Article originally published as Down and along from Chéngdu: a journey to Tibetan Sìchuan in China National Travel Magazine (2015)

An introduction

Sìchuān is a province of numerous extremes, of incredible and varied natural beauty, and of a great many attractions and sights. Given the vast scale of the land, and the rugged, mountainous nature of the territory, it is simply impossible to explore it all in a single voyage. Sìchuān’s countless tourists and visitors, both domestic and foreign, must therefore make difficult choices while planning their trip.

The majority fly into Chéngdū, the enormous and congested, yet laid-back and enjoyable capital of the province, but where to go from there? Perhaps north to Jiŭzhàigō National Park for some hiking in wonderful alpine beauty? Or maybe westwards, to the Tibetan plateaux and perhaps, with the right paperwork, to Lhasa and then across to the fabled Mt. Kailash? A great many opt to head south-east, to Chóngqìng and a Yangzi river cruise, by way of Lèshāng and its gargantuan cliff-side Buddha.

The far south and south-west, however, is far less frequented – by foreigners and Chinese alike. Those who do venture down towards the Yunnan border often go west and then south, via Dàochéng, in order to trek the Yàdīng Nature Reserve and see its holy mountains, Chenresig, Chana Dorje and Jampelyang. South then west is a road less travelled, and while journeying down to Xīchāng, and across to Lake Lúgū and the county of Mùlĭ, I saw not a single other westerner.

Perhaps this may have a little to do with a certain, wildly popular travel guide not providing any section for this part of China (with the majesty Lake Lúgū only mentioned in its chapter on Yúnnán province). Perhaps it is because the major highways of this part of Sìchuān have only recently opened or are currently under construction. Whatever the reasons may be, it is a great shame that this part of the world is currently so unknown to a wider audience for, as I hope this article-cum-journal will show, South Sìchuān is a truly remarkable place.

My main destination is Mùlĭ County, an autonomous Tibetan region rich in culture, religion and landscape. However, the journey is a long one, filled with incident and colour and delight. In many ways, the voyage itself proved to be as remarkable as the destination. While the main theme is of a quest towards a mysterious, Tibetan land, this piece will also explore a burgeoning local tourism industry, and introduce numerous local peoples and cultures. In short, the following pages will lay out my day-to-day experiences on the road, and hopefully give a semblance of an insight on a spectacular and original trip.

 

June the third.

We hurry to catch our early evening flight to Chéngdū, the central megalopolis of enormous and populous Sìchuān. We are rushing, late not for any particular reason save the idle slipping away of time. Yet late we are. Therefore we hustle from check-in to ticket-check, then bustle over to the scanners and x-rays. I choose the shortest line and latch myself to the back of it.

Directly in front of me is a girl of about my age, wearing a fashionable and, shall we say, well-fitting, red dress. Like so many Chinese women of her generation, she seems partial to overdressing for rather mundane occasions. And this scarlet vision of loveliness has not gone unnoticed.  Indeed, a few of the fellows working at security have seen her, and are giving her a surreptitious, admiring once-over. Theirs is repetitive, but necessary work, and one cannot judge them their search for a little distraction.

“I do suspect” I think to myself, “that there may just be something amiss with her bag..”

And low and behold, there was, and the young lady was called back to the scanners, for something was not quite right. I reflect, as one often does, that no matter how far one travels, some things shall never change. It is always rather comforting to spot the familiar in human nature while in very unfamiliar lands.

At this early point in proceedings I must make it known that I speak less than a dozen words of Mandarin Chinese. Therefore the following translation is but an educated guess:

Security fellow 1:            I am sorry madam, but there is something amiss with your bag.”

Pretty girl:                      Oh dear…what’s the matter?

Security fellow 2:            Ah, nothing severe m’lady, it is simply that…er…this portable hard-drive thing is electric, and…er…must be scanned separately.

Pretty girl:                      Oh..ok then, if you must…

Security fellow 3:            Oh we must! Please, if you would be so kind.

[Security fellow 3 takes the offending electronics and commences rescanning.]

Security fellow 1:            Sorry for the delay ma’am. I must say, by the by that that is a truly spectacular dress..very..um..

Security fellow 2:            Well-fitted!

Pretty girl:                      Er…

And so on.

As I say, it does one good to see something a little familiar when travelling in such alien climes. Even ‘boys being boys’ has some reassuring charm. For China, despite huge cultural shifts and a telltale westernising in recent years, is still a vast, unknowable and forever-changing behemoth of a nation to me. To travel through it, seeking adventure, is necessarily a little daunting. However, throughout my journey thus far, for this is being written on the road and the voyage is far from over, such moments of the recognisable and the human have abounded.

We find our gate, and boarding has just commenced. It is always grand and satisfying to be unexpectedly punctual – much like being shot at and missed. We hop aboard our westward shuttle and away we go.

On the plane I read John Keay’s excellent China – A History, looking to clue myself in on Sìchuān’s singular place within the country’s six thousand year span. While this is neither the time nor the place to pontificate away about the province’s history, it is worth mentioning that throughout the millennia, ‘the land of silk and money’ (Stephen F. Sage) played a central role in the rise and fall of the multiple Chinese dynasties.

Be it when the Qin emperor took it from the ancient Shu king, using the ingenious, if perhaps apocryphal ruse of the Stone Cattle Road, or when the Shu kingdom flourished independently in the period of the Three Kingdoms (220 AD-280), Sìchuān has been an engine room of Chinese history. Marco Polo perhaps travelled here, on the Southern Silk Road, and it was here that mankind first used paper money. It was this area that came into significant contact with the Tibetan peoples to the west, and the Indian subcontinent to the south. Reading the stories and tales of the province’s past, one cannot help but become even more excited by our approaching destination.

Upon touching down we are met by a Miss Song, an employee of Sìchuān’s tourism agency. Understandably keen to get the word out about a less visited region of their most excellent province, the local government have tasked her with organising and assisting us throughout our trip. And in the face of Miss Song I find another moment of the familiar, despite never having made her acquaintance before. For she, despite being Chinese, was the spitting image of an Australian friend of mine from university. Again, the familiar walking hand-in-hand with the unfamiliar!

It is quite late now, perhaps around 10pm, yet we feel a little peckish so we hasten to one of a plethora of noodle joints and small, family-run establishments which fill up downtown Chéngdū. The local noodles were very fine, with a tell-tale kick of Sìchuān spice. The accompanying dark gelatine dish ‘thing’ was far stranger. It was not savoury, but that is not to say it was sweet. It was not good, though that is not necessarily to say that it was bad. It just, was.

After this curious culinary interlude I am ferried across to the hotel in which I will pass the night. My lack of Mandarin makes me feel, not for the first time and  certainly not for the last, like a big, hairy infant, carried around by kind and attentive relatives. But on the other hand, one really cannot recommend exploring a new area with a local highly enough. One is provided with such an insight into a place’s way of life and true personality, and one is rewarded with access to places unknown to outsiders, special places of real interest. This truth was something which I would find to be manifest on every day of this singular journey.

 

June the fourth.

My word but is it raining! When we arrived in Chéngdū we were greeted with a spell of beautiful, miserable drizzle, the like of which is so familiar to Englishmen such as I. Today, however, it seems that mother nature had decided to wash to city away, and is throwing down droplet-soldiers at the pavements and roadways with a passionate ferocity.

I sit now in the back of a 4×4, experiencing the singular cosiness of being so close to the infinitely wet, while remaining warm and dry. There are few pleasures greater in the whole gamut of schadenfreude than watching other folks moisten themselves in the downpour, while splendidly arid you remain! A veteran of numerous English ‘summers’, this is all happily familiar to me.

An hour later, I still sit in the back of the car. In the previous sixty minutes we have progressed, at the most, one mile from the hotel. The traffic in this city is, quite frankly, ridiculous. Gridlock does not even begin to cover it, for it is so much more than a simple ‘gird’, and it is not just ‘locked’, but chained, barred and bolted.

I am not one to profess to you any real ‘travelling wisdom’, for I am far from an experienced China-voyager. But I would, respectfully, offer this ‘traveller’s tip’ – leave Chéngdū in the early morning! Do not venture onto its rain-beaten streets during the rush-hours – at least not in any kind of automobile. For between the hours of eight and ten the city simply does not work. Imagine attempting to force an ocean through a teat-pipette. Only now do you have an apt metaphor for the traffic’s ‘progress’, and I use that word in the loosest possible sense, through Sìchuān’s capital.

Finally, after an age, we are motoring, splashing our way down the open, sodden highway. Unlike the built-up, dusty north-east of China, down here one is surrounded by lush and green. After the first expressway was laid down between Chéngdū and Chóngqìng, progress was slow in the development of high-level, modern infrastructure. (Incidentally Chóngqìng is not the biggest city in the world. It is in fact a separate municipality from Sìchuān major, and the city itself is around the same size as Chéngdū). It was only eight years ago that the region’s highways were properly developed. But, in the east and the south, developed they now are, and the moist miles are eaten up by our tyres as we head down and along from the capital…

..but oh my word but did I speak too soon! The smooth flow along the road has been brought to an abrupt halt by a man-made dam of unknown cause. We have not moved for well over an hour, and there is no respite in sight. I watch as people, umbrellas in hand, seemingly abandon their vehicles and wander down the traffic jam. A car to our side expels three, four, five people, with more remaining within its metal shell. Most curious.

Directly in front of us rests a large pig wagon. Every so often one of its porcine occupants will pop a head out, to fix the congestion with a weary eye. One or two of them shout out discontented hollers. I know how my swiney friends feel, I really do… Eventually the wait grows too frustrating for these incredulous pigs, and in one voice they cry out in protest. It is an unpleasant chorus, but the swine cannot be reasoned with. My only thought is whether we will be fated to die of hunger and deprivation in this godless traffic, or whether the pigs will break their shackles and stomp and gum their human oppressors to death. Whichever fate befalls me, I hope the end comes quickly.

Aah, this (he says tempting fate spectacularly) is much more like it. We have limped our slow way to Ya’an, a compact little city south-west of Chéngdū which sits on a lazy, reddish river. We will come back to the town on our return trip, so I will leave a fuller description until later on, but suffice to say it has some notably splendid covered traditional-style bridges.

Here we ate a cheap and flavoursome lunch, including a curious pig trotter soup and a spicy chicken and mixed pulse dish. Sìchuānese cuisine’s most notable quality is that of its characteristic spice: The local peppercorns numb the mouth gently, as the flavour and spice builds up on the palate. It does not batter in the front door like eastern dishes and the curries of India and Thailand, it is a slow-building spice  which secrets itself into the dwelling then sets fire to the curtains.

After our brief sojourn in Ya’an the roads are blissfully clear and nothing short of majestic. The landscape is a vast medley of rugged peaks and ranges, with luxuriant, patchwork plains dotted with small villages and covered with the farms and smallholdings which have always made the province so central to Chinese food production. Any one of these numerous and epic valleys could be a key destination for a traveller in Europe, with individual names and mythologies tied to the magnificent scale and verdant beauty of the locations.

