Tioman Island, again...

Note: To see more photos of Tioman, go to
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atkinsinmotion@yahoo.ca

June 15 – 29, 2009

As we neared the end of our ten months' traipse around Southeast Asia, and perhaps more significantly, the end of two months of frequently challenging travel in southern China, we decided we needed a couple of weeks somewhere 'nice,' with GOOD FOOD, somewhere QUIET, somewhere PEACEFUL, somewhere warm and sunny, and somewhere where there were no particular sights we needed to see or things we needed to do. Somewhere we could just kick back and enjoy. Somewhere where we could rest up not only from our 'grand tour,' but also for our 'return home,' wherever that may be.

It didn't take us long to decide that paradisaical Tioman Island, the place where we spent the first three weeks of our trip, was that 'somewhere.' And once we'd made that decision, we beat a hasty retreat from China. We hopped over the border from Nanning, where the city was 'same same' as all the other Chinese cities we'd been in – busy, bold, loud and very Westernized – and where the food was again gruesome, after a few great meals in Guilin and Yangshuo, to relative sanity, and distinctly better food, of Vietnam and Hanoi.

We only stayed in Hanoi a couple of days, most of which we spent eating. From Hanoi we took our only flight of the entire ten months, to Bangkok. It was just a couple of hours. We arrived in Bangkok early enough to catch an overnight train down to Penang, and so again spent less than 24 hours in Thailand.

Although the Thai train was nowhere near as new as the trains we took in China (tourist trains?), it was a damn sight more comfortable. Not, I should add, in terms of the ride itself – Chinese trains are stunningly smooth, and very quiet (electric). But definitely in terms of creature comforts – there were only two berths where in China there'd been three, none with enough headroom to sit up (trains are for sleeping).

And it was so QUIET! - we actually heard people whispering on the train! We heard no one hawking and spitting, no one shouting down a cell phone in the middle of the night. No one mega-sneezing. And there was absolutely NO SMOKING! Not even in the space between the cars. The washrooms were clean, and there was actually toilet paper – how novel! And a porter who came round and made up the beds with crisp clean sheets that he took out of sealed plastic bags. And night lights.

But when we got to Butterworth in Malaysia we found that the trains south to Kuala Lumpur were fully booked for the next two nights. So we spent a couple of days and nights on Penang, doing something completely uncharacteristic for us – shopping. We had fun loading up on clothes, gifts and souvenirs. And we went to the Red Garden Night Market and gorged on more good food.

We did a marathon stint from Penang by half-hour ferry to Butterworth, by overnight train to K.L., and by six bus through Johor Bahru to Mersing, where we arrived at 4:15, just in time to catch the 4:30 boat to Tioman, which didn't leave until 5, but got us there by 7. From the jetty at Air Batang, one of the half-dozen or so villages on Tioman, we walked to Mr. Tony's 'South Pacific Restaurant and Chalets,' wondering if by chance the bungalow we'd stayed in – the one right on the beach – might be available. It was.

Mr. Tony was glad to see us - “I have your bungalow! You can have. How long you stay?” Mrs. Tony's greeting was more taciturn. Where he is outgoing and ebullient, she is silent and impassive – impossible to read. She seldom talks, and I don't think we have ever seen her smile. But she makes a tasty vegetable omelette and some of the best Malaysian ice tea susus – hot black tea with sweetened condensed milk over ice – on Tioman.

We settled in. We rented snorkels and masks for the full two weeks so we could go snorkeling any time. We went to the book exchange and loaded up on new books. And then we kicked back.

Our days on Tioman went like this: wake up around 7:30 or 8 (old habits die hard) and sit on our little deck drinking coffee (Doug) and tea (me) and looking out at the beach, watching the boats coming and going from the jetty, watching schools of little fish jump. We imagine what might be chasing them.

We watch one of Mr. Tony's relatives – too thin to be a brother, but maybe a brother-in-law – as he makes a new breakwater in front of our bungalow. He mixes cement in an old wheelbarrow and begins the retaining wall. He works slowly, pausing frequently to assess his progress. Then he goes down to the beach and collects the biggest rocks he can carry. He staggers back to his wall and drops them on the 'land' side. He rubs his back. It's heavy work.

But he is building his wall perilously close to the high-tide line. It will likely end up, along with its predecessors, in broken chunks on the beach (some of which he is incorporating into his new wall).

We go to Mr. Tony's restaurant for breakfast, and are served by the unsmiling Mrs. Tony. A stream of tourists come by, fresh off the first boat of the day. Mr. Tony beckons them in: “You want room? I have room! One double bed, one single. Very cheap.” Since we've been gone he's built two new chalets on the beach. They have air-conditioning and hot water showers. They're 150 Ringgit ($45) a night, and they're usually full. Mr. Tony tells us that he recovered his costs of building them – and five times more – in the first three months.

We go back to our fan-cooled cold water bungalow (35 Ringgits, or $10 a night) and sit on the deck, reading and waiting for our breakfasts to digest. Then it's time for our first swim of the day. We don our masks and snorkels and head out to the beach right in front of our chalet. There's a nice patch of sand that makes it easier to get in and out of the water, and the coral reefs along our bit of shoreline, while not as spectacular as in some other spots, support lots of friendly fish.

Doug snorkels while I try to coax my body into a higher level of fitness by churning through the water in what I am sure is an ungainly and certainly not particularly effective, in terms of forward movement, front crawl. On the first day, I managed to do only 40 singular strokes at one go before I was fagged. (I know I should count only every other stroke, which would mean I've completed only 20 'real' strokes. But I count every one, like a mantra, to keep me going. It's a motivation thing.) I did four sets of forty and almost collapsed as I staggered out of the water.

Amazingly, by the 9th day, I was up to 200 singular strokes in one go, and managed a total of almost a thousand. Without staggering. I feel positively bouyant. I convince myself that I will keep it up when I get 'home'... .

It's generally too hot in the afternoon to do anything other than sit on the deck, or in the shade of one of the palm trees out front, and read, or play cards. Often there's a welcome afternoon breeze. We have a bird friend – we don't know what kin of bird he is. He looks like an emaciated robin, but slightly more colourful. He has a hurt foot, or maybe leg, so he limps a little. We call him 'Hoppy.' Hoppy visits us at least once a day, sometimes more often. He sits in the grass or on the picnic table, eying us – sizing us up? Sometimes he talks to us, but he soon becomes bored and flits up into one of the coconut palms in front of the bungalow.

We also have two monitor lizard friends who crawl down the path beside our bungalow every day. They're about three feet long, from snout to tail. They're scaly and ungainly, and look positively prehistoric. But they're cute in their own kind of way. Sometimes they hide in the shade of the flowers in the garden beside the carp pond. More often they head for Mr. Tony's greens patch, their long blue tongues flickering fast and furious as they search for succulent bugs.

