A Week of Adventure

Wow, what a week!! My mini-adventure through southern and western China - an area which is larger than most countries - is complete, I am safe, and I'm ready to tell you all the stories (minus the ones I forgot and the ones I'm smart enough to know that I shouldn't write about)...

The trip began on Monday the 3rd, as I left Guilin's airport in the afternoon bound for Kunming, in Yunan province (directly west). There, I connected flights to Lijiang, located in western Yunan, not far from the Tibetan border. The only thing of note that happened during the flights - other than the cheering and applause during take-off by a group of Chinese people who I presume had never flown on a plane - was that I met a really nice girl my age who was returning home from university and gave me a ride into town from the airport (almost an hour away). This was definitely neither the first nor the last time friendly Chinese people have gone out of their way to make me feel welcome in this country, and I am really grateful for all those who have helped me. Lijiang is a fascinating city and is not all that different from Yangshuo. It is divided into two distinct regions - the New Town and the Old Town - and on Monday night, I stayed in the latter. The Old Town is quaint and historic and has received enormous funding from the UN to preserve it's unique cultural heritage. Like a miniature Venice, the Old Town is home to a maze of cobblestone streets, small canals, and ancient bridges. Small shops line the roads; vendors offer food to passers-by; and music, laughter, and conversation resonate from the central square. As night approaches, one entire canal is transformed into a series of interconnected parties. The restaurants along this canal are overflowing with happy, boisterous people, who make their way merrily from one establishment to the next, often breaking spontaneously into song with strangers from across the canal. Bridges are usually congested with people who seem to have a fondness for bottlenecks, and the street layout is so confusing that it's impossible not to get lost; additionally, as the home of Han Chinese, Tibetan Chinese, and many Chinese minorities (particularly Dong), the Old Town is a culturally vibrant and exciting place. I stayed in a hostel called the Dongba Place, which is run by a nice Tibetan guy and his wife. The cafe/sitting area there is filled with information on exploring the surrounding mountains, and the walls are decorated with beautiful, enlarged photos taken by the owner of these wild lands. While eating a delicious Tibetan chicken curry, I had great conversations with both the owner (John) and some kids my age from Canada, the US, and the Netherlands. From what they told me and from what I had read in my guidebook, I plotted my route in Tiger Leaping Gorge for the next few days. The next morning I awoke early (which became a reoccuring theme during the week), made my way to the bus station, and hopped on a bus headed for Qiaotou, located three hours west (even closer to Tibet). As the bus crossed over the Yangzi River (yes, this is the same river which flows through the Three Gorges...keep in mind that it is one of the longest rivers in the world) just before arriving in Qiaotou, I got my first glimpse of the gorge. I will never forget the chills I felt when I saw that first jagged, snowcapped peak, soaring nearly 15,000 feet above the river. Before beginning the hike, I stumbled into a little cafe located at the trailhead and run by an extremely friendly, somewhat eccentric Australian hippy named Margo. She provided me with a hand-drawn map of the gorge and lots of beta, including things to be careful about. One of the things about the gorge which really disappointed me is the amount of development that has occured there. Local guesthouses appear near the trail every few hours, and a road even runs halfway into the gorge (although it is located several thousand feet below the trail and much of it is through tunnels that have been blasted into the mountainside). Despite the development and marketing of the gorge, though, it is still an incredibly wild and dangerous place. Margo informed me that an Israeli man and a Chinese man had just died in one of the gorge's most dangerous sections (a series of ladders bolted into the cliffside above the river), an American solo adventurer had vanished without a trace, and massive landslides had made one branch of the trail impassable. Certainly, TLG is not to be taken lightly... While at Margo's I met up with four university students from England, Denmark, Australia, and Canada, and I began hiking with them. Along the way, we met about ten others - mostly English, French, Candian, and Australian, and although everyone hiked at his own pace, we would bump into each other every few hours. While the trail goes nowhere near the 18,000+ foot peaks which tower above (particularly Yulong Xue Shan and Haba Shan), it is located at altitude (about 8,000 feet), so it wasn't long before I started experiencing the effects of altitude sickness. The first several miles are all uphill, and I just couldn't get enough oxygen into my lungs. Additionally, I had decided to carry my entire backpack (25 kilos plus the weight of my pack), and the heat and direct sunlight were nearly