The real China – I’m Lovin’ It!

From Xi-Chang to Xi'an, Chengdu, and Kunming by bus and train, May 14-28, 2009

Cigarettes and cell phones, the air thick with smoke and Chin-chat, loud. There is no other volume.  Cities redolent of urine, shit, vomit and garbage. Eau de Chine.  No fragrant incense here to mask the rude odours of the great unwashed; the smoke from raw Chinese cigarettes a poor but often welcome screen.

 

So many people everywhere. And so noisy.  Nonstop talking. Loud, shrill, insistent voices hammering home their points at one another.  The China din starts well before six am, and carries on, a constant cacophony until well after midnight. When the dogs start barking.

 

Cities so Western – concrete, glass and steel.  Cars, buses, trucks everywhere –even on the sidewalks.  This could be Chicago, New York, Vancouver. No oriental flavour here to savour.  

 

But the language survives, thrives – no English here – nary a word or sign: no catering to foreign tourists.  There is no need: so many Chinese tourists, spending spending spending. Big Yuan.

 

Communism well replaced (and replaced well?) with Consumerism, writ large. Unbridled Capitalism.  All the big name brands – Nike Converse KFC Starbucks Hilton Holiday Inn Toyota Honda – are here.  And all the most exclusive, most expensive brands are here too – Mercedes BMW Gucci Hugo Boss Ralph Lauren Dior Dunhill Luis Vuitton – and doing well.

 

But is that bag a Gucci?  Is that watch a Rolex?  Is that belt real leather?  There are no regulations here, and even if there were, no one would heed them, no one enforce them. Anything and everything goes.  China is the counterfeit capital of the world: buyer beware!

 

The Chinese who have money – and there are plenty who do – have lots of it. And like to spend it. Like to buy things that make them look good.  It's all about face. Appearances. China's about face: from stringent Communism to rampant Capitalism in just a few short years: Where to next?

 

Women in cocktail dresses, baby-doll pajamas, poofy-hemmed curtain dresses, tight mini-skirts.  Like Disney dolls, in Minnie Mouse and Betty Boop outfits. Big buttons and bows, knock-off Gucci purses, and always high heels, strappy high heels, clattering down cobble-stone streets, tip-toeing through mud puddles and seas of litter.

 

Little girls in fairy dresses and party shoes, pink and white princesses.  

Babies with great gaping holes in the bums of their pants – crotch coolers? - being held out over the sidewalk by squatting parents, whispering shh, shh, shh...  

Puddles of piss, baby and otherwise, all along the street.

 

And globs of phlegmy goo. Hoiking and spitting a national pass-time.  More dangerous and disgusting than the globs underfoot the flying globs – spat out the windows of passing cars and buses.

 

Walkers vie for space in the streets with buses, trucks and cars.  They stand, like rocks in a fast-flowing river, the stream of traffic momentarily separating to go around them, but never stopping – there is no stopping!

 

With luck, a critical mass of pedestrians builds up, enough to coax first one car, then another, to slow down or even – wow! - stop, for just a second.  Pedestrians dash across, watching out in all directions: nowhere is one completely safe, not even on the sidewalk.

 

Motorcycles in particular may come from anywhere – they obey no traffic rules at all – don't stop for red lights, ride on the sidewalk, sail the wrong way up one-way streets, and even highways... but then so do cars and buses.

 

China's finest, street-corner cops, sheltering under Coca-cola and Macdonald's umbrellas: I'm lovin' it!  Particularly fitting as no one pays these, or any, authority figures the least attention: regulations abound, enforcement's non-existent.

 

If you have a problem, don't call the police. They're busy drinking coffee, having a smoke, reading a paper, playing a game of checkers, sleeping, smiling. Or riding around on their dinky blue and white scooters with their fellow police persons. 

 

We have yet to see a police person doing anything remotely like 'policing.' Perhaps there is no need here. Certainly we have seen no crime – no one even misbehaving. No punks on the street, no graffiti, no reckless driving (well, that's relative...). 

 

If I lived in China I'd like to be a police person: nice uniforms, cushy job and a free scooter! Yes!

 

We travel through the countryside by bus and train, passing through mile after mile of agricultural mosaic – rice paddies, wheat fields, corn, garlic, tea, vegetables – carefully tended, all by hand.  In all our travels we've seen just a handful of tractors, one or two rototillers.

