the authorities.

Since we had to be at the bus station by 0430h for our departure we bundled into our beds early. The bus trip back to Chengdu promised to be another day of trying travel.

/mjp

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Sunday January 18, 1998

We traipsed down the street in the early morning darkness to the bus depot and joined a handful of early arrivals shortly after four a.m. The only source of heat, a cooking element which the station master was using to cook his morning bowl of noodles, was shared by the six people crowded into his tiny office. On the television set an episode of a soap opera set in wartime, Japanese-occupied China played even at this early hour. Daniel and I were the only foreigners, of course, which made us the conversation piece but I was too frazzled to put any effort into it so I went into the hallway to join the growing number of waiting passengers.

Everybody was carry something. Our high-tech backpacks were in marked contrast to the cardboard boxes, plastic-fibre sacks and vinyl sport bags of the locals. One guy was dragging a string of five dead (or really, really relaxed) hares with one hand and a twine-wrapped box with the other. He must have been going to sell them somewhere but it seemed a long way to go to sell them in Chengdu, especially since the markets there had stalls with live rabbits (smaller than a hare, of course) for sale. I decided these must be special, country-hares wanted dead or alive in the big city. A minority woman and her daughter stood off to one side watching everything that transpired.

At about half-past the bus pulled up and commenced loading. Daniel and I claimed a couple of good seats right behind the door after a little wrangling over seats and tickets with the locals and Daniel stowed our packs in the back with the other luggage. The bus quickly filled with people and cargo and the aisles soon were blocked with boxes and bags. This did not prevent our driver and his assistant from stopping to pick up more passengers every few hundred metres until finally no more could be squeezed in. All the smokers lit up their celebratory cigarettes and we were soon ensconced in the acrid noisy environment to which we would be resigned until arrival in Chengdu.

The first several hours of the journey were in the dark, only the shadowy outlines of mountains visible off to the right. As daylight came, the road worsened and the view became more disturbing. We were riding the edge of the road atop a sheer cliff with an unimpeded drop into the river several hundred metres below. The road was literally hacked out of the cliff side and rock falls were the biggest hazard. In one spot the driver stopped the bus because of rocks blcoking the road and passengers got out to move rocks out of the way. The rest of the time the driver kept the speed up, careening around blind corners passing dump trucks, coming so close to the precipice, visible all to clearly right beside me, that I would involuntarily yelp as the road disappeared from my view through the window of the door in front of my right leg.

I was entertaining visions of escaping a flooded, crumpled mess of people and baggage in the river below, assuming I could even survive the end over end drop down the seventy degree slope, until the Tibetan girl seated in front of the door began puking out the window. The analysis of her erstwhile stomach contents distracted me somewhat from thoughts of eminent demise as I noted that she didn't seem to have eaten much at all. That was fortunate, for her position up front and high on the front dais, combined with speed of the vehicle, directed a trajectory for her emissions such that streaks of liquid painted across the side of the bus along the lower third of the window. I was glad that I had kept my window closed despite all the smoke in the interior of the cabin. As the girl hung her head out the window I was concerned that she might be decapitated by one of the roadside trees and signs which the driver was coming perilously close to. However, by another of those unexplainable Chinese miracles, she, and we, survived.

The road eventually rejoined the section of road we had come up on and the worst of the ride was behind us. We stopped for lunch at a windswept cluster of white-tiled buildings beside the highway where a Muslim canteen offered noodle soup and steamed buns. I watched closely as the Chinese bought and paid for their food then Daniel had a bowl of soup and I ate a couple of steamed, vegetable-filled buns. When it was time to leave the owner got ten kuai from Daniel before I could stop him and went off to the back of the shop. I stood there gaping for a moment; what we had eaten was actually worth only four kuai and I was just not in the mood to be so blatantly ripped off. Besides, the guy wasn't even friendly while doing it. So I followed him into the back and blocked his way as he came back in and told him to give me five kuai right now (let him have one kuai for face). I was busy trying to think of how to say "or I'll punch you in the mouth" when he gave some lame apology and coughed up the fiver.

The rest of the trip was uneventful; the driver played a few games with the door - leaving it open to freeze us until we would shout at him to close it, and developed a talent for stalling the engine, but we arrived in Chengdu shortly before two in the afternoon. After we returned to the Traffic Hotel, I immediately took refuge in a long, hot shower then veg'ed out in front of the television watching the World Swimming Championships from Perth. In the evening we went to the Highfly Cafe for a meal which could be eaten with a fork, knife and spoon; I had mushroom soup followed by steak and potatoes - an excellent treat. Daniel discussed his plan to continue West towards Tibet while I decided to take the express bus to Chongqing in the morning and try to get on a ferry down the Yangzi river East towards Wuhan.