unbearable. By the time I made it to the first guesthouse (where, believe it or not, you can rest and even drink tea free of charge), I wasn't feeling great. The next section, though, despite being the most difficult on the trail (its claim to fame is the "29 Bends," which is more like 59 brutal switchbacks up to highest point on the trail), offered me a chance to find a rhythm, and I finally started feeling stronger. I began to acclimatize to the altitude and started to enjoy the increasingly marvelous views. By the time I reached the top of the 29 Bends, I was pumped and just couldn't stop staring at the view. It's difficult to describe, but I think this was the "biggest" view I've ever seen; I just couldn't really take everything in in one glance. The sheer drop from the jagged mountain peaks to the river was so immense (nearly 15,000 vertical feet) that my brain just couldn't seem to process it. I'm sure my photos weren't able to capture the sheer monstrosity of the panorama either, or, for that matter, the amazing blue tint of the sky in contrast to the ice on the mountains or the wispy clouds which seemed to playfully enshroud the highest summits in whiteness every time I attempted to sneak a glance. At this point on the trail, I realized that I was living the dream. Although I wasn't in Tibet proper, I was trekking the Himalayas as I've always dreamed of doing, and I was finding adventure in the tallest and wildest mountains on earth. I gleefully descended down the trail on the other side of the 29 Bends, making good time and covering a lot of distance. By the time the mountains were glowing orange and yellow in the fading sunlight, I had covered 22 kilometers, thousands of vertical feet, and was ready to eat. I joined the rest of the group for a rowdy dinner at the Halfway Guesthouse, where I ate the local specialty - Naxi Baba, a large "sandwich" with meats, vegetables, and some kind of a curry sauce between two slices of unleavened bread. Afterwards, I confirmed my friends' previous suspicion that I was a "completely extreme and hardcore adventurer" by fulfilling my goal of camping in the gorge. Camping in the gorge is not unheard-of, but it is unnecessary due to the guesthouses; nevertheless, I hadn't spent a night under the stars in over a month, and I just couldn't reconcile putting a roof over my head when I was in one of the most beautiful places in the world (nor could I reconcile not using the camping gear I had hauled over that mountain pass). So, using my headlamp, I hiked a ways down the trail, and, after not finding any flat areas (it is a gorge), climbed a ways up the cliffside with my pack, the wind trying to blow me off, until I found a small, grassy ledge. There, I used my rope to anchor my bivy-sack to the cliff face in several places and fell asleep to a star-lit view beautiful enough to convince even the world's most notorious environmentalist-haters of the joy of camping. I awoke the next morning to see just how amazing my red bivy-sack looked with the snowcapped mountains as a background (it was the kind of picture that goes on the cover of a catalog), packed up, and hit the trail again. I had contemplated continuing all the way to Haba - a 3 or 4 day haul - but, despite loving the gorge, decided it wasn't worth sacrificing most of the rest of my trip. Therefore, I pulled into Walnut Grove in late morning and met up with everyone at a guesthouse called Sean's, where I would hang out for a while and then catch a minvan back to the bus station in Qiaotou. I learned a lot of interesting tidbits while there and had some great conversations about globalization and tourism. Tiger Leaping Gorge is a perfect talking-point for these issues, and two of its competing guesthouses (both located in Walnut Grove) - Sean's and Woody's Chateau - represent two vastly different arguments. Sean and Woody, interestingly enough, are cousins, although Sean is a "self-styled hippie," and Woody is an enterprising capitalist always found wearing a button-down shirt. Not surprisingly, the two have been disputing for years about the future of TLG. Woody has taken spraypaint to the trail and painted large yellow and red "advertisements" for his "chateau" for miles and miles in either direction of his guesthouse. He has also convinced the government to invest massive sums in order to continue blasting away at the cliffside so that the road which already runs halfway into the gorge can run all the way through it. This, of course, will lead to tourist overlooks, restaurants and stores, and probably at some point international hotel chains. Sean, on the other hand, opposes all of this development and wants the area to remain pristine and wild, and he harsly condemns Woody's graffiti on the trail. I, for one, was very disappointed with just how developed the gorge already is. What was, ten years ago, a remote, unheard-of place is fast becoming a regular stop on the tourism circuit. While the gorge will always remain somewhat dangerous and wild, and no amount of construction could ever completely destroy its beauty, I must agree with the many backpackers who have written angry, passionate entries in Sean's guestbook - if TLG continues to be developed and molded for mass tourism, the charm of one of China's most amazing places will be lost forever.