Hoppy and his mate hate the lizards and harass them mercilessly, squawking and screeching and dive-bombing them repeatedly. The monitors seem more or less oblivious to the birds – even when the birds go so far as to land on the lizards' backs or heads. The lizards remind me of Mrs. Tony – utterly impassive and humourless.

Sometimes, in the late afternoon, when the water's again calm and the tide is low – perfect conditions for a good snorkel, we saunter down to Nazri beach. To get there we walk along the 'main drag,' a cement pathway that runs the length of the beach. From one end of Air Batang to the other is around a kilometer. There are no cars in Air Batang – no proper roads, just this one cement sidewalk. The path is lined with coconut palms, hibiscus hedges and other exotic flowering foliage the names of which we don't know.

There are several small colourful cement bridges across little streams. At one in particular we always stop and look up into the tree that overhangs both river and bridge. A couple pythons hang out, coiled in high branches of the tree, almost, but not quite, invisible. Sometimes they go AWOL for a couple of days. When they come back we imagine that we can see lumps in their coils. We wonder if they gobble up some of the many kittens that are born on the island... .

By the time we get to Nazri beach at the 'far end' of the walkway, we're hot and sweaty. We peel off our outer layer, grab our masks and snorkels, and leap into the water. It's only just slightly cooler than the air temperature, but it's enough to revive us. We gambol for an hour or more in the giant turquoise aquarium, gazing at many-coloured fishes.

When we get out we report to one another on what we've seen. The pink ones that zoom up at your mask in a threatening way (how do they know that that's where your eyes are?), but shrink back before you could touch them. The gangs of small purply black ones that nibble, and even bite, at your fingers and toes. And my favourites, the schools of electric-neon rainbow-coloured parrot fish, chomping noisily at the corals. We still haven't seen the turtles that apparently graze the corals along the beach every day (how can that be?!).

Around five it's time for our ritual of evening drinks in front of our chalet. Doug goes to the 'Jet-ti mini-bar' up the way and buys himself a can of cold beer. (Mr. Tony is a strict Muslim – he neither serves nor sells alcohol, and none is allowed in his restaurant. He's even posted a sign declaring his restaurant an 'alcohol free zone. It's right beside his picture of Mecca. He's done the Haj twice, and plans to take his son there in 2011.) At Mr. Tony's he gets me a can of soda, and a big glass of ice.

Meanwhile, back at the shack, I mix up some lime juice and sugar. With the soda I make a mintless and alcohol-free 'nojito.' We play rummy. Doug wins almost every game. He gets so many twos I call him Desmond. In between rounds we talk about where we'll go for dinner, what we feel like eating... . This is our biggest decision of the day, and we take it seriously.

There are several pretty good places to eat in Air Batang, and one really good one, which predictably is where we often end up. We've usually already decided what we're going to order, but we peruse the menu just to be good sports. At Hijau's, where we sit high on a deck almost level with the tops of the palms, we order garlic fish and fried mixed vegetables, a chicken cutlet with mushroom sauce (Doug), curried vegetables (me). At ABCD, where we sit right at the water's edge, it's two roti canai and two mixed vegetable salads, with a sunset on the side.

One night in particular the sunset is spectacular. I take scads of photos, glad of the freedom offered by digital photography – to delete the ones that don't turn out.

We stroll back to our bungalow, enjoying the warm soft evening breeze and the clear starry skies, undimmed by city lights. We sit on our balcony and gaze out at the inky ocean, the necklaces of little lights on the horizon – fishing boats that stay out all night. We read. We yawn. And then we go to bed. We sleep with the fan on full force, protected only by thin sheets, or none.

We did have one day of excitement on Tioman. We awoke to quite an overcast day. It looked like it might rain. Storms can come up quickly here. The clouds sail over the back of the island, or come at us from over the horizon in front, drop their load of water in great noisy (metal roofs) downpours, and move on just as quick.

We were having breakfast at Mr. Tony's when we noticed that people were looking out at the ocean and pointing. Some were taking photos. What were they looking at? We roused ourselves enough to walk over and saw, on the horizon, a waterspout. We also saw some very black, threatening clouds. We sat down to watch the show.

The cyclone approached very quickly. Within minutes of starting our vigil we were being buffeted by strong winds. The branches of the palms were flying horizontal. We could feel sand, picked up by the wind, being driven into our faces. We retreated inside as the clouds let loose their load of rain. It was the heaviest downpour I've ever seen. Sheets of rain.

The pathway between our bungalow and the next one became a river flowing, of course, right into and over the new, and as yet unfinished, retaining wall. I wondered if it would survive. A few minutes later the little river that's mostly dry, but that runs on just the other side of the other bungalow, not 20 feet away, became a rushing torrent. It carved its way through the sand, sweeping much of it away.

Meanwhile the waves were crashing and buffeting up against the shore (and the retaining wall), sending great sprays up to the little grassy area. The noise was fearsome. Boats that had gone out earlier in the day beat a hasty retreat to the jetty, disgorged their occupants, and then headed back out to ride out the storm just slightly off-shore.

The wind kept blowing and the rain kept coming. At one point we made a dash for Mr. Tony's restaurant for lunch. He'd lowered tarps over the open front side to keep the rain out. We huddled inside with a band of other shelter-seekers and listened to the constant drumming of the rain, now hard, now harder still.

By mid-afternoon it was all over. We went for a walk to survey the damage. Apparently the waterspout hit land just up the way. A couple of Australian girls, who had decided to go for a walk in the midst of the cyclone (not very brightly, but then they're young, and invincible), reported that they had watched the waterspout hit, that it lifted a couple of chairs into the air, and blew down a tree, and that they were just 5 metres away from it, and scared.

But apart from a good deal of debris – tree branches, coconuts, leaves and bits of wood, plastic bags and bottles – on the walkway and on the beach, there was little damage done. The beach in front of Mr. Tony's, though, was transformed. The river had cut a deep channel that we now had to cross in order to get to the beach, where before all had been sand. And where before there was an entirely rocky beach out front, now there was a big patch of sand, carried down and deposited, of course, by the river.

Amazingly, the retaining wall survives.

The Last of China, and Zooming Home

Note: to view more photos for this blog, go to:
www.julesatkins.shutterfly.com and click on the China page

Guilin, Yangshuo and Nanning
May 28 – June 12, 2009

As we headed south and east from Kunming, to Guilin, Yanshuo and Nanning, the weather became progressively hotter and muggier. We spent several hours in the middle of the day hanging out in our hotel rooms, fans whirling. We even resorted to using the air-conditioners: they were too tempting!