But this is China, this is big country, and as we sweep past one sensational vista, it is replaced by another even grander and more extraordinary. A fellow traveller tells me that, no matter where one goes in the world, no matter how impressive or famous the natural wonder, China has something even more beautiful. It is tempting to write this off as patriotic posturing, but as one’s journey continues, one begins to think that the boast is not altogether idle.

The plains of Central Sìchuān are covered with smaller towns and villages, and no area seems untouched by human settlement – perhaps unsurprising considering that it is amongst the most populous provinces in the country. Luscious paddy fields mix with prosaic, functional architecture, modern materials and local necessities combining to create a singular style of building. As we drive through these myriad villages I spot high-flying kites and occasional fireworks, almost invisible in the evening daylight. We carefully pass a battered old cart drawn by equally battered old oxen, an almost anachronistic sight compared to the sleek modern road we are currently enjoying.

I must describe the roadway itself in further detail, for it really is a marvel. Sometimes it hugs the valley floor and snakes across the plains, sometimes it latches itself to the side of a winding gorge. On other occasions it marches straight down the centre of a mountain pass, high in the air on gargantuan metal and concrete stilts. Twice, in order to gain the necessary height to mount a large new range, the road burrows into the mountain itself, and ascends in a subterranean spiral to emerge high above its previous path, proudly triumphant against all former limitations of engineering. This mystical, unreal landscape and the splendid, uncanny highway take us kilometre after kilometre southwards, and we eventually reach Xīchāng, the central city of Liangshan county and our base for the next two nights.

As Dr. Henry Jones Jnr. once said, ‘it’s not the years, it’s the mileage’, and I certainly know how the hat-sporting archaeologist felt as I dropped my bags at the Bihaixianen Hotel. However, there is a fine lakeside town to explore, and more Sìchuānese food to enjoy – so off we go once more.

Xīchāng as a city has grown to be a popular destination for relocation, and it has grown almost as expensive as Chéngdū itself. I am told that it used to be a Tibetan area, which are often characterised by higher commodity prices, and as it became more popular and up-market with Chéngdū residents the cost of living simply remained high. However,  it is always possible to find a decent, cheap night-out in central China, and tonight would be no exception.

It is an old cliché but ’tis still sage advice: ‘eat where the locals eat’ (though this wisdom is more difficult to put into practice in  Sìchuān due to the extensive local tourism which sprawls out from Chéngdū.). Accordingly, after walking through lakeside Xīchāng for a while we sit ourselves down at a popular and likely-looking barbeque joint, bundled in with many other diners.

The food was simple, cheap and interesting, all skewered and heavily seasoned. However, the member of our party responsible for ordering clearly confused our nutritional requirements with that of the Golden Horde. She went through the provided paper menu/checklist, and proceeded to tick a frankly astonishing number of the boxes before handing it back to a sceptical proprietor. A short while later…I have literally never seen so much kebabed foodstuffs before, set before us in what can only be described as a mountain. Amongst the plethora of grilled unfortunates I spotted big shrimp, little shrimp, squid, pork ribs, beef, ‘lake fish’, something curious and something else entirely. Generally it was very tasty, though the providence of some of the meat was perhaps a little suspect.

After this we walked down the Quong Hai waterfront and enjoyed a highly clement evening. We had a couple of drinks by the rustling trees and sloshing water, and all would have been right with the world, apart from the fact that I was drinking the local ‘beer’ – the best-selling ‘beer’ in the world apparently – Snow. Snow is so-called because both the beverage and its namesake are almost exclusively made of, and taste of, water. I would discover later that it is almost ubiquitous across the establishments in rural Sìchuān. This was not ideal. I enjoy a flavoursome beer. But, as they say, into each life some snow must fall.

 

June the fifth.

We start early and make for Luóji Mountain, the highest peak in the area and quite a significant draw during high season. As has been previously mentioned, we are travelling south to Tibetan country by 4×4, and really a jeep of some kind, for this portion of the journey at least, is the only possible way to travel. The roads up the mountain are in a terrible state, and are often implausibly steep. Replacement roads are scheduled to be completed within two years, but for the time being we have to content ourselves with a real bone-shaker of a ride up towards the summit.

Up we climb into the misty altitude. It has rained relatively recently, as it so often does during Sìchuān’s precipitation-filled summer months, and the air gets cooler. Eventually, after as bumpy a trip as one could ever wish for, we arrive at the base of a cable car. It is a rather inauspicious starting place, with a gratuitously ugly edifice built in the Communist-Brutalist style greeting us would-be mountaineers.

One has the option of the forty minute ascent or the eight-to-twelve minute express car (Presently priced at 120-130 RMB, but this ticket price may rise to 180 when the developments are finished ). We take the latter, as the mist is thick and the views which might be enjoyed on the slower cable are enveloped in whites and greys. We therefore speed up the mountain slopes at an impressive lick. As we rise through the mists and fog one can just about see the trees below, changing in size and species as the altitude climbs. This curious high-level botany is a key reason for over one hundred thousand tourists exploring the peak each year.

Eventually we make the top, and my mild scepticism for the enterprise increases further, as the platform area at the top of the cable car is barely finished and is in very poor repair. But off we troop into the eerie, mysterious forest. The air is thin, and while the trek (two hours or so) we undertake is not taxing in and of itself, the altitude does make it a little tricky, so one must take it slowly. The trees are slim and gnarled and odd, and it is all rather other-worldly in the quiet, damp atmosphere. My short-lived low expectations have vanished into the mist, and I am completely enraptured by my singular surroundings.

One finds colourful azaleas, rhododendrons if you prefer, and mossy fibres hang from the ancient fir trees. Some call this ‘dragon beard’, others ‘fir nets’ – either way it makes for curious viewing. We wander along the wooden pathway, and a rapid stream can be heard deep within the mist, still unseen. Giant, glacier-dropped boulders line our path, with large and unlikely trees somehow growing out from their cracks. Some of these rock-rooted trees are many centuries old, and they are only beaten for curiosity by the sight of trees within trees, younger azaleas sprouting out from the stone-like remains of old firs, a tree-inception situation.

We come upon the tempting, teasing brook, running down a rocky gorge which cuts a swathe in the lush mountainside. As we cross a little bridge one is told that this is a place of detailed and celebrated glacier study, as millennia ago a singular geographical occurrence ploughed its way through the place, leaving one-of-a-kind markings on the rock of significant geological interest.

Now we clamber up to the splendidly named Black Dragon Pool, the largest body of water in the mountain area, sitting pretty at 3600 metres above sea level. It is so called because it is inhabited by a holy dragon who guarded Zhi Ge A Lu, a hero of the local Yi minority (a local people, the culture and history of which will be examined below). I am told this tale by a local, involving sacrifice, a baby and blood. It is difficult to follow, and as the story is told the characters seem to merge into each other. What is without question, however, is that there’s a dragon in that pool.

As we arrive at the lake, the notoriously changeable weather smiles upon us, and a strong burst of sunlight breaks through the fog. Almost simultaneously, as if the script had been written by the most unimaginative pen, the mist lifts and we get a full view of a most wonderfully beautiful glacial lake, pine forests and lofty hills surrounding its dark, clear waters. Its thirty-five hectares are ringed by a smart wood-fenced pathway, around which we will soon wander. It is as close to a typical Chinese natural line-drawing as I have ever seen in reality. A truly glorious vista.

While we perambulate around, as quickly as it came the sun disappears and the mists return, sweeping across the water thicker than ever. ‘The weather here enjoys all four seasons in a day’ commented one local. ‘The sun comes as quickly as a Yi girl’s smile, and then vanishes shyly away, just the same’ opined another. Little was I to know that that very evening I would understand the simile in much more real terms, when some friendly Yi pour snow down my throat.

We continue our circuit around, and on the far side we come to a viewpoint. On clear days, so I am told, the contrast between the dark water, light blue sky and green mountains is more splendid here than anywhere else. However, the stubborn mist remains, and I have to content myself with studying some of the local wildlife. While the mountain’s black bears usually keep themselves to themselves further up in deep forest thickets, we do see some of the lake’s ‘babyfish’ – curious little water lizards – and I spot a lovely little bird, whistling away to itself on a tree in the lake.

It is mid-sized, black with a violent orange belly and a bright white cap. It flies off looking for all the world like a black and orange dart with a diamond arrowhead. ‘I wonder if my father’s seen one of these?’ I think. The Beijing-based Mr. Mansfield is a keen ornithologist, and China yields up numerous opportunities for the highest-quality bird watching, so the chance to spot a bird before him is always amusing. I ring him up to gloat, yet it is short-lived. Firstly, he knows what it is – a Whitecap Shryke – and secondly he has indeed seen one before. Still, his is a hollow victory, for he is imprisoned in dusty, dirty Beijing while I wander in a misty wonderland.

June, July and August are the only snow-free months at the top of Luóji Mountain. This year the snow melted by the fourth of May, the hottest Xīchāng summer for seventy-seven years. It remains a popular tourist destination in the winter/autumnal months however, for under a thick blanket of snow, with tumbling waterfalls frozen into uncanny sculptures of ice, one can easily imagine that the place looks even more magnificent.

For us a walk back around the lake remains, and then to the cable-car. The peak does continue up and away from the Black Dragon Pool and so do the walks, up to further paths, lakes and altitude (the highest point is 4358 metres) – but we are pressed for time. The way down by cable-car is uneventful, and the road down the mountain is even bumpier when gravity is on one’s side.

However, now the mist has risen from the foothills we are afforded spectacular views over the Quong Hai and Xīchāng, which sits proudly on both its banks. We stop off for lunch in a roadside restaurant called ‘Pearl’. We eat a number of locally grown vegetables and a soup which is bitter as all hell – apparently this means that it is good for you… I also try another dish which tastes like nettles covered in chillies, and it turns out it was a dish of nettles covered in chillies, so it goes to show you never can tell.

Post-lunch we head to the Liang Shan Yi Slave Society Museum – quite a mouthful, but a surprisingly well done museum, which sits high above southern Xīchāng, offering more great views of the city. It is built in the grand, impressive style of the main Party museums in Beijing, with high ceilings and heavy columns, and the state-funding and the state-backed narrative is noticeable throughout the exhibitions. Strangely, the English translations made available on the displays are note-perfect, far superior to the occasionally dodgy translations one might find at A-list attractions such as the Forbidden City.

Our guide is a young Yi girl herself serving out the last day of her museum tenure. She is off to join the police force the following week, testament to the decent education she has enjoyed. Yet she tells us that, as a ‘White Yi’, she always feels somewhat inferior to her ‘Black Yi’ colleagues, and as a woman she is still seen as somewhat odd for remaining unmarried. On a number of occasions during this tour of ethnically-diverse southern Sìchuān one is impressed by the way that minority cultures are sustained and protected from being swept away by modernisation. However, it is good to see that some of the crueller edges of this particular indigenous society have been smoothed out by the Chinese government, slavery never being a price worth paying for tradition.

After the museum visit we head to downtown, historic Xīchāng to interview Mr. Zheng Zheng-Yu,  the former director of the city’s tourism, in order to learn a little more about the region. He is to be found near the reconstructed Da Tong Men gate tower, which has been converted to house Xīchāng’s Cultural Heritage Admin Office.