After catching a minivan back to Qiaotiao and not having to wait for the bus back to Lijiang (essentially, the minivan driver saw the bus, drove about 100 mph to catch it, and swerved in front of it, honking loudly...all of this unrequested, of course), I found myself back in town a few hours later. This time, I decided to explore the New Town, so I found a nice, family-run hostel by the bus station and set out to explore the area. While very different from the Old Town, the New Town has its charm too, and the night markets and outdoor food stands were of particular interest to me. I stopped at a random food stall, where I could point to various meat and vegetable kebabs (although attempting to avoid the heads, feet, and similarly exotic animal parts) and have them cooked in front of me. It was very interesting trying these new foods, as they are entirely different than southern Chinese cuisine; although the spiciest food of all is in Sichuan, Yunan's food definitely pushes the limit of the hotness scale. During my dinner, I was also introduced to a Chinese tradition that I'll call the "tea song." This young couple behind me, as I was eating, started spontaneously shouting - very loudly - different numbers: "Er! Shi! Mei you!!" When not shouting these numbers at each other or laughing hysterically, one of them (apparently the loser of each round of the game) would sip his or her tea, which was still very hot. As you might guess, I haven't quite figured out the game, but I thought it was still worth noting. On Thursday morning, I awoke early and hopped on the 7:30 AM long-distance bus bound for Panzhihua, located on the Yunan-Sichuan border (to the north). Because of the rugged, mountainous terrain in Yunan and Sichuan, this is the only practical way to travel between the two provinces. I was looking foward to a bit of relaxation after two tough days of hiking, but in China, even bus rides are not uneventful. After enduring seven hours of bumping along what could hardly be called a road (I had to press my head against the seat in order to prevent whiplash), inhaling a ridiculous amount of second-hand smoke, and becoming covered in dirth and filth I was distracted from my misery by a loud sound coming from underneath the bus. Sure enough, as we pulled off the road, a long trail of oil or something could be seen flowing down the road. The bus driver matter-of-factly shouted "Xia che!" ("Everyone off the bus!"), and we filed out to seek shade by the side of the road. As everyone else seemed rather unmoved by this experience, I found myself suddenly griping with four other foreigners. Actually, we all thought the entire event was rather humorous - definitely a classic "China moment" - and were kind of enjoying the experience. Nevertheless, we wanted to make it to Panzhihua in time for our 6:30 PM train to Chengdu (we were all following the same route), and we didn't want to spend the night in the middle of nowhere. When the bus driver announced that it would be three hours before the necessary parts could be acquired (meaning it would probably be at least six hours), we took action. After having no luck waving down passing vehicles, we started thinking in the Chinese way. We had one of the other passengers write Panzhihua in Chinese characters on a big sheet of paper; then, we took out a hundred-yuan note (the equivalent of about $12, but it's big money here). Sure enough, the driver of the very next vehicle glanced at us, glanced at the money being waved in the wind the way a bullfighter waves his red cape at the bull, and screached his bus to a stop. The five of us were soon enough bound for a small town with a bus station, where we could connect to Panzhihua. The three Canadians, the Swede, and I became quick friends and really enjoyed the utter madness of this fiasco...but the fun wasn't over yet. Crammed into another hot, stinking bus, we could only stare at each other as we swerved around blind turns, a thousand foot cliff on one side. When the bus driver's cell-phone rang, I could only utter "Don't you dare..." (but he did). During all this time, an old lady sitting next to me, dressed in her traditional outfit and accompanied by a large basket which probably contained some sort of live animal, decided the hair-raising bus ride was just too boring for her. So, without consulting anyone around her or checking to see if anyone was trying to sleep, she pulled out a little plastic music player device. Now, I really don't mean to sound condescending, but the only way I know to describe this music player is to tell you that it looks exactly like what you'd get in a McDonald's happy meal (except that it had Chinese writing on it). She pushed the only button on the device and a loud Chinese song began playing. At first, I was like..."Okay, I enjoy Chinese music...," but it didn't take me long to realize that this wasn't just any song. Essentially, it was one line, approximately ten seconds long, on repeat until eternity. In a dramatic crescendo, the singer would utter about ten or fifteen different sounds - something to the effect of "Ri Chi Ba Ma Ba Chi La Ta Ri Chi Ba Wan ," there would a one second pause, and then the "song" would start again. Needless to say, the old lady felt inclined to sing along for the two hours that this "song" played. My friends sitting behind me were cracking up the entire time, but since I was sitting next to the lady, I was forced to sit there "staring out the window" for two hours trying my best not to laugh too loudly. Perhaps the most classic of all my Chinese classic moments up to this point...