Guilin and Yangshuo are real tourist hot spots. As usual, Chinese tourists far outnumber western ones, but there were more westerners than we've seen anywhere previously. And there were more signs in English (although still precious few) and way more restaurants catering to western palates.

It was in Guilin that we had our first really good meal. The meals in Yangshuo were even better. So now we can say that we did have some good food in China.

In Yangshuo I also saw Chinese women breastfeeding their babies for the first time. Two of them in one night! The ethnic/tribal women all breastfeed, but so far all the Chinese women I've seen have been using bottles of melamine – oops, formula! Not sure if these gals were breastfeeding due to western influences, but whatever the reason, it was good to see that there are at least a few women who are not only breastfeeding, but breastfeeding in public. Both were in their shops, feeding their babies as customers looked over their merchandise (as it were).

It was also in Yangshuo that I saw many many older women and men with backs bent permanently double. We've seen quite a few throughout our trip here, but there seemed to be an inordinate number in Yangshuo. Hardly surprising given the heavy heavy loads that many people here carry, day after day.

Guilin and Yangshuo were basically just glitzy shopping malls, as all Chinese tourist cities are. But they did have some nice walking streets and parks. And they are both blessed with rivers running through them.

In Guilin we were lucky to catch a wonderful martial arts and dance performance put on by about a hundred kids – some very small. They did several long and complex choreographed numbers, mostly pretty high energy. One of the dances was to the tune of Yankee Doodle Dandy, although the words, in Chinese, were likely quite different. They wore very bright costumes – sparkly neon oranges, pinks, greens and yellows. The 'older' kids (maybe 12-14) did a couple of ballroom dance numbers – mostly Latin salsa and jazz dances. Very professional. It's easy to see why the Chinese scoop up the trophies in ballroom dance competitions: they start young!

Right after the show we walked across the main square to watch one of the main attractions in Guilin: the Waterfall Hotel. At 8:30 sharp every night the hotel becomes a waterfall. It is quite incredible. One whole side of the hotel, some 15 stories high, is a sheer black glass wall. It's length is a convex curve, maybe 60 feet long – or more. The waterfall – great gushes of water – comes cascading over the top of the wall. Huge white lights make it look even more dramatic, and there's musical accompaniment to boot. It lasts for about 20 minutes. Towards the end there are 'super-gushes' of water along some sections of the wall that make the whole building look like a wedding cake. Quite a sight.

We also went for a long walk into the countryside around Guilin. Saw lots of great flowers, along with the usual amazing rice paddies and gardens. The Chinese are great gardeners.

In Yangshuo we went for a 'bamboo raft' trip up and down the Li River. The 'bamboo raft' was in fact made of PVC pipe, which the boatman assured us was 'much better' than bamboo. I'm sure it is, in terms of durability, but somehow it just doesn't have the same romantic quality. Still and all the ride, through a landscape of fantastic karsts, was lovely.

We also took a nice bike ride in the countryside near Yangshuo, pedaling on dirt paths through karsts and rice paddies.

Nanning had no redeeming features. Just one big modern shopping mall. And because it's not such a touristy place, we were back to the usual fare of yukky cold and tasteless food. I even managed to get a stomach bug there (hardly surprised when the food, most of which is served buffet style, is pretty much cold by the time you get it).

Caught a bus from Nanning to Hanoi. Around 8 hours, including the border stop. Must admit we felt relieved to be back in Vietnam. The landscape, through less developed and certainly with its share of garbage dumped by the side of the road, was somehow friendlier than the Chinese landscape. Everything on a smaller scale, not so monumental. And much less developed.

Hanoi was, well, Hanoi. Big and bustling and busy. We had some good meals – at last! - and bought some more embroidered t-shirts. We exchanged books. And I uploaded writings and photos to blogspot and flickr, neither of which I'd been able to access during our last two weeks in China. It was nice to be back in a land of (relative) freedom – of information and expression.

It was also wonderful, absolutely wonderful, to be in a land of clean toilets. I took two photos of 'the last Chinese toile, for posterity, and in the hopes that I never see another one:























From Hanoi we flew to Bangkok, jumped on a bus to the Bangkok train station, and got there just in time to catch an overnight train to Butterworth, Malaysia. The Thai train was ... fantastic. Such a difference from Chinese trains.

First: QUIET! No one shouting into a cell phone. No raucous groups all yelling to be heard over one another. No one throat-clearing, hoiking and spitting noisily morning, noon and night. The Thais are such a wonderfully soft-spoken people. We even heard people whispering for the first time in months! Also, there was no loud canned 'music' (patriotic songs and/or screeching Chinese opera), no political nationalistic harangues, and no annoying t.v. sound tracks which, on Chinese trains, played the entire time, until lights out at 10 pm. It was glorious!

Second: PRIVACY! The berths all had curtains, unlike the 'open plan' in the Chinese trains. It was nice not to feel so totally exposed when you were changing, sleeping, etc.

Third: CLEAN sheets and pillow cases. In China the linens on the trains are just folded up and re-used. Yuk. On the Thai train we got sealed plastic bags with fresh linens. A steward came and made up our beds. He brought us drinks and dinner. He was friendly and courteous.

Fourth: TOILET PAPER in the bathrooms, and much cleaner bathrooms, including one western style toilet.

Fifth: ROOM to move. Instead of three tiers of berths, there are only two, so you can actually sit up on both lower and upper berths. And they're arranged along the long axis of the train, on either side, so that the aisle is wider than on the Chinese trains, where the berths are arranged perpendicular to the long access, with a narrow corridor on one side, and silly fold-down seats in the corridor that make it impossible to walk up and down without tripping over peoples' feet and belongings, which are of course stacked in the aisle because there's nowhere else to put them.

Sixth: READING LIGHTS! There were no reading lights on the Chinese trains. Maybe because few people read. On the other hand, the overhead lighting was kept on all night, which was a little annoying. But still...

Looking out the window of the train at the passing landscapes – rice paddies still, but now studded with palm trees – it all seemed much gentler, much less monumental, than the Chinese landscapes. Everything in China is so large scale. Here in Thailand the farming was less orderly – there were lots of untended fields, wild areas. It felt somehow calmer, more serene. I felt I could relax... .

As we approached the border between Thailand and Malaysia a few Malays came onto the train and stashed bags of Thai rice under all of the seats. We've seen the rice smuggling many times before. Thai rice is highly prized. The train guys were clearly in on the smuggling, helping stow the bags behind bags of linens and under seats. Most of this rice is not for sale, but for family consumption. Pretty funny. And relatively harmless.

More serious smuggling was being done by a young Chinese couple (there are many Chinese in Malaysia). Again with the assistance of the train crew, they had stashed large packages of some kind of fabric or clothing (Thai silk?) in the overhead compartments of the train. Once the train pulled away from the border, they started collecting them up and putting them into two HUGE new suitcases and a third very large bag. Clearly this was a business.

