Way down south now, almost at the border with Burma, Laos and Vietnam, the last stop investigating the Tea Horse Road (THR). It is impossible to imagine why any road, TH or otherwise would choose this route through the mountains where the terraces cling desperately to the vertiginous sides. On the other hand the 3 hour train journey from Kunming (again!!) has been almost totally through tunnels, surfacing only briefly for the 4 or so stops en route. The engineering commitment to bring a train into the middle of nowhere is immense, so there must be a reason. Pu’er clearly isn’t it: There is no effort to indicate any interesting sights en ville, and even the obligatory Ancient City is impossible to find and consequently deserted. Gratified though that the good burghers (rather unkindly described in the book I’m reading as ‘morose, supine and rather unfriendly’*) have elected to confine all the Tea Horse Road hoopla to the outskirts, leaving them in peace to carry on languidly preparing Pu’er tea for sale (I never see them actually selling any). All in all an absolute backwater.

*The Forgotten Kingdom by Peter Goullart. Kindle Unlimited has such a lame collection of books I keep forgetting I’m subscribed to it. This is one of the rare winners. Written in the 1950s by a Russian who worked in pre-communist China, describing his life and work among the Yunnan tribes of these areas. Unexpected page turner.

The good (and evidently morose) citizens of Pu’er do enjoy soaking their feet outside the pharmacy after work. We can only hope that the murk is due to an extraneous additive.

What Pu’er city lacks in THR energy is more than made up for in the environs. First up, in the left corner of the map and most accessible, in fact a mere $2 cab fare from my hotel, we have the ‘Tea Horse Road Tourist Area’ which has the official seal of approval, and so, as I have come to recognize, will be authentically dire.

My lady taxi driver is well protected, from what I’d rather not envisage

The ultimate seal of approval, teatime with Xi guarantees that, unfortunately, we will have tried (much too much) harder.

There will be no point trying to make lemonade out of lemons. Much better to embrace the ‘it is what it is’ approach to the tourist experience. In this spirit I allow the millenial-on-the-desk to sell me the whole package (albeit with the old lady discount). It’s also important to realize that since the whole experience has been subtly orchestrated to ensure we pass through en masse in the most efficient fashion, when I decline the first event – a historical re-enactment on the lake – consternation will ensue. M-O-T-D wracks his brains for some way to make it appealing to an American. ‘It’s free’ he offers finally. Thank goodness I finally agree to get on the cart along with the rest of the captive audience and the show can go on.

Unfortunately the only shade is so far back we can barely see the stage. When the audio begins the sound level is still absolutely terrifying. The plastic leaves stuck onto the corps de ballet’s baskets are apparently to set the THR scene. Orange lady dancer is not in fact the female lead as she would have us imagine.

Evidently the water jets will prefigure what’s about to happen next. In this case, the male lead and his trusty servant arriving with a boatload of ducks (whose significance will become clearer later). Orange lady remains reluctant to leave the stage.

At last the princess appears and the obligatory (and unecessarily ear splitting) pas de deux ensues. Remarkably most of the ducks have managed to disappear unnoticed. Apart from that it all lacks subtlety and even the old ladies start to fidget.

Not so fast! just as we begin to drift off the water jets foreshadow trouble ahead. Potentially involving the galleon sneaking up stage left?

Oh yes indeed! And now flames to make sure we stay alert.

Everything is going crazy and the galleon has docked. No good will come of this, so the princess hops off the stage (just in time).

It’s tough to see from this distance but four against one seems a bit unfair and now they seem to have wrapped our hero in a net.

But all is not lost after all! The old dude on the galleon has an inexplicable moment of what must surely be remorse and for no apparent reason sets our hero free and sails away. We and the water jets take a breath.

The ducks return to celebrate his release with a victory circuit. It is not clear how the speedboat is involved, but it seems to play an important role in duck control, and is not randomly crashing the show.

Just so we don’t miss the point that all’s well that ends well.

Wait, I have momentarily lost focus – where did those horses come from and why are they here? Oh yes this is the THR. Their relationship to the pas de deux and the dude in the galleon, let alone the victory ducks will go unexplained.

The tea girls bid us a fond farewell. Orange lady has been sidelined and the hero and heroine have disappeared on his boat. The ducks have flwon home and the water jets take a final bow. The audio is switched off and we are now permitted to proceed to the next experience, which unfortunately is at the top of the hill.

Not to worry, of course there’s another cable car in my future! Onward and upward to the actual THR.

Yes we’re in the right place, here are the bronze horses

And tea horse people bidding each other a sad farewell (It occurs to me that those fretting about banishment into the Taklamakan desert probably have more legitimate complaints*).

*karinameiri.com/2019/04/20/part-2-the-throat/

We are all rather surprised to see the tea horse llama

Conveniently enough one of the longest stretches of the bona fide Tea Horse Road actually does pass through here. Also conveniently it appears to begin round the back of one of the inevitable temples (not shown). Fortified with a swig of water I set off up the road to the other inevitable temple up the mountain. Questions I do not ask myself: (1) What is the semantic difference between ‘passes through’ and ‘starts from’ and is it important? (2) Given how much harder the Tea Horse Road Tourist Area has worked to make this an achievable experience for all comers, where is the map laying out the route to this anticipated temple? (3) What do those trail markers say? (4) Where is everyone?

These are legitimate remnants of the original Tea Horse Road

After a couple of uphill hours there is still no temple in evidence, but it is surely near because here is a family descending towards me. They all appear so horrified I feel obliged to set my translate app to eavesdrop:

Little girl (projecting her lived experience of the day): What is she doing here? where is she going? It is too far!

Dad: She’s probably just going on a hike

Girl: But it’s so FAR, and its SO HOT don’t let her!

Me: Isn’t there a temple up there?

Grandad: No and actually you’re out of the park here. The end of this hike in that direction is 30 km away.

Girl: Stop her! Stop her!

Mom: Just take her photo maybe she’ll be satisfied with that

The family form a human chain across the the path so I can’t pass.

Mom takes the picture

And I turn around and follow them back down

At the bottom, merely taking a left instead of a right sets me squarely back into the legitimate THR orchestrated experience.

The temple even shows up (I give it a miss)

And here’s the tea for the THR

As well as the THR emus having their lunch

Back at the desk I find out that the taxi ride being only $2 is no advantage if there are no taxis. The M-O-T-D remembers how willingly I saved his bacon by hopping on the tourist cart, and now saves mine by whipping out his cell phone to call me an Uber. Despite my protestations and making the offer the obligatory 4 times, he refuses to accept payment.

Sadly we are only just beginning an interesting conversation about the relative merits of Biden and Trump when it arrives.

Next day the temptation to not to dot the remaining i and cross the last t is almost overwhelming, but I grit my teeth and hire a lady driver, to take me to the Nakeli village deep in the Pu-er hinterland. Xi has drunk tea here too, so I have no illusions, but it does have certain pluses in addition to the inevitable minuses. Chief among which is that it is trying to maintain the semblance of an actual village, so we are spared the historical re-enactments. On the minus side the heavily advertised 66 indigenous family inhabitants have evidently decamped so the construction company responsible for Ancient Villages nationwide could construct the requisite Ming style shopping arcade, which is inexplicably specializing in fake jade (not shown for obvious reasons). I manage to ditch my driver and head for the hills.

