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