A reluctant goodbye and an ecstatic hello.

I spent my last day in Chengdu doing a bit of admin. I posted a box full of tea, textiles, and my China guidebook home, trying to cut down on the weight of my bag and make a bit more room. For more tea. I then walked down to Jinli Street, next to Wuhou Temple, and squeezed through the crowds queuing at the snack stalls to purchase meat on a stick, noodles, and sweet pineapple rice. I got back to the hostel at about 14:00 and embarked on a cookery class with the chef. It was one-on-one, bar the receptionist who acted as translator – Mrs. Wu didn’t speak English. She showed me how to make two local specialties; Gunbao Chicken and Mapo Tofu. Our resulting dishes weren’t too dissimilar, although I did opt to leave out the MSG, making the polite excuse that it’s a bit hard to find in England. I scoffed down my creations, jotted down the recipes while they were still in my head, then reluctantly started to pack my things.

For the second time I’m forcibly prising myself away from China. This visit has done nothing but confirm that at some point in the future, there’ll be a third. I could easily have spent another few weeks here, despite the bitter cold, the shuddering damp, and the heavy clouds. Yunnan and Sichuan were just as beautiful as promised, and it was worth coming back just to visit Tiger Leaping Gorge – which I highly recommend to anyone who finds themself in this part of the world. This time around, the little things that made my first visit mildly uncomfortable, or slightly inconvenient, were absent; at least to my consciousness. Spitting doesn’t make me flinch, I don’t groan when I’m confronted with a squat toilet, I happily point at a menu with no idea what I’m ordering, I don’t get disgruntled when a little old man elbows into me – if anything, lack of personal space is quite liberating; I’m not constantly apologising to every rock or table leg I bash in to. I enjoy my linguistic ignorance, and have found myself subconsciously learning much more vocabulary than was necessary in the other countries I’ve visited. Once again I’ve been the recipient of exaggerated generosity, and have met some fantastic people – one of the key reasons why I came back. Before this visit, my relationship with China was love-hate, but I’m now firmly reconciled to the fact that this has been my favourite country so far.

I got up at 06:30 after a night bereft of sleep: one of my dorm mates had an unfortunate bout of food poisoning, and my poor earplugs couldn’t stifle his violent retches. I caught the shuttle bus to the airport, and sailed through security, ready to take my first flight in three months. Interesting fact; my past four flights have all originated in China. It will be five as of this evening. I landed in Guangzhou on time, and was met by an electric buggy which soundlessly zoomed me down to the international departures terminal. I haven’t been in such a contraption since I was an unaccompanied minor visiting Canada for the first time, and I felt a childish grin sprawl across my face as we hurtled towards our destination. I recognised the security area, made my way through, and with a heavy heart got stamped out of the country. By some fluke I found myself waiting at the same gate where I met my flight to Hanoi. I boarded.

In what felt like minutes later (I guess everything feels short after a twenty-two hour bus journey), I arrived in Bangkok. I was met by a sea of western faces as I passed through security and waited anxiously for my bag. Fortunately, she’d followed me from Chengdu and we were blissfully reunited. I then came out of the arrivals hall, sat on my backpack, and waited. After an hour or so, a familiar face, framed by henna-dyed hair and plastered with a broad grin bobbed through the crowd. I gave Mariana a huge hug. We’ve been friends for over five years, ever since we met through a language exchange at college. She’d flown from Geneva to meet me in Bangkok. For the time being, I have a travel companion.

We caught a taxi to the hostel, dropped our bags and grabbed some pad thai. The main source of excitement was a cockroach crawling up my back as I was nibbling on a prawn. We then wandered down Koh San Road, mildly horrified by the wall of tourists, blaring music and dazzling lights. We turned off to a quieter street, walked back to the hostel, and slumped after our respective long days.

The potential problems pertaining to the preservation of (pointless?) pandas.

I left the hostel at 07:00 and caught two buses up to the north-east of the city, arriving at the Giant Panda Breeding Research Base about an hour later. An imperceptible drizzle froze my bones, despite my numerous layers against the cold. Not many people were keen enough to get up so early to see a bunch of fuzzy furballs, so I pretty much had the park to myself. I stumbled across my first panda just as he was tucking into his breakfast. He expertly stripped the leaves from the stem of the bamboo, bunched them in his hand, and sat chewing them noisily, yanking at them like they were beef jerky. I watched him for a while, but my presence didn’t distract him from the task at hand. The sounds of his chomping dwindled as I walked away, and then surged again as I came across another group, attacking their meal with equal vigour. A couple were eating the stems, peeling off the bark with their teeth and chewing on the tender inner part. Across the park pandas sat slumped on their generous backsides, propped up against trees, in an edible nest of bamboo. I came across the cubs, who were all squashed in the corner of a sparsely furnished enclosure. At one point a keeper entered to clear away the remains of their breakfast. One cub lazily opened an eye, exuded a yawn, and rolled over, back to sleep. By this point it was about 12:00, and many of the adult pandas had also retired for a nap, either twisted around the branches of a tree, or huddled up to a buddy for warmth. I then went in search of the red pandas. These guys were much more interesting, scuttling around the open enclosure across the path of squealing children, and looking up quizzically with their feline faces. I then watched a film which documented the breeding programme for which the park has achieved international renown. The development of techniques for artificial insemination were described in rather graphic detail, and footage showing mothers clumsily swiping at their newborns with a heavy paw left a strong impression. The video was arguing for the necessity of preserving this ancient species, which has already lived beyond the average five-million year span, but I came away wondering what is the point?