This time the sign is reassuringly present and I finally figure out where I was heading yesterday.

All Tea Horse Roads look suspiciously similar

No! Can that really be a footprint ‘carved deeply onto the step’?

Today though, I dutifully set my phone so Google lens can translate the signs beside the trail

OK I’ll try

Is there an action item here?

Sadly topography defeats us. Nothing succeeds like success and since there is only one way through these mountains the original THR must now share it with a four lane highway that is delivering a lot of stuff much heavier than tea somewhere very important that is not Pu’er.

After not too long a while I accept that this will not be the bucolic experience of my dreams, and bail out just where the trail crosses the highway into the park I was at yesterday.

I am happy to dump morose lady driver in her black lurex dress (also not shown for obvious reasons).

But do not think that this sojourn in Pu’er has been a bust. Not at all! It has had many backwater-style experiences to recommend it. The spanking new hotel has been marvelous even with a few start-up glitches (all the room controls are voice activated and respond only to classical Mandarin, so not only are any potential foreign guests [I am the first] unable to open [or close] the curtains, but neither are non-Mandarin speakers [which includes the hotel staff]). None of the extensive IT team now sitting on my bed can figure out a workaround so finally they disable it and I can wake up and have a shower when I want without AI support.

The team at the front desk are completely at my service provided they can converse with me en masse like a Greek chorus on We Chat. Unfortunately not all of them have learned their lines (looking at you, young man), so wading through a volley of conflicting advice is par for the course.

From the right in descending order of seniority (and reliability) and from the left in descending order of volubility

And I have finally nailed the solo diner problem without having to resort to noodles every night. Barbecue places offer a selection of skewered of organ meats that are inevitably delicious plus extras that are less reliable (the fish gets two thumbs up but the grilled tofu is a fail).

Time to check out of Pu’er

The lady who cleans my room (and speaks English with far more confidence than anyone on the desk) stops by for a goodbye hug and I give her the unusual powdered nut drink mix I’ve been hauling around since Pingyao. She seems thrilled.

Back to Kunming (again!!!) and finally a decent meal (at an outdoor Thai restaurant)

It’s chicken feet larb (from black chickens which are particularly delicious)

And then a four hour train ride down to Hekou on the border and its…..

So long China!

And hello Vietnam!

A desperate, but seamless, 13 hour multiple train ride extravaganza, mostly through tunnels in the mountains, puts dreary Doushaguan solidly in the rear view mirror and I end up in Kunming at midnight straight into the arms of doofus-of-the-year taxi driver. The (brand new) hotel advertises itself as a convenient 1.3km from the station, so surely it is the traffic pattern taking him in the opposite direction? When I wake up next who knows where we are and the meter shows 50Y (it should be 10). Totally prepared to countenance another taxi rip-off, except that metered taxis never do. Of course he isn’t using a navigation app. I shove my phone up to his nose, initiate a quick lesson in ‘right’ ‘left’ and ‘straight’ and screech the directions vilely all the way back while he cowers in the front (it is a long way). He optimistically gestures towards the meter. I retaliate by taking a snap of his credentials.

Me: (Handing him a 20) You’ve got to be kidding me.

He (plaintively): So I will starve because of you?

He should be happy my conflict averse MTA renders my reply untranslatable.

The millenial-at-the-desk is appalled, and I sleep like a log. Next morning a free shuttle to the station and a mere 2 hour train-ride to Dali station (which is not in Dali) followed by another hour in the hotel taxi.

Well! According to LP, back in the day Dali was a haven for hippies and no trip to South East Asia was complete without a wallow in its sybaritic pleasures. Many aspects of this vision are difficult to countenance, but for once LP is on the money. Remnants of a glorious hippy past abound, and now the 21st century wannabes are here (there are a lot of them) living it up while at least an equal number of less free-spirited citizenry have come to ogle. My lovely little guesthouse has a definite 70’s vibe and I have the best room in the house with my own terrace and a actual soaking tub (which no hippy seems to have washed their feet in ever).

Outside Dali is heaving but in my charming little oasis all is quiet apart from a persistent PSA which seems to be saying ‘One….five’ every 30 seconds until 11:30 on the dot when she finally gives up.

Nothing to complain about on my charming little terrace

The prisitine soaking tub

The bed Unfortunately is a futon, so I am unable to sleep at all for the next three nights (see terrace)

I swear there is more white cheesecloth here than I’ve seen since 1978 but I’m so over photographing cosplayers I can’t face snapping any of the thousands floating around in it with, yes, flowers in their hair.

Besides other evidence of unfortunate sartorial decisions from then and now

Requisite ganja bedspreads beside the road. I am having a hard time reconciling all of this with the little red book.

Kudos to China’s millenial hippies who carry the flag with pride, and remarkable how many there are (midweek) partying like it’s 1979 . Here it’s Dylan all the way (in Chinese)

And here’s an actual jazz jam. Yes that blondie out front is Chinese as are the dreads in middle distance. Only in Dali do they blend into the background, I come up empty trying to imagine them in Beijing and do them all a favor by not pulling up a chair.

The rain has stopped so time for a death march up Mount Cangshan. Or rather not up, because of course there are several thoughtfully provided chairlifts. My sleeplessness is productively utilized angsting about LP: When they say the route is ‘flat’ do they mean that the actual path is flat (unlike the Great Wall) and the terrain is what it is for a mountain range, or do they mean that the actual terrain is flat (hard to imagine given it is after all a mountain range).

Madame at the desk tells me the chairlift at the other end closes at 4:30 (it doesn’t) and do I seriously think I can walk there in time (it is noon). She makes me read it twice and reflect before agreeing to give me a ticket. That all depends on LP and whether the advertised 15 km means as the crow flies or actual distance covered (neither as it turns out)..

Now I realize the chairlift at the Great Wall was a paltry impostor. This one, stretching as far as the eye can see and then some, holds some record like ‘The Highest Chairlift in China’, which I have now come to realize is the equivalent of ‘Christmas Tree Capital of America’. Up we go to 7000 feet and not to worry: Yet another burly Tibetan is at the top waiting to manhandle me to safety.

And the route is a senior hiker’s dream. Paved from A to Z and not a single step in sight. In fact you could do it in a wheelchair provided you were confident about your controls and hired a couple more Tibetans to deal with the chairlift. I consult with the two NYM in the distance about making it by 4:30. They give me a high five and, a ‘Let’s go!’. I am not unhappy to follow their chirps for the rest of the way.

Those of us wearing full mountaineering gear probably feel a little overdressed. Thankfully I have forgotten my hiking pole, so I blend in nicely with the (sparse) family crowd.

The absolutely glorious scent from these trees pervades the whole hike. Mimosa? Jasmine? I am reluctant to get close enough to check.

But all may not be what it seems. We are obliged to sign in no fewer than four times (the last Westerner was here in September) and there are many notices alerting us that 1.5 people die on this route every year (from what is not stated). Nobody is at all interested in signing me out at the other end.

Besides personal details the only question on the sign-in form is whether we are carrying a lighter (how many people lie I wonder). Initially fire buckets and water pipes line the route. Then we enter the ‘unincorporated area’ which looks no different except for no more water.

