High in the hills on horseback

After tearing ourselves away from the timewarp that was Sim's Cozy hostel in Chengdu, we went back up into the Sichuanese hills, to the north this time. This is the first real change of plan since my first entry on this blog, where I said we'd take the ferry eastwards from Sichuan, along the Yangzi river towards Shanghai. We've since decided that the three-day Yangzi ferry would probably be too full of noisy Chinese tourists with no sense of personal space. And the route north from Sichuan into Gansu province sounded interesting, and the backroads routes we've taken so far have been some of the best things we've done in China. So now the plan is to travel via another ethnically Tibetan region up to the city of Lanzhou, from where we will take the train (woo hoo, no more buses for a while) to Xi'an for the Terracotta Army, then all the way over to Qingdao (home of China's most famous beer, Tsingtao) on the east coast. From there you can take a ferry over to Japan.

Our first stop north of Chengdu was Songpan, ethnically a bit Tibetan but actually 60% Muslim. The done thing in Songpan is to take multi-day horse treks - we decided on a three-day trip up to the so-called Ice Mountain. Usually this trip takes four days and three nights, but a number of people had already booked it for three days (two nights) and we weren't convinced that three nights in a tent at over 3000 metres was all that enticing a prospect.

Our vehicles await, just outside our hostel in Songpan


So three days it was. However, the downside to this was that we spent at least five hours each day in the saddle, and about seven hours on the middle day. Oof. Mind you, the horses had it much worse, lugging our heavy western bodies up incredibly steep mountain paths; towards the end of the second hour of steep climbing on the second day, the horses understandably paused every now and then to catch their breath, and were promptly whipped by any nearby guide and made to continue climbing. Faye felt so bad for her horse that she got off and walked at one point. She soon regretted this when she had to run to catch her steed up and her lungs reminded her angrily that she was at high altitude.

It was all well worth the pain though. The views, especially on the way up to the plateau just underneath Ice Mountain, were fabulous, the group was great fun, and even the camp food was far better than either the Lonely Planet or the Rough Guide had given it credit for.

Developing my bandy-legged swagger


Yes, we all bought the same cowboy hats beforehand. They were only 65p each


We think the ten or so guides all slept under this rudimentary tent. We don't know because we were in bed by nine every night and they got up at the crack of dawn.


On the way up to the Ice Mountain. The horse is probably indifferent to the scenery at this stage.


We (or they) made it! Ice Mountain.


The stragglers


After this brief lunch we had to walk all the way back down. My sympathy for my horse soon faded.


My trusty steed was called Deifu, I think, so I decided to call him Tofu Dave. What a legend!


After seven hours in the saddle, this fireside log may have been the reason for our early night (but not before a stunning rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody)

Chengdu and around: blissful relaxation and Emei Shan

Having made the arduous journey down almost to sea level from the heights of eastern Tibet, we needed a rest. As luck would have it, the hostel we stayed in in Chengdu, the capital of Sichuan, was a candidate for the best of our trip so far and was almost certainly the most relaxing. So apart from a three-day excursion south to a couple of Sichuan's 'must-sees', we contrived to spend two whole weeks in Sim's Cozy Guesthouse eating bacon sandwiches, tickling piglets (often simultaneously - I know, dodgy) and not really doing a lot else. Of course there was the small matter of my 31st birthday, and a three-day quest to get our hands on a posh new camera for much less than it would cost at home, but still I'm not sure where most of the time went.

A nearby temple had a teahouse in its grounds. Teahouses are common in Sichuan (apparently the Sichuanese are considered lazy by other Chinese) and are a perfect place to spend a relaxing afternoon of people-watching.


The Sichuanese's reputation seems unfair


You can even have tender parts of your anatomy cleaned with risky-looking sharp tools. After this man's ear treatment he had his eyes done. The Sichuanese must also be quite a trusting bunch.



However, the side trip south from Chengdu was anything but relaxing. In China there are perhaps five or six holy mountains, covered in Buddhist temples, one or more of which all Chinese people hope to climb at some stage in their lives. Instead of rocky, uneven paths to the summit, there are steps all the way up, sometimes hewn out of the rock, but often actually made of imported concrete, making these pilgrimages all the easier for your average city-dwelling Chinese person. Or so runs the theory. In reality, climbing almost 2000 vertical metres step by step is both incredibly tedious and excruciatingly painful. At the hostel we stayed in at the bottom of Emei Shan, one of the more famous and popular of these holy mountains, someone (who claimed he might be autistic) had written on the wall that he'd counted 66,000-odd steps from bottom to top. I don't know how true that is; we only climbed about two-thirds of the mountain, but I'm pretty sure the number of steps we climbed each day was well into four figures and quite possibly five. On the first day of climbing, we finally reached the temple we would stay at after four hours solid of lifting one leg painfully and wearily above the other onto the next just-too-narrow step, with perhaps a 10-metre flat section every fifteen minutes to ease the agony in our calves and stem the torrent of sweat from every pore. On the second day we got to within 500 vertical metres of the summit just after lunchtime. We were hoping to make it to the summit that afternoon, stay in another temple, and get up to see the sun rise over the sea of clouds, apparently a beautiful sight. However, we came upon a bus station at the end of the road up the mountain and made probably the quickest decision of our trip yet, to knock the summit on the head and get back down to comfort and the pork with green chilli peppers we'd eaten the night before starting the climb. Of course many of the more sensible Chinese tourists had taken the bus up the mountain to that bus stop and just climbed the last 500 metres. Anyway, I think we can say we've done our pilgrimage now - no need for any more holy mountains and their hellish staircases.