I asked a couple of eminent biologists to describe their view of pandas. “Mildly pointless,” was one answer, the other was as follows: “Money should be relocated to more important keystone species that have a genuine chance of surviving, and have relevant ecosystem services. It’s pointless wasting money on large cuddly ‘cute’ animals which have no chance of avoiding extinction, and only serve to slightly reduce bamboo levels in a tiny forest in China.” After my visit, I can’t help but feel inclined to agree with them. Pandas have evolved from ferocious meat-eaters to placid, flaccid bamboo-munchers – why? The WWF estimate there to be 1,600 in the wild, and cite the economic benefits of tourism and the germination of bamboo forests as reasons to save them. These seem like pretty flimsy arguments to my mind (do pandas eat more bamboo than they propagate?) and whilst I appreciate their furry cuteness, I’m not convinced that the amount of effort trying to stave off extinction for these lackadaisical creatures is worth it. There were a number of quotations pegged around the park relating to mankind’s relationship with nature. One was from Michel de Montaigne: “Let us permit nature to have her way: she understands her business better than we do.” This was strikingly ironic given the context. Yes, let’s allow nature to take its natural course. It’s less messy than artificial insemination, and is possibly less fruitless.

A long journey and a Lilliputian perspective.

It’s a pain in the bum to get from Lijiang to Chengdu. There are a number of routes you can take. The quickest option is to fly, but I’m too much of a cheapskate to do that. A less expensive alternative is to take a twenty-two hour bus. This wouldn’t have been a problem, but the only option was a seat, and while I do enjoy the odd day-long bus journey, I need to be able to sleep. I went for a third option; taking two trains. It takes about a day and a half, but it costs less than three-hundred yuan, so I was sold.

I left the hostel at 06:30 this morning, and bowing under the weight of my backpack, shuffled off to find a taxi. There weren’t many around, but I managed to secure one and get to the station. I then spent the next seven hours sitting on my first train. I listened to a playlist that my fourteen-year-old self would have really appreciated (nothing like a nostalgic throwback), and watched the mountains sail past. The only source of interest was a man dressed in a station guard uniform, performing a JML-type sales role, trying to flog some absorbant towels. He managed to sustain his spiel for about half an hour, which was impressive, but the amount of effort he put in wasn’t reflected in his number of sales. At 15:30 I alighted at Guang Tong North station – a random platform in the middle of nowhere; even Google Maps doesn’t recognise it as a location. The receptionist at the hostel had told me that this was the route he always takes, and it made more sense to get off here than to go all the way to Kunming and double back. I now had five hours to use (nope, still never kill) before my next train. I watched the second half of Les Misérables and slurped some oily instant noodles.

That’s one of my biggest issues with all-day travel: it’s not easy to eat healthily. My diet predominantly consists of Oreos and peanuts, although I did throw in an apple for good measure. A lot of Chinese people seem to favour mystery meat in a strange liquid, that comes in vaccum-sealed plastic, but I haven’t quite summoned up the bravery to make that gastronomic endeavour. I’ll stick to the biscuits.

My second train arrived on time (I needn’t have been so generous with my layover), and I found my middle bunk and settled for the night. I prefer the middle because there’s more space than on the top bunk, but you don’t have randomers using it as a bench – a consequence of the bottom bunk. I always sleep well on trains, and this was no exception. I woke up about ten hours later, just as a grey light was beginning to reveal the morose mountains and languid lakes out the window. Geometric grey towers began to rise outside the window in various states of completion. The grey clouds melted into the grey roofs and the grey faces of people staring emptily as the train pulled into the station. I grabbed the metro and found the hostel easily, had a much needed shower, then went off in search of People’s Park. I love parks in China. I firmly believe that the Chinese people know how to spend their leisure time. I joined in with a salsa class, sipped tea in a cafe, and examined the ‘classified’ adverts that well-meaning parents had posted along the iron railings and on makeshift poles, detailing the accomplishments of their offspring in the hopes of finding them a spouse.

Once I’d navigated the park, I took a circuitous route back to the hostel, past countless shops selling precious stones, postcards, and pandaphernalia. I met a group as I was sitting in the common area, and we went out to try the local Mapo Tofu. The restaurant closed around us, and we got kicked out at about 22:00. We had a few beers back at the hostel, then got a glimpse of Chengdu’s nightlife, witnessing a desultory ‘fight’ in a bar, and experiencing a monochrome ‘club’ before getting a taxi back.