But wait! here comes the mountain rescue squad dressed up to the nines and hoofing it along tout de suite. The last one is not in such a hurry that he is unwilling to stop for a snap (but not a selfie with me which is usually the second stage of these interactions). What’s going on? Yet on more thing I’ll never know.

The perfect end to a perfect day. The fries aren’t up to much and the salad is a bust but the burger is exquisite and I have two Beer Lao which is the best beer in the world.

Looking for the Tea Horse Road

I am not here to have fun, no indeed, but to investigate the third of the famous international Chinese trade routes through which culture, religion, and goods cross-pollinated. I did the first – The Silk Road through northern China and the Tibet Autonomous Region during my last visit in 2019, and would dearly like to dismiss the second – The Southern Silk Road – as a figment of Doushaguan’s imagination (all except the most fringe academics who have clearly never been there agree with me). However the Tea Horse Road was a legitimate route for tea (out to Tibet) and horses (in from Tibet – evidently China had trouble breeding their own horses because of some mineral deficiency in the water) together with spices and religion from India (but we’re done with Buddhism for this trip thank you). It was also a major artery for supplying China during WWII also via Burma. But do not for one minute think its heyday is over! Not at all! Thanks to some turgid and interminable soapy series on TV (which very many people have been keen to share with me) the entire bourgeoisie is bound and determined to retread the THR. So I hitch a ride with 3 simpering hippy wannabes, in cheesecloth even though it’s raining, for the 2 hour drive into some other mountains to suss it out. Fortunately the weather clears up in the interim.

Shaxi

Yunnan province is home to a large number of indigenous peoples and Shaxi, like Dali, is home to the Bai (they are drowned out by hippies in Dali). Bai architecture is less pompous than Chinese style.

The whimsical exterior paintings often evince a strong concern with social justice

Integrity, or so Google lens tells me, on the back wall of the school. I would love to know the significance of the two outfits.

Someone’s definitely working something out with this ‘Rule of Law’ vignette

The old village of Shaxi (which is actually old for a change) is perfectly delightful.

Full of bijou little coffee shops (the actual coffee is appalling).

Blissfully it is hardly overrun. Presumably, unlike their offspring, the bourgeoisie have to earn a living midweek.

It also has a world class market

The locals are pleasantly cheery

These military style caps are definitely on trend this spring

Inspecting next year’s seed corn

I don’t know what this is but I had it for dinner in Doushaguan. It was horrible

Not just goods but also services. Major renovations to Grandma’s teeth.

And here’s the main attraction. The Tea Horse bridge from where they all set off for Tibet (I am going to be hearing that a lot in the next few days)

Tibet is somewhere over there.

Trying to capture the moment en plein air

I wander along it for a bit

Shepherds shepherding

Watching his garden grow

Back in Dali I pay a visit to my favorite ice-cream millenial who knows by now to give me a few extra swirls.

Onward! More of the Tea Horse Road awaits

It seems particularly unfortunate that the first time I discover that Doushaguan doesn’t appear on any map currently available on my phone is while I’m on train 5635 ostensibly en route. Of course, under normal circumstances whether or not somewhere is on a map is quite irrelevant, but in this case a) Trip.com has helpfully informed me that my inn is 2 miles away from the station b) close observation of the route indicates we are advancing into a gorge which makes it likely that the station or the inn or both are half way up a mountain c) further close observation of the caliber of the stations we have already passed makes it highly unlikely taxis will be conveniently waiting outside as they are at every one of the thousands of other Chinese stations nationwide. Still, I tell myself, 2 miles isn’t too far a walk at a pinch. I choose to ignore that the station is on one side of the river and the inn on the other, and the map also fails to show a bridge.

It didn’t start well. Train 5635 departs from its own special railway station buried deep in the industrial hinterland of Yibin. The taxi driver has never heard of it, nor has his navigation app. ‘I was sweating’ he tells me when we finally alight on it. So was I, I reassure him. This seems to be the waiting ‘room’.

The rolling stock last saw action during the Long March. Note there is no platform and all 5 of us passengers must haul ourselves up a ladder to get on board.

A foreigner has never traveled on this train or so I’m told by everyone who passes my seat. I am ushered to the ‘ladies section’ and the staff parade past at 15 minute intervals to marvel at the sight (it is a five hour trip).

This one is particularly interesting. He spends the first part of the trip either asleep or drinking tea, but then dons what looks like highly sophisticated virtual reality glasses. To what end is not clear

We are basically zig-zagging from one side to another of a river hemmed in by dizzyingly steep mountains with occasional villages clinging to the mountainside. I begin to worry about the potential topography of this upcoming 2 mile walk.

No says mom, there won’t be any taxis. Rubbing fingers is how to indicate goodbye.

Reassuringly the station does exist if in name only (there is no apparent indoor component)

Remarkably four other folks get off with me. Even more remarkably a car is waiting, clearly for them, but also, possibly, for me? I have little choice except go with the flow since my fears about the walk have materialized, and it is decidedly unattractive. Despite this unanticipated convenience I do not have a good feeling in part because the driver is unwilling to make eye contact with me (to be fair he is slightly wall-eyed) and in part because it is freezing cold and raining. When we arrive after about 10 minutes, he condescends to engage with my translation app to tell me the trip is free (this will be important shortly).

An unprepossessing start. The receptionist is evidently trying to conserve her body heat. She never does wake up

If possible the room is even less attractive than the lobby. The window doesn’t shut properly. Did I mention it’s freezing cold and raining?

This is the room I thought I’d booked (from the website) clearly in a whole other hotel, not here. Can I have it? I ask the other receptionist who is awake ‘No’ she says decisively.

The thought of having to engage with a squat toilet in the middle of the night is not appealing. Neither is standing in the toilet to have a shower. The hot tap in the sink has been disconnected.

After the police have shown up with full pomp and ceremony to register my passport , all hell breaks loose. It is not helped by my Microsoft translation app (Google translate is unavailable even with an iron-clad VPN). MTA has some endearing features – it translates the intake of breath before starting to speak as ‘belch’ – but also randomly assigns gender which is not helpful when having a conversation in mixed company, and is also terribly conflict averse, devolving into metaphor and euphemism (in both languages) at the drop of a hat. For example, when I go downstairs to beg for a towel:

Mr Wall-Eye: One hundred yuan (only $15 but a significant sum here)

Me: What for ? Is it for the trip from the station? (The only service I have received since I have prepaid my room which costs $17 a night)

Mr W-E: Right

Me: Can I ask you why? If we have all paid 100 Yuan then the trip will have cost 500 yuan ($70, a fortune since a normal 10 minute taxi trip costs $1, and probably a week’s wages) or am I paying for everybody, in which case why? I don’t know these people.

This is TMI so I break it down into the 3 essential concepts. The following is taken from the actual MTA transcripts:

The owner’s wife: It’s different in the south, they themselves pay a hundred.

No way in hell are Chinese people going to pay this sum (especially those Chinese people), so I’m damned if I will be taken for a ride so to speak

Me: Really?

Mr W-E (shouting): Lao looked in the north to see that he had a child Lao Tzu.

