Part 4 -- Tiger Leaping Torrent

Disclaimers: If you've made it onto this distribution list, it's because I thought you might enjoy hearing about my Asia trip from time to time. Because I'm being charged by the hour to use this computer, I'm rushing to write this e-mail, so please forgive any spelling errors or other imperfections. Also, not everyone may understand my references since I know you all from different walks of life. I apologize for this as well. If you rather not continue to receive these letters, please let me know--I won't be insulted--and I will happily remove you from the list. I'm really not that arrogant to think that the whole world is interested in reading of my travels and travails. If you write me back, it will probably take me a very, very long while to reply. Please don't be impatient with me. I'm not sure how often I'll be able to find one of these Internet centers and whether the connections will be decent. Warning: This installment is long. I need an editor.

My next destination after Chengdu was Lijiang, a city in Yunnan Province (south central China), which is home base for the Naxi minority people, an ancient matriarchal society. The old quarter of Lijiang has retained its Naxi-style architecture--wooden homes set around courtyards along narrow, winding cobblestone streets.

Lijiang's old city is an enormous draw for both Chinese tour groups and Western backpackers. The tiny streets are clogged with Chinese big-city tourists in matching yellow or red baseball caps and tour guides with yellow or red flags and megaphones. Shops sell Naxi handicrafts and other knicknacks. The backpackers cluster around a few guesthouses and cafes that sell both Naxi and Western food, chowing down baba bread sandwiches or pizza and brownies. The old city is like a Chinese version of some quaint colonial town in Vermont, where the streets are overrun with people from New York, New Jersey and Connecticut, spending long weekends in bed-and-breakfasts, eating cheddar cheese and maple-sugar candy.

Like Vermont, this part of Yunnan has mountains. A two-and-a-half-hour bus ride from Lijiang is the beginning of Tiger Leaping Gorge, where the Yangtze River (called the Jinsha River at that point) rushes between the Haba Snow Mountains. The distance from the peak of the mountains to the river bed is 12,800 feet. The Chinese tourists mostly make the journey via chartered bus. They get off at the entrance of the gorge, take photos and get back on the bus. The backpackers set out for a trek through Tiger Leaping Gorge, usually by a trail higher up the mountainside. The hike takes about 14 hours and can be spread over two or three days by staying at one of three remote guesthouses along the route.

In the cafes of Lijiang's old city, backpackers who have arrived singly or in pairs clump together into cliques of five or more like overheated gummy bears. As in Chengdu, every conversation begins with where are you from; where have you been in China; where are you going next; and, now, have you done the gorge. The backpackers huddle, planning their trekking strategy, poring over hand-drawn maps, seeking advice from those who have just returned. The Tiger Leaping Gorge excursion serves as an obligatory, outward-bound course for backpackers: If you haven't done it, you haven't "done" China.

I tag along with a group consisting of an Auklander [New Zealander], a Sydneysider [Australian] and a couple of Londoners, who invite me to join them for dinner at a Korean cafe. Three of them have just come back from the gorge and are explaining the logistics to one of the Londoners who knows them from another town on the backpacker trail. This group took the low road instead of the high trail, which according to their report and others, is much easier and shorter. It can be done in two days--a four-hour walk the first day and a six-hour one the second--along a flat, clearly defined road. It's considered the cheater's way through. Sounds reasonable to me. Hard, but reasonable.

Dinner isn't ordered for some time, at least until after a few rounds of beer. I don't drink. At least not beer and then only rarely. I can hardly make out what they're saying--they talk so fast and their accents are so thick. I can't get a word in edgewise. These four seem madly in love with each other, as if they've been busom buddies for eons, although they've only known each other a couple weeks. They seem quite uninterested in me, and I'm wondering why they invited me to dinner. The newly arrived Londoner says she might catch the 8 am bus to Daju, the town on one end of the trek, the next morning. She plans to see what other Westerners turn up on the bus and try to fall in with another group. I'm thinking I'd like to go the next day as well--to get out of the old-town ghetto and see what this gorge fuss is about--though I'm not sure I want to do this trek with her.