I was up early the next morning, and along with Mark and Chris, caught a bus to Leshan. The grey drizzle didn’t dampen our spirits. We hopped into a share taxi at the bus station and were driven to the Buddha Park. After some strained conversation with the ticket lady we managed to gain entry. The park is massive. We walked through various caves and wondered at countless sculptures, painstakingly carved into the rock. Green lichen had begun to sprout across the carvings; a green woolly jumper to protect them from the bitter wind. We soon found ourselves making a steady ascent, climbing endless stairs that eventually plateaued at the top of a cliff.

We could see the top of a very large head, which had grass poking up between its spirals. We got closer, and it got bigger. It was the Grand Buddha; the biggest in the world at seventy-one metres high. We followed a snailing stream of people down the cliff face, marvelling at the gigantic features of the figure. It was well worth a visit. We returned to Chengdu, grabbed some dinner, and waited for the heat to return to our limbs.

Tiger Leaping Gorge-ous.

Shivering in the darkness, two French guys, two other English girls and I shuffled out to a bus. Just over two hours later we got booted out at the end of a dirt track. Along with our fellow hikers, we began our slow ascent. We confusedly made our way through a building site, the stony-faced men in hard-hats barely looked up from their digging. Lorries kicked up swarming clouds of dust that engulfed us in a bitty embrace, clinging to our sweating faces and sneaking into our lungs. The sun bore down from it’s perfect blue palace, surveying us with condescension as we followed the scree track. Occasionally we had to squeeze to the side of the path to make way for a reluctant mule, led by a weathered old man.

After a gruelling climb up the side of a mountain, following goat tracks and the edges of terraced fields, we made it to the trail proper, and were faced with the dreaded ‘Twenty-Eight Bends’. We paused frequently, trying to rack fresh air into our rattling chests. After what seemed like an age (but in reality was maybe two hours) we made it to the top, and the gorge snaked below us, the Yangtze River glistening a turquoise green. We stopped and took in the breathtaking view before us. The last vestiges of snow clung steadfastly to the shaded recesses of the grey rock opposite. The wind roared, occasionally kicking up flurries, and the half-moon rose, pale, shy, but visible. We finally mustered up the strength to continue, and fortunately the descent began. We followed a dirt track through woodland along the line of the gorge. The trees slowly thinned, no longer concealing the rock on the opposite side. Just as the shadow was threatening to encroach the very tips of the mountains, we made it to Halfway Guesthouse, secured our beds, had a huge dinner together, and eagerly retired to sleep.

The next morning we got up before the sun rose, had breakfast, and set out just as the light was beginning to chase away the shadows. After an hour and a half we made it to Tina’s Guesthouse; the end of the trail. We rested for about five minutes, had a celebratory Snickers-break (one of many), and then decided to descend into the gorge itself, and see the famous stone from which tigers are said to have traversed the swirling rapids.

Tina’s very kindly organised a free bus to take us to the start of the trail. We stumbled down the path, occasionally flirting with the potential for a twisted ankle, and eventually made it to a ‘viewing platform’, paying ten yuan for the privilege. The guesthouse had warned us about this cost, so we paid and carried on; we’d been told that we could follow a circuit back round to Tina’s. After another few hundred metres we came across a bamboo hut, blocking the path. A man came out and demanded fifteen yuan to pass. We were riled, frustrated at the injustice of the scam. We tried to push past him, but he grabbed us and pulled us back. We tried to negotiate, but he was stubborn. So we turned back, climbing up the way we came, to prove a point. Who knows how many more fees we would have had to pay. It was a disappointing way to end the trek. We hobbled back to the guesthouse and boarded a bus back to Lijiang, our silence indicative of our exhaustion.

The scam left a bit of a sour taste in our mouths, but in spite of this, the beauty of the scenery and the stunning vistas made the trek worthwhile. I’d even say that the trek alone was reason enough to return to China for a second time. We had a fantastic group, amazing weather, and a fabulous experience. And we learnt a valuable lesson. There’s no such thing as a free minibus.

No time to dilly-dally in Dali.

I boarded the train at Kunming station, and was surprised to find that the ‘seat’ that I’d booked was actually the bottom bunk of a hard sleeper, with four people sitting on it. If anything I think there was a bit more room than on a seat, so it was perhaps marginally more comfortable. I got talking to the newlyweds opposite who shared my passion for Downton Abbey, and watched the forested slopes roll past the window. As the journey went on a higher and higher proportion of it was spent in tunnels, but occasionally we would break out into green terraced fields, overlooked by a pocket of wooden houses, their roofs flicking up towards the sky. I arrived in Dali at 16:00, caught a local bus to the old town, found my hostel and did a load of washing, because that’s the kind of rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle I lead.

The next morning was bright and fresh. The rising sun turned the top of the mountains a hazy pink, and the sky was a brillant blue. I hired a bike and cycled to the Three Pagodas. It’s been a while since I’ve visited a temple complex, and it was a relaxing way to spend a couple of hours. The site was quiet, and the pagodas themselves were impressive, standing majestically against the backdrop of the mountains.