 

China's agricultural production is achieved, almost entirely, by peasants with shovels and hoes.  They are out there, from dawn until dusk, backs bent to their labour.  China is literally feeding herself on the backs of her peasants.

 

Fields interspersed with drab, dingy towns; heavy, gray Soviet-style buildings and apartment blocks.  

Piles of brick, rock, sand, dotted everywhere, blocking sidewalks, roadways – what are they all for?  

Acres of rubble, covering up old farmland, old rice paddies – what are they going to do here?

 

We cross over rivers long dry – dammed and damned.  And in the rocky river bed, back-hoes and trucks busy mining sand and gravel, digging great holes, making big piles, hauling the rocks and sand away to build more roads, prepare new lands (most previously agricultural) for housing, factories... . 

No fish in the rivers here – there’s no water and nowhere to hide from the hungry.

We wind through mountains scraped and scarred to make roads, grand double-lane highways, freeways. 

 

But where are the cars?  

We pass by miles and miles of new roads with nary a vehicle. 

Who and what are these roads for?

 

 

Careening through these landscapes, no choice but to listen to endless dreadful screeching music, people screaming on their cell phones, or at one another, all talking at once, talking talking talking.  

The Chinese do not know how to be quiet, do not know quiet.

 

Stopping for a 'nutrition' break – nothing to eat but watery noodle soup, a few green weeds masquerading as vegetables.  Or a mountain of rice and a few pieces of pickled cucumber.  Stale popcorn, undercooked potatoes, tough corn on the cob, warm sodas and soft drinks.

 

In the bigger cities, where western tourists are more plentiful, a few restaurants produce somewhat better food. But still always too oily, and often too hot.  Coffee $3-5 a cup, and tea – Chinese tea! - not much cheaper.  We leave most restaurants disappointed, and often hungry.

 

We ask 'where's that great Chinese food we get in Vancouver (San Francisco, Singapore)?'  'Ah, that's not 'real' Chinese food! That's Americanized, westernized Chinese food!'  No chow mein or chop suey here. No sweet and sour spare ribs. No lettuce wraps.  Few vegetables or fruits.  It's noodles and rice, rice and noodles.

 

We watch the Chinese chowing down on rice with soups of chicken heads and feet, pigs' livers, and unidentifiable innards.  

More often it's just instant noodle soups, the Chinese staple food, eaten on the run.  

Or KFC or Dicos – its Chinese cousin.  

I'm lovin' it!

 

Public toilets are despicable. 

We find the toilets by their stench: 'just follow your nose!'  

Inside no separate cubicles: a long, open, cement or tile trough runs alongside the walls.  

The stink inside is overpowering: you hold your breath.

 

You squat over the trough, in front of or behind someone else.  You do your business, trying not to look at anyone else, although they have no compunction about staring at you – do foreigner's shit like we do?  

You avoid looking down into the trough, try not not to splash.

 

There's no water to flush. Of course no toilet paper.  

No water either to wash your hands; maybe a hose outside where someone's doing their laundry, or washing a fish... . 

Maybe not.

 

In hotels and guest-houses we use clean toilets, gratefully. Still we are instructed not to toss the toilet paper in the toilet.  It goes in the disgusting overflowing bin beside the toilet – or the floor if no bin's provided. 

 

And this a nation where everyone has a cell-phone, where cells work everywhere, where high-speed internet access is accessible everywhere.  

A nation proud of its space program, its medical advances, its advanced education.  

So what's with their toilets? 

Why can't they get their shit together?

 

But wait! Here come the symbols of the ‘real’ China!

 

A young man in pleated pants and a tailored shirt, holding a cell phone against his ear with one hand, and a cigarette with the other; weaving gaily through pedestrians and vehicles on his red motorcycle, helmetless and happy.

 

A young woman in rough peasant clothes, bent over double, a baby on her back, and up to her knees in the muddy water of the rice paddy, planting fistfuls of young rice as night falls, wondering what she will give her family for supper.

 

The 'real' China: I'm lovin' it!

Look Out World, Here Comes China

Yunnan Province, Southwestern China, May 2009

 

It's a BIG country, with over a billion people, and it's changing, in some ways more rapidly than similar social and economic changes in the western world, and in some ways, hardly at all. So it's impossible to 'describe' China. Even more impossible for me, having been here only four weeks, and then only in a very small part of one province – which apparently is not at all 'representative' of China – and with the added disadvantage of not speaking the language, and there being very few Chinese who speak English. My China, then, will of necessity be limited to a collection of observations, impressions and reflections.