At the bus station I grabbed a quick popsicle which I thought was either lemon or banana flavored but soon discovered was made of corn and then boarded a third bus with my friends. We eventually reached Panzhihua, just in time to buy our tickets and dash to the train before it left. We all bought hard-sleeper tickets, meaning each person had a bed. Unlike soft-sleeper beds, though, these are very narrow, stacked in threes, and grouped in sixes; there is no door and nothing even resembling privacy. Nevertheless, I much prefer train travel to bus travel, and was actually able to get a bit of sleep during the night (except when the stewardess would walk by, see my long legs hanging off the bed into the aisle, and try to shove me into the wall). I also enjoyed talking to the Swedish guy (Mickel), who was headed to Chengdu's university to improve his Chinese, and to a Chinese guy who was bunking nearby. I got up around 5:30 AM on Friday and packed my belongings in order to disembark in the town of Emei (located south of Chengdu). As it was still dark and raining, I was a bit worried that I was getting off at the wrong stop, but a nice lady assured me I was in Emei. I found a ride into town from the train station and headed for the Teddy Bear Cafe, which, according to my travel guide, is the source for information on climbing Emei Shan. After storing some of my gear at the Teddy Bear to cut down on weight, eating breakfast, and loading up on beta from the owner, I was ready to start the summit attempt. I hopped on the yellow bus I thought I had been told to board...and started heading in the wrong direction. Twenty minutes later and twenty-five cents poorer, I boarded the correct yellow bus and headed for the village of Jinshui. There, I would be able to ride a cable car up to Wannian Si (Si means monastery). From here it would be about 20 kilometers and 8,000 vertical feet to the summit - quite a climb. At over 10,000 feet, Emei Shan (which received the prestigious UN designation of World Heritage Site) is the tallest of the four holy Buddhist mountains, and the entire path to the summit is a steep stone staircase. While I always prefer to write about how much I enjoy everything and how everything is good and well, I must be honest. At this point, I had been traveling without rest for several days, had not had a good night's sleep in a couple nights, and had been repeatedly jammed into close quarters with lots of other people on moving vehicles. Perhaps the only major problem I have with blending into Chinese culture is my enjoyment of solitude and independence. Chinese mentality is the exact opposite; with over 1.4 billion people living on this landmass, there is no other option besides adjusting to a life of crowds and an absence of personal space. Additionally, the Chinese way of thinking is by its nature a very collective one - the concept of individuality is not understood - and because of this, the Chinese travel in groups, talk loudly in groups, block paths and roads in groups, and contemplate and discuss the presence of foreigners in China... in groups. What all this adds up to is a lot of noise, a lot of headaches, and a lot of instances in which I'm clearly the center of attention, discussion, and laughter. Well, by the time I was at Emei Shan, all this was starting to get to me, and I wasn't in such a good mood. I was about to climb one of the four holy mountains, but I knew good and well that the path would be overrun with loud, obnoxious Chinese tourists and annoying vendors. Things escalated when I got ready to start hiking... As I tried to board the cable car, the attendant told me I needed a ticket. I said "Okay, no problem," found the ticket counter, and bought a ticket. Upon returning and showing him the ticket, he told me that, although I now possessed a ticket for the cable car, I still needed a ticket for the mountain itself. I rolled my eyes, found this second ticket counter, and bought a second ticket. Upon returning and holding one ticket in each hand for emphasis, he again stopped me! This time, I was ready to give up on Emei Shan. He told me that, although I had both of the required tickets, I still needed to have my picture printed on the second ticket. I guess it's a good thing I don't know how to say anything really bad in Chinese... I made my way over to photo-taking place - in a third location - gave the camera-man a look that said "If you dare ask me to pay for this, I'm going to smash the camera over your head," and had my picture taken. Although I didn't think so at the time, I now consider my picture (which I saved) to be priceless, as my expression clearly conveys all that I have just written. Anyway, I eventually rode the cable car up to Wannian Si, where I started hiking, grumbling and shaking my head all the while. Surprisingly, though, I wasn't overwhelmed with obnoxious tourists. I wasn't harrassed by vendors. Instead, I was surrounded by a lush forest, I was serenaded by an extremely loud orchestra of natural sounds, and I was greeted politely by a few passing monks. I suddenly found myself in a rhythm, hiking in a very measured cadence, breathing in time, and...enjoying myself. As in the middle of a hard run, endorphins had been released, and I was suddenly in a wonderful mood. Most of all, I came to understand that Emei Shan truly is not just an ordinary