I hopped back on my bike, and cycled along patchwork fields with elderly ladies in colourful headscarves stooping to harvest leeks and spring onions. I wound through small villages comprised of narrow alleys, snaking between high stone walls and dusty building sites, and eventually came to Erhai Lake. It was stunning, the rippling waves never quite broke the surface, they were caught in a perpetual fluid motion. I followed the road round, cycling through countless villages and past legions of boutique hotels, until I reached the ‘tongue’ of the lake: a small promontory leading to an underwhelming park. I then looked for Xi Zhou village, and after a bit of confusion found it, and the bread for which it is famous. I pacified my rumbling stomach, bought a couple of baba for Tracey, the owner of the hostel, and then carried on cycling for another half hour.

It was at this point that I realised I was utterly exhausted. In light of this, I turned on to the highway and began the gruelling journey back. My unresponsive legs and the force of the wind against me meant that progress was slow. I enlisted my Zumba tunes for motivation, and after a couple of hours I eventually made it home. In total I cycled about 50km. That was enough for one day. I sank into my cloudlike bed (the softness of which was alien, and as such, difficult to get comfortable in) and fell asleep.

This morning was as beautiful and mild as the last. I packed up my things, had breakfast, and wandered around the touristy shops of the old town. By some accident I bought a fourth tin of tea (it’s an addiction; I should really post some home), and then went back to the hostel to check out. I had a couple of hours before my train left, so Tracey took me to a café owned by one of her friends. It was quiet, tucked down an alleyway, and the only patrons were Tracey’s friends. It was also super-hipster; these friends were sporting extravagant headwear, knitwear and facial hair. If you hadn’t guessed, I’m definitely more of a tea-fiend than a coffee-addict, but my cappuccino was delicious. Tracey told me it was the best coffee in town, thanks to the bespoke espresso machine. The prices didn’t reflect this; Tracey laughed, telling me that it was a good thing the owner’s dad was rich – there’s no way he’s making money. She then took me around the backstreets, forcing two pastries and some pomegranate juice on me, before walking me to the bus stop and saying goodbye. I’m so glad she took me under her wing. She said she understands what it’s like to be a solo female traveller, and wanted me to feel welcome. Her generosity and kindness meant that this was certainly the case.

Dali is beautiful. I wish I’d had more time to go up to the mountains and to the other side of the lake, but I’m on a bit of a schedule at the moment. The more I see of China, the more I love it. The old town has unfortunately succumbed to the ravages of its thriving tourist industry, but Tracey showed me that there are still awesome places if you know where to go. I guess that’s true of anywhere; it helps to get in with the locals.

That time I sold olive oil, dressed as a princess.

I waited in the reception of the hostel, and was soon greeted by two men I’d met the previous evening. We got in a white hatchback, and drove through the stagnant rush hour traffic to Carrefour. I ran through the four lines of Chinese that I’d learnt in my head. I was ready. I met Liang Shi Di, a sweet nineteen-year-old girl who would be my partner for the day. She had good spoken English, and a welcoming smile. We assumed our positions, either side of a giant display of olive oil.

After an hour or so I was presented with my ‘uniform’ of a pastel pink floor-length ballgown and a plastic tiara. Liang Shi Di had a green branded dress and a cream beret; we didn’t look very congruent. For the next seven hours I said ‘Nihao’ to every passerby, and invited them to learn about Olivila olive oil: ‘Healthy, delicious!’

Yes, by some strange twist of fate (initiated by a conversation in a bar), I found myself employed to promote olive oil in a Chinese supermarket, dressed as a princess. It was exactly as bizarre as it sounds. Initially sceptical, I decided to adopt a ‘yolo’ attitude, and changed my plans so that I could stay in Kunming for a couple more days. When else would I get such an opportunity?! Plus, money is trickling away, it seemed like a good idea. At the end of the day I was given a red envelope containing my agreed pay. It may have been bizarre, but it wasn’t a scam. To be honest the whole thing sounded too farfetched to be a scam; if you want to screw people over your story has to be plausible.

Exhausted but content, I returned to the hostel and met Lisa, who, in another case of ‘small world’ works for the same company as my dad. We went for a walk through the market and to the lake, (despite the complaints of my aching legs) and had dinner.

The second day passed much like the first. We were more successful, selling twenty whole bottles, so I felt less guilty about my comparatively extortionate wages. At one point a squadron of government officials passed our stall, surveying our product with dull disinterest. I was a bit concerned that they would call me up on my visa-status, but that didn’t happen. I got paid a second time (I made about £150 in total), returned to the hostel for the last time, and had a beer with my hostel-buddies, to celebrate my final evening.

This has definitely been the weirdest experience of my trip so far, but it’s been very informative. I got to people-watch solidly for two days, learnt a bit more Mandarin, and increased my employability with transferrable skills and overseas experience. If you can sell something in a language you can’t speak, you can probably sell anything. I’m ready to return to the lazy life of a tourist, but it’s been a nice little break, and I got a bit of an insight into what China is like as a normal, working person. In a tiara.

Soaring seagulls.