I got up early the next morning and packed a daypack with a toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, rain poncho, sun hat and sunblock and a change of socks. I stowed my huge backpack and the rest of my stuff in the dormitory's storage room. I just made the 8 am bus after it took me three cab rides to get to the right bus station. Don't ask me why a city the size of Lijiang has at least four locations that serve as bus stations.

I stumble onto the bus. There's no sign of the Londoner. I start venting about my bus station confusion to five seated Westerners. One, a blonde guy, grins at me and says nothing, as if I'm a chattering monkey. The others barely look up. One of them is intriguing nonetheless. She has long, copper-hennaed hair; tight blue pants made of Chinese satin and a black Christian Dior T-shirt. She looks like a fashion designer, not a hiker. About an hour later, I turn around and ask her if she speaks English. With an Australian accent, she says she does, but usually not in the morning. I'm fine with that. I settle into my seat, wondering if this clique is my clique.

In truth, I was terrified about this whole enterprise. I'm uncomfortable around mountains, and ten hours on the low road seemed like a very long walk. We're talking 25 miles. I'm not the most robust person in the world. Plus, there were hazards on the low road that had been described to me: landslides, waterfalls and dynamiting. The low road is unpaved gravel, carved out of the side of a mountain. Sometimes the road is blocked by landslides. While walking, you must keep your eye out for rocks falling onto the road from above.

Because summer's the rainy season in Yunnan province, the waterfalls that normally spill down the mountainside and across the road can get a little torrential. On drier days, you can hop across stones to get past the small currents, but if there's too much rain, the coursing water gets strong and deep.

When landslides block the road, small crews set off dynamite to blast away the boulders. Most of the low road is closed to motorized traffic, except for a couple of delivery Jeeps that service the villages and guesthouses along the route. I had received conflicting reports about whether there was also dynamiting going on below the low road, where a new road, connecting Daju with the next town, Qiaotou, was being built. Supposedly the workers would scream at you in Chinese to get out of the way if they saw you approaching during a blast. So if the landslides and waterfalls didn't get me, the dynamiting could. And the low road was the easy route.

I reassured myself that plenty of backpackers had done this trek and come out alive. I also reminded myself that if the going got too tough, I could flag down some sort of vehicle to get me through, even if it was a donkey cart. I knew that about three-fifths of the way to Qiaotou, the road was open to vehicles. This part of the road accommodates the Chinese tour buses that travel the few miles between Qiaotou and the beginning of the gorge. Finally, there was the allure of Woody's Guesthouse (a.k.a. Chateau de Woody). This was the Shangri La that awaited backpackers four hours into the gorge, with fabulous views and good food.

As we switchbacked down the mountains into the village of Daju, I was wrestling down my fear. Before getting to the low road, I would have to make my way across Daju's plateau and down a hill to get to the ferry that transports hikers across the Jinsha River. I wasn't sure I'd be able to locate the ferry--considering my luck with bus stations. After crossing the river, I would have to climb up another hill to find the low road, which was supposed to be up there somewhere. The main question was whether I wanted to attempt this ALONE.

I struck up a conversation with a couple of Brits sitting in the seats in front of me. The other three Westerners on the bus were still silent, including the woman with the blue satin pants. It was hard to follow the accents of this twenty-something couple, but they seemed okay. Not necessarily people who I'd want to rely on in matters of life and death, but they seemed of sound mind.

In Daju, the bus pulled up at a roadside restaurant stall, where a woman with incredible English tries to negotiate with the six of us as a group. I've noticed that Chinese people in the tourist business think of Westerners as being part of a group--even if you're not in a group--especially if you arrive someplace at the same time. The Westerners are just looking at each other and blinking. Since they're being so uncommunicative, I decide to act as group leader. I organize lunch and arrange to have the bus driver wait for us to finish eating in order to take us to where the ferry docks. His waiting adds another 60 cents (US) per person to the bus fare but saves us a 50-minute walk through the village.