mountain. While I will not use the word holy, there is something different, something special about it. The "natural sounds" which I just mentioned are unlike any I have ever heard in my life. To be honest, if I were alone on this mountain with those sounds, I would have run back down the mountain in terror. The pulsating sounds of insects and birds, together forming some bizarre sort of harmony, made me feel as if the mountain were actually alive. I continued along the path in a sort of trance, just totally amazed by this place. There were few other hikers (perhaps due to rain, which had made the steps quite slippery and a bit treacherous), and I was indeed able to find a small bit of solitude. Eventually, though, I was jarred from my trance by my first encounter with a tollgate - a monkey tollgate, that is. I had read about the monkeys and had heard many rumours about them but really didn't know what to expect. Basically, the many, many wild monkeys which live on Emei Shan are extremely smart. They are large and can make themselves look very intimidating; using this to their advantage, they block the path when they see hikers and will not let anyone pass until they are given food. If they feel they've been cut short by a small portion of food, they will get very angry. I approached the head monkey, who was sitting on the top stair of this particular stretch of stairs and staring at me with a mixture of boredom, haughtiness, and interest. I didn't know what to do, so I approached it, stood about three or four feet away, and just watched it and its friends for a while. I've always felt that it's possible, by conveying humility but not fear, to earn certain animals' (dogs for instance) trust. I don't know if that's what I did at Emei Shan, but the monkey seemed to respect me. While some Chinese tourists (one of whom was actually attacked and biten just after I passed through the tollgate) trying to pass the tollgate from the opposite direction began throwing rocks and shouting at the monkeys, I just stood there and tried to act humble. After about ten minutes, I crept slowly foward, with both hands open to show that I had neither food nor rocks. The head monkey examined each hand, looked closely at me, and stepped aside. I couldn't believe it, but the other monkeys, for the most part, did the same. They would approach me and sometimes even reach out with a claw - and I was trembling I was so scared - but they never touched me. After walking about fifteen feet, very slowly, I had just one last monkey between me and freedom. He was a young guy, though, and didn't seem to want to let me pass. I was getting really worried as his expression became more and more agressive and he began approaching me. Out of nowhere, though, the head monkey raced over and tackled the little guy off the trail so I could pass. While I guess there's no reason to link this incident to the "holiness" of the mountain, it's just one little example of how different this mountain really is. As I encountered more monkeys further along the path, often perched on very ancient animal statues outside of monasteries or in front of the gates of the monasteries themselves, I couldn't help but think that the monkeys were, in a way, guardians of this holy mountain. Appropriately enough for the Buddhists who revere the mountain, the natural world and the human world seem to be in balance here, each feeding off the other. There is the feeling of smallness, of insignificance; of being part of something very, very old. The stone steps lead to monasteries perched on cloud-kissing precipices, dense growth lines both sides of the way, and a light mist adds a surreal quality to the entire atmosphere. I continued to make my way up the steps, stopping every once in a while at a monastery, to stand quitely to the side and respectfully watch devout Buddhists peform sacred rituals. I would sometimes slowly approach the door of the monastery and ask permission to peek inside, stealing a quick glance at large, golden Buddha statues, elaborate tapestries, and ornate decorations. With smoke rising from small burning candles, elderly pilgrims in sandals climbing this difficult mountain with a determined grimace on their faces, and young Buddhist children bowing reverently to Buddha statues, it finally dawned on my that This Is China. Although it sounds crazy, up to this point, I don't think I was really one hundred percent aware that I was in China. Certainly, I've been speaking lots of Chinese, but I do that in school, too. Tiger Leaping Gorge is much bigger than any gorge in the United States (three times deeper than the Grand Canyon, I believe), but I could imagine I were in the Alps. I have been living with a local family, but I lived with a local family last year in Costa Rica. But on Emei Shan....on Emei Shan I knew this was China. I had written long papers on Buddhism and read several of the Dalai Lama's books, but I had never actually experienced the spirit of Buddhism. I had taken a course on classical Chinese philosophy during past year, but I had never really understood the importance of harmony between man and nature. I had talked at length with local Chinese about their lives, but up to this point, I hadn't just stood in the shadows and watched them go about their ways. Ways that are so different...so unknown...so intriguing to me. Many of these people probably