I stepped out into the dull Kunming morning after a steaming hot shower; it felt good to get rid of the bus residue. The grey, boxy towers and steady streams of traffic were pleasantly familiar. I noted my surprise at the absence of car horns – for perhaps the first time since I arrived in Hanoi in November. I grabbed a breakfast of Youtiao and Doujiang (warm soy milk and pastry) before wandering over to a market, concealed beneath a Wal-Mart. I needed to replace my day bag, which after a few months of abuse finally became irreparable. It was also necessary for me to get some new trainers, their soles showing an independent streak that’s incompatible with their function. They’ve walked me through the snows of Canada and the typhoons of Japan, along the walls of China and the rice terraces of Vietnam, through the jungles of Cambodia and up to the waterfalls of Laos, but it was finally time to say goodbye. They’ll be sorely missed – particularly until I wear in my new ones so they don’t give me blisters. Happy with my purchases, I walked down to the Yunnan Provincial Museum and admired the exhibition of fine art inspired by ethnic minorities. It was my favourite kind of art – the kind where there’s a story behind every face, a question behind every smile, a glint in every eye. I then went in search of The Loft, an art complex in the west of the city. It was hard to find, but fortunately I ran into a couple of Chinese girls who directed me. Unfortunately, the gallery was closed, so I turned around to go back. I bumped into the girls again, and in very broken English they told me to come back with them. I had nothing better to do, so took up their offer. We walked through a construction site, up an echoing staircase into an office that seemed to be colder than it was outside. This was where they worked. We then went up to the fourth floor of the same building. This was where they lived. Within the plain four walls there were three bunk beds, the bottom of each piled with blankets, the top piled with miscellaneous possessions; hairbrushes, mirrors, cosmetics. Clean laundry was hanging out to dry on a string which stretched loosely from one end of the room to the other. On the desk was a vase of crispy purple flowers, the heads of which were strewn across the surface, severed from the stem. Lu Bi Tao made me noodles in an electric pot, adding cabbage, tomato and spring onions. The result was hearty and warming; I thanked her profusely. We talked through a smartphone app. I asked about their families and jobs, they asked me about my life. After a couple of hours I took my leave, but not without an umbrella that Feng Yue absolutely insisted I took with me. This sort of kindness is amazing, unexpected, and yet, in my experience, not uncommon in China. I returned to the hostel happy to have met some locals – that’s what I’ve missed over the past few months. I chilled out (literally), battled with the WiFi, and warmed myself with tea. The next day even the dogs were wearing jumpers. I took myself back to the market and invested in some gloves and a hat, and immediately felt better prepared to tackle the weather. I walked up to Green Lake Park, and watched as the locals held baguettes up to the screeching seagulls, emulating the iconic pose of the Statue of Liberty. Children and adults squealed alike as the flock descended in a prolonged attack, circling around for second helpings, thirds… Along the walkways were stunning photographs taken by locals; of the seagulls, the park, and other famous tourist sites in China. From time to time I came across a group practicing Tai Chi, their controlled movements contrasting with the chaos of the seagulls.  I wandered up to the north of town, and accidentally got a bit lost in Yunnan University (security was tight). At one point someone asked me for directions to the library. I guess I haven’t quite shaken off the student image, but I was proud to be taken for a local. I finally made my escape, and had lunch in a restaurant next to a slow burning coal fire, set up in a moveable stoneware pit. I then paid a visit to Feng Yue and Lu Bi Tao, armed with pastries to thank them for their generosity the day before. My plan to restore my karma balance backfired. Lu Bi Tao relentlessly pressed me to accept a scarf as a gift. For fifteen minutes I politely declined in as many ways as I could think of, but eventually I accepted defeat, and the scarf, foreseeing that there wasn’t a credible alternative course of action. Even more wrapped up against the weather, I visited the gallery that I tried to access before. There was a photo exhibition of random stuff that you see in China, like a flask set atop a pile of bricks, and three pairs of red underwear hanging on a line. I felt like I was missing the point. I then turned back to the hostel, where I found another indoor firepit, and snuggled up with my flask of green tea. I felt very acclimatised. I spent the evening talking to a man who it soon transpired also went to Pembroke. We shared memories of our student days (mine still so painfully fresh), and then, along with his son, Badger, went to the barbecue at the end of the street.

I got up at 6:30 this morning, blindly pulled on some clothes, and bundled out into the darkness. I caught a bus to the train station where, after queuing in two lines (one of them twice) I managed to exchange my train ticket. There’s been a change of plan. I caught the bus back without incident, and walked along the canal towards Daguan Lake. I passed a morning market, where locals were buying vegetables and sitting over steaming baskets of dumplings and noodles. After half an hour I reached the entrance, paid for my ticket, and wandered along the bridges and walkways. Seagulls screeched in the sun, I felt warmth on my face for the first time since I arrived. I watched toddlers stomped into the white flocks with their pristine bowl cuts and florescent puffer jackets, and their helpless grandparents chasing them, trying to bring them under control. After a couple of hours I walked back into town and tried “Over the Bridge Noodles”; a local specialty. It was complicated to order, you needed a ticket, and to queue in two separate lines, but a lady helped me. She brought over a steaming bowl of broth, then dexterously added slivers of pork, earthy mushrooms, noodles, herbs and seasoning, mixing it until the pork was cooked. The result was delicious; the food here is definitely better than I remember. I dragged myself back to the hostel, had a nap, and watched a film in the bar with Badger before getting an early night; I’ve got a busy couple of days coming up.

