Yunnan Days 4-6

Day 4 - Hell: An Introspective Journey
We started the day off in the small town of Dali. Chinese people have a penchant for naming their towns "The ________ of the East" (for example, Shanghai is the Paris of the East, Macau is the Las Vegas of the East, etc.), and I would like to propose that Dali be added to the list as "the Sebastopol of the East". As far as I know, its only purpose is to sell Western food, souvenirs of questionable authenticity, and travel permits to Tibet to Western backpackers. The entire town is filled with Bai-style batiks and the like, and roving Bai ladies will try and sell you silver jewelery and, if that doesn't strike your fancy, pot. The walled-in old town is nice enough, but after passing blocks and blocks of the same stores, it started to get old pretty fast.
Good thing, too, because on this day (Sunday) we were due to head out on a monster, ostensibly 200-km bike ride around nearby Erhai Lake, spaced out over two days. We had barely gotten out of town when our tour guide told us we'd be making a stop at a small temple to celebrate an annual festival honoring a local god. I was skeptical about the authenticity of this, given the previous day's Real Live Bai Village, but went in with an open mind.
The entire thing was amazing - completely made up for the fake Bai junk from the day before. The temple complex was packed with locals, the majority of whom were older people, but families with small kids and younger adults were also there in droves. Impossibly wizened women in headscarves played traditional instruments, and people brought food offerings to the god in pots.* Firecrackers punctuated the din every ten minutes or so, scaring everyone but the old people. Some of us had our fortunes told and then ritually burned to send a prayer to the god; I opted to spend this money on a candy apple.
After a lakeside lunch of Kentucky Fried Chicken, we continued on. I felt good about the ride so far, since we were already at the south tip of the lake, almost halfway to our destination. Oh, was I ever wrong.
We were given instructions to follow the main road alongside the lake at all costs until we reached the town of Wase, where we'd be spending the night and our tour guide would be waiting for us. I set off on my own, riding along the shoulder of the road with my iPod in (there are separate bike lanes and little traffic on this road, so it wasn't dangerous or anything, Mom). The group quickly dispersed, and soon we were all riding alone at our own pace. This was fine until I reached the quarry.
The quarry, I gather, was not there before. This was of no comfort to me, however, because now it IS there, accompanied by exhaust-belching giant dump trucks and a dusty, gravelly, pothole-pitted road that went on for roughly ten miles. I had no choice but to continue, so I did, slowly, grit getting in my eyes, my teeth, everywhere, and the overwhelming dry heat of the southern sun burning me to a crisp all the while. By the time I had finished, my black leather sandals had turned light gray from the dust, and sweat and minerals from the quarry had calcified in little lines along my shirt.
I went on along a thankfully slightly-more-paved road, passing the occasional truck or electric tricycle taxi, up hills and down them through acres of farmland and small villages with roads worse than the quarry. This was the first place I'd been in China where foreigners were a true rarity, and as I went by I was incessantly greeted with "Hello!" from people of all ages. This got really old after a few times, but I always responded in kind (except the guy who grabbed his crotch as he said it, who got a confused look and a "guten tag").
It was a hard ride. The road was paved in places, but in other spots dusty, one-lane, and filled with holes, which often contained giant puddles of water, refuse, and manure from the local farm animals. There were beautiful stretches - one mile-long downhill stretch through a field of tall, leafy, flowery tobacco plants comes to mind - but the rest of the ride was so, so punishing. There was a van following behind us in case we couldn't make it or our bikes broke, but oddly enough, the knowledge that I could take it if I wanted to made me want to continue all the more. I wanted to keep going to prove to myself that I could finish. (Also, I kept repeating "you're going to have such great thighs when this is over" to myself.)
Other than knowing I have a well of previously undiscovered tenacity in me, the only profound revelations I had on the trip regarded the contents of my iPod** and the fact that my butt is not as soft as I'd thought. I feel like giant solitary bike rides, as well as marathons and solo backpacking, are supposed to inspire you and change your life, but when I finally got to the hotel I felt only filthy and exhausted. Adding to the annoyance was the fact that I was missing the Mid-Autumn festival, the second biggest party in China, because I was in the middle of Podunk, Nowhere. (This is akin to leaving New Orleans for Mardi Gras, New York for New Year's, or Boston for St. Patrick's Day.) Also, Max sent me a text telling me that he was at Propaganda playing pool with the president of Nigeria's son, which did not alleviate my sour mood. The cherry on top of the cake was the knowledge that I had to do it all again tomorrow...