OW (shouting): Ah don’t you mean that you misunderstood, do you live alone? Pay attention to this, is it 100Y? It’s not expensive, we will open it at home and open it for 80 and we will pick you up and them, they love you in this family, and they don’t live in the same way.

Mr W-E (shouting): It’s not that you understand this person, the four of them they’re all the way. Their room fee, they’re all out of you. It’s your room and the fare, are you living alone, what’s going on?

Me: But that’s not the point, how many people live in the room. The room is separate from the travel.I have paid for my room already.

OW: If you live alone your fare and room will be doubled. Do we open it in the front of our house?

OW: Was he deceived into getting into the car? Hello, hello you got off the car by yourself, didn’t we lie to you, you are the tail number of the car.

Me: I asked him again and again how much this will cost and he wouldn’t tell me, Let’s finish this now, it’s enough. I will ask the other people upstairs for an explanation. I can’t understand yours.

Meta translation. OK we tried to screw you, will you accept our bogus rationalization? And my answer is it’s a bit much, especially for a communist society

I go upstairs where the other party are lounging in their rooms, all ears (this is a very small place).

Me: This man downstairs charged me 100Y for the car trip

Other man upstairs: Charge me 100Y, you can’t understand we can’t understand. I have a laundry shop, don’t wash me, wash the sweat.

Meta translation. You’re on your own doll. We made our deal, you’d better make yours.

Me: OK I’m giving it to you but I’m not happy about it

OW: You can go to other inquiries to see how much the room costs, do you pay attention to our world. You can ask in other places, can you go consult?

Me: I feel like I’m trapped here and I’m being cheated

Meta translation. Foreigners are a pain in the ass why do we even bother.

At dinner at the best local specialty place, I am able to convince the lady chef that I can’t eat a kilo of fish on my own and she relents and cooks me a delicious soup with merely a pound (mostly bone thankfully).. The sous chef demands to know how old I am and we have a moment of female solidarity

According to Chinese Yelp this is the best restaurant in Doushaguang (and it is not on the map either)

Only half a kilo of fish and delicious home made tofu, I am restored.

Ladies need to stick together

On a whim I wander further down the street (this is clearly the high class part of town) and stumble on a convivial little hotel

Yes they can take foreigners, yes they have a room, yes I can see it and yes it costs $17 a night. Things I didn’t realize until later: It doesn’t matter that the front door is open because the inside is not heated, so everyone just keeps their winter coats on.

There is a heater under the table, enclosed by the heavily padded curtain. The charming daughter-in-law and her friend the doctor’s wife invite me to stick my legs underneath too.

There is also a Western toilet in the bathroom. The linens and towels however are paper.

I retrieve my belongings from the hell-hole at the other end of town. The owner’s wife follows me shrieking and throwing money (none of which totals 100Y I notice). I make a dignified exit.

Reasonable folks might want to know exactly why Doushaguang is even on this itinerary. It turns out that in the time of the warring states the Northern Silk Road and its Tibetan tributary were non-functional, and so alternative routes were needed to export silk. Chengdu, which is in between X’ian and Leshan on the map, took over as the hub since Xi’an was beleagured. Evidently, there is only one pass between Sichuan and Yunan and that pass, the Dousha Pass, goes through Doushaguan forming a critical constituent of the Southern Silk Road. What better segue from the Buddhist theme of the North to the Silk Roads theme of the south, and getting a taste of hinterland China to boot.

The view from my window in the morning. I’m hoping that it is not included in today’s hike

We know we’re in the right place because the bronze horses have followed us here (no camels this far south). Doushaguan is more focused on actually building the road than what traveled on it.

It was called the 5 meter road for obvious reasons, and this supposedly is the only surviving portion. Or rather, given the Chinese talent for marketing, it’s the only portion that is currently being promoted. Only a handful of tourists; it might help if they made arrangements to appear on a map.

The Dousha pass of the Southern Silk Road links Sichuan with Yunan provinces. The few other tourists resolutely head for the top. However this outfit is not run by the Governmental organization deeply committed to universal access, and so has definite death trappy potential, so I give it a miss (did I mention that it’s freezing albeit not raining at this actual moment).

There is not much else to do in Doushaguan besides freeze and wander round the village. I stay away from the despicable upper town and fortunately in the more decorous lower part, news of last night’s altercation seems not to have sullied my reputation

Old ladies unsuccessfully trying to get warm regard me with an expression that can be interpreted as sheer disbelief

I am presented with fat toddlers for approval

The real ice-breaker is when the middle schoolers show up. Before I know it they have brought their books for an impromptu English lesson in the street. We agree to read ahead to Unit 6 to impress their teacher. Then we work on the ‘th’ sound. ‘Don’t be afraid to stick your tongue between your teeth’ I tell them, ‘It’s a very important sound in English’. The next morning I am woken up by a chorus of ‘ths’ as they pass under my window on the way to school.

Scenes from Village Life

This prosciutto equivalent is a local delicacy. The propane torch adds a je ne sais quoi

I thought it was cheese but it’s pressed tofu

The best breakfast dim sum, by a dim sum master

The next morning, horrors! For some inexplicable reason, tickets for the 5636 in the return direction are released only the morning of, and the website indicates all are sold out. A desperate email to Vivi yields no satisfaction; the system is down, no tickets for sale. There is literally no alternative transport out of town. If I go down to the station, how likely is it they will throw their most exotic customer off the train? Mine host has offered to take me, and I insist on leaving 2 hours early. He won’t accept any payment.

These weekenders are also at the station 2 hours early desperate not to be stuck in Doushaguan for a minute longer than absolutely necessary. When the train finally arrives it is 90% empty, and I am treated like the communist equivalent of returning royalty.

It is still raining

Another day of travel karma. From Guyuan on a different airline with nicely solid engines into Xi’an pronto, so an earlier train for the planned overnight in Chengdu. But wait, what’s this! This train actually goes onto Leshan, and quick as a flash the carriage supervisor scans my passport into her phone, takes cashless payment for the fare difference, and gives me the QR code for my new ticket to photograph. Eat your heart out Amtrak. Simply clicking ‘my plans have changed’ gets an immediate refund on my Chengdu hotel reservation. I do not yet know I will soon receive karmic payback for this smug hubris.

But while we’re still at it, what can I say about this $35 a night find with a view of the river and my own little sitting nook. I will soon wish I’d never left. Best of all the sister/brother millenials-on-the desk who exude calm competency. He even volunteers to take me to the hospital when I inadvertently trip on the stairs.

The only possible flaw is no breakfast. But never fear! The hipster coffee place just round the corner can be followed by Wang Pancake, a delectable yeast-based dough filled with whatever your heart desires and just enough ma la taste for the morning. By the second day I have learned to combine the two.

First up, what else, a Buddha (may I say my last Buddha); this one the actual largest (standing) Buddha in China plus another mountain full of stuff to clamber around. There are many more of us here today, and we’re all excited to learn there are only 284 steps up (only to the feet as we find out too late).

The earlobes will fit two people standing say the same folks who gave us the 284 steps

The Buddha’s toes are also famous and located somewhere down there by the river. The way down is evidently via that staircase.