Somehow the smuggling being done by this young well-heeled couple summed up what I feel is one of the main hallmarks of China and the Chinese: it's all about money. Getting and spending, getting and spending. China is indeed the new Asian America. Chinerica.

Here in Malaysia there are three distinct ethnic groups: Malay, who are mostly Muslim, Indian, who aer mostly Hindu, and Chinese. Despite the fact that they are in the minority, in terms of numbers, it is the Chinese who control Malaysia's economy. They own all of the big, and most of the small, businesses – certainly all the real money-makers. The Malays however control the government. The Indians control nothing, but make up the majority of the money changers on the street, and definitely make some of the best food in the country.

China II: Li Jiang to Shangri La, through Tiger Leaping Gorge April 23 – May 9, 2009

To see more photos for this blog, go to:
www.flickr.com and search, under people, for
atkinsinmotion@yahoo.ca
Click on 'sets and collections' and go to the China set.


By Bus from Dali to Li Jiang

We took a bus from Dali to Li Jiang, first through miles of agricultural land where again we saw only one or two tractors, and one pair of oxen pulling a plow. Almost all of the farming is done by hand. Men and women out in the fields with long-tined rakes and hoes, thwacking steadily at the sod-covered earth, breaking it up and forming it into long neat rows, getting ready to plant corn, potatoes, wheat. Our backs hurt just watching them: we know what heavy work this is. Hardly surprising how many old people we see, backs permanently bent double, now straining their necks to see what's in front of them.

We wonder why so few tractors, rototillers, oxen or horses to pull a plow. Presumably, given the number of people in China, human labour is the cheapest way of doing things. But still it's a little surprising, given that in Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam we saw so much more use of machinery – especially rototillers – and animals – mostly water buffalo. So despite its much stronger economy, more developed infrastructure, in terms of roads, electricity and communication systems, and generally more advanced technology, when it comes to agriculture, China seems more backward, more primitive, than its neighbours. Why?

From the fields we climbed up into dry, sparsely vegetated mountains, then down again into fields of wheat and soy. And more people out working their fields by hand. And then suddenly we were on a major highway that swept us into Li Jiang – a busy modern city with a fancy new bus station – all set for the masses of Chinese tourists who come here to see 'the old city,' and shop for silver, wood carvings, leather bags, and photos of 'ethnic people.'

Li Jiang

The old city of Li Jiang is a much bigger version of Dali – a similarly Disneyfied version of an old Naxi town, now all shops, guest houses and restaurants where once people lived and worked. There are ticket booths at the main entrances to the old city, with signs in English demanding an 80 Yuan ($15) 'preservation fee' to enter. We were told by a Chinese woman that the Chinese signs say that entrance is free.

We entered the city through a minor alley, and so missed paying the fee, but some guest houses collected it from some of their foreign (not Chinese) guests. Somehow we missed that as well: perhaps we looked like people who might refuse to pay... .

As we wandered around the old town of Li Jiang, we found that entry fees were required at all of the special sites – a small park around a lake, a viewpoint at the top of the town, a garden within the town. All of these sites are walled, and all have big and impressive-looking 'ticket booths' or gate houses, with several staff members. The walls and gate houses have clearly been recently built.

The entry fees for the 'special sites' ranged from 30-50 Yuan ($6-10), but that's on top of the 80 Yuan 'preservation fee.' If you don't have the preservation fee ticket stub in your possession, you have to pay that PLUS the 30-50 Yuan special site fee. We heard about a number of ways of getting around paying these fees – places where the walls could be breached, going in the exit, etc. - but the most reliable way seems to be entering with a local. Locals don't pay to get into the sites. Chinese tourists, on the other hand, appear to pay the same rate as foreign tourists – there are no special breaks for them.

While we were in Li Jiang we did manage to catch a couple of ethnic dances – Naxi women in traditional costumes holding hands and dancing in large circles. Just as interesting as the Naxi dancers were the large numbers of Chinese tourists who joined in. They were so exuberant and carefree – not careful and reserved, our stereotypical image – they didn't care at all about 'getting it right,' or 'looking silly.' They just enjoyed themselves!

We also sprung for the $25 'cheap seat' balcony tickets to see the traditional Naxi orchestra. This is the only orchestra of its type in the world. Most of the orchestra members are old to very old: six of them are over 80. They play ancient instruments – or replicas of them – most of which we'd never seen before. And they all wore very colourful traditional costumes.

The program included pieces from 11th century China up to the 19th century. We particularly enjoyed watching one the old guys crashing the big cymbals. He looked a little like Merlin the Magician. One of the younger women in the orchestra played a beautiful cascading piece on the zither, evoking the flow of waterfalls, the song of birds.

From the Chinese perspective, one of the highlights was another young woman who sang a traditional opera piece. To me it sounded like a cross between Alvin and the Chipmunks and the sound a cat makes when you step on its tail: a high-pitched nasal whine that's best when, finally, it's over.

Bicycling to Baisha

One day we rented bicycles and rode around an hour out of town to visit a couple of smaller villages – Shu He and Baisha. The first one we came to, Shu He, was surrounded by a high stone wall. A cadre of guards at the gatehouse informed us that the entry fee was 50 Yuan – IF we had ticket stubs to show we'd already paid the 80 Yuan 'preservation fee.' We could see that Shu He was, like Li Jiang and Dali, an almost completely reconstructed, sanitized 'traditional old town' theme park: a sort of Disney “Shu He Land.” Colourfully decked out horses and buggies waited just beyond the gate, their drivers eager to take tourists on rides through the cobble-stone streets.

We took a miss on Shu He, and instead cycled on through acres of rice paddies and wheat fields where groups of workers were busy planting and tending to their crops. The snow-capped peaks of the 'Dragon Back Mountain' provided an amazing backdrop to the emerald green fields. We'd caught glimpses of the mountain as we were cycling towards Shu He and Baisha, but here, towering over the valley, its presence was majestic - almost other-worldly. It's easy to see why this mountain has such tremendous spiritual significance to the people of the region.

We ended up entering Baisha through the 'back door' – a narrow cobble-stone street with mud-brick and stone houses on either side. Baisha is a real town, not yet spruced up and reconstructed to appeal to the Chinese tourists' desire for glitz and glamour. There was no gate, no entry fee, and no horses and buggies, and no Chinese tourists.

We wandered through mostly quiet, almost deserted streets, enjoying glimpses of real town life – a guy fixing an assortment of bicycles and carts in the main square, people tending gardens, buying vegetables. We had lunch at a small cafe where the owner, and old guy with a wonderfully wrinkled face, proudly showed us his Naxi calligraphy. The Naxi use pictographs, not Chinese symbols. He also offered to guard our bikes for us while we went for a walk around town.