made enormous sacrifices to travel to this mountain in order to light candles, to bow reverently, to affirm their sprituality; yet I know next to nothing about their ways. We live in such a diverse world, and we know so little about those who are different than us. I really think it is a pity that Americans who are quite capable of traveling abroad and experiencing other cultures decide instead to isolate themselves within their own communities and fill their lives with things that make them comfortable, secure, and lazy. While in comparison to all the cultures I have not yet experienced, I have experienced next to nothing, I feel I have made a step in the right direction. Emei Shan definitely convinced me of the value of this particular trip and of my continued desire to travel and meet new and different people... Returning to the climb, I eventually became immersed in the actual ascent and payed less attention to the monasteries and surroundings. By the time I reached about 8,000 feet, I was becoming very exhausted, and the altitude was beginning to make its prescence known. By 9,000 feet, I could only take several steps at a time before dry-heaving and gasping for breath. While I have certainly hiked to higher elevations (in particular, having summitted 14,000+ ft. Mt. Shasta on snow and ice, with gear), a gain of 8,000 vertical feet is serious hiking. I began using a rest step and pressure breathing (forced exhalation to maximize oxygen intake during inhalation) - mountaineering techniques - and just concentrated on climbing one step at a time. Many people take several days to do the climb, but I was determined to finish it on this same day. After about 8 hours, well under the average time, and just as the sun was setting, I reached the summit: Jinding Si. I proceeded to Jinding Si itself, hoping to sleep in the monastery. While I wasn't relishing the thought of sleeping on the floor on a couple damp blankets or on a hard cot, I really thought it would be cool to spend the night with the monks. Unfortunately, one of the monks told me that there was no more room in Jinding Si; he then introduced me to three Buddhist children who live at the monastery. They were very friendly and very intelligent, and I really enjoyed chatting with them as they led me down a path to a small inn run by some of the people from the monastery. By this point, I was dizzy, couldn't breathe well, and was coughing every few seconds. Once I got inside, I realized that I was extremely cold too, and even had some frostnip on my fingertips. The temperatures on the summit of Emei Shan plummet at night, and I was so focused on my climb that I hadn't even noticed that nearly everyone else was wearing heavy winter jackets (I was wearing a t-shirt and shorts). I had a quick dinner - a spicy Sichuan chicken dish - and was craving sleep more than anything else in the world. Just before I could turn out the light, though, this twenty-year-old Chinese guy named Yuzi who I had met briefly when I checked in knocked on the door, and I felt obliged to let him it. He was a really friendly, nice guy who wanted to know all about America, and I had a feeling he was going to stop by for a chat before I could fall asleep. Anyway, I enjoyed talking to him, and, as he could tell I wasn't well, he didn't stay too long. I was soon fast asleep on an electric blanket, wearing polypro long underwear, wool socks, and a warm hat, and covered by three additional blankets... For Chinese tourists and Buddhist pilgrims, the primary goal of hiking a holy mountain is to watch the sunrise; in some ways, it seems that that is almost the sole reason for climbing the mountain. I had decided when I went to asleep that I desperately needed sleep and could not afford to wake up at 5:30 AM; nevertheless, Yuzi didn't really understand and promised he'd wake me up at 5:30. Sure enough, loud knocking at 5:30. At first I decided I would just go back to sleep, but I kept thinking about what a once-in-a-lifetime experience this all was and how much I might regret not watching the sunrise. Five minutes later, I couldn't stand it, and I rolled out of my warm bed, put on my glasses, bundled up, and dashed out, figuring I would be greeted with rain or sleet, or at the best, dense cloud cover. I ran up a long flight of steps towards the crowd, my eyes still half closed, expecting nothing more than a bunch of loud Chinese people staring into the fog. Yet, I was again surprised. As I neared the cliff and raised my eyes in boredom, I was confronted by a view that brought me to an immediate stop. This sunrise was by no means the most brilliant I have ever seen, the most dramatic, or the most colorful. In fact, I think it was the palest sunrise I have ever seen in my life; but, at the same time, it was also the most beautiful sunrise I have ever seen in my life. The blue, the orange, the red and yellow - they were so pale, it was astonishing. As I peered downward, I could see the Cliff of Self-Sacrifice (so named as many devout Buddhists have in the past jumped into the abyss upon seeing a phenomenon called Buddha's Aureole, in which atmospheric moisture creates a colorful ring of light around a person's shadow on the clouds below) dropping dramatically downward, yet the cliff quickly seemed to vanish - not into clouds, but into that pale blue. Indeed, it seemed almost as if this