 

Perhaps the strongest and most striking impression I have of China, particularly having been in several tourist destinations – and by that I mean domestic, or Chinese, tourists, not foreigners, who are here in insignificant numbers, not even worth counting – is one of increasing economic prosperity and exuberant 'getting and spending.' 

 

China is on a roll. 

Everywhere we have been we have noticed rampant new construction, mostly of homes and apartments, but also of shops and office complexes. 

We have also seen a lot of people upgrading and renovating their homes. And almost every home has a solar water heater on the roof, and either cable tv or a satellite dish. 

Absolutely everyone, right down to the guy squatting on the pavement selling his few onions and potatoes, has a cell phone. 

One day we saw two guys in a primitive dugout canoe – called a 'pig trough' by locals – on Lugu Lake. One of them was talking on his cell phone. And in China, talk is cheap, so they're on their cells almost constantly. 

Walking down the road, riding on buses, shopping in the market – cell phone to their ear and talking, talking, talking- generally haute voix (there is not other). 

Even more noticeable are the crowds of Chinese tourists, and locals, shopping and buying. Not cheap knock-off stuff, but REAL Gucci bags, Rolex watches, designer clothes and silver jewelry. More and more Chinese have money to burn. Burning fake paper money is an integral part of religious ritual here that is now finding its counterpart in real spending. 

 

It is clear that the Chinese are enjoying their new wealth. They love to shop. They love to buy things. And, more than anything, they love to be seen with the things they have bought. It's all about status, about not only 'saving face,' by having the latest and the best, but also 'getting face,' by being the first to have them. 

From what we can see, the western world can absolutely count on China to 'save' us from the economic mess we have created with our profligacy. It's their turn now. And there are so many of them that even if only a few of them have the money to spend, it's significant, in global terms. 

 

The propensity of the newly rich Chinese to spend, spend, spend is also a phenomenon that is largely beyond the ability of the Chinese government, which controls the minutiae of its people's lives, to control, even if it wanted to. China is fast becoming 'the new America.'

 

And in a word, what I would say about this phenomenon, in terms of its social as well as economic impacts is: “look out world, here comes China!”

 

The burgeoning growth and development of China, the economic and social ascendancy of China in global terms, has profound implications for the west. The west is clearly not ready, mostly because it is so completely ignorant of Asian, and in particular Chinese, culture. Chinese culture, as western as it is becoming, is still vastly different from western. There are more differences than similarities, and some of the differences are going to be hard for westerners to accept.

 

For me one of the biggest differences is the Chinese attitude towards the natural environment. The most obvious manifestation of this is how the Chinese deal with their garbage. In the first instance, everyone simply throws whatever they don't want on the ground, in the ditch, out the window, or onto a growing pile in a vacant lot or by the roadside. There is no concept at all of 'littering.' 

One morning we were sitting at a small table right on the edge of Lugu Lake – one of Ynnan's premier 'natural park reserves' that you pay 80 Yuan ($15) to enter. A man and his little girl were sitting nearby, slurping down their bowls of noodles. When they'd finished, man and girl wiped their hands on a half-dozen napkins and then pointedly threw them on the ground. 

 

They could have left them on the table for the 'waiter' to collect. There was a garbage can not ten feet away. But they almost made a show of throwing them on the ground. Then the man called the 'waiter' (cafe owner and cook) over to pay. The waiter picked up all the napkins as the man and girl looked on. The man pointed to one of them that the waiter seemed in danger of missing. Perhaps this was some kind of power trip.

 

As they walked away, the little girl, skipping gaily and cute as a button, threw one last napkin insouciantly over her shoulder onto the ground. Either the waiter will pick that one up as well, or it will join the litter in the lake of this treasured provincial park.

 

Even in the 'countryside' the roads are lined with refuse – everything from old shoes and scraps of clothing to plastic bags and bottles and bits of metal. At intervals along every road is a mini-mountain or landslide of rotting, stinking garbage, all open (we have seen no 'garbage bags' in China), and all being liberally spread around by wind, birds and dogs.

 

We've seen several garbage trucks. The garbage workers go round, masked but bare-handed, sweeping and shoveling the loose garbage into buckets and baskets and tossing the contents up into the trucks. We presume there are even bigger piles of garbage somewhere outside the cities, although we haven't seen them – yet. 