Day 5: Ow, My Most of Me
When I got back on the bike in the morning my legs felt like rubber and it hurt to sit down. This actually got easier as I pushed through the initial pain and stiffness, and fairly soon I got into a rhythm again, albeit a slower one than the day before. This day was pretty much more of the same: fields of corn, rice, and tobacco, picked by stooped old women. The group did have a chance to practice harvesting the rice by beating it against the six-foot baskets the women carried on their backs - hard work, to say the least, and since then I've thought about those sweet old women when I've eaten rice (that is to say, constantly). The ride was lovely, but we all felt our sore, overworked legs giving out the farther we went. Every part of my body hurt: my calves from tensing on the pedals, my thighs from pushing down, my hips from climbing the hills, my back from carrying my bag, which contained all my necessary goods (clothes, shower stuff, etc.), my shoulders from bending over the bike and the previous day's sunburn, my hands from chafing against the handlebars, my butt from the hard seat (much harder than the ones in the States), and my head probably just because everything else hurt and it didn't want to be late for the party. To make matters worse, the big set of gears on my 21-speed bike (the 1-2-3, not the 1 through 7) had started refusing to shift down, making hills torturous. I managed for a while by switching to 3-1 and walking my bike fairly frequently, but it slowed me down a lot.
After a more excruciating journey than I'd previously thought possible, we stopped at a restaurant for lunch, where I ate more than I've ever eaten before in one sitting, cringing every time I shifted in my seat.
During lunch we were given the option to ride a bus back if we didn't feel up to finishing. Several people gladly accepted, but I really wanted to finish. However, I wanted to finish with a functioning bike, so I went up to the bike repairman and told him what was going on. At first, he insisted it didn't matter, but after some very loud complaining from me (the phrase "absolutely not acceptable" came up a lot) he agreed to look at it. By the time he'd determined it was beyond repair, though, everyone else had left, and there were no substitute bikes left, so I ended up taking the bus back for the last fifteen miles or so. I was annoyed that I didn't get to finish the ride, but pleased about the bus ride back, as bumpy as it was.
After a long-deserved shower and a mediocre "Western" dinner (hot and sour spaghetti, anyone?) we piled into another sleeper train back to Kunming, where the next day we'd depart for the lush, tropical southern area of Yunnan.