The lower parts of Emei Shan were undeniably picturesque




But as with any major tourist sight in China, escaping the crowds was almost impossible.


A little further along we came across a colony of macaques. Such was the scrum of Chinese trying to get pictures with the monkeys that it was sometimes hard to tell which species could boast 5000 years of civilisation.


I pushed and shoved with the best of them to get near this nipper


After escaping Emei Shan, we took a bus to a nearby town where there is a giant Buddha statue facing the river. According to our guide book the Leshan Buddha is the tallest in the world, at 71 metres. To get to it, you had to pay through the nose and walk through a series of atmospheric caves.


We came here mostly out of a sense of duty, as it was nearby, and our expectations had been lowered both by other backpackers who'd not been that enthralled, and by the Emei Shan experience. But in the end the Leshan Buddha was pretty impressive, and as it was a Monday and raining, the place wasn't completely overrun by Chinese tourists. The light-coloured specks to the left of his face are umbrellas, so you can get some idea of the size of it.


Happily installed back at Sim's in Chengdu, we managed to get up early enough one morning to visit the nearby giant panda research centre before the pandas went to sleep for the day. Chengdu, our city of inactivity, seems a perfect home for these great lazy lumps.


The youngsters were a bit more energetic


Finally, a sign at Emei Shan just to prove who are the experts on civilisation.

Night of the Arm Defenders

Yesterday I turned 31, but knowing that most of our little group would have moved on by then, we decided to celebrate in some Chinese style last Friday. The oriental flavour was mostly courtesy of Matt, who has experienced a few Chinese birthdays and other celebrations while working as a teacher up in the northeast. Apparently the done thing is to hire out a private room in a restaurant, with your own team of waiters, then adjourn to a (private again) karaoke booth à la Lost In Translation. Fortunately, this being western China, none of this broke the bank as it sounds like it could.

The evening was made even more Chinese by the group's present to me: Arm Defenders. Let me explain... one of the defining images of China for me, one that will linger in memory long after we leave, is one of women of various ages going about their daily business wearing an extra layer of sleeve, secure in the knowledge that their forearms are safe. Don't ask me why they wear these forearm protectors so much, or why I'm so fascinated by them (I don't think there's anything kinky underlying it) - just believe in the power of the Arm Defender. (The image of Chinese males that sticks in my mind, by the way, is the incredibly popular yet to me extremely uncomfortable practice of squatting in the street, best appreciated with a gang of like-minded mates and a fag - more on this in the future no doubt.)

Quintessential China, female and male versions


Considering the almost mythical power that Arm Defenders can exert, my joy was understandable.


It only got better - I had an army of arm-defending lieutenants (note the different, subordinate colour).


Then came the cake. Hovering so close to it turned out to be poor tactics..


I was told this was also a Chinese birthday tradition. Hm. I'm still not sure.


Back at the hostel, the resident piglets were more than happy to follow with tradition.


After further limb defence in the hostel bar..


..it was time for more high culture.


6am, and to our disgust McDonald's had switched to their breakfast menu and wouldn't serve us Quarterpounders or fries. Still, with Arm Defenders intact even a crappy Sausage McMuffin couldn't faze us.

Yaks, prayer flags and cowboys with altitude: a back route through Tibet

That should perhaps be tibet with a small t, as we haven't crossed the border into what China currently classifies as the Tibet Autonomous Region. But the route we travelled from northwestern Yunnan province into western Sichuan province took us through the heart of Kham, historically the eastern section of the Tibetan plateau. Ethnically it's more Tibetan than most of the accessible parts of the TAR, due to China's policy of encouraging Han Chinese immigration into the autonomous region - 80% of the population of western Sichuan are Tibetan, compared to 40% in the Tibetan capital Lhasa. With the high altitude and jagged, snowy peaks, and the ubiquitous yaks, monks, prayer flags and monasteries, we now think we've experienced so much genuine Tibetan life that there's little need to pay through the nose and jump through the bureaucratical hoops necessary in order to visit China's fenced-in version of Tibet. And did I mention the cowboys?

Tibet appeared just a couple of hours north of Tiger Leaping Gorge; the bus climbed up a small gorge onto a plateau, and suddenly pointy-roofed Chinese buildings and cows had given way to stocky, mud-coloured Tibetan house-castles and huge woolly yaks. I was pleased that the change was so obvious - in Yunnan we had supposedly travelled through several areas populated mostly by various ethnic minorities, but I had found it difficult to differentiate the people and their villages from the Chinese norm.