 

There are some wonderful small-scale and long-standing recycling practices in China. In the cities we've been in so far, we have seen men and women with bicycle-powered carts who go round collecting cardboard, paper and metal. They carry little scales, weigh the metal out, and pay the householder for it. 

 

We've also seen people collecting slops from homes, businesses and restaurants. We don't know whether the collected slop is fed to pigs (presuming they like their food hot, as most of it is here) or used for compost. Either way, it's better than combining it with the garbage.

 

Even sadder than the garbage on the roads is the garbage tossed into China's streams and rivers. Additionaly, liquid waste is often dumped into rivers and streams. 

In cities, we watch people coming out of their homes with a pail of sudsy, greasy or dirty water and pouring it into the cement-lined gutter/stream that borders the sidewalk. Just 'downstream,' someone is washing their dishes or doing their laundry with that same water. Someone else is brushing their teeth or washing their hair. 

 

The little streams that run through cities and towns often stink like sewers, although many support goldfish and carp, as well as healthy populations of plastic bottles and bags. In the countryside, the majority of the rivers we've seen have been dammed, with plans in the works to dam more, and bigger. We've seen many almost dry river beds downstream of these dams – trickes of water where there used to be torrents. We've seen no fish ladders. 

 

China's demand for electricity, consistent with the new found wealth of its people, and their demand for all things electric, coupled with increasing demands from the rampant economic and industrial growth, is almost insatiable. China is also building dams in Laos, and buying power from Vietnam.

China is also cutting down its forests at an alarming rate. 

Here in Yunnan, many houses are constructed not just of wood, but of huge timbers. 

The biggest timbers, some two feet in diameter, support the two-story structure. 

More timbers are used for joists and flooring. And more wood is used for elaborate carved gates, doors, windows and decorations. 

 

Both here and even more in the north of China, wood, and sometimes charcoal, is also used for cooking and heating. It's burned in open fires, either outside or inside the house, where holes in the roof are the only escape for the smoke. These fires are dreadfully inefficient, requiring large amounts of wood to produce sufficient heat for cooking. 

 

We were quoted a horrific statistic about China's use of wood: 6 tons per person per year. At that rate, China's forests will be gone in no time. Furthermore, according to a young American we met who had been working in northern China for an environmental NGO, China has so far had little success with its re-forestation projects. 

 

In his view, this is because the Chinese have insisted on planting trees that are not suited to the climate or conditions of the natural environment. They are more concerned with 'aesthetics,' wanting the trees all to be the same, and all in perfect rows – appealing to their sense of order – than with biology. Certainly we have seen many denuded hill-sides, and several areas where planted trees have not taken hold.

 

In terms of their cities, what we see is that the Chinese tend to favour 'pretty' and 'cute' built environments. Old houses and neighbourhoods give way to new boutiques and malls. Several of the cities we've been in have a sort of Disneyland feel – the new buildings are done in a 'traditional' style, but lack authenticity. Art installations, meticulous plantings of flowers and shrubs, old-timey light fixtures, and dramatic night lighting complete the effect. 

 

In many cases, the Disneynification is completed by tourists having to pay an entrance fee to get into the city. In Li Jiang, the fee is 80 Yuan, or $15. Once that's paid, there are additional fees, usually around $5, for individual 'attractions' within the city – like viewpoints, lakes, parks and historic buildings. These fees appear to apply to Chinese tourists as well, although the Chinese tend to travel in large groups, getting similarly large discounts for such things as hotel accommodation and entrance fees. So where we pay $15, they may pay more like $5, or even less.

 

It's difficult to speculate whether Chinese attitudes towards the environment will change fast enough to prevent the complete devastation of the Chinese environment (and that of parts of Laos and Vietnam). Given the sheer numbers of Chinese (over a billion), I would doubt it. Rather I would see Chinese demand for raw materials and for consumer products continuing to grow at an increasingly rapid rate. 

 

What this will mean, in global terms, is sobering, to say the least. It has made us wonder about the ongoing value of environmental regulations and restrictions in the western world. Compared to the damage that may be done satisfying the exponentially growing needs and wants of over a billion Chinese, what difference will our efforts make?

 

“Look out world, here comes China!”