No-one is prepared to tackle any more steps so I have all the higher up temples to myself

Except for one family. Mom insists on a picture, to daughter’s absolute mortification

There is always a temple too far

People are here to pray as well as rubberneck and there is a Buddhist monk contingent to make sure all rules are followed. Color coordination is important to Buddhist monks, so please note the color coordinated sneakers.He is in charge of ringing the bell, which seems to necessitate a significant cash donation.

(I became solidly cynical about Buddha Inc after my visit to the Tibetan Autonomous region in 2019*).

*A short detour towards Tibet, or: Buddha Inc.

The rest of the monk contingent are in here praying but we aren’t allowed to look or photograph. Pity, their version is surprisingly melodic

My plan to approach the Buddha’s toes from ground level initially seems promising

Only to be thwarted when I’m tantalizingly close. So of course it’s up to the top again

And then all the way down. Needless to say this is the only way out.

And so here at last are the Buddha’s toes. Very big.

Not clear whether this is a Buddhist rule or about historic preservation

I recognize these guys! There were always gangs of them at the temples in Burma sweeping up after the faithful. ‘Are you going to sweep?’ I ask making a gesture. They nod enthusiastically. ‘Due!’ they tell me (right!). Still not clear whether Chinese has words for yes and no.

Meanwhile back on the esplanade by the river, Friday afternoon hell has broken loose.

There’s the erhu player with a bike full of other instruments for later

And the inevitable dancing ladies

Karaoke unbound

The classical orchestra’s piano player definitely ups her game when sees me watching

It’s not all culture, the barbers are out en masse (I was trying to get a snap surreptitiously from behind but he made me come round for a full frontal)

And a lot of this (local) weird card game.

But it’s GO that draws the crowds

This old mister is selling off his communist memorabilia. I notice he’s reading an article about Trump so I make a vomit face and give two thumbs down. Hilarity ensues.

And then it’s tea time.

Leshan is a foodie city, and the epicenter is the conveniently named Food Street. Most conveniently many people are eating on the pavement. My new approach is to cast an eagle eye on their dinners and ask for the same.

It doesn’t work. I get boiled pea shoots and an omelette.

(Aside) The next night nice millenial on the desk recommends a restaurant and tells me what to order. Evidently both are a local specialty.

Closer inspection reveals it to be boiled beef and cabbage. At least I get a beer.

Day two: And 15 miles later

Visitors to Leshan spend the second day at Emeishan mountain, one of the 4 (or 3 or 5) key Buddhist sites in China. At 16,000 feet the two choices are two walk up (in two days) or take a hideous bus ride. I am not going to visit Emeishan mountain. Instead I have spotted a huge expanse of green a hop skip and jump away that appears to be a nice park.

Its a beautiful day and they’re all out. Naughty boys whose dads don’t care if they swing upside down on the fences; bashful boys and dainty girls corralled on the back of the moped or under grandma’s eagle eye; striver moms for their constitutionals; pensioners for a natter. Poor beaux shooting endless photos and wishing they were anywhere else but knowing with the demographics as they are, they should count themselves lucky to be here.

The entrance nearest me is less well kempt than I expect

But clearly official; every so often these motion-activated loudspeakers wake up to shout out a PSA. Is it about littering or the flora and fauna? I ‘ll never know

These folks are collecting water from a turbid ditch beside the road. I have it in my mind they are citizen scientists doing a water quality project. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask. ‘Collecting water’ they say. ‘To drink? I ask. They can barely speak with derision. Foreigners must be nuts; people only drink bottled water in China.

Moms out foraging. When I get close she throws herself on top to hide it from me.

When I emerge onto the official part the trees are in spectacular blossom

I take a detour into a less groomed area

I wasn’t expecting this. But whatever the monkey enclosure encloses is struggling with breeding, so we are not currently invited in. (Things are clearly not going well; the notice is dated 2022.

Back on the main drag, more surprises

Not a surprise that it all ends in a massive snack fest

This time I’ll have what he had works like a charm. The stuffed crepe lady riffs a bit and comes up with a winner

A tactical error in the making. I’ve not completely circumnavigated the park, but wouldn’t striking out through town make the return trip more interesting?

It certainly does but after I’m done Apple tells me I’ve walked 15 miles.

I resuscitate myself with raspberry ice-cream which is neither raspberry nor ice-cream and there’s much less than there seems thanks to the shaving. But the tapioca pearls are delicious, especially after the boiled beef fiasco.

And from my bedroom window the Giant Buddha and the temple-too-far are strutting their stuff.

Guyuan, now in the Ningxia autonomous region of the Hui muslims, had its heyday during the Wei Dynasty back in the 6th century, so no surprise then that the fast trains are giving it a miss. The 1 hr puddle jumper (China Eastern outsourced to some random local set up with a worryingly wobbly left engine) provides a whole new perspective. We leave everything urban behind after about 5 minutes.

The terraces look like those laser cut plywood topographic maps, riven by deep gorges. Although Ningxia is largely desert, this area must be less barren in the growing season – the major crop is wheat.

Getting into town after we land has more drama than seems necessary. Normally the move is to ignore any feral private taxis milling at the exit and make a beeline for the sedate metered versions that never rip you off. But here (45 minutes out of town town) even the official taxis have an angle. The driver doesn’t want to do the trip for less than 50Y ($8), but his passengers don’t want to pay more than 30Y. So he first entices us with an offer of 30Y (which we all know is too good to be true) then drives outside the gate for an enthusiastic game of musical chairs with all the other taxis (we passengers are less enthusiastic). The music stops when our cab is filled up with the maximum (3) all going to approximately the same place.

Having been to Ningxia before, Guyuan is everything I expect it to be.

Except this speaks of quixotic dreams. It’s always dark (unlike everything else) and doesn’t seem to move, so who knows.

Why am I even here? Back in the day when it was a major gateway on the Northern Silk Road en route to Xi’an, Guyuan (or to be more accurate its environs an hour and a half out of town) acquired a set of Buddhist grottoes, which are intriguing because they’re less visited than most. Now I’m here it’s no surprise why: In yet another fail, the bus Lonely Planet has promised, either doesn’t operate now, no longer operates or has never existed depending on who at the hotel is offering an opinion. But are we even talking about the same place? It turns out everything has 4 names: The name LP gives it in English, the name LP gives it in Chinese (neither of which are recognizable to locals) its actual name in Chinese, and its name in the Hui language, which everyone speaks here. Undeterred, the nice young ladies at the desk determine they can find me a driver. I am in their hands.

Mr Mo of the incomprehensible diphthongs. Our language barrier workaround puts paid to any small talk

And find me a driver they do! Mr. Mo (the Hui language is a cacophony of chirps and swallowed consonants so his actual name consists of diphthongs never encountered in the English language) is a cheery type who doesn’t speak English (no surprise there) but also doesn’t read Chinese, which makes any communication between us a challenge. No problem! He rapidly figures out a workaround: I convey my question to my translation app which converts it into Chinese on my phone. He takes a screenshot and sends it to his wife, who translates it into Hui and tells him what it says. Of course this means I never get an actual answer, but at least he knows what’s on my mind. This turns out to be important when we arrive and find the parking locked. Fortunately the ticket collector is on site (sadly she has to let me in free). At least, thanks to Mrs. Mo we can make a plan for him to wait for me outside the gates while I climb the mountain. Besides a girl selling water (of course I buy a bottle) there is no-one else here.