The city’s rebuilt walls date originally from the Ming dynasty, and it is indeed an interesting location for a fascinating chat, not least because these old walls accommodate roots for surprisingly huge, ancient trees, which grow out of the masonry seemingly at odds with gravity itself. Xīchāng foliage simply does not take ‘no for an answer it seems.

It is splendidly peaceful up here above the city. A bower of pink flowers now top the grand old walls. We are served some local tea out on top of the y walls, and Mr. Zheng Zheng-Yu, a small wizened gentleman with thinning hair, alert eyes and a pungent roll-up, arrives.

And enjoy it I did. And now, to dinner. Keeping with the Yi nationality theme of the day, we trotted over to the largest and most tourist friendly of the city’s Yi establishments. All is bedecked in the lucky Yi colours of red, black and yellow, and a decent crowd of Chéngdū tourists have gathered for the show with which we will soon be treated. I notice that our local guides and friends have taken seats at the table with their backs to the stage. I enquire about this, and they explain, smirking, that locals do not usually come here because ‘once is more than enough’. ‘It’s a bit…over the top’ they add. Splendid.

The food, when it comes, is rustic and interesting, the meat dishes being worth a miss but the fish, caught in the beautiful nearby hai, and the vegetable courses were rather tasty. There is an odd bread concoction caught between starter and dessert, and, of course, as always, there are far too many dishes!

If I might be permitted to return again to the ‘familiar sights in unfamiliar surroundings’ idea, I will point out that the phenomena of people passionately ignoring an overly loud master of ceremonies is universal. No matter where one travels, be it London, Beijing or far-flung Liangshan, folks will always refuse to give in to an annoying young gentleman’s fevered requests to ‘make some noise’. Eventually he drags up some reluctant volunteers to play curious games on stage – always a sign of an MC who is short on ideas. And then he is finished, and the show begins.

It is honestly the campest thing I have ever seen. A mix of electronic, baseball-game organ music with semi-traditional Chinese melodies, and slight young folks, boys and girls, shuffling about in rural garb with odd props and pained expressions. And then they start to sing. My only advice to anyone who finds themselves in this establishment is to run. Run to the mighty Sìchuān hills and never look back.

There is a wedding party in the audience, and various people are selected to toast the bride and groom from a small earthenware bowl. I am amongst their number. It is always me who gets chosen for these kind of things. By now the ‘entertainment’ has abated, and the performers are wandering around the twenty or so large tables. Smiling their aforementioned smiles, they choose me to down a very large amount of beer from a significantly larger receptacle, around the size of a big fruit bowl. The whole room is agog, rapt with astonished attention at my Saxon ability to imbibe low-strength lager. I find this experience surreal, but it is hands-down more enjoyable than the show itself.

But wait! I have done the Yi and their theme-restaurant a disservice, for outside in the courtyard another show is commencing, proper Yi cultural entertainment and tribal custom. A large bonfire is lit, and fire is eaten. A red hot metal spade is licked and placed against the feet of a large Yi fellow muttering clearly very effective mantras to himself. Now everyone is dancing around the fire for good luck and a soft rain starts to fall on all of us. This is much more like it. The garrulous MC is nowhere to be seen…

 

June the sixth.

Back to the road, we leave Xīchāng heading west by southwest, down towards Lake Lúgū, a ‘sea’ of famed beauty, well-known throughout China. As we wind our way along the mountain-hugging roads, the landscape becomes even more rugged, and the verdant green slopes of central Sìchuān become browner and more rocky. The pastoral valleys remain, but they are now even grander, and are surrounded by impressive river gorges and terrifying drops. One must, once again, make reference to the roadways – as for this morning section the surfaces are, quite frankly, abysmal. At some points they are literally still under construction, and any regular hire car or ill-suited coach would experience an exceedingly tough time.

Not that Mr. Tang, our erstwhile driver, seems to mind, as he speeds along the roads at a terrifying pace. I start to think about my choice of song on my mp3 player, for I am quite certain that I will die this morning and I am preoccupied over which record will be playing in my ears as we plunge one-hundred metres down to inevitable mortality. I hope it will be something like Springsteen or Bowie, something cool and timeless…as opposed to some of the other, more suspect contents of my music library. At one point Mr. Tan decides to overtake three cars at once on the outside while taking a blind corner at speed – but a particularly decent Stones number is playing, so that’s ok…

We stop for lunch a few hours and a few mild heart attacks later. We are now perhaps halfway to our destination at a curious eatery found under the branches of tall, slender pines. We are brought thin strips of the local wheat pasta, which one dips, cold, into a red chilli paste.

Not bad at all, I think, and how refreshing that we might finally enjoy a light lunch. But, alas, it is not fated to be, for the pasta was only an appetiser, and now ten, TEN courses plus rice are brought to the table! One dish of particular note is uncannily familiar to Lancashire hotpot. I’m not entirely sure about the culinary and cultural links between southern Sìchuān and the north-west of England. One does not imagine that they are myriad. Yet, here the hotpot sits. And very tasty it is too.

Credit where credit is due, the post-luncheon roads are much, much better than this morning’s, and we make swift progress, following a meandering and regularly dammed river westwards. At risk of repeating myself, some of these views that the route offers have to be seen to be believed. Really, they are vistas beyond imagining, a landscape on a scale I have never seen before.

We pull up just before Lake Lúgū to check out the Mosou museum and meet a local guide who will explain to us a little more about the idiosyncratic tribe who live around this glorious lake, in both Sìchuān and Yunnan. Once again the museum is quite an impressive one with notably high ceilings and well-crafted features. It was funded by the local government to tell this tribe’s curious history.

The Mosou tribe have links to the Naxi people of northern Yúnnán, and are famed for being one of the last matriarchal groups left in the world, each family being headed by a female ‘Dabu’. They are particularly famed for their custom of ‘Xiao’, meaning ‘walking marriages’. In this, men and women do not co-habit, rather the men live in a ‘grass house’, on the floor above the where the animals are kept, all together as brothers. They continue to do most of the economic activity like farming. while Mosou women traditionally knit and fish.

The gentleman will then walk a bridge across the lake to visit the lady’s house. Once there, the fella will climb in through one of the windows, which are all painted beautifully and differently – with a symbol for each girl. ‘Flower rooms’ go with each flower window, and these accommodate only one (adult) woman. No-one is allowed in save herself and her lover, and they are always on second floor so the poor fellow always has to climb up.

One finds one girl and one guy in these walking marriages, with no overlap. Being a cynical so-and-so, I wonder aloud whether some unscrupulous cads might, surely, do lots of walking. I am told that this is rare, and if caught they will lose their reputation and receive a chicken feather and a stone in his food bowl. A risk worth taking one might suppose, if one was an amoral knave.

This is very quaint, yet the more one probes for more information, the more the set-up seems more familiar to more commonplace arrangements. Mosuo youths start courting around sixteen or seventeen and have a flexible length of courtship, like elsewhere in China – few months to a few years. After a while people ‘go public’ with these private arrangements, the secret stage only coming first, when the relationship is kept secret from everyone. Again, not unlike other cultures.

When going public a couple will exchange presents (the girl might give a belt to the boy for example) and the girl will wear a coloured belt, like a wedding ring. After this the lad can go through the front door and a sister or aunt would take him to the flower room themselves. The role of these ‘bizizeli’ – relatives by walking marriage, is an interesting one. When ‘going public’, a female matchmaker goes with the boy, who hides behind a big post in the girl’s house. She then talks with an uncle, and they both endorse and praise their relations. They bring presents of five colours, some cigarettes, tea, sweets, alcohol, costumes.

This matchmaking debate brings it all into focus, for it does not really seem so different at all if these older folks decide whether the marriage can happen. The presence of the uncle/uncle-in-law is also problematic – for surely it means that it is decided by a man?

The flexibility of the arrangements, however, are perhaps the most refreshing aspect of it all. Young couples can co-habit together in the boy’s or girl’s house if they want – a practice regularly taken up these days by younger folks. The traditional waking marriage is more used by couples in their 40s/50s and in the past. Around this lake and out deep in the countryside are the only areas where the tradition still takes place. The Mosou queen in the 1940s was a Han woman, who brought elements of Han culture to the tribe, and it is all pleasantly open, with some folks marrying northern Chinese people without any censure from the elders.

The issue of parenthood is also an interesting concept. The father of the baby is only ‘announced’ on the baby’s celebration day, thirty days after its birth. The celebration is organised by the father – the only thing he is obliged to do – but if the relationship has broken down, the father’s identity remains a secret and the child is raised solely by women.

Mosou culture is deeply connected to the Tibetan world, and it incorporates some Tibetan religion: ‘Daba’ – a local take on Buddhism. The dress is flamboyant, with adult women wearing very colourful, sparkly jackets and crisp white skirts. But there are cultural idiosyncrasies that cannot be directly attributed to Tibet or to Buddha, as I would find out after we left the museum and visited a local Mosou family, in the main room of their homestead – ‘the grandmother’s house’.

Alongside Buddhism, the concept of the grandmother’s house is central to the Mosuo psyche. The rains descend as we arrive at the house and we dash sodden into the dark, swelteringly hot room. One instantly notices the ‘fire door’ in the corner of the single, pillared room – all important occasions use it apparently, though it looks impractically small. Two pillars in the room, representing male and female, must be from the same tree.

The ‘fire bed’ – the key seat in the house is opposite the short door, alongside the big fire pit, and is reserved for senior members of the family. A bursar,  a kind of ‘dabu’ helps the grandmother if she is too old, and looks after the baby, the household and the rest. She is the most capable woman, elected by the others. She is present here, and is the niece of the grandmother (who is not currently around). She tells me that twelve people still live in this interesting and singular homestead. I ask her some more about the curious and free nature of Mosou courtship, and she tells me about their bonfire parties and Mosou dances – social events for meeting potential partners. Apparently it is all down to palm touching to show interest. Attempted robbery is also a good ploy, with the girl following the boy if she likes him, shouting at him to give her back her stuff if she’s not. It seems like a good ploy, I will have to try it myself one of these days.

During this conversation I have my first experience of traditional Tibetan-style tea – i.e. tea flavoured with Yak butter. I steel myself for it, but still am not prepared for the taste. Unbearably salty, it simply tastes rotten. Not that my face reveals this. I am a mask of calm placidity. But, seriously, it is ill-tasting stuff, not for the faint of heart.

After some photos and some more small talk it is time to once again brave the rains and leave this odd little community. While how truly matriarchal the set-up really is might be debatable, what is undeniable is the welcome we received and how fascinating the local culture remains. One could quite easily have spent a good deal more time within the Mosou home and the grandmother’s house – perhaps even attempting to climb into a window or two. But sadly we are being ushered along, back to modern reality.

It is getting quite late, so it is off to a nearby restaurant for some dinner. It seems popular with the locals but it is notably low-end. In England some hold that one can judge a bar or restaurant by the standard of its restrooms, for the level of cleanliness and investment in the bathroom will often correspond to that found in the kitchen. Well, if this is the case then I am about to experience the very worst restaurant on the globe.