It’s a relief to be back in China. I can walk down the street without being harassed by tuk-tuks, I can visit a museum, a park, a restaurant and be the only foreign tourist, I can communicate with locals without a common language. So far my return has been everything I wanted; if anything it’s better than I imagined. I made the right choice.

I’m on a bus to China.

I never thought that this would be the case, but I’m utterly beguiled by China; and I’m nursing an unexpected, irrepressible, and potentially insurmountable desire to come back.

Yeah, so it turns out that the desire was insurmountable. A tuk-tuk picked me up at 06:00 and took me to the bus station, where the crescent moon grinned askance at me, as he melted into the dawn. My fellow passengers and I circled the bus, waiting until the last possible moment to get into what will be our home for the next twenty-four hours (or more). We left at 07:17. I’m psyching myself up, listening to ‘China Girl’ by David Bowie. Let’s see how this goes.

0:55
I’m feeling pretty relaxed and sunny after listening to The Specials. I couldn’t believe my luck when I left the bus station and there was no one sharing my ‘bed’, but I’ve since been joined by a man, probably in his early forties, sporting a nice beige jumper. The road we’re on is bumpy and windy, so I’m squishing myself against the window to try and avoid contact. It doesn’t help that he’s splayed out on his back. This could be uncomfortable.

1:09
Maybe he’s from Beige-ing. Hahahah.

1:15
Also, he snores.

1:30
The spitting has started, but at least people are doing it in plastic bags.

1:44
First pee-stop, by the side of the road. When I got back on the bus the lady in the bed above me asked if I’d like to share with her; I promptly replied in the affirmative. Her name is Li and she’s very small and has a fuscia fluffy cap. This is better.

2:11
The road has turned into a dirt track. Too bumpy to read.

2:43
We’re nearing the top of a mountain. The engine of the bus has been switched off. Li says we’ll be here for an hour.

3:14
We’re off again, crawling round the side of a mountain, with a sheet of cliff on one side and a perilous precipice on the other. We’ve passed a couple of diggers, some men with spades, and a roller. I think they’re making the road.

3:40
My ears are popping as we keep going higher and higher. I thought it would be cold but the sun is hot on my face.

4:31
I hope there’s another toilet stop soon.

5:39
The bus has stopped again – now they’re clearing a tree out of the road. Still no toilet stop. Getting moderately concerned.

5:51
We’re definitely descending now. The bus is silent. I bet everyone is trying not to think about toilets.

5:57
We’ve stopped!

6:24
I’ve duly gorged myself on Pringles, peanuts and Oreos. I’m now back on the bus, which seems to have acquired an extra twenty people. I wonder where they’re going to sit. Minor drama; my tablet seems to have acquired a hairline fracture. It still seems to be working okay, but if it gets worse my journey might feel even longer. Fingers crossed it doesn’t.

8:05
Everyone is sleeping. I like sleeping, but it’s 15:22 in the afternoon. Might make it harder to sleep tonight. Beige-ing’s snores seem to indicate that he’s not worried.

10:07
We’ve just crossed the border. First a man in a dark green camo suit came onboard and looked at everyone’s passports, then we drove about three kilometres to the actual border. There we disembarked and formed two semi-orderly queues to get stamped out of Laos. I was surprised at being asked for 40,000 kip to leave the country, and no sooner had I voiced this than a man offered to pay for me, in a prime example of the generosity that made my last visit to China so special. I politely declined, having found a few more kip in my bumbag, and proceeded to cross. On the Chinese side I was met by another helpful man who showed me how to print my arrival card. We went straight through – the only people at the border were those on our bus. It was probably my most painless crossing to date, facilitated by the fact that we don’t have to change buses, this one goes all the way to Kunming. Li left to get another bus going to Jinghong, so once again I have the liberty of a bed to myself. I changed the last of my kip at the border, making sure I wasn’t getting ripped off too badly by using my XE app (what did the world do without smartphones?!) And after bartering hard, I managed to save about two pounds off the original offer. After a quick toilet stop (my favourite kind – the open trough) we are now back on the bus, speeding through some gorgeous countryside. The sun is glowing yellow as it sets behind fluffy white clouds. The green hills are going dark.

10:41
There’s been a bit of a switch around. More people came on the bus but the conductor moved me to a single berth so I didn’t have to share. That was nice of him.

11:38
It’s dark now. There hasn’t been any indication that we’ll stop for dinner so I guess I’ll have a pingua.