The water girl is so insistent on coming with me I almost have to push her away. At least she can read Chinese so I can tell her not to take it personally but I am an old lady and need to concentrate if I am climbing mountains.

The grottoes in question. The name Mount Sumeru (the Hui name) appears nowhere in English language explanations of the area which call it Xumishan, a bad approximation of the Chinese name.

We’re headed up here I guess

First stop the giant Buddha. I am deeply skeptical of the claim that it is the largest Buddha in China, but on close re-reading realize it is the largest seated Buddha in China. It is impossible to get a good picture

The rest of the caves are artfully draped around the mountains. This being China, getting to them will have been expertly planned

Apart from a few obvious design flaws

The grottoes themselves are nothing special. The really old ones are closed up. Still its great to be up in the mountains on this clear, crisp day, without thousands of my closest friends.

I make my way up to what looks like it’s the top

Unfortunately it’s not, but the rest will have to wait for another day. No wonder my energy is flagging; I later find out that we are actually at 7,000 feet.

But now of course we have to get down.

Possibly this will get better round the corner

Nope

I make it down unscathed and ask Mrs Mo to tell her husband to drop me off at the museum. Here is the paydirt! The Guyuan county plain is home to innumerable Wei graves that are largely untouched. They have produced some amazing Silk Road artifacts:

This incredible jug is carved with Grecian mythological figures

Byzantine coins, etc. etc.

Plus some delightful funerary objects

And a decent Buddha at last

I celebrate at the best restaurant in town.

Disclaimer, it is a Wednesday

Their specialty is lamb soup with dry bread. Usually one gets the bread, crumbles it into the bowl and hands it back for the soup, whereupon the bread swells up. Because this is the best restaurant the bread is cut up already. I want to order the bigger size, but am not allowed to

I pass on the (extra garlic). No beer in Hui country

This faster train from Pingyao to Xi’an will only take three hours. It tackles the mountains head on by simply barreling through them; No more cozy patchwork fields, but the agribusiness substitutes are bursting with new growth thanks to the (presumably) toxic chemicals that are being cast with abandon as we make our way south. The graves have been corralled to the edges so they don’t interfere with plowing or the polytunnels (was it always like this or have they all been dug up and repositioned?)

It does not start well. Striver mom from a few seats down is determined I should spend the trip productively, conversing in English with her 6 year-old son. My perfectly pleasant seat companion gets what’s up and tries to run interference by refusing to give up his seat. He doesn’t stand a chance.

Son does not buy into a weekend away that involves reading English to this old lady

Honestly he reads English better than a lot of US 6 year olds and our dramatic re-enactment of Carlos’s attempts to reconcile his social life with his sporting responsibilities (he plays Carlos) delights everyone. He confides sotto-voce that he thinks baseball is stupid. ‘Do you want to go to America?’ mom asks. ‘No’ he says firmly.

There is never a free lunch. My Sir Galahad insists I make a video for him. I tell his phone that I’m Karina from the US and I’m having a great time traveling round China, but he demands a retake so I can include how old I am. (He also demands a look at my passport as proof).

Well hello again X’ian!

I’m so happy to be back in Xi’an again*. It holds a special place in my heart as the City of Eternal Spring (to be fair I have only been here in the Spring). I’m also happy with a repeat visit to the Mercure Xi’an Downtown which holds a special place in my heart as the perfect hotel to spruce up in after a road trip. The last time I was here it had just opened and the millenials-on-the-desk were so clueless I shamelessly browbeat them into numerous upgrades, extended stays etc etc. Now it’s a well-oiled machine with a free laundromat and a fabulous breakfast; the millenials have been supplemented with AI.

*Xi’an – where it ends and where it begins (2019).

The annoying robot is always trundling about taking up space in the elevator to no good end. When I ask it ‘Why are you following me around?’ it tells me (in English) not to disturb it while it is working

The Chinese have realized that if billions of people put toilet paper into the sewers it will not end well. So any hotel worth its salt has installed a bidet. Thanks to AI my bidet has learned more about me overnight than I have learned about myself in 71 years. Its flushing function automatically activates when I stand up. Fair enough. But it also activates during the night when it figures I might need a reminder to go to the bathroom. Annoyingly at precisely the time I am lying awake wondering whether I can put off a trip for another hour. The curtains have also decided that a good time for me to get on the move is at 7:24.

I am less sure about the condoms/earplugs combo. After the maid gets a look at me she swaps out the condoms for another set of earplugs.

Can’t leave without a spin round some of the items at the excellent hotel breakfast.

What you had for dinner freshly repurposed

A delicious selection of cold pickled salads

The fried egg station. The accommodating lady has learned I like mine done before they are completely rock hard

And the piece de resistance. I should add that most of the clientele is eating bacon and croissants

Culture time

I did the major sites when I was here last. This time, besides doing laundry, my goal is to visit the famous Shaanxi History museum for the Xi’an perspective on the Silk Road. It does not disappoint either me or the 10,000 other history buffs who have decided this will be the perfect way to spend a rainy Sunday afternoon.

Here we all are, dad presumably explaining why Lantian man has felt the need to slap a leaf on his (or her) privates

It is heaving with history buffs, few of them older than 40.

Sometimes it’s all just too much

And here’s the payoff (for me). Am I seeing another trip in my future?

Google lens helpfully decodes this Silk Roads map. But wait! Why is the south empty? There was a whole other Silk Road network based in Chengdu that was important during the warring states period to move goods to and from South East Asia. Is this a Xi’an-centric map or is there something I don’t know about – controversy perhaps? I’m headed there next, so we’ll see.

Some of the artifacts are staggering; I’ll put a selection at the end.

The art museums are nearby so I do due diligence. As I recall, they’re dreadful. The first one is the vanity project of some jewelry tycoon and mostly features garish works from his personal collection. They charge a relative fortune to get in and then sic on a goomba guard to forestall complaints. This time I brandish my passport and force them to give me the old lady free ticket, and the guard leaves me alone.

Yep.

But I have sneered too soon. The second exhibit saves the day! The Buddhist grottoes in Dunhuang are a hotbed for research and so are particularly precious about access – few of the caves are open to the public and even though a stupendous reconstruction has been done, photographing it is forbidden. Luckily Yang Dongmiao has dedicated her life to copying the Dunhuang murals onto paper.

Hum what’s going on there at the bottom right?

The second museum features a contemporary exhibit based on the concept of ‘Loong’ which evidently can mean anything from pretending to like something you don’t, to striving to earn your parents approbation. It seems mostly to be an excuse for posing (as usual).

Loong, whatever it means

Upstairs though, exuberant art appreciation classes for the kindergarten crowd

Meanwhile it has stopped raining so the street sweepers have come out to remove water from the pavements (this is at 5pm on a Sunday afternoon).

I would like to eat Biang Biang noodles for dinner. The only restaurant review in English I can find near the hotel is at 107 Ximin Street.

Me: Is this 107?

Lady restauranteur: No, 105

Me: So 107 is next door? (This cannot be assumed)

Next door lady restauranteur: Yes this is 107

Me: Great! Can I have Biang Biang noodles?