Shangri La Shop Signs: Well beyond 'Hello Kitty'

May 11, 2009

Almost all of these signs were seen on just a few blocks of one road in Shangri La (two were spotted in Li Jiang). They kept us laughing all the way to the much more serious Agricultural Bank of China, where we couldn't cash our travelers cheques (the hitch was that they're in Canadian funds – big mistake here in Asia) and the visa extension office, which is manned by the police (although the gal there was very friendly and helpful). Here they are:

Bring Health Back
Money processing shop (selling pop, candy and cigarettes)
Spouse health care Things shop
Auto Buddhism Thing
Gold the sun big pharmacy
Really guarantee Daily cosmetics
Castle of clothes
The dream like clothing
Magic power dress
Country Vein Communication
The Guang Hui Hides a Clan Clothing Store
Flower Fairy Hostel Repairing Watches
The Clean Race Trading Company
The Gui Qing Sound is like a Store
The Thousand Joy Supermarket
Good Woman of the Made-Up City (selling cosmetics, of course)
Satisfied Race Thing Store
Fashion Official Business
Natural Source Water Apartments
American Bull Fashion
Sincere Love Western Food Ceisure Bar
Kunming Handsome Thou Glad Clothing
Military Group Guest House
No. 4 Branch of Soil Pot Food
Cheap Trading Company
God of Wealth Inn
Features Hot Dish Floor
Silly Women Restaurant
China Fottball Lootery 

...and our particular favourite,

pecker lie fallow shoes

China II: Li Jiang to Shangri La, through Tiger Leaping Gorge April 23 – May 9, 2009

Thursday, May 7, 2009

By Bus from Dali to Li Jiang

We took a bus from Dali to Li Jiang, first through miles of agricultural land where again we saw only one or two tractors, and one pair of oxen pulling a plow. Almost all of the farming is done by hand. Men and women out in the fields with long-tined rakes and hoes, thwacking steadily at the sod-covered earth, breaking it up and forming it into long neat rows, getting ready to plant corn, potatoes, wheat. Our backs hurt just watching them: we know what heavy work this is. Hardly surprising how many old people we see, backs permanently bent double, now straining their necks to see what's in front of them.

We wonder why so few tractors, rototillers, oxen or horses to pull a plow. Presumably, given the number of people in China, human labour is the cheapest way of doing things. But still it's a little surprising, given that in Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam we saw so much more use of machinery – especially rototillers – and animals – mostly water buffalo. So despite its much stronger economy, more developed infrastructure, in terms of roads, electricity and communication systems, and generally more advanced technology, when it comes to agriculture, China seems more backward, more primitive, than its neighbours. Why?

From the fields we climbed up into dry, sparsely vegetated mountains, then down again into fields of wheat and soy. And more people out working their fields by hand. And then suddenly we were on a major highway that swept us into Li Jiang – a busy modern city with a fancy new bus station – all set for the masses of Chinese tourists who come here to see 'the old city,' and shop for silver, wood carvings, leather bags, and photos of 'ethnic people.'

Li Jiang

The old city of Li Jiang is a much bigger version of Dali – a similarly Disneyfied version of an old Naxi town, now all shops, guest houses and restaurants where once people lived and worked. There are ticket booths at the main entrances to the old city, with signs in English demanding an 80 Yuan ($15) 'preservation fee' to enter. We were told by a Chinese woman that the Chinese signs say that entrance is free.

We entered the city through a minor alley, and so missed paying the fee, but some guest houses collected it from some of their foreign (not Chinese) guests. Somehow we missed that as well: perhaps we looked like people who might refuse to pay... .

As we wandered around the old town of Li Jiang, we found that entry fees were required at all of the special sites – a small park around a lake, a viewpoint at the top of the town, a garden within the town. All of these sites are walled, and all have big and impressive-looking 'ticket booths' or gate houses, with several staff members. The walls and gate houses have clearly been recently built.

The entry fees for the 'special sites' ranged from 30-50 Yuan ($6-10), but that's on top of the 80 Yuan 'preservation fee.' If you don't have the preservation fee ticket stub in your possession, you have to pay that PLUS the 30-50 Yuan special site fee. We heard about a number of ways of getting around paying these fees – places where the walls could be breached, going in the exit, etc. - but the most reliable way seems to be entering with a local. Locals don't pay to get into the sites. Chinese tourists, on the other hand, appear to pay the same rate as foreign tourists – there are no special breaks for them.