Our first stop in Tibet (and last in Yunnan) was Zhongdian, otherwise known as Shangri-La (see earlier blog entry). Here the local people backed up the impression of having entered a different country - they were noticeably taller and darker-skinned than anyone we'd seen so far in China. Prayer flags were hung across the main square in the old town, there were huge dogs tied up in courtyards ready to scare the living daylights out of any stranger that hovered too long at the gate, and yak butter tea was on offer at all the foreigner cafes. Oh yes, and it was COLD - we were at 3200m and, particularly in our concrete-floored room on the first night, we could feel it.

Locals dancing in Zhongdian's main square


Having spent a few days adjusting to the altitude and cold, we decided we were indeed up to the challenge of the tough backroads route north into Sichuan. Fortunately it was warmer inside the minibus than on the road at this 4000m-plus pass.


After two days of long bus journeys reaching altitudes of nearly 5000m (more than half of Everest!), and one run-in with the police (we were sold a ride in a private car, only to be stopped, told it was illegal, taken back to our start point and put safely in a licensed minibus), we arrived in Litang, in Sichuan or Kham depending on your perspective. At 4014m, Litang is apparently one of the highest cities in the world. And it was rather cold.


Even the yaks wanted to go inside


Fortunately we soon came across Mr Zheng, who was only too pleased to welcome our group of eight cold, unwashed foreigners into his cosy little restaurant.


Like all Tibetan towns we've seen so far, Litang has a massive monastery complex on the edge of town. The walk up to it would have taken about ten minutes at sea level; here, we arrived breathless after about three quarters of an hour of heavy-legged dawdling.


We arrived just in time to see a procession of monks blowing trumpets and banging drums, then chucking a load of yak butter sculptures of evil-looking mini-skulls onto a bonfire. The local onlookers seemed very solemn, but we were just a bit bemused. A nearby yak was clearly unimpressed and decided to recycle the leftover yak butter once the monks had moved on.


Monks inside the monastery complex




But easily the best thing about Litang was the ordinary people. I say ordinary - we all spent most of our time there wandering the streets wide-eyed, turning and pointing at a seemingly endless procession of local dudes dressed like we'd never seen folk dressed before. These were genuine cowboys, with wide-brimmed hats, bandanas, heavy animal-skin coats and motorbikes with tassles hanging from the handlebars to the floor. They were also almost inevitably wearing sunglasses, despite the fact that it was snowing most of the time. But not sunglasses like you or I know sunglasses...




Of course the look worked better on the locals, who we all agreed were some of the most ridiculous yet coolest-looking blokes we'd ever seen. Faye was clearly impressed (I told you they were tall).


Reluctantly, we left the cowboys of Litang and headed east over more snowy plateaux


We were delighted to see that our next stop, in the Tagong grasslands, was as Wild West as Litang


Cowboys and prayer wheels at the Tagong monastery


A monk's life isn't all asceticism and prayer you know




One morning, I walked around a little hill five minutes out of town, and came across an unexpected and unbelievably pretty scene of grasslands full of yaks, prayer flags and a golden temple backed by an impressively spiky peak, which must have been over 6000m high seeing as the town itself was at 3700m. Even if not, it was still one of the most mountainy looking mountains I'd ever seen.




The following day, five of us hiked to a nunnery in the hills where we met the sixth member of our group, who is studying Buddhism and had stayed there the previous night.


The plan was to hike to a village populated by semi-nomadic Khampa people, and possibly stay overnight in a tent warmed only by fellow-resident yaks and a good fire. On the way to the village, a gnarled old man with two scary dogs (one of whom nearly got his teeth into me before being subdued by this lithe old geezer) invited us into his cold, bare house to have tsampa. Tsampa is the staple diet for most Tibetans - it's roasted barley flour that you mix with yak butter tea to form a doughy ball that tastes of pretty much nothing, with just a hint of roquefort provided by the ageing yak butter. As something you have a couple of bites of to say you've tried it, it's fine; as a whole meal, it's not quite peppered steak and chips.




This was lunch. It was enough to convince us that we didn't really want it for dinner too, and should therefore press on back to Tagong town and our electric blankets. Still, the old man, who didn't speak a word of English, Chinese, or even Lonely-Planet-phrasebook Tibetan, had been incredibly kind and hospitable. We returned the favour by trying to stop his baby granddaughter from crying and moving her away from the boiling water on the stove when he disappeared for some time, presumably to tend a distressed yak.


Another reason to return to town was the Chinese (and therefore strictly not Tibetan) restaurant we'd adopted as home, complete with mother figure, who even let Faye help her make the ravioli-like dumplings that go in a spicy broth to make a perfect breakfast on a cold morning.


Finally a warning for all opportunistic yaks - beware the local mafia if you raid bins in the dead of night