The lunch is delicious, and I feel a bit calmer as the Westerners begin talking to each other. I'm hoping I can get a group dynamic going, at least one that will get us all as far as Woody's. Turns out that the fashion designer is sister to the grinning blonde, and the truly comatose guy is their sick friend. The three of them are from Sydney. Finally they open up and hit it off with the English people who are from a suburb of London. The Brits have Australian work permits, and they plan to work in Sydney for a year when they run out of travel money. They're comparing London and Sydney prices. I'm trying to sort out their accents. A hog is squealing its lungs out on the other side of the wall, and I'm glad we didn't order pork.

The bus driver hustles us off before we're done eating. (Remember in the last installment I wrote that you have to eat really fast at bus breaks?) As it turns out, he stops a 15-minute walk shy of the ferry. He's done driving--now that he's delivered his crates of chickens and other provisions and dropped off the villagers who have hopped on and off the bus. We troop through the pig lanes to find the ferry. I lead the way and ask for directions since I'm the only person who knows the Chinese word for ferry. The villagers know where we're headed anyway.

The whole time I'm thinking about how I would be managing had I been alone for all of this. Would my limited Chinese and the helpfulness of the Chinese people be enough to get me through? Or was the company of these Westerners essential to my survival? If I were alone, would the added strain of working everything out by myself (not that I was getting any help from this crew) turn the excursion into an endurance test? Yet at times, tolerating other backpackers has been an endurance test. I wonder whether by relying on myself more--my wits, wisdom and body knowledge--during this entire Asia trip, would I become stronger or would I turn into a worn-out, lonely, psychotic mess?

We finally find the hill that leads down to the ferry. The slope is surprisingly steep, and my shoes are all wrong. My shoes, until now, have been my best friends. But they're only city walkers, and they have no tread. Their roominess, which keeps my feet cool in the city, are already causing problems. I'm holding up the show, but so is Carmen, the woman in blue and black. She has fear of heights, and she's moving even slower than I am. Her brother doesn't glance back to see how she's doing.

I fall and slide down the mountain only once--it's a mountain after all, not a hill. When we arrive at the bottom, the others are lounging on the ferry--a metal slab with an engine attached--waiting for us to cross. On the other side, the slope is just as steep. I'm sweating buckets, and my quadriceps are hurting by the time I get to the top. Carmen doesn't seem to have a problem going uphill. I'm alarmed at the steepness of these inclines. The group at the Korean cafe omitted this information from their report.

They also neglected to tell me how difficult it would be to find the low road. I thought it would be right there, just across the river, but no, we're wandering in search of it, up hill and down dale, through puny, dung-filled villages, with crowing roosters and hostile, growling dogs. I'm glad I got my rabies shots. The rest of the group is way ahead of me. I don't know whether they care that I'm far behind or whether I should care that I might lose them. I try to imagine what it would be like spending the night in one of these villagers' homes if it takes me all day to find the low road.

After about another hour of circling around, with local kids pointing us this way and that, the low road appears below. We've overshot it. I'm happy to see that stretch of gravel--it looks like the Yellow Brick Road. Now I don't have to work as hard to keep up with the group because I'm not as likely to get lost. The road inclines up and up. I've already used up most of my water. My legs are very sore, but I know I'll make it. There's an advertisement painted in yellow on a boulder: "Woody's G.H., coffee, beer, Western food, 1 hr, 40 min."

I lag even further behind, trying to appreciate the beauty of the place even though I'm tired and hurting. I'm surprised I feel this bad after only three hours of walking. After all, I've been walking around China for a month. I come around a bend, and I'm surprised to see the group relaxing on a rock. I don't know if they're waiting for me or just sunning themselves. I don't stop walking. I figure they'll pass me again, but even they're walking slower now.

A few hundred feet before Woody's Guesthouse a cop materializes from a shack that serves as a kind of sentry post. He asks us to pay 30 yuan each (US$3.80) as an entrance fee to Tiger Leaping Gorge. The five of them look at each other, consult and decide that's an outrageous sum. They think it's a scam--that this guy is in business for himself and his uniform is fake. He's waving very official-looking tickets in our faces. The English guy says that he probably had them scanned and printed up in Qiaotou. This makes me laugh. I doubt they even have a photocopier in Qiaotou, let alone an electronic publishing operation.