12:43
We did in fact just stop off for dinner. We were shuttled off into a cheap restaurant were we were all served up tin trays of what looked like a school dinner. It tasted okay, though I can confirm that chopsticks are not an efficient way to eat sweetcorn. A young couple started talking to me, and there are a few older men who are looking after me – one of them speaks good English. They made sure I got served, and paid the right amount. We’ve just got back on the bus and the driver has put on Golden Eye. It’s dubbed and subtitled in Mandarin. Maybe I’ll pick up some vocab.

13:36
Some police just came on the bus and lazily cast their eyes over everyone’s passports. Not sure why, but you know, it’s the “Traffic and patrol police brigade of SiXiao expressway traffic safety inspection service station” – I’m sure they’re just doing their very important job, worthy of such a convoluted title. Now they’re flashing torches at people. The lights are already on.

15:22
I’ve been swinging in and out of consciousness for the past few hours. I’m really comfortable now I have my own bed and the roads are so much better. I’m not even listening to music to help me sleep. This really hasn’t been a bad journey so far.

22:03
My alarm just rang because I forgot to switch it off from yesterday. We’ve stopped, I think we’re at a petrol station. It’s ridiculous how well I slept, considering I’ve been laying down literally all day. I guess we’re nearly there. Its pretty chilly but the scummy duvet is warm. Beige-ing’s wife must either sore as loudly as he does, or sleep in a separate house. The man is a machine.

24:07
That last stop wasn’t a petrol station, it was the bus station. I was a bit befuddled, not expecting to arrive for another few hours. It was still dark, and I’d been on a bus for a long time, so I decided to get a taxi rather than take another two buses (and an hour and a half) to get to the hostel. A guy tried to charge me four times the price that I knew it should be, and didn’t have a meter. Luckily I learnt from my experience in Xian. I found a real taxi, with a meter, paid the price the hostel quoted me, and now am sat on a sofa, waiting for check in. I made it! It really wasn’t that bad! I didn’t think laying on my back all day would make me so lazy. I slept so much, didn’t read enough (although the roads made that hard), and didn’t engage in the existential circumspection that I thought I would. But I’m here, I’m back in China, I’m ready for round two. And a shower.

Zàijiàn, Xin chào.

This month has disappeared. My flight earlier this morning from Guilin passed without a hitch (despite the fact that some fellow passengers and I arrived before the airport opened), and I’m now sitting at Guangzhou airport waiting for my flight to Hanoi.

China has been an experience. I was warned about some parts of it, not about others, but there have been a lot of things that I didn’t anticipate, and that have embellished my time here with amazing memories. I’ve been the recipient of unbounded generosity (big shout out to the Shi family); of more free dinners than it would be reasonable for anyone to expect (special thanks to Quin Ru and company) and of unguarded friendship from everyone I’ve met. The people here have been open, inquisitive, and welcoming, and I really appreciate the time that they spent with me – the questions that they answered, but more than anything, the questions that they generated.

Things haven’t always been easy. At times I’ve been lonely, lost, and ripped off, but despite this my perception of the country is overwhelmingly positive. It is (by questionable means) achieving astounding results, and it will be interesting to see how it develops in the next ten, twenty and thirty years. China is vast. Beyond any scale that I could have imagined before I came here, and the attempt to unify the diversity inherent in such a large area is admirable, if (perhaps) futile. I never thought that this would be the case, but I’m utterly beguiled by China; and I’m nursing an unexpected, irrepressible, and potentially insurmountable desire to come back.

The first thing I saw as we descended into Vietnam was green space. I breathed a sigh of relief, it was almost like coming back home. Immigration and baggage reclaim passed without incident, making the journey much more straightforward than anticipated. The hostel’s driver was waiting for me with a placard, and in about forty five minutes we arrived. I dumped my stuff, then headed out into the rain to see the night market. Uncountable stalls were selling clothes, shoes and souvenirs, of a much higher quality than I’d seen in China. Moreover, the vendors didn’t hassle bystanders, but had a relaxed approach, reaching a fair price without undue pressure. I weathered the rain for as long as possible, before heading back to a shower and bed.

This morning I was ready to see Hanoi. After a bit of life-admin I walked down to the Hoa Lo Prison, which was used by the French to detain Vietnamese political prisoners, and later was home to American Prisoners Of War during the conflict. The difference between how the building was used at these two defining points in history was astonishing. The brutality of the French and the hospitality of the Vietnamese couldn’t be more disparate, and whilst I was aware of the potential for bias, it was difficult to argue with the video evidence of the American prisoners playing sports and celebrating Christmas, and the statistics for the deaths of Vietnamese prisoners merely decades earlier. The dank cells were haunting, as was the guillotine that stood on display, poised to end a life. It was fascinating and nauseating to learn about, as history often is.

After the prison, I made the short walk over to the Women’s Museum. Each of the three floors was packed with captivating exhibitions on the ways that different Vietnamese ethnicities celebrate marriage and childbirth (varying depending on whether the culture is matrilineal or patrilineal), on the active engagement of women in the war with America, on mothers forced to move away from their families to the city to earn money, and on traditional female dress. The numerous films gave a fascinating insight into these women’s lives through candid documentaries, clearly demonstrating their admirable resilience to adversity, and a tenacious propensity to enjoy life.