Entire clientele (4 people) and mine hostess erupt in consternation. Finally one customer gets up, chopsticks in hand, takes me by the arm and manhandles me to another restaurant across the road. My translation app can eavesdrop:

Sir Galahad: I think she wants Biang Biang noodles but it sounds like she’s been eating laundry detergent. Don’t make them too spicy she’s a foreigner.

To me: This is where you eat Biang Biang noodles.

The likely lads in the back for their weekly game of cards are in heaven. This is evidently more excitement than they’ve had in years.

They’re just starting on the moonshine

They cheer me when I pile on the chili crisp (they aren’t spicy enough), encourage me to have another beer, get out the moonshine and propose many toasts in my direction. (I participate only with my beer). Finally the inevitable. One of them approaches with his phone. There is a ’60’ on it. At first I think it’s the price ($9, which would be outrageous). Eventually I twig that he wants to know how old I am.

Me: 71

Likely lad: 71?! Wah!!! He too is 71.

The he in question (back right) looks like he doctored his hair just before he came out

Me: But how can he be 71? His hair is black and mine is white!

LL: Wah!! She is good one for you! Very spicy!

The black-haired one looks dubious and retreats into his cards.

We have a final toast and I pay my bill ($3) and go home.

Luoyang

There is little so satisfying in traveling as smoothly executed logistics. My side trip to Luoyang fits the bill. It requires a subway ride to the main station, a 1.5 hour fast train ride out of town and then a taxi. It all goes off without a hitch. Luoyang is home to the Longmen grottoes are one of the triad of most important Buddhist grottoes in China. The others – Dunhuang, I saw last time* and Yungang I saw last week.

*The mouth and the throat of the Empire. Part 1:the mouth

The Longmen grottoes were built by the Wei emperor when he moved his capital from Pincheg(Datong) to escape the Mongols, and represent the solid sinification of Buddhist art. Or so I’m expected to believe since at this particular moment in the 21st century little tangible evidence remains. The few caves that are open have worse erosion than Yungang, and historical restoration seems to have been abandoned.

Things aren’t looking good at one of China’s most iconic Buddhist sites.

There is no decorative work left, but there are one or two odd gems.

A good example of the Persian pearl style, which is hard to find and perhaps surprising this late and this far East

Up endless flights of stairs and the caves at the top are inevitably closed

Enthusiasm rapidly lags

My sentiments exactly

These are definitely the best views of the Longmen grottoes

Travel karma persists. I easily change my ticket back for an earlier one and treat myself to a hotpot dinner.

Extra credit:Some artifacts from the museum. Particularly struck by the bronze work from the Zhou Empire around 400 BC

The point of the pots is the inscriptions transcribed inside that codify all the social rules.

The Zhous were obsessed with hierarchy, also reflected in the pots. This bureaucrat was allowed to have five pots and four food containers, and no more on pain of death.

Remarkable bronze work

A bell from about 400BC

The Zhous were so status obsessed their empire only lasted 45 years

About 400 AD. Porcelain.

Off to Guyuan later today.

On to Datong, 2 and a bit hours from Beijing on the fast train, straight across the flat, flat plain. Frigid weather today, the snow still on the ground frozen solid so the wind can’t whip it anywhere. Immediately into the countryside. No sign of spring growth in the small well-tended fields or in the orchards, trees standing to attention in quiet rows, expertly pruned. Surprisingly few villages given how small the fields are. Sporadic graves in the fields, but more usually among the fruit trees, festooned with artificial holiday flowers. One or two farmers desultorily burning their chaff; A single farmer pushing his hoe, no sign of a truck, car or even a bike. Every now and then a small flock of sheep chewing up the straw shepherd headed hwo knows where. No industry to be seen. About every 20 minutes a small city with the usual complement of massive high rises. Inevitably too the new construction, ominously abandoned half-finished, the building materials stacked under tarps, the cranes covered in snow. We stop only once or twice.

The Vision of Geng Yanbo

Chapter 1: Let’s imagine for one moment its the early 2000s and everything is booming and you’ve been appointed mayor of one of these cities on this god forsaken plain within sniffing distance of Mongolia (not that you had any choice in the matter). Actually you’re already more famous than most – thanks to the mines you were anointed the most polluted city in China; all that’s left now is a crappy 1960s mining museum. But the new high speed train is actually going to stop here! So what’s your first move? (a) Immediately apply for a transfer (b) Immediately borrow 7 billion yuan so you can throw 100,000 people out of the decrepit ancient city, demolish all the remaining historic houses, recreate an ersatz theme park complete with fake city walls and market it to Beijingers as the nearest place for a romantic weekend away.

That was the vision of Datong’s mayor Geng Yang.

I actually forgot to take a picture of the new city walls and it seems appropriate that this is a stock photo from the internet.

Actually he had two visions, the striver boomtown across the river, seen in the distance, is going great guns, bilingual pre-ks, fancy supermarkets and all.

Back in the ‘ancient city’ everything is blinged up to the gills.

Even the mosque gets its moment in the sun, so to speak. There are fancy fake watch shops galore.

Chapter 2: There is some resistance to your vision. The people who were kicked out have something to say. Historians of the ancient city are especially miffed. Datong’s heyday was as Pincheng capital of the Wei Empire in the 400s, and strategically important on the Northern Silk Road as the gateway to trade with Mongolia. Any connection between these fancy new buildings, in the Ming and Qing style with Pincheng/Datong’s actual history exists purely in the fevered imagination of the Mayor.

The Datong museum would definitely like you to know it doesn’t buy into all this Ming/Qing nonsense

It’s all about the Silk Road

Still, the tourists from Beijing have, and you’ve spent a lot of money so let’s see…

My hotel’s contribution to the historic vibe is a collection of dinosaur eggs (more on this later) .

Chapter 3: You have spent a LOT of money. And more important you don’t seem to be paying it back. China being China, what to do with a dubious decision but to sweep it under the rug. You and your historic visions are quickly reassigned to the next biggish city along the trainline. Meanwhile back in Datong a new era emerges

Still plenty to knock down. This is now cynically ‘Empty Window time’. A saying that in Chinese describes the period in between relationships.

What’s left of the actual old houses and their actual inhabitants

Meanwhile back in the nouveau Ming neighborhood, these cranes are quiet too

But we are not here to marvel at how many gold shops can be crammed on a single shopping street, but rather to visit the famous Yungang grottoes. One of the three most important Buddhist grottoes in China (I saw the Moghao grottoes in Dunhuang last time, and I’ll be seeing the Longmen grottoes in Luyuang in a couple of days), the Yungang grottoes represent the easternmost reach of Buddhism from the Northern Silk Road. They were developed in the 400s, during the Wei dynasty when Pincheng/Datong flourished and comprise about 50 caves with thousands of Buddhas.

But the caves were carved in sandstone so there has been significant erosion both from the inside and outside.