I've had to pay fees to gain admission everywhere, so why not at Tiger Leaping Gorge? But they won't hear of it. They bargain him down to two tickets for the six of us. I'm mortified. I make sure I get a hold of one of the tickets because I know I'm not taking the high road with them the next day.

We arrive at Woody's, and true to reports, the place is awfully nice. It's like a tiny ski lodge, with a terrace restaurant on one side of the road and sleeping rooms on the other. The darling proprietor lady gave me the best room in the house, with big windows facing out across the river to the mountain on the other side. I thow off my pack, examine the bathroom facilities and head up to the restaurant with my empty water bottle to get some kaishui (boiled water). To my surprise, the others are already planted there drinking beer. It doesn't appear that they've even asked for water. Carmen has taken off her hiking boots. Both of her feet are wrapped in Band-Aids along both sides.

Just like the group at the Korean cafe, these folks show no sign of ordering dinner. I've come to understand that dinner is eaten only if there's room. Beer's the main course. I've never seen so many bottles fill up a table. The conversation covers the British vs. Australian terminology for getting drunk. I learn that Australians have about as many words for beer portions--mids, pots, schooners, etc.--as Eskimos have for snow. I had been wondering how Carmen--who's an aromatherapist/catering assistant, not a fashion designer--puts up with her brother and his friend. Now she's rolling around on the bench, giggling drunk with the woman from the London suburb.

The next morning it's raining. The group doesn't care. The five of them are going to walk the three hours to the next guesthouse. The Halfway Guesthouse is on the high road, which splits off from the low road about an hour's walk past Woody's. I'm not going up there. No way. I'm not going anywhere. It's raining.

Seated in the restaurant overlooking the road, I watch the villagers walk by with small herds of goats, then mules, then horses, then mules again. Some carry baskets with shrubbery on their backs. I watch the three Woody women prepare food and do laundry.

In the evening more backpackers arrive. A French couple and a clique that silently plays bridge. They all leave the next morning, even though it's raining even harder than the day before. Their timetable must be tighter than mine. Otherwise, why would anyone choose to hike in the pouring rain? Bravado? Waterproof boots? If my socks soak through, it's blisters for sure. I wait for the sun to go bright blue as it was the day I arrived.

There are three books in the restaurant. One is in Chinese, two are in English: Louise Erdich's "The Bingo Palace" and "Pirhanas" by Harold Robbins. I read "The Bingo Palace," and it's terrific. I was hoping it would tell me something about finding True Love. But in the end, the protagonist dies looking.

In the evening a pair of Chinese women arrive. They speak no English and don't choose to engage with me. I'm happy to see them. I'm glad not only Western backpackers undertake the gorge trek.

On the fourth day, I'm feeling marooned. I remind myself that people in the U.S. pay good money for retreats like this one. They go to Vermont, Colorado, Canada--to stay in a wooden building, breathe clean air and look at mountains. Here I'm only paying about 24 yuan per day (US$3) for food and lodging. And I have a private room, which feels luxurious after weeks of dorm life. There's even a hot-water shower stall built into the side of the mountain underneath the restaurant. A fresh experience: I've never had to wear a rain poncho into a shower before.

Swallows circle in the mist that lifts in the afternoon to reveal the mountain's ugly mug. The mountain is so large at close range that it can't be seen in one glance. I must crane my neck to see the sky. The mountain is a solid, obstinate wall when the light is dim. In brighter light, its face breaks up into ridges and cracks. I watch the mountain warily. It's not my friend.

All day I wait; like the grey cat eyeing my food, like the group of men hanging around the Jeep smoking and cracking jokes. I wait for a backpacker to come around the bend with conversation that will flip a switch. Backpackers do come. To my dismay, more than 20 of them. Same routine but more bottles.

On the fifth day, I'm hell-bent on sashaying out of this gorge. The weather's overcast, but it's not raining. I set out at 9 am. The road is still not flat, as I was told. It continues to climb. The waterfalls aren't that deep, considering the previous rainfall. I tied plastic bags over my shoes for the crossings, but I was drenched on one side by the spray itself before I get the hang of it. So I have a wet-sock walk, but my trusty city shoes provide enough cushioning, and I don't blister.