We walked out of town, towards the mountain – it drew us like a magnet. A Naxi woman accompanied us part way, chatting away quite happily in a language we didn't understand (Mandarin? Naxi?). We met a very old man on the road, the quintessential image of the whispy-bearded Chinese sage. He had a beautiful wooden cane with a dragon head handle.

The Naxi woman greeted the old man, and asked him to tell us how old he was. He rested his cane against his leg and held up the fingers of both his hands – he was either 84 or 94, depending on whether we counted his thumb. He wanted to know where we were from. “Canada,” we said. “Ah, Chanada!” (Here in China, Canada is Chanada.) That seemed to please him.

The old guy groped around in the pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a little dog-eared notebook. It was filled with messages from travelers who he'd met from all over the world. He flipped through the book until he found the one he was looking for – a message from a woman from 'Chanada.' He pointed to it, and then to us, clearly wanting us to write a message.

So I got out a pen and wrote a 'sweet nothing' in his book: “best wishes from your Canadian friends.” He peered at it, smiled, and put the book back in his pocket. Then he opened his coat and struggled to pull something out of a deep interior pocket. It looked like something heavy. It was a bag of coins – maybe a hundred or so – all from foreign countries. He sifted through them, searching for, and finding, several Canadian coins. “Chanada!” he crowed, holding up first a loonie, and then a toonie. “Chanada!”

Before we parted company the old fellow insisted that I take his picture with Doug. He stood with an almost military erectness, shoulder to shoulder with Doug – and almost as tall. When I showed him the photo I'd taken he gave a big smile and a thumbs up. Then he shook both our hands, and ambled off towards town, while we carried on towards the mountain.

Li Jiang to Tiger Leaping Gorge

While we were in Li Jiang, we discovered Mama Naxi's Guest House, which served up the best food we'd found in China. Food here has been very disappointing – lots of greasy noodles and insipid soups – or meat and vegetable dishes too hot to eat. Delicacies here include chicken feet, ducks' heads, pigs' livers, worms, and a grey gelatinous mass (black pea jelly?) that they fry up in big woks and serve with 'baba' – a round of unleavened bread that tastes like cardboard.

But Mama Naxi serves a buffet dinner every night at six. It's mostly for the travelers who are staying at her guest house, but everyone's welcome. All you can eat for just 15 Yuan ($3). You get your own little bowl of rice, which is constantly being refilled by either Mama or her staff, and a bottomless cup of green tea. Then the dishes start arriving at your table: pork, chicken and beef dishes, tofu and potatoes, stir-fired vegetable dishes of beans, mushrooms, broccoli, Chinese cabbage, carrots and corn.

About half-way through dinner a staff member comes by and asks, “Who's for Tiger Leaping Gorge tomorrow?” Mama Naxi arranges daily mini-buses to the gorge, and she was more than happy to have us join the group. We requested a one-way ticket. Our plan was to hike the gorge – one of the deepest gorges in the world, and reputedly one of the most beautiful – and then go on to Shangri La.

So after almost a week of wandering the streets of the old town of Li Jiang we squeezed ourselves into a mini-bus with four other travelers, all about half our age, heading out to hike the gorge. They were psyched for the rigours of the hike, the infamous '28 bends' that take hikers from around 1800 meters up to 2600 meters: they would roar up the bends; they would do the whole hike in one day. We were a little more reserved in our enthusiasm, hoping we wouldn't fizzle out after the first dozen bends, planning to take at least two days, and maybe three, to complete the hike.

The bus ride was short – just a couple of hours – and mostly followed a small pleasant river. Although there was a good road along one side of the river, our driver chose to travel on the other side, down a bumpy pot-holed road that at least kept everyone awake. We presume the good road involved a toll. We got to Qiaotou (Chow-toe) before noon. Our driver ordered us all to disembark at the toll gate, where we all had to pay 50 Yuan ($10) to enter the gorge. Then she drove us another 200 meters and dumped us and our gear out at the entry to 'Jane's Guest House.'

Jane

'Jane's Guest House' is a funky multi-level place run by a Tibetan family. We were greeted by a young energetic gal who showed us to our room (we had decided to spend the night at Jane's, and tackle the hike the next morning, before the heat of the day was upon us), and took our order for lunch. She spoke good English. We asked her if she was Jane, to which she replied “no, Jane is my brother.” Without stopping to think, I said, “oh, Jane is your sister.” She said “yes, Jane is my brother.” Undaunted, I carried on “You are Jane's sister, and Jane's your brother.” At that point she acquiesced, and just smiled.

A little later we asked where Jane was. We had emailed Jane about our 'reservation' and wanted to make sure Jane knew that we had arrived, and had taken our room. Jane's sister said: “Jane's cooking.” A few minutes later, Jane appeared bearing plates of sandwiches and bowls of soup. Jane's sister pointed to Jane and said: “That's my brother Jane.”

And then the penny dropped. Although Jane looked for all the world like a woman – truly the most feminine guy I've ever seen – Jane was in fact a guy. But for the rest of our stay there I continued to refer to Jane as 'she' and 'her.' As did everyone else. I suspect Jane was quite content with that.

Jane is perhaps one of the few people I have met to whom the words 'sweet' and 'kind' may truly be applied. Jane was solicitous of the needs of all her customers, male and female, and incredibly caring – a lovely person. Jane has lived in the tiny town of Qiaotou all his/her life, running the guest house for the past ten years or so, since tourism began to pick up in the area.

Most of Jane's guests are foreigners, although a few Chinese also came to eat, and a very few to stay. Jane speaks flawless English, and was always happy to chat, revealing not only a wealth of knowledge about the gorge, but also interesting perspectives on China and the world that we have so far been unable to hear, primarily because of the language barrier, but also because many Chinese are reticent to share their views on such matters.

But the best thing about Jane's was and is the food. Jane is a great cook. We savoured every bite of every meal. That first afternoon we walked down the road into the mouth of the gorge, where the little river we'd been following met the larger, muddier Yangtze. It's the Yangtze that's cut through the massive mountains that rise straight up on either side of the gorge. Tiger Leaping Gorge is reputedly one of the deepest gorges in the world. Looking at the little trails clinging to the steep sides of the gorge we wondered if we might not appreciate the gorge more from the bottom – maybe we didn't need to do the hike... .

The next morning Doug wandered down the road to talk to Margo, an Australian gal whose been living in Qiaotou for 12 years. At one point she was apparently married to Sean, a Tibetan-Chinese who owns a guest-house at the other end of the gorge. Doug asked Margo about getting a bus to Sean's. After making several deprecatory remarks about Jane's Guest House, and Jane's family, Margo told Doug we could take the local bus at one o'clock, and that she thought Sean's rooms were around 160 Yuan – or around double what others were charging.