summit were some kind of island floating high in the sky, surrounded by nothing but the pale blue. It was not even possible to detect the horizon - to tell the difference between earth and sky - except for the narrow orange band that was the sunrise, stretching across the panorama. I took a few quick pictures, including one of the large crowd of Chinese, all standing closely together at the overlook, and then found relative solitude a little ways off the path. One other foreigner, apparantly seeking the same thing, and I sat on two rocks by the edge of the cliff, saying nothing, just staring at the sky. Long after the Chinese had left and the orange band had vanished and the pale blue had become ever so slightly darker, I was still there. The beauty of the moment, or the hour - time seemed of no importance - gave me an opportunity to reflect on so many things. Most of all I couldn't stop thinking about how far I was, both literally and figuratively, from home. I had climbed to the top of one of the four holy Buddhist mountains, half-way around the world, speaking only in Chinese. I realized that it was just three years ago that I was doing my first backpacking trip with Adventure Treks in the Shasta Trinity Alps in California. Needless to say, I've come a long way since then. I also couldn't help but wish that my little bro were there with me (yea, I'm talking about you, dude!). It would have been all the more amazing if he could have been there to share the experience with me... Eventually, I forced myself to turn away and return to the inn. I quickly packed my things, and, having decided I didn't have time to hike down, rode a cable car about 2,000 vertical feet down from the summit. There, I was able to get on a bus that descended a steep, curvy road down the rest of the mountain, an experience that wouldn't have been complete without a bunch of car-sick Chinese crammed all around me. After eating a big breakfast at the Teddy Bear and repacking my backpack, I got on a bus for the nearby (1 hour away) town of Leshan. Leshan's claim to fame is the largest Buddha (Da Fo, Grand Buddha) in the world; it's so large that you can literally have a picnic on it's little toe. I was extremely disappointed, though, when I was told by the ticket lady at the bus station that the 5:00 PM bus from Leshan to Chongqing that I had planned on taking was not running that day. That left me only one hour before the 2:00 bus was to leave, and she told me I just didn't quite have enough time to go the Buddha. She and some of her associates attempted to help me devise an alternative plan - I was so desperate that I talked to them for at least 40 minutes, speaking some of my best Chinese yet - but there seemed to be no plan which would allow me to see the Buddha and still make it to Chongqing that night. I was forced to be realistic - I bought the 2:00 ticket and was soon on my way to Chongqing. I arrived late that night and was helped by some locals while trying to buy a riverboat ticket for the following morning. I was successful in finding a hydrofoil, which would take me all the way through the Yangzi's (Chiang Jiang's) world-famous Three Gorges in just one day. Arriving at my hostel pretty late, I again got little sleep before waking up very early to embark on another adventure. Not only was I tired, though, I was also pretty dirty - having gone showerless for some time - as the "hot water!" I had been promised by the receptionist upon checking in, I was later informed, turns off at 10:00 PM (I, of course, got to my room at 10:12 PM). After taking a bus for several hours to another Yangzi River city, located a bit farther east, I boarded the hydrofoil with the other passengers. Unlike the large, slow riverboats that take three days to negotiate the gorges, the hydrofoil is streamlined and fast, and the interior is actually quite nice. Although the Three Gorges holds international fame and recognition, due to some things I had been hearing, I was actually expecting it to fall below my expectations, particularly since I had seen Tiger Leaping Gorge. On the contrary, though, it was quite amazing, and I would definitely recommend it to others. It is certainly not as dramatic as TLG, and I would not want to spend three days travelling through it, but it still quite beautiful. Unlike TLG, which was dramatic due to its sheer monstrosity, the Three Gorges is intriguing more for its mystery. Clouds hang over the mountains, and fog drifts slowly up narrow canyons in between cliffs. The river contains many bends, and each turn brings a slightly new surprise. The Three Gorges, in my opinion, lives up to its reputation and is definitely worth a visit. Of course, anyone wishing to visit has very little time, as the new dam on the Yangzi - one of the largest and costliest construction projects in the history of the world - is almost finished. Upon completion, the water level will rise so high that the gorges will no longer be dramatic. Additionally, thousands and thousands of people will be displaced, homes will be washed away, historical and archeological sites will be lost forever, and there is the risk that if the dam ever breaks, there will be one of the largest catastrophes the world has ever seen. Despite all of this, the dam will provide power to millions of people, will revolutionize Western China, and is perhaps worth the risk.