A villager points out a landslide area and shows me how to walk through it safely. But the uphill climb wears me out. After three hours I'm in pain. After four hours I'm really unhappy, but the road starts to slope downward. After five, it starts raining. I'm thoroughly miserable but determined to finish. I pass the point where tourists are being shuttled to the entrance of the gorge, so plenty of vehicles are around. In fact, my main work is dodging them, as they bump along the muddy, rutted road.

Unfortunately, my intestinal tract decides then and there to have another meltdown. I find a nice, rustic outhouse next to a cornfield and some pigs. I have a great view of the river as I lose my breakfast and all my water. I'm having an Immodium moment, but there's none on hand.

I continue trudging through the rain and mud. At 5 1/2 hours, I'm a mess. I must look pitiful because a private Chinese tour bus pulls over. A girl sticks her head out the door and offers me a ride the couple miles to Qiaotou. I can't say no.

Qiaotou looks like Shangri La. The town has merchants, public restrooms and a bus station. People are sipping yoguert and tottering around in high heels. Hallmarks of civilization. I sit at a cafe eating steamed rice and catch a bus back to Lijiang.

The next day I flee the old city for the new part of town. I'm loving the stores selling hardware, restaurant supplies, cheap china and plastic basins. The city market is the largest I've seen so far, but I have to fight back waves of nausea seeing how animal parts are sold. I step around a broken, bloody rat on the pavement. I'm revived by the smell of the spice section--tables piled high with mystery powders.

It's time to reward my shoes with a new pair of heel plates. My old plates are worn down after a month of travel, and I need new ones to protect the soles. I had spied a shoemaker on the edge of the city market. I find him again. He insists on creating custom-made heel plates from a piece of sole, saying that the pre-fab ones aren't good enough. I ask him how much that will cost, but I don't get a comprehensible answer.

He cuts the plates from the sole, glues them onto my shoes, nails them in and sands them down. He must not get many foreign customers because by now I've attracted an audience of about a dozen people. It doesn't help that he's parked next to a bus stop.

When he's done, again I ask him how much it costs, and he says 20 yuan (US$2.50). I know I'm being taken because that's what a pair of plates cost in the U.S. One of the onlookers--a young girl--sticks up for me and says it should cost 5 yuan. She takes it up with the guy. I'm prepared to pay 10, a foreigner's price, so I offer 9. When he wants more, the crowd goes wild. Ten people are screaming at him, and he screams back. I point to the crowd behind me, indicating that they disagree with the 20-yuan price, which is pretty obvious.

Suddenly, he quiets down. Then the girl says something like, "He says okay." I ask, "So I can give him 9 and walk away?" No clear response. Then he breaks into a smile, which means that 9 was more than enough all along. I smile too, hand him 9 yuan and shake his hand. Then the bus comes, and all assembled pile on. I turn and wave and thank everyone in English and Chinese. As the bus pulls away, everyone is smiling and waving back at me through the windows.

Pleased with the outcome, I cross over to the cinema to see if anything's playing today. I'd walked by there before, but it had been closed, and there had been no movie posters in sight--only signs for karaoke. A small crowd was gathering ouside--the place was open. I asked some people whether the movies had English subtitles. A woman dressed in black, with long, coiled, gelled hair and full makeup, says no, but motions me towards the entrance anyway. When I appear reluctant, more people start waving me inside. After the Lixia minibus incident, I'm a bit leary of being waved into places without knowing what's in store.

The crowd around me is thickening. One of the guys is wearing a black T shirt and jeans and a necklace with a leather Goth trinket attached. I don't see much of this kind of attire in China--he looks like a hipster in a good way. I suspect he's on the cutting edge of something, but I don't know what. Then the Sizzle Girl in black presses a fluorescent red ticket into my palm. I'm getting a very good vibe. As I'm herded through the inside double doors, I notice musical equipment is set up on stage. I flash on what's happening and turn to Goth Boy and pantomime playing air guitar. He shakes his head no, but pantomimes air drums and a microphone. I turn to Sizzle Girl and pantomime a mike, and she nods and also pantomimes drums.