Tiger Leaping Gorge

Margo's response to Doug was unfriendly enough that we decided to do the hike. We lightened our load by leaving our bags at Jane's, and carrying just the bare necessities – our toothbrushes, tea and coffee – with us. The first leg of the hike was quite do-able. It followed a cement road, and then a dirt path on a gentle but steady uphill course. We came again to the point where the small river met the Yangtze, but this time we were looking down on it all. We agreed that the higher vantage point gave us a much better appreciation of the gorgi-ness of the gorge: having decided to make the trek, at this point we would of course admit nothing other.

About two hours of hiking brought us to the first of the guest houses, the Naxi Family Guest House, where we considered staying for the night. It's just before the 28 bends, and we were already feeling tired from the two hours of steady uphill. But the Naxi was charging 120 Yuan for a private double with bath, and the toilets were disgusting, so we decided to press on.

Most of the way towards the Naxi we'd been followed by a guy leading a small horse – a Tibetan pony. He'd been trying to convince us to pay him 150 Yuan to take one of us up to the top of the trail. We'd declined, making walking motions with our fingers. He stopped at Naxi's and had lunch with the family. When we started out again, he was right behind us. Now would we like to ride? We still declined.

About an hour after leaving Naxi's we were into the bends. The going was tough. Even zig-zagging up, the zigs and zags were steep enough that I sometimes felt like using my hands to clambour up the rocky path. The horseman stuck with us through the first six or eight bends (I lost count after five – it seemed better not to keep track). He was sure that this aged couple (we were by far the oldest people we encountered on the trail) were not going to make it to the top.

But finally he gave up. I was glad, somewhere in the middle of the bends, that he was no longer right behind us. I'm not sure that I would have been able to resist. From about half-way up to the top it was just sheer will power that kept us going. Putting one foot just barely in front of the other, breathing hard in the rarified air, we slogged up the bends.

Amazingly the groups of younger hikers behind us, for the most part, did not pass us. Everyone was taking it slow. When we stopped, as we did innumerable times, we all pretended to be admiring the views. We brought out our cameras and snapped away. And truly the views were stupendous. The river raged through the narrow gaps it had created over centuries. The mountains stood as silent sentinels, immutable, implacable.

But almost exactly one year ago these mountains shook in a major earthquake that did tremendous damage and killed many in nearby Sichuan. There was no damage in this area, but still it was a warning: the gorge is earthquake-prone. Nevertheless the Chinese government is planning to damn the Yangtze, and flood much of the Tiger Leaping Gorge. No one seems to know just how or when, but blasting and preparations for dam-building have begun.

At the top of the 28 bends, just over 7000 feet high, there's a look-out from which you can see up and down the length of the gorge. It must be a fantastic view. But at the little trail leading to the look-out there were three people – a woman selling chocolate bars and bottled drinks, and two men hanging about smoking cigarettes. They spoke good enough English to ask us for 10 Yuan to walk out onto the look-out to take a photo. My fear of heights was sufficient reason for me not to want to go out onto the look-out. Doug was no keener than me. So we declined, and just snapped a picture of one of the guys instead.

From here the trail descended slightly, winding around the side of the mountain. I walked gingerly, listing towards the mountain-side, at times gripping the rock as I assiduously avoided looking down. I did manage to take a couple of photos of the gorge below: the view was literally breath-taking. And, we were well above 6500 feet, breathing the significantly rarefied air.

We continued to descend until we reached the 'Tea Horse Inn.' According to the tourist brochures, the trail through the Tiger Leaping Gorge is part of the old network of tea horse trails – the trails that went from Yunnan, China to Lhasa, Tibet. Little horses like the ones we'd seen carried great cakes of compressed tea. It took them months to make the journey. We were doing our little section of the trail in spring, when it was reasonably warm and dry. They did the whole length of it in all seasons. It's hard to imagine how tough and grueling those treks must have been for both the horses and the men who lead them.

The Tea Horse Inn was a pleasant spot, made more pleasant by a comfortable room with a hot shower, and the company of several other travelers, including a group of three Australian blokes who were almost our age. They, like us, were taking the trail slowly – enjoying the scenery. There were also four lads from San Francisco who've been working in Singapore for the past 10 months. They're engineers, working for a pharmaceutical company that manufactures antiviral drugs. Incredibly there was also a young couple from Germany who work for another major (rival) pharmaceutical company. As the Disney song goes, it's a small, small world.

The next morning was cool and drizzly. Everyone else set out in the rain, but we had no rain gear with us, and were reluctant to get wet: the next guest house was four or five hours away. So we waited. Doug found an umbrella under a stack of books. I found an old plastic rice bag that I cut open to form a cape. When the rain let up, we headed off. About half an hour up the trail Doug spied another umbrella, this one shoved into a high crevice in the rocks. It was a little worse for wear, but it worked. As it turned out, we needed them only for another hour or so, by which time the rain stopped.

The second day's trail was in some ways more challenging for me. It was often no more than a narrow ledge chiseled out of the mountain side. I avoided looking down, and tried not to think about how high we were, and how steep and hard the mountain side below me was. We crossed a couple of waterfalls. Finally we came out upon a grassy meadow. Far below us we could see the road and Tina's Guest House – our luncheon spot.

The descent to Tina's was treacherous: very steep and rocky, and hard on the knees. When we got to Tina's we found the San Francisco lads already lunching. They were up for doing the one and a half hour hike from Tina's right down to the river – a hike that involved climbing down, and then up, some rather dubious-looking ladders. We wished them luck and told them we'd reserve a couple of rooms for them at the guest house at the end of the gorge.

The final leg of the walk was along the new paved road, and all downhill, to a village called Walnut Garden. When we got to Sean's Guest House, the one most highly recommended in our Lonely Planet Guide, we saw one of the Australian blokes who advised us that the best place, where he and his friends were staying, was the 'Chateau de Woody.' He was right. Woody, who we never met (he was off guiding) had built an incredible small stone patio overlooking the gorge. Woody's sisters – or daughters – were good cooks. And again we had a room with a hot shower.

We liked Woody's and Walnut Garden enough that we decided to stay another day there. We walked down into the terraced hillside below Woody's, and then along the slope of the mountain, following the river, for an hour or so. It was a beautiful day, sunny and warm. As we hiked back up to the guest house, our legs screaming and trembling with the effort, our lungs aching in protest of the thin air, we congratulated one another on having done the Tiger Leaping Gorge hike. Wow. We did it!

The next day we caught a local bus back down the gorge to Jane's. The ride through the gorge was gorge-ous. And indeed the steep walls of the gorge were in some ways more impressive from the bottom. But we were glad we'd seen it from above, stretched out below us like a great and violent gash.