While we were in Li Jiang we did manage to catch a couple of ethnic dances – Naxi women in traditional costumes holding hands and dancing in large circles. Just as interesting as the Naxi dancers were the large numbers of Chinese tourists who joined in. They were so exuberant and carefree – not careful and reserved, our stereotypical image – they didn't care at all about 'getting it right,' or 'looking silly.' They just enjoyed themselves!

We also sprung for the $25 'cheap seat' balcony tickets to see the traditional Naxi orchestra. This is the only orchestra of its type in the world. Most of the orchestra members are old to very old: six of them are over 80. They play ancient instruments – or replicas of them – most of which we'd never seen before. And they all wore very colourful traditional costumes.

The program included pieces from 11th century China up to the 19th century. We particularly enjoyed watching one the old guys crashing the big cymbals. He looked a little like Merlin the Magician. One of the younger women in the orchestra played a beautiful cascading piece on the zither, evoking the flow of waterfalls, the song of birds.

From the Chinese perspective, one of the highlights was another young woman who sang a traditional opera piece. To me it sounded like a cross between Alvin and the Chipmunks and the sound a cat makes when you step on its tail: a high-pitched nasal whine that's best when, finally, it's over.

Bicycling to Baisha

One day we rented bicycles and rode around an hour out of town to visit a couple of smaller villages – Shu He and Baisha. The first one we came to, Shu He, was surrounded by a high stone wall. A cadre of guards at the gatehouse informed us that the entry fee was 50 Yuan – IF we had ticket stubs to show we'd already paid the 80 Yuan 'preservation fee.' We could see that Shu He was, like Li Jiang and Dali, an almost completely reconstructed, sanitized 'traditional old town' theme park: a sort of Disney “Shu He Land.” Colourfully decked out horses and buggies waited just beyond the gate, their drivers eager to take tourists on rides through the cobble-stone streets.

We took a miss on Shu He, and instead cycled on through acres of rice paddies and wheat fields where groups of workers were busy planting and tending to their crops. The snow-capped peaks of the 'Dragon Back Mountain' provided an amazing backdrop to the emerald green fields. We'd caught glimpses of the mountain as we were cycling towards Shu He and Baisha, but here, towering over the valley, its presence was majestic - almost other-worldly. It's easy to see why this mountain has such tremendous spiritual significance to the people of the region.

We ended up entering Baisha through the 'back door' – a narrow cobble-stone street with mud-brick and stone houses on either side. Baisha is a real town, not yet spruced up and reconstructed to appeal to the Chinese tourists' desire for glitz and glamour. There was no gate, no entry fee, and no horses and buggies, and no Chinese tourists.

We wandered through mostly quiet, almost deserted streets, enjoying glimpses of real town life – a guy fixing an assortment of bicycles and carts in the main square, people tending gardens, buying vegetables. We had lunch at a small cafe where the owner, and old guy with a wonderfully wrinkled face, proudly showed us his Naxi calligraphy. The Naxi use pictographs, not Chinese symbols. He also offered to guard our bikes for us while we went for a walk around town.

We walked out of town, towards the mountain – it drew us like a magnet. A Naxi woman accompanied us part way, chatting away quite happily in a language we didn't understand (Mandarin? Naxi?). We met a very old man on the road, the quintessential image of the whispy-bearded Chinese sage. He had a beautiful wooden cane with a dragon head handle.

The Naxi woman greeted the old man, and asked him to tell us how old he was. He rested his cane against his leg and held up the fingers of both his hands – he was either 84 or 94, depending on whether we counted his thumb. He wanted to know where we were from. “Canada,” we said. “Ah, Chanada!” (Here in China, Canada is Chanada.) That seemed to please him.

The old guy groped around in the pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a little dog-eared notebook. It was filled with messages from travelers who he'd met from all over the world. He flipped through the book until he found the one he was looking for – a message from a woman from 'Chanada.' He pointed to it, and then to us, clearly wanting us to write a message.

So I got out a pen and wrote a 'sweet nothing' in his book: “best wishes from your Canadian friends.” He peered at it, smiled, and put the book back in his pocket. Then he opened his coat and struggled to pull something out of a deep interior pocket. It looked like something heavy. It was a bag of coins – maybe a hundred or so – all from foreign countries. He sifted through them, searching for, and finding, several Canadian coins. “Chanada!” he crowed, holding up first a loonie, and then a toonie. “Chanada!”