And only one retains its protective wooden facade that can preserve it from the elements

Unlike Dunhuang where most of the caves were closed and we couldn’t even photograph the painstakingly constructed replicas, here we can traipse through willy nilly. And there’s plenty to see that gives us a clue to the Silk Road influences on these Buddhas

The exposed right shoulder shows the influence of the Ghandaran empire (India/Pakistan)

While the pearls are Parthian (Persian)

The inevitable 1o00 Buddha cave, of course this one has 10,000

But this is Chinese all the way

I wasn’t expecting this. Google translate helpfully explains there’s also a big Jurassic seam in the area, accounting for the Pipa hotel’s dinosaur egg collection no doubt.

Back in the ‘ancient city’ a rather lovely Buddhist temple. Although given your penchant for sprucing things up its hard to know what’s real and what’s reimagined, (This was the case too in all of ex-Soviet central Asia – basically all of Uzbekistan is a Soviet renovation).

A likely lad

But the Nine Dragon Screen at least is genuine. Only one of three in China, it is actually Ming era and decaying nicely in the elements

There are like 20 people here, and two of them are cosplayers.

They can barely manage a smile in the freezing wind. But they assure me they are wearing thermal underwear. I swear to God this is the last picture of cosplayers I’m going to take.

For those of you who want extra reading there is in fact a feted Documentary about Geng Yanbo, that won international awards. Apparently its available on Amazon. I don’t think my VPN will handle it, but it’s definitely bookmarked for later

Malcolm Gladwell’s day in the sun may be over in the West but here in China the notion that only (a lot of) practice makes perfect is considered banal to say the least. Ah yes, but will it be art? I too, Ai Wei Wei excluded, am a total snob about Chinese contemporary art. So what better way to spend a day than reinforcing these prejudices at its epicenter in the nation’s capital? Two subway rides and a mere 2 mile walk later here I am at Area 798, another of those repurposed post industrial factory complexes beloved of hipsters world wide.

That was then

This is now. Worrying absence of actual hipsters.

First off, a rather charming exhibit on Dreams. Sadly most of the artists are Spanish. Onward.

Teacher is having his class read the dream sequences off in chorus. Practice makes perfect! They’re doing a credible job but evidently no time for questions.

It goes rapidly downhill from here. I should have been tipped off by the fact the only convenient access is by driving in from the suburbs. The cool kids have gone elsewhere and I will never find them.

I have the distinct feeling this is not ironic.

Hipsters be damned! Let’s try the tangible and intangible cultural heritage on offer at the National Museum of Arts and Crafts.

Settling in for a lifetime of practice

Can’t argue the technical mastery, but left with the thought that just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.

But wait! What’s this just across the courtyard???

Surely the absolute epicenter of both tangible and intangible culture – the Communist Party Museum! Not many takers on this warm Saturday afternoon. The millenials on the gate let me in with dispatch and giggles; the old folk docents inside are deeply disapproving. If they could cover up the exhibits they would.

Now here’s a design aesthetic to get behind!

Conflict!

Suffering!

Resolution!

And here is everyone, well the men anyway, reluctantly enduring a refresher course in something or other. The women and kids are across the courtyard up to their necks in poster paint.

The guide has to shout very loudly to compete with the patriotic music

No pictures of hungry people however. I guess ‘Agrarian reform’ is one way to put it

Enough of officially imposed cultural heritage! What do the people tell themselves? Only another long march around town will tell.

It has become nippy again (the significance of this will be clear later) so the moped duvets have been resurrected.

Remnants of New Year everywhere

Most people are back at work after the holidays, but exercise classes are being taken very seriously

For some reason this is done to rap

The Chinese boomer version of pickleball involves kicking a shuttlecock over a badminton net. Note the clown shoes

Inevitably big brother can’t leave us alone. Remember China is dedicated to universal access. And also to saving us from ourselves.

For some perspective – the dangerous lake in question

Let there be no mistake

But there is room for a little civil disobedience

Yes that is in fact ice in the background

Eternal hope but as yet no fish

Time to move on. Let the Long March begin again. Sayonara Beijing!

Is it at all surprising that online Great Wall info is also rife with ambiguity? But is there a better way to alleviate anxiety and more to the point husband my precious steps for the actual event than enfolding myself into the bosom of the Mubus family who will attend to every detail? Evidently all the 30 tourists currently in Beijing (apart from me and a fistful of Germans, none are from the West) have had the same idea, so here we are at the Dongzhimen subway stop waiting for the Mubus itself while our paterfamilias greatwallguidefred delivers an enthusiastic blow-by-blow of the upcoming day. What past experiences make fred so deeply skeptical of our aptitude? I might be by far the oldest but all the Germans look Matterhorn competent and the Indonesians at least are young. Just to make sure he gives us all numbers so we won’t get lost (I am number 11) and then repeats his instructions twice more, slightly differently each time. They don’t match any of the online maps so our anxieties are not alleviated.

One of many online maps of this part of the wall. They are all different and none resemble the reality on the ground (at all)

Not to worry! This is China so everything has been thought of. However solutions will inevitably be more complicated than strictly necessary. Indeed this one section of the wall has developed two independent sides. The East (privately run) has a chair lift (not on the map) and a rickety luge for the descent, while the West (government run) has a gondola and the only toilet (the others on the map are figments of the imagination). fred’s idee fixe that we will form an expeditionary force to tackle East and West sequentially is not going to work for me. Not only does having Matterhorners for company on the ‘Heroes circuit’ rather appall, but I hate both chairlifts and luges and am definitely going to need the toilet sooner than all these youngsters. So I bolt my surprisingly delicious Mubus family lunch and head out on my own, thwarting fred, who is trying to talk the Malaysians into to taking me under their wing. (They are eternally grateful since their honeymoon plans did not include a token grandma).

The Great Wall comes in three flavors: Badaling is touristy schlock, Jinshaling is unrestored and therefore a potential death trap. Like Goldilocks I go for Mutianyu, following in eminent footsteps (but I am more suitably dressed).

The chair lift up is as terrifying as anticipated, but fortunately a burly Tibetan is available at the top to haul me off safely.

There are many Great Walls around Beijing because each Emperor built his own (we shall see why later). According to fred, the Wall is at the juncture between the steppes and agricultural land, neither of which is evident from here.

I head towards the east, and its numerous design flaws become rapidly apparent

Chief among which is that it almost totally consists of vertiginous steps that must of course be tackled in both directions.

Many (but not all) of the treads are shorter than any normal foot, the step heights are random and the wall itself lurches from side. No wonder the Qing Emperor built himself another one as soon as he took control.

I coerce a friendly millenial to document the end of the East side before I turn round to go back.

Meanwhile the Jinshaling section snaking down from the top of the ridge in the distance does look distinctly death-trappy

From the top of the East side the West side comes into view

As anticipated I can break all the rules and simply walk from East to West thereby avoiding the dreaded chair lift or even worse, the luge.I eat a banana to encourage my heart

While this crew gets motivated with a few patriotic songs

This is the point where I decide that I am not after all a (s)hero

As consolation the Government (presumably) has festooned the bare trees with fake blossoms

The ride back down is satisfyingly sedate.

Four hours (and 170 floors) later I find I am the only one who has taken this at all seriously and even attempted both East and West: The Matterhorners started out with the Heroes circuit but then had to repair back down with exhaustion and never made it up again. I turn down the Mubus family tea ceremony in favor of beer and fred shuffles us all off to the bus. Except for the Malaysians (numbers 25 and 26) who are nowhere to be found.