The bathroom facilities at our luncheon stop were ghastly, but that was in the middle of a forest so one lets these things slide. But here, in a bustling tourist town, the facilities beggar belief. I have never, despite travelling rather extensively in both sub-Saharan Africa and Central America, come across anything as foul as these WCs. Just a few score miles from shiny, modern Chéngdū, one finds areas and sees sites which would not be out of place in the third world. It really throws the internal, regional differences from in China into a stark, malodorous reality.

Staggering out of this doorway to hell, I find a hotpot dinner has been provided. I have enjoyed such suppers in both Beijing and Guizou, but this one was more local, more rustic and homespun. Filled to the brim with countless local mushrooms and vegetables, along with the inevitable, indistinguishable ‘meat’, it is all rather pleasing, though some of the lettuce-like leaves are exceptionally bitter and are well-worth avoiding. I drink some more snow. It still disappoints. During our meal the heavens reopen and by the time we are finally lakeside the sky is covered in dark storm and the view is lost, leaving that particular pleasure for tomorrow morning.

 

June the seventh

We rise with the lark, and with scores of loud and excited tourists. The view from my room, obscured last night by the dark of the storm, is very beautiful indeed – a sea of bright green lake grasses, with a large lake ringed with mountains and rolling hills. A few minutes from our guesthouse, around the logically named ‘grass sea’, we get to a small port, away from the grass on the lake ‘proper’. In the early morning light, clear and refreshed after the night’s heavy rains, we are treated once more to the lovely sight of tall and forested hills rising over the lake’s smooth waters. There are already long rowboats slowly gliding over the surface, ferrying across various early-risers, all somewhat off-putting garbed in luminous orange lifejackets.

We stop off at a local hostel/small restaurant adjacent to the port for an early, rather curious breakfast of watery rice-porridge, gravy beef and dumplings. I must confess that I prefer the sun to be a little higher in the sky before doing justice of such fare, but one powers through. We have a chat with the owner of the establishment, Mr. Song, about the experience of owning such a place in a booming tourist trap:

After this pleasant conversation and…different breakfast…we exit the restaurant and the inevitable happens – someone suggests a punt around the ‘grass sea’. Now this is all well and good, as I have said, it looks fantastic. The issue for me is that our ferry-masters are brightly dressed Mosou ladies, and this stirs my often-dormant chivalric nature. But I reflect that they would be out fishing one the lake anyways, and it is a lovely day for it…

The glorious morning slips by in a blur of lakeside beauty. We tour the grass sea by boat, dipping in and out of the narrow paths and waterways. Then out of the boat and into the car as we motor around the lake, seeking out the finest viewpoints. One of the best is found up a high lakeside high, at ‘Altar Point’ where we enjoy a panorama of the whole, wonderful hai. Next we hasten down to the various piers and quays for some ‘sea-level’ lookout spots by cool Himalayan waters. I really cannot do justice to the beauty of the place – I will have to let the photographs do the talking.

On one of the jetties we eat an early lunch, with reasonable portions of tasty vegetables. We need to fuel up, for we have a lengthy drive coming this afternoon, straight up a mountain range to our final destination, the Tibetan county of Mùlĭ. It is only 150km away, but it will take five hours, such is the terrain.

The going at first is indeed very tough, and as we venture into this Tibetan area the air gets thinner and the temperature drops. We start to see some dotted about the hillside, chopping away at the cud, seemingly at peace with things. They are certainly more relaxed than us, climbing steep tracks and rocky roads at a slow, careful pace. We are almost the only people on the road, reducing the scope for suicidal overtaking, which is a blessing I suppose.

Around halfway through, however, we arrive at a huge hydroelectric dam, and after this the roads get better and our progress swifter. Mr. Tang instantly starts overtaking again, of course. The mists are low and our views are often obscured, but it goes without saying that, when the air clears, Himalayan views are very, very fine indeed. One must keep in mind the scale of the territory – Mùlĭ county is around 1300 km2, all mountainous, and it contains twenty different minorities and almost 130,000 people. No wonder there are so few people about, with a population density of one fellow for each kilometre squared.

Suddenly we are there. Mùlĭ. Our destination. I left Beijing on the third, and now, in the late afternoon of the seventh, I finally stand on Tibetan earth. We wash our hands in a natural stone basin, purifying ourselves before a short trek up to Mùlĭ’s old town and its huge Tibetan Buddhist temple, the main place of Buddhist worship in the area. We enter into its grand walls and look around, dwarfed by the architecture and humbled by the peaceful, serene atmosphere. Inside the temple itself all is colour, rich reds and golden statues of the many Buddhas revered by Tibetans.

We are invited to have tea with a couple of the most senior monks. The yak butter returns, but this time I am more prepared. What is more, here they take it with spoonfuls of wheat barley, which really undercuts the rancid taste of yak milk past its prime. They tell us of the ‘living Buddhas’ of the area and how these leaders have helped shape the religion in the region. It is a lovely place to be, the Great Temple of old Mùlĭ, and we all feel very blessed to finally be here.

As the name suggests, Old Mùlĭ is no longer the major centre in Mùlĭ county, that now being Mùlĭ Town quite a few kilometres down the road. We are obliged to tear ourselves from the wonderful temple and hit the trail once again, as we are losing the light and have a ‘Yak hotpot’ to attend at our hotel.

Traditionally, Tibetans cook up a whole yak to welcome guests to their lands, and I am assured that in the bubbling pot rested cuts of meat from all parts of the unfortunate beast. I do hope it was not from one of those we saw along the way. They were friendly souls, and did not deserve the pot. Be that as it may, the food is very pleasant indeed, though it takes a certain skill to secure the nicer cuts from the bubbling broth.

Our hosts are Mr. Yan and Mr. Lee, the director and semi-director of tourism in Mùlĭ county. They are amusing, splendid fellows, especially Mr. Yan, who has the uncanny ability to be funny despite his jokes being translated twice. He is half Tibetan, half Mongolian, and is fiercely proud of his joint heritage. He bustles over to a side table and breaks out a familiar looking bottle of clear liquid.

‘Oh no’ I lament. Maotai. The national spirit of China has been my nemesis before. For those who do not know, it is a very expensive rice wine, so dear in fact that one feels obliged to accept the generous offer of a few glasses if one’s host insists. It is also very, very strong and very, very ghastly.

But no, thank the Lord, it is not Maotai. It is, apparently, highland barley wine. I have never tried this particular drop before, but the multiple toasts found at Chinese dinners are beginning, so it seems that I will soon be very familiar with it. And as it happens, it is not that bad at all! Certainly quite alcoholic, but the barley aftertaste is much more pleasant than that of Maotai, which tastes of turpentine. We all have a wonderfully merry time, and everyone is toasted on numerous occasions.

I believe I am fated to wake up tomorrow morning with a very heavy head..

 

June the eighth

It is an early start. Of course it is. As I predicted, my head is far from clear this morning. It turns out that lashings of alcohol at altitude was not the finest idea in the world. Who knew eh? Anyway, one lives and learns, and there is no time to feel sorry for oneself – it is time to drive across to the second of Mùlĭ’s three main temples. Besides, it is a beautiful, misty morning, amongst wash green valleys.

As we drive up to Kulu monastery, which sits humble in a wide, cold and gorgeous valley, the landscape seems very desolate, very peaceful. Upon our arrival we are quickly bundled into a small, cramped room, choked by the fumes of an old stove. Here we meet a Mr. Dong-sa, a specialist in Tibetan history, religion and wisdom:

We leave the cramped room, and I revel in the cool freedom of the fresh air. We explore the monastery and its grounds, populated by a few monks and countless chickens, all male, given to the monks by local people. Male chickens are, of course, quite useless, but the monks seem to enjoy them. There is never any question of roasting their feathered friends.

Our tour takes us inside the temple, which is just as beautiful and stunning as the Great Temple in Old Mùlĭ. This will be the last house of worship we visit in our too-short sojourn in Tibetan country, and one instinctively drinks in the sights and sounds and smells of the place. Realistically, how can one be sure that one will ever experience their like again?

Back to the car, and back to driving, as our trip becomes more and more whistle-stop. We now speed across to Lun Song Hai – ‘a patch of winter sea’. It is a curiously beautiful natural wonder, a little reminiscent of a Scottish, but full of grasses and greenery. Its current incarnation is very beautiful for a Brit like me, rolling verdant hills and cool moist air. However, in winter, so I am told, the water is free of all plant growth, and a huge mountain lake is surrounded by dry, yellow grass on the hillsides and topped with cold ice blue skies. Looking at our guides photos, it looks like another world, not just another season.

By the banks of this strange and wonderful feature we have curious barbeque. Chicken bits, pork and large hunks of fat are all cooked up on an enormous, drum-like hot plate. There are absolutely no vegetables to speak of at all. This protein-rich diet might explain why Tibetans are stockier than Han Chinese. All I knew was that a bit of grease and gristle did wonders for my fragile, hung-over state.

Now back to Mùlĭ, one last time. Apparently the hotel owner himself has something rather special to show us in his splendid hotel. A secret room, rich in Tibetan culture. This all sounds rather exciting, and it would have to be, to wrench us away from another wonderful Mùlĭ sight.

Once we are back in town, we therefore wander around the back of the hotel. On the second floor, adjacent to some normal rooms, we find a splendid, opulently decorated tea room, all reds and golds and murals and the loud colours of Tibetan decor. While common out in the countryside, where they can be enormous, as large as hotels, this is the only traditional Tibetan tea house in the town. We sit down, and find out all about it:

The tea drained and our warm thanks given, some of my companions go out to wander around the town and do a little shopping. I take the opportunity to reflect a little on our short time in this Tibetan Autonomous County. Considering the length of the trip, two days in Mùlĭ might seem like scant reward for a lot of hard roads. Yet the culture here is so different, so rich, that the hard miles and long drives seem to fade into unimportance.

There are, of course, many other paths to many other Tibetan areas – Tibet itself of course. But the journey through a seldom travelled and underexplored part of Sìchuān has certainly added to the sense of accomplishment and adventure which has coloured the trip so far.

That being said, however, it will be a great shame to leave a place like Mùlĭ.

To celebrate our visit and to bid our party a fond farewell, we all enjoy an evening banquet at the hotel that evening. We are treated to some simply fantastic food, lots and lots of really rather curious dishes. Duck tongues and chicken feet. Beautiful noodle soup stuff and mini tomato hotpot. Good, bread and filled, steamed dumplings. What is more, it is a great deal less boozy this time around, which is probably for the best, though it did mean that some of our goodbye toasts were done with snow, which is a poor substitute for highland barley wine in everybody’s book. Once again Mr. Yan is the centre of the party, ensuring everyone’s glass is full and that no moment goes by without a jest or two. High times indeed.

 

June the ninth

Today is a day for travelling, for putting the long, hard yards beneath our wheels, and getting all the way back to Ya’an, by way of Xīchāng once again. Mr. Tang seems subdued, velocity-wise at least, and I only hold the firm conviction that I am about to perish on two occasions before lunchtime. I drink in the landscape as we motor along, for it will surely be a long, long time before I see such magnificent visions once again.