After a lunch of Ban Cha I wandered around the northern part of the Old Quarter, getting lost amongst the shops that spilled out onto the streets. They sold everything. Metalworkers welded on the path, wooden furniture was carefully fitted together, washing machines stood in towers. I picked my way through mounds of clothes and battalions of shoes, past fish being filleted, meat being jointed, and I carefully dodged a net full of live frogs. During my ramble I found the Memorial House, and had a quick nose around the elegantly (though sparsely) furnished rooms and the small courtyard. I then circled around the lake, before winding back to the hostel, but not before a steaming bowl of Pho.

Dreaming in Guilin.

Farms bordered the trainline like an obscure jigsaw, randomly interspersed with karst mountains, as I headed towards Guilin. I arrived earlier than expected, and though not completely rested after my night’s journey, I walked around the lakes (which are mere puddles compared to Hangzhou), and visited the Diecai Mountains. The Li River wove past legions of buildings that uncompromisingly enveloped the base of the peaks. But somehow the mountains seemed to transcend their concrete foundations, defying modernity with their timelessness.

The following morning I hopped on a coach towards Xingping. As droplets splattered on the window, I accepted that the rain was going to be a part of the experience, and that I was probably going to get a bit wet. We disembarked an hour and a half later, and were herded onto motorised ‘bamboo’ rafts in fours. I met Ken, a Dutch guy also travelling on his own, and as the only English speakers we paired up. The fleet dispersed across the jade green water of the Li River, which steadily snaked between the extraordinary mountains, and the clouds that they held captive. It was absolutely breathtaking, especially in contrast to the urban centres in which I’ve spent most of my time. The ride came to an end, and we boarded the coach again to Yangshuo. Ken and I grabbed some lunch before walking down the West Street, accosted from all sides by vendors of scarves, instruments, umbrellas and jewellery. We eventually battled our way back to the coach, and made the short journey to Yulong village, to watch some cormorant fishing (just like on the HSBC advert). The birds dived after the fish, partially swallowed them, then regurgitated them into the fisherman’s hand. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. We then wandered around the tiny streets, and crossed the four-hundred-year-old Dragon Bridge (bedecked with couples having wedding photos), before feeding a water buffalo, and going home. It was a great chance to see a heavily controlled, tourist-friendly version of rural China. The scenery was incredible despite the mist, and while the experience was not in any way genuine or personal, it was hugely enjoyable.

On Thursday I indulged in another tour, this time destined for the Longji Rice Terraces. The grey clouds were passive rather than threatening, and despite being a constant feature of the skyscape, they didn’t manage to dampen the day. Before arriving at the terraces, we were taken to a village of people who identify as the Yao minority. The intricate brocade of their traditional dress was stunning, as was their long sleek hair, which was coiled up in elegant knots upon their head. The style indicated whether or not a woman was married, and whether or not she had a baby. After trying valiantly to sell us some souvenirs, the women gave a demonstration of their fantastic follicles, sweeping their hair (which was for some individuals 1.8 metres in length) in front of their faces, before expertly twisting it into place. It was fascinating to watch, although I couldn’t help feeling that such a visible symbol of a woman’s nuptial status and fertility must have some implications for those women unwilling (or unable) to marry or conceive. When I asked the guide about this she didn’t really understand my question, and just told me that the married women without children were not mothers yet, implying that there was the expectation that they would be – without exception.The ‘show’ became even more problematic when three tourists were invited onstage to ‘marry’ three of the young women. A pantomime was acted out, which though comparable to a wedding scene in a Restoration Comedy, seemed to make a mockery of the customs of the people, and Western (/Christian) ideas about the sanctity of marriage. It was all in good humour, and the men thoroughly enjoyed parading around in hats and having their bottoms pinched (one of the customs of the Yao people), but for me the experience was compromised by my reservations.

After lunch we finally headed for the terraces. When we arrived, the cable car was presented as the default option for reaching the top. However, feeling stingy and adventurous I asked whether I could walk. Some other eccentric Brits, and two Aussies joined the party, and what the guide had said would take two hours, took forty five minutes (I’d suspected this might be the case after The Great Wall). The steps, though harvested of rice, stretched out in isobars of green and yellow as far as we could see, developing from time to time into pockets of houses, before melting back into countryside. The view was magnificent, and we saw a lot more than we would have done if we’d just sat in a glass box. Proud of our achievement, we skimmed down the terraces back to the bus, much to the bewilderment of some Chinese families on our tour, who marvelled at our physical exertion.

Guilin has been the China that I dreamed of. I enjoyed (and expected) the bustling energy of the cities, but after nearly a month I was beginning to crave an insight into the pastoral life that characterises eighty percent of the country. The only glimmers of this world that I’d previously been able to access were through a train window, and while going with tours made the experience decidedly uniform and inauthentic, I still appreciated getting a little bit closer to the people and their (now sadly commercialised) way of life.