Before the narrated beauty of the rice terraces begins, I must tell you about Chinese buses. Ohh Lord . . . (a big sigh from your writer) . . . If you are a claustrophobic, tall, hater-of-cigarette-smoke type of person, Chinese buses might just force you to gouge out your eyes. And if the sound of people throwing up disturbs you, you might as well make your China trip solely on airplanes. It’s an adventure folks. Tiny seats, neighbors blowing cigarette smoke all around you, passengers barfing out the window and onto the floor of the bus, as well as the ubiquitous sound of the pig-like “HUHHHHH” followed a combination of mucous and saliva hitting the floor are guaranteed on Chinese buses. On this particular journey, my passenger to my left had apparently had a bad spout of karma in recent days and kept his head out the window for the duration of the journey in preparation for his never-ending vomit sessions. I felt bad for the dude, but what could I do?? When we finally got off the bus, I noticed that homeboy had thrown up so much on the ride that his discharge was tattooed ALL over the exterior of the bus, looking like a painting mistake on the Japanese-made 32-seater.
Ok, enough of that. Upon arriving in Yuanyang with my new friends, Jerome (French) and Jennifer (Australian), we boarded another van to head to our destination 25 km away, the Sunny Guesthouse. With the sun beginning to set we made our ascent up the mountain into the heart of the Hani Ethnic Minority territory. Riding up the mountain felt like I was going back in time. Villagers with packs and packs of sticks, shrubs and whatever else they needed strapped to their backs occupied the streets and our ride was halted momentarily while a herd of cows cleared the road.
Stopping at an overlook a few minutes later, I was privy to my first glance of the splendor of the rice terraces. Having no idea that Sunny Guesthouse was in the middle of the terraces, my companions and I were led down a mountain, along a winding road, past homes constructed of sticks of pine, past a pigsty home to two oinkers, to our home for the next few days. Occupying an absolutely serene location, the Sunny Guesthouse opened up to a stunning view of the rice terraces (photos below). Run by the ever-energetic, sweet-as-pie Chinese woman simply referred to as “Ah yi” (Auntie), we were welcomed with open arms and pleas to drop our bags as we entered the courtyard of the Guesthouse.
The place was magical in it’s austere dwellings, the kind of establishment that provided just enough character to be memorable, but lacked the homeliness that causes backpackers to take refuge for weeks at a time. The design was akin to the Beijing hutong, comprised of a central courtyard surrounded by three buildings with the kitchen and eating area taking up a third of the triumvirate the dorms completed. Electricity in the hostel was not guaranteed as the first night of my stay was spent in the kitchen under the glowing umbrella of a lamp powered by a car battery, downing Dali beers and talking semi-intellectually about the US political situation with my foreign English-speaking friends. Insulation in the walls was non-existent, but electric blankets helped to keep the winter's air at bay, and the bathrooms were on the roof, which, depending on the cold, could prove to be a truly shriveling experience. Ah yi and her family were not the only permanent residents of Sunny but a hoard of chickens and ducks occupied the roost providing the world’s best alarm clocks as the sun rose beyond the mountain peaks.
Upon finding my bed in the dorm room and re-connecting with some friends from Kunming, a pack of Hani girls walked uniformly into the courtyard, heading straight for the pile of Japanese-style sandals in the corner near the washing machine. A red drum was pulled from the office of the Guesthouse and small porcelain bowls were distributed among the girls, the oldest of them no more than 12 years old. Not really knowing what was going on, I was told to, “Go, go, go!” by Ah yi, meaning to get out of the main courtyard so the girls would have room. What ensued was a magical performance/rehearsal of Hani traditional dancing by these youngsters, equally mesmerizing for its performance and endearing because of its performers. Dressed in their traditional Hani clothing, the girls executed their handed-down steps with ease and precision, clacking their bowls together to the beat of Ah-yi’s drum. The pride with which they rehearsed was contagious and by the end of the rehearsal all (including the whiteys) were dancing together in a circle, chanting the same phrase in the Hani language over and over.
The next day was spent perusing the local area with a driver, visiting the local villages, viewing the majestic rice terraces from every possible angle and making a trek to the market in Yuanyang. The market provided sights, sounds and tastes new to our senses, all combined with the stares we would receive from the villagers on a seemingly constant basis. Children would often look in our direction and when they noticed we were privy to their glances, the reactions would range from them running away out of fear to some laughing and shouting, “Hello! Hello!” Here in Yuanyang I saw the biggest display of sexual energy of all my time in China. As I was looking at a roadside vendor, I felt a hand grab my arm. Turning to figure out who in the world would grab my arm which such a force, my face met a local Chinese girl about my age with her index finger pointing to her cheek. After a second or two, I finally pieced together that this girl wanted a big American kiss on the cheek and as I busted out laughing in shock and surprise as her friends dragged her away, playfully scolding her brashness. I’d never seen anything like that before in Middle Country.
The afternoon and evening were spent peering into the vastness of the valleys inhabiting the rice terraces. At one point I hiked with my friend Jerome, finding a clearing that made hundreds of kilometers of terraces visible. Both stunned at the beauty before us Jerome said, “Doesn’t this make you believe in God?” I nodded in affirmation. A few seconds later he looked at me and said “Or, at least believe in Mao?”
The evening sunset was accented by Jerome and Alex (more on this awesome chica soon) bargaining with a Hani woman over some postcards. If you don’t know about bargaining in China, its one of the funnest and most dangerous things you can do in the country. Salespersons and customers REALLY get into it, and this Hani woman was no exception. The outing ended in the Hani woman literally yelling at Alex in French (which she doesn’t speak) and Jerome picking his favorite from Alex’s stack of overpriced postcards, nagging the Hani woman in his broken Chinese throughout the bargaining process. The sunset speaks for itself.