On the border of the Mouli territory we are stopped by the constabulary for papers to be checked. On  our way in we seemed to be waved through, but this time my porcelain, western features are spotted, and further inspection is necessary. All is fine and straightforward once my old passport is given the once over, but it does remind me to forewarn any non-Chinese native travelling in these parts to check that their papers and visas are in order. Tibetan counties such as Mùlĭ are treated, administratively, in the same manner as Tibet proper, and visitor numbers are therefore restricted.

A Mùlĭ-based tour guide, a delightful Tibetan girl who had sent three years studying ‘tourist English’, told me that she had seen, at most, ten western tourists in the county in the last year – something that annoyed her greatly as she had limited opportunities to show off her English. It should be the case that, assuring permits and permission is gained in advance, foreign tourists can access this awe-inspiring part of the world without administrative difficulties. However, in these politically sensitive times it is worth ensuring and double-checking with a travel agent or the local authorities that all is in order both one sets sail to this part of southern Sìchuān.

We stop for a very early lunch at a highly popular local noodle joint, enthusiastically recommended to us last night by the garrulous Mr. Yan. It is certainly well-liked by the locals, as it is but a quarter to eleven yet the restaurant is packed to the rafters. We are ushered through a highly sketchy looking kitchen to a converted, but still-in-use storeroom at the back, sat down at a cluttered, dirty table. Swiftly, 1€ worth of noodles are placed before each person, along with an extensive selection of condiments, all plonked down in front of us in small, metal buckets.

My companions set at the fare and are praising it as if it were heavenly ambrosia. I can’t really see it myself, seems a bit tasteless, so I pile on some diced chillies. It still lacks flavour, so I spoon on some more, some angrier chillies this time, and then get stuck in. I have, of course, forgotten that Sìchuān cuisine is a slow build, and my liberal consumption of fiery condiments is unwise. Sure enough, midway through I am perspiring profusely, much to the amusement of the table at large.

From this point onwards the roads are better and the land is flatter. While I miss the unbelievable terrain of Mùlĭ country, it is a forgotten pleasure having smooth tarmac to enjoy. Ironically it is at this point that we go skidding off the road and into a deep concrete ditch, with both front right and back right wheels sunk deep and jammed in this heavy duty drainage. This is not ideal, but fortunately no-one is hurt and the damage is mostly cosmetic. Had we skidded off the left-hand side of the road we would probably have been no more, it being quite a drop into the rocky stream below.

After some delay, and only with the help of a passing police vehicle, we extricate ourselves from our unwished for resting place. After a second set of policemen are summoned to confirm that the damage sustained was from a minor accident and was not nefariously pre-planned with malice aforethought, we are able to limp on to Xīchāng. There my friend and interpreter Becky is obliged to catch a plane up to Chéngdū, and then back to Beijing, leaving me without an eloquent mouthpiece through which to convey my deep and pertinent reflections. I can tell that my other companions are devastated by this.

After a pit-stop and necessary car change we are back off. I have a ‘Sìchuān Special’ KFC in  my belly, which still managed to be as spicy as all hell, and am feeling a bit more relaxed about things, as day fades away and some night-driving commences. Our new chauffeur is much more circumspect than Mr. Tang and as the journey drags on, the magnificent views obscured by a fallen night, a strange thing occurs. I start to miss Mr. Tang’s high-speed, take no prisoners style. This fellow drives like an aged grandmother, cataracts and all.

Many hours and countless tunnels later, however, we finally reach Ya’an. The bridges are still covered, and the river is still impressive. It takes quite a while before we find our destination, the West Well Hotel.

 

June the tenth

We may be on the way home, as it were, but that by no means suggests that the attractions of the province have abated. Certainly not! The first stop the following morning , after a light breakfast and swift check-out, is Bìfēngxia Gorge Nature Reserve, home of the Bìfēngxia Panda Base. The area around Chéngdū has become synonymous with China’s national beast, and in this way the panda has become central to a significant aspect of the PRC’s natural tourism.

In many ways the panda has come to embody China as a whole, as a national symbol and national animal. Accordingly the Chinese government have thrown themselves fully behind the endeavour to protect and sustain the species. Interestingly, one can see how the PRC jealously guards these creatures as exemplifying China’s international relations in the main. In the early twentieth century many pandas were gifted away as diplomatic gestures, a less confident China looking to forge bonds and placate. By the mid-twentieth century these gifts were stopped, and all pandas were essentially made Chinese citizens of the PRC. By the present day pandas are rented out for $2 million a go by a business-minded, modern China.

But, putting aside from these diplomatic metaphors, I now have a confession to make, one which is tantamount to sacrilege in this area of the province. I don’t care for pandas. Giant ones at least, the smaller red ones I can abide, as they seem to have a little intelligence and will to survive. Giant pandas, on the other hand, I can take or leave.

This disclaimer out of the way, we drive along the moist, heavily forested and beautiful gorge. Cascades and long, slim cataracts fall down into the river below, and this scenic drive puts me in a fine mood, well able to put aside my cynicism and embrace these useless bear-cats as my friends and brothers.

At the reception centre one is given a choice: pandas to the right, or all other available animals to the left. Leaving the zoo until a little later, we rightwards. The two animal attractions are accessed on two different tickets for different prices. The pandas will set one back around ten British pounds, the zoo proper just over fifteen. Another short drive and we at the gates of the panda kingdom.

I will admit that they are quite pleasant, plodding about, eating bamboo, falling over, having a nap. And watching three little panda cubs being fed and playing about in the cool morning air had some charm. But it was wasted on me really – send me back to Mùlĭ and the monasteries any day! It is worth mentioning, however, that they are kept in very fine conditions, with spacious, separate enclosures and leafy, shady groves. I am told that this is just an appetiser, for tomorrow we will be visiting the main panda centre in Chéngdū. Joy of joys.

An hour or so later we stumble, panda-ed out, away and over the bridge back to the car. It is then back to the start, and this time the zoo. From the very beginning this is equally as Chinese experience as the panda base. However, rather than centring on one Chinese icon, this attractions inherent Chinese-ness comes from the interactivity offered from the off.

We climb aboard a specially designed coach and enter into the zoo area through a small safari park. Little holes in the window allow one to offer slivers of steak to the lions and Bengal tigers, and slices of apple to the black bears. The old lion and his chief lioness are far too dignified for such nonsense, but a younger lioness, and later the tigers and bears (oh my..) are more than game for the mid-morning snacks. Deep down one feels that this is not completely natural behaviour, but the cages are spacious and filled with foliage, and the animals are clearly well-fed, so I make no objections.

Now one finds oneself in zoo proper, and we wander on foot around the forest-based menagerie. Again, focusing on animal interactivity, one is loaded up with corn and carrots and is sent off to be mobbed by dear and alpacas, all of whom are domesticated to the point of base familiarity.

This is all rather charming, but in the next enclosure on starts to have one’s doubts. There is a Rhesus monkey, bedecked in a romper suit and chained for tourist pictures next to a pair of proud peacocks, seemingly tethered to a bench, again for a photo opportunity. Next one finds one well-designed and spacious monkey enclosures, but then a gorgeous albino Tibetan yak is found standing forlornly, 2500-odd meters lower than its natural habitat, saddled up and ready for tourists.

One now starts to realise that, for all its maintaining that it exists for the good of animal welfare, this particular establishment is designed for human entertainment, not for the good of the occupants. It is certainly in stark contrast to the panda reserve, clearly set up for its furry occupants.

One walks into the aviary and spots some scarlet macaws in an infinitesimally small cage, which would not be out of place in the 1700s. When I ask why they are not flying around with the other birds, I am told that they might not get on with the yellow and blue macaws, which are also caged. Firstly this may not actually be true – I learned while working in a Peruvian nature reserve that these two species can get on just fine. Secondly, if it is the case, then why have them at all if they have to be kept in such a cruel manner?

Mood already darkened, I reach the final stages of the zoo, containing a performance arena. The performers in question, some monkeys and a tiger, are kept in very small, bare cages at the back – testament to entertainment’s priority over welfare.

A substandard zoo is a dispiriting thing indeed, but I attempt to keep my emotions from my face during lunch with our guide. My Chinese friend has informed me that, compared to the vast majority of zoos in China, this example is notably good in its treatment of its animals. I ask her about Beijing zoo. She just laughs and suggests I see it for myself. One, therefore, does not want to be cverly discouraging…

The lunch is fine and good, save some innocent looking green beans which turn out to be a special kind of local chilli pepper which blows my head from my shoulders. After this we bid farewell to Bìfēngxia and drive through Ya’an to the Brother Friendship Tea Garden, the home to one of the most famed makers of Tibetan tea around.

Ya’an is the starting point of the Tea Horse Road up to Tibet, the city meaning ‘the tail of the Yak’ in Tibetan. As I have learned, tea is exceptionally popular in Tibet and is an important part of the culture, yet cannot be grown in the harsh Tibetan landscape. It is therefore grown down in warmer central Sìchuān, packed up on horseback, and is taken westwards up to the plateaux.

This showroom/store/exhibition/factory is the home of the most famous manufacturer of Tibetan tea. Here we find the fourth, fifth and sixth generations of tea makers, in the shape of a grandfather who still completes some of the calligraphy on the high-end packets; his son, the manager and a nationally famous tea-master; and a granddaughter who is currently in training. It is the very definition of a family business, and the spacious, airy warehouse is clearly an investment of love and dedication.

Right next to the entrance, which opens straight onto a major road, one finds the ‘King of Tibetan Tea’, a one hundred kilogram bag of finest tea worth around one million RMB at auction. Right next to an unattended door next to a main road out of town. One hundred thousand pounds worth of product. I bring this up to the owner, who laughs away my concerns. “People are nice here” he says. Nice or not, if his storehouse was in England, that ‘King of Tibetan Tea’ would have been purloined within the first fifteen minutes of opening, mark my words!

I am taken around the warehouse and shown the various grades and types of tea available. What are of particular interest are the craved and sculpted blocks created out of densely packed leaves. In fact, everything here, from the product to the decor to the very walls themselves, seems to be made from tea! It is all rather fabulous really, and everything smells wonderful.

We are now treated to a tea tasting ceremony, tasting some 2005 vintage and a more recent 2012 blend. The former does not smell good, yet is a flavoursome, sublte tasting tea. The latter is bitter at first but very fine on the aftertaste. One gets eight pots out of one portion of tea, and it seems I am fated to be very well hydrated by the end.

One might scoff at the idea that a tea could have vintages like a  fine wine, yet it is very clear that this is the case here. People invest and lay down bricks of tea for later years, and given this, looking around, I once again am astonished that tens of millions of RMB worth of product is sitting around without any security at all. It is a different world out here in the country.

I am told that Tibetan tea is grown like fruit, and has to be harvested at exactly the right time each year, when it is mature. After this it is treated like a ‘bun’ – with heat and humidity being all important. It is all a fascinatingly exact science.

Fine tea such as this would not (thank heavens) be drunk with Yak butter or gone off milk. That type, about which I have lamented earlier in the piece on two seperate occasions,  has to be cooked up on a fire and stewed. This tea is good quality, traditional Chinese stuff – sold to Han folks all over China, rather than just packed off to Tibet as it was in years gone by. Keen to learn more, I make my way to the back of the shop, where a few larger rooms are bricked off with, unsurprisingly, bricks of tea.