Day 6: Nick Naylor Would Be Proud
We moved from the train to the bus, got breakfast, and started what would be a long day of driving with an hour-long hop to the small city of Yuxi. With the change in locale came another tour guide, who we were informed would be with us for the rest of the trip. The first time we saw her, though, she didn't speak a word to us or the trip leaders (two teachers and the RA, Steve). This, combined with her skintight jeans and heels, led me and the kids who hang out in the back row of the bus to believe that she was a hooker that IES was keeping on retainer for some reason. Eventually she informed us that her name was Bai Mei and that she was a native of this area, and she'd be showing us around. However, each place we've been to this day has furnished us with a separate, interactive tour guide, so I am still not convinced that my first impression was entirely wrong.
Our reason for stopping in Yuxi was to visit the Hongta Red Pagoda Cigarette Factory. Yunnan is still largely agricultural, and tobacco is one of the main cash crops, so I was interested to learn a little more about the role the factory played in the local economy. However, this would elude me; we were first shown down a hallway decorated with posters of various Communist statesmen smoking, and then taken into the factory itself, where we strained to listen to the tour guide's statistics over the dull roar of machinery. The entire time, I was struck by the resemblance to the Jelly Belly jellybean factory near my hometown - they probably had a similar smokes/beans per minute output. The whole building did smell really good, though, very fruity and sweet, with none of the noxious crappy smells that come in cigarette smoke.
After that we were escorted to an outdoor park built by the company and given tiny sample boxes with two cigarettes in them. The group members that smoked started doing so immediately, but those of us that didn't began screwing around, lighting cigarettes and putting them in the hands and mouths of these ridiculous statues depicting people happily harvesting tobacco. As my packet was handed to me, I asked our factory tour guide if she smoked. She and her two coworkers started laughing. "No," they all said. "It's bad for your health."
Most of the rest of the day was spent on the bus going to Mojiang, an awful little town useful only as a one-night stopping point. Our bus ride did, however, give me a chance to meet my fellow group members in earnest:
My roommate for the trip, who I obviously already knew, is a sweet girl named Becca who goes to University of Puget Sound (where I would have gone had Northwestern rejected me). We have similar internal clocks and senses of humor, although she's a touch more sedate and responsive to alcohol than I am. We make a good team.
The two of us frequently hang out with this other girl named Jackie, who is quite possibly the chillest human being ever. The girl will go along with anything, and will do so enthusiastically.
Jackie's roommate, though, is a different story. We have nicknamed her Complainer, because that is what she does, incessantly. Nothing is good enough; there are too many bugs, the hike is too steep, etc. Ostensibly 21, she could pass for fifteen due to the sheer lack of willingness to adapt to what's going on around her. The thing she hates most, though, is the food, which I find puzzling because I'm eating better on this trip than I probably ever have before in my life (the food is Thai- and Vietnamese-influenced, since we're so close to the border). Everything she's presented with "doesn't look that good" and gets pushed around on her plate for fifteen minutes before she is willing to taste it. Oddly enough, she likes everything we coax her into trying.
We also spend a lot of time with a set of male roommates on the trip, both from University of Redlands. One is this crazy Texan guy named Cody who is drunk half the time and hilarious all the time. (Becca is enthralled by his Texas-ness and keeps asking him things like "Have you seen an armadillo? Did you eat it? EEW.") The other is an Oaklander who we all call Pei Rei for some reason. Pei Rei is sarcastic and laid-back: the anti-Cody. Besides Andrew, who I mentioned earlier, the others of note are a set of girls whom pretty much everyone calls the Barbies. Educated in Europe, they are constantly complaining about how [name of thing] is better in Switzerland, and they wear each other's clothes and try and get our trip leaders to let them stay at the hotel instead of doing anything. This does not go well for them.
So we arrived in Mojiang, looked around, determined that the town was an awful hole with nothing worth seeing, and left for dinner. For the first time, we stood out. This was not a tourist town, and we were constantly being gawked at, pointed out, etc. The entire thing made me really uncomfortable, and after being subjected to so many stares, not all of them simply kind or curious, I was grateful for the first time to be traveling with a group.
This actually led to an interesting incident later. On our way to a karaoke outing, a group of high school girls accosted Andrew, his friend T (who is black), a couple other people, and me. They wanted to talk to all of us, but were especially interested in T, who they were convinced was from Africa. We tried to explain that, no, T's ancestors were from Africa, but T was from the US like the rest of us, but the girls would have none of it. Eventually, Andrew told the girls that T was Kobe Bryant's little brother, figuring they would recognize him from the Olympics. They fell into a shrieking, giggling girl-pile, had their pictures taken with poor T, and left promptly.

Dumpling tally: 31 (dumplings aren't common in this part of China, but we got them with lunch at one place)

*The most common offering was a chicken. First you bring the live chicken to the altar to show the god your gift. Then you take it down to the pool and ritually slaughter it (I saw this like five times and I have pictures). Once the bird is cleaned, you take it back up to the altar and leave it there.

**I really only listened to three things on the trip. During the times when I was in the middle of traffic jams, climbing hills, or trying not to breathe in immeasurable amounts of dust, I put on Black Rebel Motorcyle Club. For the desolate farmland sections, I played "The Engine Driver" by the Decemberists (this song is so amazing), and for the rest it was all Girl Talk. I discovered that the more you listen to Girl Talk, the better it gets. The unfortunate corollaries to this are that a) eventually when you listen to normal music you start asking yourself why the riff has lasted more than ten seconds and when Three Six Mafia is going to come in and b) you start humming Girl Talk and people wonder why you're mixing Biggie with Elton John.