Before we parted company the old fellow insisted that I take his picture with Doug. He stood with an almost military erectness, shoulder to shoulder with Doug – and almost as tall. When I showed him the photo I'd taken he gave a big smile and a thumbs up. Then he shook both our hands, and ambled off towards town, while we carried on towards the mountain.

Li Jiang to Tiger Leaping Gorge

While we were in Li Jiang, we discovered Mama Naxi's Guest House, which served up the best food we'd found in China. Food here has been very disappointing – lots of greasy noodles and insipid soups – or meat and vegetable dishes too hot to eat. Delicacies here include chicken feet, ducks' heads, pigs' livers, worms, and a grey gelatinous mass (black pea jelly?) that they fry up in big woks and serve with 'baba' – a round of unleavened bread that tastes like cardboard.

But Mama Naxi serves a buffet dinner every night at six. It's mostly for the travelers who are staying at her guest house, but everyone's welcome. All you can eat for just 15 Yuan ($3). You get your own little bowl of rice, which is constantly being refilled by either Mama or her staff, and a bottomless cup of green tea. Then the dishes start arriving at your table: pork, chicken and beef dishes, tofu and potatoes, stir-fired vegetable dishes of beans, mushrooms, broccoli, Chinese cabbage, carrots and corn.

About half-way through dinner a staff member comes by and asks, “Who's for Tiger Leaping Gorge tomorrow?” Mama Naxi arranges daily mini-buses to the gorge, and she was more than happy to have us join the group. We requested a one-way ticket. Our plan was to hike the gorge – one of the deepest gorges in the world, and reputedly one of the most beautiful – and then go on to Shangri La.

So after almost a week of wandering the streets of the old town of Li Jiang we squeezed ourselves into a mini-bus with four other travelers, all about half our age, heading out to hike the gorge. They were psyched for the rigours of the hike, the infamous '28 bends' that take hikers from around 1800 meters up to 2600 meters: they would roar up the bends; they would do the whole hike in one day. We were a little more reserved in our enthusiasm, hoping we wouldn't fizzle out after the first dozen bends, planning to take at least two days, and maybe three, to complete the hike.

The bus ride was short – just a couple of hours – and mostly followed a small pleasant river. Although there was a good road along one side of the river, our driver chose to travel on the other side, down a bumpy pot-holed road that at least kept everyone awake. We presume the good road involved a toll. We got to Qiaotou (Chow-toe) before noon. Our driver ordered us all to disembark at the toll gate, where we all had to pay 50 Yuan ($10) to enter the gorge. Then she drove us another 200 meters and dumped us and our gear out at the entry to 'Jane's Guest House.'

Jane

'Jane's Guest House' is a funky multi-level place run by a Tibetan family. We were greeted by a young energetic gal who showed us to our room (we had decided to spend the night at Jane's, and tackle the hike the next morning, before the heat of the day was upon us), and took our order for lunch. She spoke good English. We asked her if she was Jane, to which she replied “no, Jane is my brother.” Without stopping to think, I said, “oh, Jane is your sister.” She said “yes, Jane is my brother.” Undaunted, I carried on “You are Jane's sister, and Jane's your brother.” At that point she acquiesced, and just smiled.

A little later we asked where Jane was. We had emailed Jane about our 'reservation' and wanted to make sure Jane knew that we had arrived, and had taken our room. Jane's sister said: “Jane's cooking.” A few minutes later, Jane appeared bearing plates of sandwiches and bowls of soup. Jane's sister pointed to Jane and said: “That's my brother Jane.”

And then the penny dropped. Although Jane looked for all the world like a woman – truly the most feminine guy I've ever seen – Jane was in fact a guy. But for the rest of our stay there I continued to refer to Jane as 'she' and 'her.' As did everyone else. I suspect Jane was quite content with that.

Jane is perhaps one of the few people I have met to whom the words 'sweet' and 'kind' may truly be applied. Jane was solicitous of the needs of all her customers, male and female, and incredibly caring – a lovely person. Jane has lived in the tiny town of Qiaotou all his/her life, running the guest house for the past ten years or so, since tourism began to pick up in the area.

Most of Jane's guests are foreigners, although a few Chinese also came to eat, and a very few to stay. Jane speaks flawless English, and was always happy to chat, revealing not only a wealth of knowledge about the gorge, but also interesting perspectives on China and the world that we have so far been unable to hear, primarily because of the language barrier, but also because many Chinese are reticent to share their views on such matters.