After the interview we slip away from the Brother Friendship tea rooms, full to bursting with damn fine tea, and the odd souvenir to hand. This is to be our last stop before returning to Chéngdū, as the final two days of my Sìchuān voyage will be spent in the provincial capital. It is also my last evening with the upstanding Mr. Tang, and we all celebrate our passing at a curious mixed little restaurant in the southern suburbs of Chéngdū. I must confess (a second confession in this section..) that I opt for the spaghetti bolognese, strangely included on the menu. It is washed down with my final tasting of the watery ‘Snow’ beer, something I will not be pining for in the future.

I have summoned my younger sister to Chéngdū from Beijing, and she arrives late than evening. Her presence is highly necessary, for, as I say, tomorrow morning we visit Chéngdū’s most famous attraction – its celebrated panda research base. My finite amount of patience for this pied beast was exhausted by my morning’s endeavours, and I feel that, if the most-visited tourist spot in all of Chéngdū is to receive a fair and enthusiastic review, it will not be by me…

 

June the eleventh

And now to the final stop, arguably the most famous attraction in Sìchuān – the Chéngdū Panda Centre. I will leave this one to my recently summoned younger sister, who is veritably bursting at the seams in excitement as we dodge traffic and weave a slow way to the city’s northern limits:

Chéngdū Research Base of Giant Panda Breeding – Rachel Mansfield

Having known that my brother had been given a chance to visit the pandas, and that he had been more or less ambivalent about this fantastic opportunity, I felt incredibly put out. Especially as I was nearing the end of my second trip to China and hadn’t yet been able to experience the very thing that so many visitors most hope to see! I was disappointed with his lack of enthusiasm, but I feel I more than made up for his lack with my own when it was suggested that I hop on a plane and meet up with him in Chéngdū and go to the panda sanctuary with him. Safe to say it didn’t take me long to take him up on his idea and the tickets were booked that same day.

The morning of our visit was slightly cooler and wetter than I had hoped, but in actual fact it meant that the park was much less busy than might be expected. The pandas were also much happier and more active (as active as an eating/sleeping machine can be) as they are naturally more designed for slightly colder climates than that which a Chéngdū summer might offer.

Whilst in the car, sitting in the morning traffic which once comes to expect in major Chinese cities, I could hardly contain my excitement, whacking Tom’s arm every couple of minutes and exclaiming “pandas!” I have always wanted the chance to see pandas, and it seemed that as my stay in China was in the notably panda-less Beijing, my dreams would be thwarted, so having this opportunity right before me was reducing me to the mental age of an eight year old.

Finally the driver pulled up and let us out, and we walked to the big panda themed entrance, which left no doubt that one has come to the right place, small crowds of people already entering through the bear-shaped arch.

We were greeted on arrival by our tour guide, a friendly and panda passionate man who provided us with plenty of enlightening knowledge about the park, their pandas and the species in general. As a Chéngdū local himself, he was clearly very proud of the sanctuary and the attraction it brings to the city. My worries that our guide wouldn’t be able to communicate fully with us were quickly put to ease as he was a very capable English speaker and was able to give clear and detailed knowledge as we toured the park.

As soon as we entered through the spectacle that was the panda gate, it was clear that the rest of the park would not follow such an over the top theme. The environment was magically stimulating. It really made you feel as though you’d been transported into the depths of panda territory, enclosed in towering bamboo forest it was easy to forget you were in fact on the outskirts of a major city.

After a short walk we came upon the first enclosure, though it was hard to tell, as these were not typical zoo cages. It was only after our guide directed us to it that I realised we’d come across it! It was then that he pointed up a tree and I nearly started to squeal, but managed to hold it in. Up the tree was a beautiful nine month old panda, slowly climbing down towards an American animal behaviour researcher. This only added to my fascination, I am a student of Animal Behaviour and Welfare back in the UK and this really gave a sense of where my career could take me!. It was, therefore, very exciting and endearing to watch the young panda approach and interact directly with the researcher.

We spent the next hour or so wondering round the picturesque park, observing and appreciating the beauty of not only the giant panda, but also their smaller cousin, the red panda. We arrived at the perfect time to watch their feeding which allowed us to see the beautiful creatures up close. It was very entertaining, the way the red pandas interacted with each other. It was very clear to see that these were the more active species!

After seeing all the pandas and enjoying the beauty of the park itself, we were taken to a small cinema area and were able to watch a fascinating documentary about the centre and its pandas. We got to see several pieces of video of the pandas, specifically newborn cubs and how they grow up in this environment. The film was about fifteen minutes long and was a good way to round off the enlightening day as a whole.

Once the tour was finished, we decided to take another quick trip round the park before we left, revisiting some of the pandas. We returned to the panda “kindergarten” and revisited the young pandas. When we first saw them they were all sleeping, most of them up trees and some on the floor. When we returned…they were all sleeping, most of them up trees and some on the floor! It was clear to see that they are not as anxious about their species and their future as the rest of us! In fact, each panda that we revisited had appeared to not have moved at all from when we first saw them an hour or so before.

Our last stop before we left the park was the lake. On this lake were beautiful Black swans and in the lake were hundreds of fish, big, often multi-coloured, and greedy Koi carp-type fish. We were able to buy feed at a stall by the lake and enjoy our last few minutes feeding the swans by hand and entertained by the feeding frenzy of the fish jumping over each other to reach the food.

 We then took our leave, heading back to the panda arch and finding our car. Getting back in the back seat of the van and sitting in the ever present traffic I got a chance to focus on what I had just experienced. It was so satisfying, I really had no idea that the sanctuary would be so vast. I had imagined that it would be more of an interactive zoo, a spectacle which said “here is a panda, look at the panda”.

But it was obvious that the focus is purely on the animals and not the guests. It is not about entertaining the visitors as such, it is giving them the opportunity to witness a sadly dwindling species. I found that in doing this it was actually far more enjoyable, as there was no show-boating, it was as close as a regular person could realistically get to seeing a panda in its wild and natural habitat. In my opinion, that is the better way of visiting animals, for they are not just here for our human entertainment! But that could just be my university course talking.

I would highly recommend visiting this captivating place to anyone who happens to find themselves in this part of China. I’d even go as far as to say this is a reason in itself to visit China as a whole! If I was given another opportunity to return to China I would certainly visit the sanctuary again. Even if you are not as fond of pandas as I am, such as my brother, it is still lovely place to wander around and spend an afternoon. A very pleasant experience indeed.

And so there one has it. Really, if one was to compare my account of the Bifeng Xia Panda Base with Rachel’s report on the Chéngdū centre, one would find precious little difference…well…perhaps a little. I would love to say that my younger sibling’s enthusiasm was contagious, and that I came out of my second panda base in two days a changed man, with a new love of pandas in my heart. But I did not. I missed the mountains and valleys of Mùlĭ. A lazy bear-cat is no replacement for an ancient and fascinating culture.

Lastly one must mention the Chéngdū Global Centre, into which we wander later that afternoon. One must mention it because it is reportedly the biggest building in the world. It is certainly very large. If one has a passion for large buildings I sincerely doubt that you shall leave it disappointed. But it is a curious place to finish a tour of Sìchuān, back in central, busy Chéngdū, surrounded by modernity.

Already memories of vast landscapes, wonderful cultures and glorious temples were beginning to fade. Soon I would be back in Beijing, and perhaps after a while Mùlĭ and Lake Lúgū and all the mesmeric places I visited would seem more like a dream than reality, so different are they from the metropolises of modern China. That is why writing up this account has been so pleasurable, poring over my journal, revisiting rugged southern Sìchuān once again as I type up my journey. It was a voyage not without difficulty, and is a trip not for the faint of heart. But for those with a taste for the less trodden path and a spirit of adventure, I strongly suggest you go down and along from Chéngdū.

 

Appendix I: Accommodation

FIRST NIGHT: Hejiangting Hotel, Chéngdū

I passed my first night in Sìchuān in the four-star Hejiangting Hotel. Like so many of the opulent new-builds which do the modern Chinese nation like well-appointed carbuncles, it is a medley of whites and marbles and golds. The decor of this high-end establishment is ever-so-slightly overblown for my simple tastes, but it is all of good quality and is not un-tasteful.

The room is interestingly and idiosyncratically designed, with a semi-open plan en-suite/entrance/bedroom set-up which is all rather pleasing, and gives one the option of showering in full view of the bedstead..the reasons for which remain a complete mystery to me. I accidently almost set off the emergency ‘call for help SOS button’ in the bathroom – which would have further convinced all concerned that I was simply an oversized, bearded child. Fortunately such mortification was narrowly avoided.

If I was to provide a single criticism it would be in regard to the recalcitrant and obdurate air-conditioner. I would suggest a sub-twenty degrees centigrade temperature. Capricious as it was, the machine would consider this, then resolutely keep the room temp. at a balmy twenty-five, rising to twenty-six! When I woke, glistening, the next morning the treacherous minx had cooked my chamber up to twenty-nine degrees! Most vexatious indeed, I should have had it court-martialled. Other than this all was well, the bed comfortable and the morning’s breakfast extensive.

SECOND & THIRD NIGHTS: Bihaixanen Hotel, Xīchāng

In the UK we have an expression, ‘cheap and cheerful’. While it may seem to damn with faint praise, this is far from the case. Rather, it conveys that the hotel/restaurant/guesthouse lacks unnecessary fripperies and succeeds in being pleasantly functional. Suffice to say, the Bihaixanen Hotel, sitting just off the shores of the Quong Hai, fully fulfils this pithy description.

The three-story courtyard gives the hotel an interesting and characterful feel, and provides a very pleasant place to kick back, surrounded by a splendidly ridiculous number of potted plants. The air conditioner, God bless it, is much more reasonable than that offered by my previous lodgings, and the generous beast saw fit to actually condition the air – very gratifying as the temperature in Xīchāng is rather high. While talking of mod-cons, one should note that it does offer wifi internet access, though like most places in this part of the world it does have a tendency to adopt a snail’s velocity.

The Bihaixanen’s main issue is that it does not really offer much to differentiate it from the numerous other joints along the Xīchāng’s lovely ‘Hai’. In fact, the larger Moonlight Hotel blocks its otherwise excellent view of the lake, and somewhat dwarfs the establishment, having grown all around our lodgings. Still, overall highly agreeable.

FOURTH NIGHT: Lashi Zhuangyuan, Lake Lúgū

A motel/hostel joint, one of countless guesthouses and bars along this section of the lake’s eastern shore, well frequented by tourists from all over China. The Lashi Zhuanguan is friendly, wood-built and fun, and well capable of keeping the torrential rain of a weary traveller. When the morning came, after a night well slept, I open my curtains and am treated to the most wonderful view over the ‘grass sea’, about which I will converse in the next section. But suffice to say, it is a heck of a view to wake up to/up to which to wake (depending on grammatical preference).