Jane greeted us with a warm smile and a hot bowl of home-made tomato soup. He was mightily impressed that we'd done the walk. The next morning he walked us down to the corner of town where the buses to Shangri La stop. Twirling his wavy hair around his ringed fingers as he talked to several of the mini-bus drivers who also collect there, he managed to sweet-talk one into taking us to Shangri La for just 5 Yuan more than the bus would cost. When we left, instead of shaking our outstretched hands, he held them briefly, in both of his own, and wished us well on our travels. Quite a remarkable person, Jane.

The Road to Shangri La

We expected the road to Shangri La to be a tortuous series of twists and turns up through rocky mountains. And certainly there were some pretty hairy hair-pin curves, made hairier by our driver's insistance on passing cars, trucks and buses on blind corners. This is common practice in China, as in pretty much all of Asia. The people here are fatalists: if it's their time, it's their time: no use being careful. I did my best to ignore it – the only strategy if you want to keep your sanity.

The road to Shangri La was new and in good condition, save for one or two spots where very recent landslides were being cleared by back-hoes and guys with shovels. Geotechnical considerations don't seem to figure much in road planning – huge cuts have been made through mountainsides, leaving almost vertical slopes of bare earth and rubble.

We climbed steadily around and over hills once thick with pine forests, but now completely denuded, the trees having been used for houses, fences and firewood. Replanting, where it had occurred, had not been successful. Just before we got to Shangri La we came into a dry and quite barren-looking grassland. We saw our first yak! And yak baby! And a fair number of much more plebian cows, sheep and goats.

As we neared Shangri La we noticed a change in the architecture of the houses. The white Naxi houses with corduroy tiled roofs that we'd seen in Dali and Li Jiang were replaced with big earth-coloured Tibetan-style houses. Tibetan houses are part house, part barn – large solid two-story blocks of mud brick or, increasingly, rammed earth (mixed with cement). The walls are thick, and lean in slightly towards the top. They tend to have few windows on the lower level, which is used mainly for food drying and storage. There are more windows on the upper level, where the family lives.

The superstructure of the house is wood, supported with massive wooden columns from trees bigger than any we have seen (where do they come from?). Windows, doors, floors and roof are all made of wood. All around the windows and under the eaves are wide bands of decoratively carved and painted woodwork, mostly with geometric patterns, but also with fish and flowers.

The roofs of the houses are made of corrugated tin, often covered with wood (cedar?) shakes , which are held down with big rocks. We noticed that the gable end of the roof was often open, revealing sheaves of drying grasses or corn. It must be cold in the winter, with the winds blowing through. Some of the gable ends had been covered up with wood, brick, or fabric. There were no chimneys, but the great piles of firewood outside all of the houses would suggest that fires are lit inside, likely small and mostly for cooking, but still smoky.

Shangri La

By the time we got to Shangri La we were at a lofty 10,000 feet (3200 metres). We felt the effects of the altitude right away – dragging ourselves and our bags along the bumpy cobble-stone streets as we looked for a place to stay. We found the perfect place – a hotel with a stuffed deer in the lobby and wifi in the rooms.

Shangri La has yet to be discovered by the hordes of Chinese tourists and turned into Shangri La La Land. In fact, the town seemed almost deserted when we got there. Since then it's livened up a bit, and we're seeing a few tourists around and about. But it's a much more authentic town than either Dali or Li Jiang, with many older, crumbling buildings, many made of mud brick. A few have been restored, a few turned into tourist shops and restaurants. But people still live and work here. It's a town with both character and soul. We liked it right away.

We spent our first day wandering the old town, drifting off towards the edges where development and renovation have not as yet had their way with buildings. We visited Mr. Abu in his 400-year-old house. He lifted the edge of a poster to show us an uncomplimentary cartoon of Mao that had been drawn on the wall many years ago, during the Cultural Revolution. He asked us for Canadian money to add to his little altar; we gave him a fiver (all we had with us, and much more than we really wanted to 'donate,' but hey...). And he posed with Doug for a photo under the ancient wooden balcony.

Another day we went to the market – a big covered square where you could by just about anything. As usual there were several gals serving up local dishes. The first table was the busiest. A couple of Tibetan gals and an old Tibetan man were slurping bowls of noodle soup. They looked good. The old man smiled up at us and waved his hand for us to sit down. We 'ordered' by pointing at his soup and holding up two fingers. It was by far the best (and cheapest, of course) soup we've had in China. Made more enjoyable by the colourful company – and not one other gringo in sight.

Once we'd 'acclimatized' to the elevation (ie. weren't dragging ourselves around on the flat), we decided to walk to a nearby monastery – the Ganden Sumtseling Gompa (or Gedansong Zanling Gompa, depending on whose spellling you're going by) – the most holy Tibetan site outside of Tibet.

We could have gone to the monastery by bus, but the Chinese government has recently decided to raise the price of admission from 10 Yuan ($2) to 85 Yuan ($17). Many foreign tourists are no longer going to the monastery, which is a shame. But a few intrepid souls have found a way around the ticket booth. It involves hiking up over a small mountain (big hill), through a fence or two, and over a wall. Then through the town below the monastery, and in a secondary gate, not 300 yards from the main gate.

The walk was beautiful, and quite literally breath-taking. We took it slow, with several breaks to admire the views – looking down on the monastery and the little village that surrounds it – and the pinky-purple blooms of the azalea that grow wild on the hillsides.

The monastery is quite a large complex, with a number of different temples. The buildings are large, built in the Tibetan style, painted white with colourful window and eave trim, and very imposing. The inside of the 'main' temple is a riot of colour. It had several statues (big figurines?) of various Hindu-like gods with scary faces and too many arms. I snapped a photo of one just before a chanting monk called out 'no photo!' Oh well.

Walls and ceilings were painted with scenes of various half-human half-animal deities vanquishing demons – or mere mortals. Hundreds of Buddha statues in glass cases lined the walls at the back of the temple. Massive columns of shiny multi-coloured silk (well, polyester) fabric hung from the ceiling, some three stories above us.

The focal point was a huge statue of a golden seated Buddha with droopy Tibetan all-seeing-without-having-to-look eyes and a Mona-Lisa smile, but even more enigmatic. He's modestly draped in a tent of fabric, and wears a pointy yellow hat similar to a KKK hood, but not covering his face. In front of him are great bowls of oil and water, dozens of yak butter candles (the whole place smells like fermenting cheese), fake flowers, and hundreds of whispy, mostly white, prayer shawls.