Then a Manager Guy in the entourage asks me for 20 yuan, but Sizzle Girl says "Bu kuai," which means no money. I realize the fluorescent ticket is a complimentary pass. I'm thinking I'd like to pay a little something, and another woman suggests 10 yuan. I hand her a 10, and Sizzle Girl leads me to a seat in the front row. Suddenly everyone wants to pose with me for photographs--first Sizzle Girl, then Goth Boy and even Manager Guy. But that's not enough. As the theater is filling with people, I'm taken backstage to meet the rest of the band. I see a group of women who look like dancers. I point at them and start imitating choreography. They are nodding and smiling and break into polite applause at my dancing. I'm embarrassed and gesture, no, no, I'm not a good dancer.

Then the dancers want to pose with me for snapshots. One by one, our photos are taken together. Then Manager Guy indicates we're running out of time, and we must gather for a group photo. Someone leads me onto the stage and puts me behind the Casio [synthesizer/electric piano thing]. Everyone else clusters around me, and more photos are taken. I have no idea why they think I'm someone important. I hope they don't take me for foreign press.

Then Sizzle Girl walks me back to my front-row seat and offers me a drink, which I decline. We sit together for a few moments. I whip out my phrasebook and start asking questions. All I manage to learn is that the group is from a small town outside Wuhan (which is very far away) and that Sizzle Girl and Goth Boy are brother and sister. She then leaves me to go backstage.

It's a full house. The audience members' ages range from 8 to 80. Some are in traditional Naxi dress. The first song is done by a Bryan Ferry-like torch singer with glossy hair. He's dressed in a billowy white shirt, black trousers and suspenders. His voice drips tragedy. Then he leaves, and the dancers come on in red pajama outfits with gold rice farmer hats and fake braids. They're not in synch.

The show is a variety show, not a Western-style pop concert. As with their restaurant meals, Chinese people seem to like a little bit of everything for their money. Each player has more than one role: Goth Boy is not just a drummer and a singer, he's also a comic. One of the dancers is also a comic. Songs alternate with dance routines, comedy acts and baton twirling. There's very little applause after each number, but plenty of chatting, smoking and spitting. People seem to really like the show--especially one comedy routine that makes fun of a developmentally disabled person.

Sizzle Girl spends most of the concert hidden behind her drum kit. But towards the end she disappears backstage and her brother takes over on drums. Soon she emerges for her big song. She's wearing a gold lame gown, a sky-blue boa and yellow patent leather platform shoes. The dancers surround her, dressed in matching blue velour bellbottoms and midriffs, with artificial yellow flowers in their hair.

Mysteriously, everyone leaves the theater while the band is playing their last song. I stay and clap as hard as I can to make up for any deficit. Plus I want to say goodbye to Sizzle Girl and Goth Boy. But the instant the theater is empty, a second crowd starts pouring in. There's to be a second show. The new people in the front row start barraging me with questions. It seems as if they think I'm someone important too. I tell them I'm a lowly U.S. tourist, and that calms them down a bit. I spy sister and brother further along the front row talking to Manager Guy. I go tell them I enjoyed their singing and thank them profusely. They expect me to stay for the second show, but I thank them again and say I must go. They don't seem to want anything more from me, and we say goodbye.

I stumble out of the theater into the neon of the new city. My mind's effervescing, but I have no one to tell. I slowly walk back to the old city, with its dark wood, slippery cobblestones and craft stalls. I pass a backpacker cafe and through the glass I see a New Yorker I met in Chengdu, who had been shopping for Tibetan thankas [religious fabric paintings]. I walk inside to say hello. He asks me if I've done Tiger Leaping Gorge. I want to spit.

I now have a new China plan. I'm bypassing Dali, the next backpacker mecca, and going straight to Kunming, the capital of Yunnan Province. I'm also skipping other Lonely Planet must-see's south and east of here--the beautiful scenery, the rice terraces, the minority villages of Guangxi Province, with their smiling people, colorful costumes, handicrafts and livestock. I'm going back on the city tour. I'll catch a plane across China to Shanghai on the east coast. To hell with southwest China. It's the rainy season.

Copyright Wonderlandİ 1999