 FIFTH & SIXTH NIGHT: Mùlĭ Hotel

It may be the altitude. It may be the exhaustion from a long journey. It may be the liberal amounts of ‘highland barley wine’ we enjoyed at dinner. But, whatever the cause, as I lie here on a good bed, with cool air and surprisingly excellent internet access, I can say that Mùlĭ Hotel is the finest hotel in which I have ever stayed. It may be a three star establishment in the eyes of the Chinese Tourism Bureau, but in my eyes it is a thirty-three star joint. Maybe I should get some sleep now…

SEVENTH NIGHT: Well Spring Hotel

A themed hotel, and the theme is tea – the main export of Ya’an (as we shall discover in great detail tomorrow). It is a really fine hotel, with well-appointed rooms full of character and, well, tea. The breakfast the following morning is also of high quality. If you are staying in Ya’an, and fancy a tea-based lodging experience, you really need look no further.

 

Appendix II: History/culture/tourism

The Stone Cattle Road (318 BC)

The Sìchuān area had long been envied by the power players of eastern China, yet geography and politics had always kept the land of the Shu separate from the territories of the earliest dynasties.

The Qin Emperor Huiwen, however, had a plan. He had his artisans sculpt five lifelike cows from stone, and daubed their hind-quarters with gold. Shu messengers saw this incredible sight, and relayed the tale to their credulous king.

The Shu king liked the sound of these magical bovine very much indeed, and requested some from his Qin counterpart. Huiwen said ‘absolutely, but there is no way to get them to you. Let me build a road between us and you shall have your cattle.’

The Shu agreed, and the Qin built an amazing wooden road over the Qinling mountains. However, it was Qin troops who used the road, not the stone cattle, and Huiwen swept into north-eastern Sìchuān, conquering most of the Shu’s lands.

An introduction to the Yi people.

With a population of around nine million the Yi are one of the larger minorities in China. They can be found throughout the south-western provinces,  including communities in Sìchuān, Yunnan and even in Vietnam.  Many are found in the Liangshan Yi  Autonomous Prefecture, the capital of which is Xīchāng.

While their clothes and customs are splendidly colourful, what is of most interest to those partial to some cultural history is the  people’s caste/slave society which continued well into the twentieth century and which still affects Yi groups today.

One found the ‘Black Yi’, the noble families who lorded over the ‘White Yi’, commoners allowed to own land. Both of these groups practiced slavery over the remainder of the Yi people, sometimes referred to as ‘Red Yi’. This bonded slavery was practised until 1950s, when the Communist government stamped it out. However, the Black/White split still pervades much of their society and culture, even if economically it has less importance than decades ago.

The Mosou and the pig.

The pig is the tribe’s lucky animal, and it is an important present for ceremonies, sometimes acting as a mortgage for a couple.

Along with births and funerals, the main ceremony in a Mosou life is the adulthood ceremony: This takes place when the child is seven, nine, or eleven, and afterwards they have proper responsibilities. But to become an adult one must change one’s clothes standing on a dead, cured pig. As you do.

The Mosou and the dog.

The dog has a very special place in Mosou hearts, and are all protected and looked after. None are ever killed, and to eat one is an abomination.

It is said that when he created the animals God randomly assigned their life-spans. While the turtle got the best part of a century and the dog got sixty years, mankind only received around a dozen years to play with.

Being a sound fellow, the dog traded his allocation with men, so long as they promised to treat him well and keep him with the family. That is why dogs and men get on so well to this day.

The Mosou and the horse.

Even more important than the dog and the pig is the horse. It is the horse who carries one’s soul between worlds and lives, and ‘horse-washing’ is a key component of the birth and funeral ceremonies.

After a funeral a horse is turned loose on the mountain for forty-nine days, so it can ferry away the spirit of the departed. After this it is re-caught – respect for tradition meaning that it will never be rustled by a neighbour.

An introduction to Mr Tang.

Our driver and guide is a splendid example of the Sìchuān tourism professional. He has owned and run hotels, and worked as a travel agent specialising in Tibetan culture (as well as driving exceptionally quickly).

Like so many in the area, he was hit badly by the 2008 earthquake, and these difficulties were compounded by the Tibetan unrest which one found in 2010.

What is more, he has a broad Sìchuān accent and regularly answers his (thankfully) hands-free phone with a not  unusual ‘Wei’ (Hi). But with his local lilt it is changed to ‘Wai’, i.e ‘Why? Why would you call me?’ I found this very amusing indeed… perhaps you had to be there.

The Tea Ceremony.

The ‘tea bowl’, a carved wood or stone tablet, is set down to start the ceremony. Next the first pot of tea is used to clean the various cups and bowls and covers, and warm the cups to the correct temperature. This first batch would be too rough to imbibe anyhow.

Now things get going in earnest. It is filtered through a ‘tap cup’, and then once again in the pouring from a small porcelain jug. Then we drink, and then it is all repeated.

The cover of the tap cup represents the sky, the cup itself the people, and the saucer the land. All together they support each other, and produce a lovely cuppa.

 

Appendix III: Interviews:

Interview: Mr. Zheng Zheng-yu, former director of Xīchāng Cultural Heritage, deputy fellow of research centre.

Tell me about yourself, have you always hailed from Xīchāng?

I was not born here, that was in Yányuán (approx. 80km west of Xīchāng), but I have lived here for many decades.

How does Xīchāng differ from the rest of the province? What sets it apart in Sìchuān?

Chiefly, its location. It is a junction between Yúnnán and Sìchuān provinces, and this gives it features of both. It is very famous for this, for sitting between the two. It is a major Sìchuān city in terms of military, history, the economy of the area.

So tell me about this history. How has it shaped Xīchāng and how was Xīchāng shaped the province’s history as a whole?

In the Yuan dynasty it was a main city of Sìchuān province. Marco Polo visited it, and he (erroneously) considered it to be the capital of Yúnnán province!

Yet in recent history it has become very much secondary to enormous cities like Chéngdū and Chóngqìng. How has Xīchāng fared in more modern times?

It’s a connecting hub between both provinces, and between Sìchuān and China as a whole. It is therefore still important economically and in terms of transportation.

And is this position aided by the impressive lake and waterways nearby? Or perhaps by the larger geographic location?

These days it is more about the roads and the railways. Historically it was always horses around here, rather than boats. The Southern Silk Road took goods south of Chéngdū to places like Burma, Vietnam and others. This road dates back to the Han dynasty, two thousand or so years ago.

Returning to one Marco Polo, tell me more about his place in the city’s history.

Well he was the first westerner to bring different cultures, influences. It put the Quong Hai (the lake) on the map, and let the world know about the city.

Xīchāng is a real mix of ethnicities. How has the medley of Han, Yi and others affected the city’s culture?

It is multicultural, splendidly cultural! But because of a lot of people being together, throughout history one finds lots of wars, it was not a peaceful place – particularly in the pre-Ming dynasty days, with the Tang and Song, then there were lots of conflicts between the peoples. But that was all stopped in the Ming Years.

Why so peaceful since then?

A particularly wise emperor got lots of Han people to emigrate here, who brought with them lots of handicrafts, farming techniques, making life better, the economy better.

And you are Han yourself?

Yes, my ancestors were some of the original Han to move here from Húnán province. Húběi, Guăngdōng, Guăngxī provinces were the main areas of emigration.

So you all have been here since the Ming dynasty?!

Yes, there are now a dozen branches who came from my ancestor, a blacksmith. Largely these immigrants were farmers or craftsmen like blacksmiths, carpenters, artists and painters, caligraphers. That is why we don’t have that many famous poets around here, all craftsmen, busy with their hands!

Touching upon tourism, where do the tourists who visit your city come from? Are they mostly provincial, from further parts of China, or foreign?

They are mostly from  Sìchuān yes – Chéngdū and Chóngqìng.

So what do you think the Sìchuān tourist board might consider to bring in more visitors from elsewhere in the nation?

A bit more promotion, mostly. There has not been enough marketing taking place to get people knowing about the city.

And what are you most proud about the city? Is it the customs, the area, how people live? What makes it special?

The nature and the climate are the best things. People feel good to be here in Xīchāng. The minority cultures also make it special. We have a Quong Hai wetland project going one – a huge project which looks to protect the local area – 20,000 Chinese acres large! The local people feel good about this, proud of it. We have rich water resources, water products – the quality is really good. So many places are polluted, but Xīchāng and the area are not. We have many freshwater lakes – unpolluted, preserved – exceptionally rare in China! There are so many fish and shrimp who live in the lake..

Yes, we ate some last night..

How about Xīchāng back in the time of the Three Kingdoms, way back when? Was the city around then?

Stories from the Three Kingdoms occur in Xīchāng. Like the three attempts made to caputre General Monghur – a leader of a minority, a tribe, it is hard to say which one exactly, against the main power of the Three Kingdoms. In the end they caught him in Yunnan.

And then what happened to him?

We was not killed, he was given a rank in government. That was the king’s most important advisor’s wisdom – and in China he represents wisdom, there are a lot of stories about him. It was to take the best of the minorities and put them in his government.

Thank you so much for your time. Just finally, is there anything else you would like to mention about Xīchāng?

That’s pretty much it! I hope you enjoy our city!

Interview: Mr. Song, a hotel owner on the banks of Lake Lúgū.

…I am originally from the North-East of China, by way of the South-East…I settled here because I enjoyed the climate so much. I came here first in 2007, and subsequently set up my business. Originally I was a mobile phone salesman, but I switched careers.

Quite a change!

Indeed, but after being here, with the weather, I could not go back to Jiēyáng. It wasn’t my plan at all to join the hotel business.

Well this is a beautiful area to be.

When I first came no-one else was interested, it was deserted! Now it is so popular we can take in over one million RMB per year- mostly profit. We got the lease originally, then built the housing ourselves, so costs are low!

[His wife is here, also previously a mobile phone saleswoman whom he met in Jiēyáng, but whom originally is from Sìchuān. She is described as a “very capable woman” and this is clear to see. It seems that she runs the place, giving free tours to customers – it may be that Mr. Song is not the key player. When we first arrived she did refer to herself as ‘the boss’. When asked Mr. Song laughs, but says that she runs only the restaurant, and that he runs the rest.]

So how come this area has become so popular? How has this welcome development changed your business?

The main reason is the Chéngdū to Xīchāng road, opened up on May 1st 2012. It has opened up the south of the province to a huge number of visitors.

So how did you get here in 2007?

I came here by recommendation from a friend, who also works down here. I came up from Luòshuĭ, a more popular resort on the Yúnnán side of the lake. I came here with 50,000 RMB and a motorbike, and started this all up.

[Mrs. Song] Mr. Song started here by taking photos, then the restaurant opportunity opens up and I am asked to run it as I am a good cook. Then we got the opportunity to take over the hotel and expand it

from ten, rundown, bathroom-less rooms.  We have had no overall plan, really. Just patchwork, fixing things as we go!

How about the Mosu tribe who live here around the lake, are you surprised that they are such a draw for tourists as well?

[Mr. Song] For me, three factors have changed the business: Transportation to get folks into the land. People staying for the weather. A contrast to their own lives – everywhere is getting hotter.

[Mr. Tang interjects] It is more the natural beauty and the different cultures one finds in the areas.

Here one finds a difference in perspective. As a travel agent by trade, Mr. Tang concentrates more upon those things which bring people to an area. As a hotelier, Mr. Song cares more about reasons for people to stay in one area.

How about the future for the area?