We walked around the interior of the temple twice, clockwise of course, in the Tibetan way. It's too much to really take in, especially when you don't know the stories, the significance, the spiritual tradition. As we were leaving I saw a monk coming down a set of stairs. I asked if we could go up. He said “of course.” And so we climbed to the next two levels, where we saw more statues and more paintings, and finally came eye to eye with the great Buddha, could even look down upon him, see what he held in his hand, see the dust on his robes.

On the third level there was an even smaller set of stairs. I couldn't resist. They took us up to a little balcony just under the roof-top. Behind us was a locked room – a library with old books and scrolls – and probably photos of the Dalai Lama (there were none in the temple below, but the Chinese government considers the D.L. a seditious trouble-maker, a 'separatist,' and 'strongly discourages' Tibetans from hanging his photo in their temples.

In front of us was a spectacular view of the town of Shangri La, interrupted by the gold (real gold we bet) figurines and prayer wheels standing on outer edge of the roof. My camera, which had been in hiding since the monk's admonishment, insisted on coming out of my bag for this photo op. And we were quite alone in our aerie, save for a couple of very old horns lying on the floor at our feet. We wondered when the last time was that someone came up here and played them...?

We went into several other temples, including one very old one that few 'tourists' go to. There were a few monk-ets there – boys of perhaps 8 or 10 – sneaking drinks of pop from cans as they pretended to read their 'scriptures.' We wandered into a back room, which appeared to be a kitchen of sorts. It was very dark, and the walls and ceiling were blackened from the smoke of many fires. There were two massive pots of water under an old tap, and dusty dishes and blackened cookware on an old wooden shelf. But amidst all this there was a relatively new electric blender – milkshakes anyone?

We were at the monastery for several hours, wandering around and poking our noses anywhere that looked interesting. One of the temples was filled with female pictures and statues – it seemed to be a 'women's temple.' But there was a male monk sitting there at the entry. When he saw us he asked us, in English, where we were from. “Chanada.” He smiled and held up one finger. “Dalai Lama, Chanada,” he said. We held up two fingers. “Dalai Lama, Chanada, two times (and maybe more, but two we're aware of).”

The monk then listed all the countries the Dalia Lama has been to. And then he said “China, no!” held up his fists in fighting style, and then made a gun of one hand, took aim, and fired. “No good,” he said, “no good here.” That was the extent of his English, but truly it's not safe for either him or us to say more. It is what it is.

One of the first evenings we were in Shangri La we went for an after dinner stroll in the old town. We came upon a large group of people – people of all ages and from all ethnic groups – dancing in the main square. They were doing traditional Tibetan and Naxi dances, a fairly simple series of steps and arm swings, loosely organized in a big many-layered circle. We saw old women and men shuffling and strutting, young women shaking their booties, young guys hip-hopping it, kids jumping, and a few people dancing as gracefully as gazelles. They were all dancing together, and they were all having a great time.

We went to the square almost every night to watch the dancing – unfortunately we didn't have the energy to join in, but one or two gringos did, much to the delight of the locals. It's hard to imagine such a spontaneous happening in our part of the world. And we later learned that the dancing is an every evening event. More than just 'dance' – this is the 'peoples' daily exercise,' encouraged by the government, but occurring spontaneously by the collective desire and organization of the people. How great is that?! What a wonderful community, and communal, activity.

Another evening we walked up a little hill above the old town to a temple where there's a huge prayer wheel – according to a guy there the largest prayer wheel in the world. It must be around 75 feet high, and 15 feet in diameter. It's painted gold, with Tibetan symbols in relief all round.

We watched as men, women and children said their prayers, grabbing the metal railing that encircles it, or one of the many strips of cloth attached to the railing, and pushing or pulling to make the wheel turn. One kid managed to find a strip of cloth that had been tied to the rail at both ends: she sat in this sling and went round and round. Doug took a turn – don't know what he prayed for, but his comment was: “it's heavy!”

While we were in Shangri La, which is just about as close as you can get to Tibet without going there, we went, twice, to talk to a tour agent about going to Tibet. The good news is that flights from Shangri La to Lhasa are apparently (apparently, we think, we hope) going to be reinstated as of May 12. The bad news is that none of the tour companies in Shangri La seem willing to book a 'minimum tour' of three days in Lhasa, after which we would be able to do our own thing.

They insist that we must have a planned itinerary for every day of our stay in Tibet – an itinerary that must outline exactly what we plan to do every morning, afternoon and evening of our stay there – including which hotels we will stay at. We must also hire a guide for every day of our stay, and a car or jeep for all travel outside Lhasa. And we must pay for it all before we go: around $3000 for 7-8 days, airfare or train to and from Tibet not included.

Shangri La may therefore be as close to Tibet as we get. Certainly there are lots of Tibetans here. Some of them are still wearing more or less 'traditional' dress, although many of the women wear jeans and high heels under their more colourful aprons and skirts. Most of the women wear shocking pink turbans or scarves wrapped around their heads. The men are much less colourful, mostly wearing western pants and jackets. There are also other ethnic groups here – many Naxi – and of course a veritable horde of Han Chinese.

One of the most interesting things we've noticed is how friendly the Tibetans are to foreigners. Friendlier than the Han Chinese. They almost all say 'hello' (not the Chinese greeting of 'mee-how'), and give us big smiles. A few talk to us – they seem to know more English than many of the Han Chinese. How much of their friendliness is just part of their nature and how much is tacit acknowledgment of the West's support of them and the D.L. is impossible to say. And it doesn't really matter. It's just nice being around them; they're a wonderful people.

While we were in Shangri La we decided to extend our one month Chinese visa. We'd heard that this was one of the most efficient (ie. least time-consuming) places to do it. The first time we went to the office we didn't have one of the forms we needed, so we went back the next day. The young woman who helped us – a member of the police force that specializes in visas and passports – was fabulous. She spoke great English, and was exceedingly friendly and helpful. She managed to convince us to go back to Li Jiang via Baishuitai – a series of limestone terraces and pools described in our guidebook as 'resplendent.' Her sister has a guest house there. We promised to say 'hello.' And we came away with visas now good until June 13th, with the option of leaving China and coming back in if we so desire.

We ended up leaving Shangri La after five days. I didn't seem to be acclimatizing to the altitude. If anything, I felt worse as the days – or more significantly nights – progressed. During the day, when I could consciously breathe a little faster and more deeply, I was o.k. But at night, as I drifted off to sleep and my breathing went on auto-pilot, I'd startle awake, gasping for air like a fish out of water. It was most uncomfortable. One more reason why Lhasa and Tibet, which are even higher than Shangri La, will not be on our itinerary.

Next steps

From here we go back to Li Jiang, and then east to Lugu Lake, a reputedly beautiful and relatively 'pristine' place. After that, well, we're not sure. Depends on what we hear from other travelers, what takes our fancy, and what comes our way.