Sunday night, I disembarked from the hydrofoil and took a bus to the nearby city of Yichang. Along the way, I was treated to a view of the new dam, which was kind of cool. In Yichang, I rushed to the nearest taxi, hoping desperately to make it to the train station in time for a train south (I was at this point in Hubei province, in Central China, north of Guangxi). However, the taxi driver pulled out his little train schedule and insisted that there were no trains south until 1:30 PM the next day, when I could take a 12 hour train to Huaihua, where I could connect to another long distance train to Liuzhou, where I could connect to a long distance bus to Guilin, where I could connect to a bus to Yangshuo...not the ideal situation. At first, I didn't really trust him (suspecting he might just want to put me in his friend's hotel), but I eventually came to believe him and asked him to take me to a hotel. During the ride we talked a lot, and he turned out to be a really nice guy. He was so impressed with my Chinese that he was actually able to get me a 30% discount at the hotel (he did, in fact, know the owners, but he wasn't lying about the trains). When he told them the price he had promised me, I had to laugh, as they gave him a look like "Oh, really?!" I really didn't like the idea of not getting "home" for several days - basically the rest of my trip in China mainland was finished - but I didn't know what to do, so I went out and got some dinner at a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant (well, actually, just about every restaurant is a hole-in-the-wall place). During dinner, I enjoyed talking to all the Chinese and watching a group of old people play some crazy game involving dice and little blocks with pictures on them. They played fast and intensely - and I saw quite a bit of money on the table - and there was no way I was going to take them up on their offer to play (I kept trying to figure out the game, but had absolutely no idea what they were doing). During dinner, I decided that I would see if it were possible to fly home the next day. The hotel people were really nice and helped me arrange this, and although it was expensive, it was worth it. I left the hotel at 5:30 AM yesterday morning, rode to the airport, and then flew to Guangzhou. I had a bit of a wait there but eventually connected to Guilin, where I took a bus to Yangshuo and was home by 6:00 PM. I had a marvelous trip, but I was ready to "be home." It felt so good to curl up in my own bed and be taken care of by my Chinese family. Also, although I enjoyed trying the different foods when I travelled, I really love the food here in Guangxi, and it never tasted better than last night. It's difficult to describe the food - unlike a lot of my favorite foods - Thai, for example - the food in Southern China is not a complex blend of rich and exciting spices. It is not usually spicy, nor does it inspire the craving that, say, a filet mignon does. The food is very simple - not bland, but simple. Yet in its simplicity lies its attractiveness, and I've just come to enjoy it so much. Also, I love having rice as a staple for every meal - I never feel stuffed when I finished eating; I just feel very content and healthy (indeed, other than the absence of calcium due to no cheese or milk, the Chinese diet is extremely healthy). Anyway, that was a bit of side-note, but last night, after returning home completely exhausted, home-cooked food - other than sleep - was all that I could think about.

Well, that was my "Week of Adventure." There is so much more I wish I could have seen - Jiuzaigou, Xishuangbanna, Da Fo, Zhongdian, Songpan, Chengdu, Tibet (of course)... but I just didn't have the time. I could have chosen to travel during my entire time in China, but I chose to spend much of it with a family, and I don't for a minute regret that choice. During the past week, though, I grew so much. I found my way around the wildest and most remote territory in China, speaking almost entirely in Chinese, and accomplished nearly everything I intended to accomplish, in a ridiculously small amount of time. From the streets of Lijiang to the cliffs in Tiger Leaping Gorge; from the sunrise over Emei Shan to the mysterious fog in the Three Gorges, I saw some truly amazing sights. Even more amazing though, were the people I met. When I checked my email today, I had numerous emails from friends in the United States, China, and Costa Rica. I have formed true relationships with people on three completely different continents, and I am able to repond to these people in three different languages. This is the kind of moment that makes me feel that all the effort I've put into learning new languages and trying to understand other cultures is worthwhile. While I sometimes get confused, lost, tired, and discouraged - when all I really want is something simple like to get on the cable car - I inevitably have experiences and encounters with wonderful people like the ones I met during the past week that make me realize it's all worth the effort. Thanks for reading -