Things have peaked, they should stay like this. I don’t see things changing very much. It is so much better than I’d thought – I originally wanted to save up a million RMB in a few years and leave. We are very, very happy and content. Firstly I thought it would be great just to own a motorbike – now I have cars and everything!

So your own future?

We will retire in a few years. My son (who studies at boarding school in Xīchāng) is too young to take on the business – he should start his own. I have no worries about maximising income, by bringing my son on board. Now is the time to make money, but next it is the time to spend it! I have a team in place, we can go travel the world.

I make to leave, keen to explore the beautiful lake, but he has something more to tell me..

I have something more to tell you: I, more as a hobby – but with great ambition, am working on a vineyard in the area around the lake. I have found some new land, have done some research on wine grapes for this hillside, to see if wine can be made. The tiniest vineyard in the world, just a few acres, to make the best wine at the best price. I plan to make 10,000 bottles a year. 500 RMB per bottle and first, but I want to get it up to 5000RMB – I have faith in the grape.

We now are able to interview a selection of interesting fellows. All sat down in the storehouse’s luxurious conference room one finds Mr. Gan, the master tea maker and owner of Brother friendship; Mr. Gao, and expert on tea and local journalist; and two Mrs. Zhangs from the local tourism bureau. We all have a chat about local tourism, history and the place of the tea-trade therein.

Well let’s kick off talking about the history of Tibetan tea in Ya’an and the Tibetan Tea Horse Road..

[Mr. Gao] Historically it is a tea city. We first made green tea here, it is a city made for tea! On Munding mountain (a local peak), around 53BC one finds the first evidence of tea being grown anywhere in the world. Previously to that it was simply collected from the wild. It was consumed then firstly as food, then as medicine, then as a drink.

The myth is that a person lived then who was impervious to all poisons, and tried everything he could find in the forest. He discovered tea, and brought it back to the village. Then during the Tang dynasty Tibet fought China and their soldiers captured a supply line, found tea in the baggage and liked it a great deal. After this Princess Wen-chung married the Tubo leader and brought lots of tea with her, making it even more popular. When Tibet became part of China the part of Sìchuān around Ya’an was chosen as the place to grow tea for Tibet. There are two routes into Tibet, one from Yunnan and another from here. During the Qing dynasty 5.5million kilograms of tea were exported to Tibet.

And there’s more..

In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries the English came into Tibet from India. Here they found tea, and liked it, and subsequently they took some tea and grew it in India. Later on, in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries during the opium trade companies like the East-India Company and Lipton were formed and they used tea as a commodity.

[To Mr. Gan] We’ve heard about the rich history of tea making in the area. How does it feel to be part of this history?

Mr. Gao talks history, I talk facts! Both in the historical sense and in finding a market for Tibetan tea in a crowded market. There are six kinds of tea after all (yellow, white, black, red, purple and green) and Tibetan tea is only a sixth of the black tea market – though black tea is the most popular (60-70% of the entire market).

Alright then, tell me more about your market – who buys your high-end Tibetan teas?

Traditionally it was those on the the Tea Horse Road between Han China and Tibet. Now everyone can have it, Tibetans especially, its affordable stuff.  Hans concerned with their health as well – black tea is so popular because it is so healthy. People eat more meat these days, and black tea is good for digestion. Plus, there is no expiry date on it, it is a great product to sell.

[To Mrs. Zhang] Tell me more about the tea trade’s influence on tourism. Can it really bring people into an area?

Ya’an is a city between the plains and the highlands. 5000 metres difference! It is a place of transition – it makes the genetic make-up of the plants and animals different. Ya’an is the place where the panda was first found and assessed (by a French missionary) after all. This is the main reason for tourists to come here. The historical and cultural aspect, junctions and stops across the world, all have their natural beauties and cultures and therefore form major tourist routes. The tea is a secondary reason – the Tea Horse Road.

Quick question to Mr. Gan. I see your daughter is going to be the sixth generation of tea makers in the family. Was that her idea or was it more your suggestion?

Well first let me fill you in on some family history. It was my father who made the business great, but then things got trickier in the 1960s. I have restored the business due to my enthusiasm for tea making. The family wouldn’t do anything else – my daughter went to the University of Sìchuān, a fine university, and did her masters and she is now in Goettingen in Germany studying bio-science. She wants to  come back and run the business afterwards.

And then you’ll take it easy?

I’ll need to teach her for a while! But she wants the responsibility and she loves it – she grew up in the tea making business.

To make a good business you need enthusiasm and a sense of responsibility. These can come from many things but mostly from one’s family history. Everything is done more perfectly – it is not about money or productivity but about the product. That is why we are the only National  Intangible Cultural Heritage Holder for tea – we are responsible for everything, not just my wallet or the business, of the industry, the culture.

Mr. Dong-sa is a Tibetan fellow himself who was born and raised in the county of Mùlĭ. His family have seven or eight generations from the area. He studied for seven years in Lhasa in Tibet.

My colleague asks Mr. Dong-sa to describe Tibetan culture and history in three words. He sits and thinks about this for quite a while. During this pause a little white caterpillar/leech hybrid thing is spotted, causing havoc in the wooden, stove-heated hut. Apparently they are very unpleasant indeed. It is summarily set on fire and then things can continue.

Pure. Long. Multicultural. It is an excluded place, not attacked by modern culture. Purity – I mean by culture, uninfluenced by cultures of the outside world. This means a long history – Mùlĭ has residents from Tibet from the mid-Tang dynasty. It is a history full of battles.

How would you contrast Tibetan communities like Mùlĭ with the modern area of Tibet?

Religion, custom, language and outfits are all the same. Our differences are really minor. In Tibet almost everyone is a Tibetan Buddhist, while here in Mùlĭ some still practise Benbo – a local brand of Buddhism only found in China, which is (oddly) studied at an institute in Italy. In terms of landscape and climate it is also very similar – though Tibet, of course, is vast and varies so much, and there are a few other Sìchuān counties between us and Tibet.

Why do you think the study of Tibetan Buddhism has become so popular in the western world?

Well it has gotten much more popular in China too! When I studied in 2007 not a lot of folks studied it, but now… so many people. Plus one has two branches of our Buddhism: Sou Chang – in east/south Asia, Yunnan province, Burma. That is about becoming Buddha oneself, not about helping others to become Buddha. ‘South Buddhism’ we call it. Da Chang is the main Buddhism, in Mongolia, China, Tibet, Japan, Korea. Now you have three branches of this branch! Tibetan, Han and South-East Asian (Japan and Korea).

He does not answer my original question. Perhaps he does not know why this branch has become synonymous with Buddhism in the west. He probably does not feel comfortable openly reflecting on it with the politics of the situation being what they are. He continues…

I see Tibetan Buddhism as a combination of Han Buddhism and Indian Buddhism. The Lotus Master was able to combine this Buddhism with local customs, but because of the original Indian influence we still have the purest form of the religion. Also our mantras are not just religious, they contain medicine, chemistry, history, life and death, bibliography – it is so rich, it covers all scince, all life in the mantra. It studis the relationship between the five elements (gold, wood, water, fire and earth. All people have these five, the whole universe linked to man.

He is really motoring now.

We come from the universe, we live and go back to it. This is the no-self, the highest stage of Buddhism. You are just part of existence, you are not yourself. You should, therefore, help other people, sacrifice yourself for one is just part of nature. Humans cannot combat nature, you can only be part of it.

Finally he returns to the question.

As for its popularity around the world, it contains elements of yoga, meditation, Tai-chi, which are all popular in their own right, in the west and elsewhere.

How does Han Buddhism adapt the Tibetan model?

In Tibetan Buddhism the wisdom is secret, and one tries to get it out through reflection, meditation, inner exploration. Han Buddhism is more open, the secrets are displayed.

Tell me more about this temple, and how it fits into Mùlĭ culture.

In years gone by there were three big temples (including this one) and eighteen smaller temples – six lesser temples to each larger temple. The three are still located in the three main areas of Mùlĭ county, of its culture and politics. We in Mùlĭ considered ourselves a kingdom, with the great temple as a capital, though now, of course it is an administrative centre of the county.

What can you tell me about the contrast between the present and the past here in Mùlĭ county?

In the past it was a centre of religion and politics. Now it is just a religious centre. The scale is now a fifth of what it once was – there are less monks, less acolytes. The three temples founded here represent the three big temples in Tibet, and we were meant to have a tenth of the numbers found there – in terms of architectural construction too. Now it is a fifth even of that. So we, therefore, send students to our sister temples in Tibet, and in each of those grand temples one finds the name of Mùlĭ.

Now this new, wonderful temple (renovated in the early 2000s) – was it local artists/artisans, or did you bring people in to craft it?

The chief architect was from Mùlĭ, the brother of the ninth living Buddha, also an acquaintance of Loucke, when he was six or seven. He loved the western man’s sweets, though he was terrified of his green eyes! He is still alive, and was the chief consultant for the renovation. The construction workers were also from Mùlĭ, but the carving and the painting was done by artists from other Tibetan areas.

We have a sit down and a chat with the owner, Mr. Dan Hin Pian Chu,

a former paper-maker in a government factory – quite a career change.

Why build such a hotel in Mùlĭ?

Due to the development of the tourism industry in the area. We built it in 2003 and have enlarged it twice, in 2009 and 2012. It was quite small at first, but we made enough money to expand. at the same time we added special rooms like this tea house to promote Tibetan culture.

Where do most of your guests come from?

Mostly from Chengdu and Chonquing. We have business groups as well as individual adventurers. All Chinese, foreign guests do not often come to Mùlĭ, and when they do most are on adventure holidays, perhaps are cycling about. They do not wish to stay in a [up-market] hotel like this.

So it is all profitable!

Ha, yes.

How do you see the development of tourism in Mùlĭ in the future?

Very positively. I see the development at Lake Lugu, and Dao Cheng Yading (the Shangrila of China) and as Mùlĭ is at the centre of this – it is like the backbone of the area.

Do most of the guests make use of these special, Tibetan rooms? Or do they stay just for the beds?

Normally this room is not open to the public – it is like a private club for Tibetan culture. But if tourism develops, maybe we will open it up for everyone.

The room has a traditional ‘Tubo’ or Tibetan layout. Local craftsmen completed the carvings and paintings. There are three/four studios in town, and many more in the countryside. A room like this would set one back around 200,000 RMB to create, with the splendid carved cupboards which take up an entire wall being the most expensive feature.

So what about all this tea which we are about to enjoy?

In Tibetan culture the tearoom is the longue, the living area, where the stove is. Tea is an important part of life.

A large silver pot is how heating up upon a black and silver stove, heavy, rectangular and ornate. I pray that Yak butter will not be added, just the small bushels of dark leaves. However, the tea-lady is standing next to something which looks dangerously like a butter churner…

Not for the first time, my companion and translator is my salvation, as she asks if we might taste the tea and the herbs without the infusion of Yak. And Gods be praised it is English Breakfast tea! Why would tehy put the rancid Yak milk in it at all? It is surely already perfect!

Next arrives big glass tankards of ‘bitter barley tea’, a pint of hot water over barley granules at the bottom. It tastes like liquid digestive biscuits. Not bad at all.