But the best thing about Jane's was and is the food. Jane is a great cook. We savoured every bite of every meal. That first afternoon we walked down the road into the mouth of the gorge, where the little river we'd been following met the larger, muddier Yangtze. It's the Yangtze that's cut through the massive mountains that rise straight up on either side of the gorge. Tiger Leaping Gorge is reputedly one of the deepest gorges in the world. Looking at the little trails clinging to the steep sides of the gorge we wondered if we might not appreciate the gorge more from the bottom – maybe we didn't need to do the hike... .

The next morning Doug wandered down the road to talk to Margo, an Australian gal whose been living in Qiaotou for 12 years. At one point she was apparently married to Sean, a Tibetan-Chinese who owns a guest-house at the other end of the gorge. Doug asked Margo about getting a bus to Sean's. After making several deprecatory remarks about Jane's Guest House, and Jane's family, Margo told Doug we could take the local bus at one o'clock, and that she thought Sean's rooms were around 160 Yuan – or around double what others were charging.

Tiger Leaping Gorge

Margo's response to Doug was unfriendly enough that we decided to do the hike. We lightened our load by leaving our bags at Jane's, and carrying just the bare necessities – our toothbrushes, tea and coffee – with us. The first leg of the hike was quite do-able. It followed a cement road, and then a dirt path on a gentle but steady uphill course. We came again to the point where the small river met the Yangtze, but this time we were looking down on it all. We agreed that the higher vantage point gave us a much better appreciation of the gorgi-ness of the gorge: having decided to make the trek, at this point we would of course admit nothing other.

About two hours of hiking brought us to the first of the guest houses, the Naxi Family Guest House, where we considered staying for the night. It's just before the 28 bends, and we were already feeling tired from the two hours of steady uphill. But the Naxi was charging 120 Yuan for a private double with bath, and the toilets were disgusting, so we decided to press on.

Most of the way towards the Naxi we'd been followed by a guy leading a small horse – a Tibetan pony. He'd been trying to convince us to pay him 150 Yuan to take one of us up to the top of the trail. We'd declined, making walking motions with our fingers. He stopped at Naxi's and had lunch with the family. When we started out again, he was right behind us. Now would we like to ride? We still declined.

About an hour after leaving Naxi's we were into the bends. The going was tough. Even zig-zagging up, the zigs and zags were steep enough that I sometimes felt like using my hands to clambour up the rocky path. The horseman stuck with us through the first six or eight bends (I lost count after five – it seemed better not to keep track). He was sure that this aged couple (we were by far the oldest people we encountered on the trail) were not going to make it to the top.

But finally he gave up. I was glad, somewhere in the middle of the bends, that he was no longer right behind us. I'm not sure that I would have been able to resist. From about half-way up to the top it was just sheer will power that kept us going. Putting one foot just barely in front of the other, breathing hard in the rarified air, we slogged up the bends.

Amazingly the groups of younger hikers behind us, for the most part, did not pass us. Everyone was taking it slow. When we stopped, as we did innumerable times, we all pretended to be admiring the views. We brought out our cameras and snapped away. And truly the views were stupendous. The river raged through the narrow gaps it had created over centuries. The mountains stood as silent sentinels, immutable, implacable.

But almost exactly one year ago these mountains shook in a major earthquake that did tremendous damage and killed many in nearby Sichuan. There was no damage in this area, but still it was a warning: the gorge is earthquake-prone. Nevertheless the Chinese government is planning to damn the Yangtze, and flood much of the Tiger Leaping Gorge. No one seems to know just how or when, but blasting and preparations for dam-building have begun.

At the top of the 28 bends, just over 7000 feet high, there's a look-out from which you can see up and down the length of the gorge. It must be a fantastic view. But at the little trail leading to the look-out there were three people – a woman selling chocolate bars and bottled drinks, and two men hanging about smoking cigarettes. They spoke good enough English to ask us for 10 Yuan to walk out onto the look-out to take a photo. My fear of heights was sufficient reason for me not to want to go out onto the look-out. Doug was no keener than me. So we declined, and just snapped a picture of one of the guys instead.

From here the trail descended slightly, winding around the side of the mountain. I walked gingerly, listing towards the mountain-side, at times gripping the rock as I assiduously avoided looking down. I did manage to take a couple of photos of the gorge below: the view was literally breath-taking. And, we were well above 6500 feet, breathing the significantly rarefied air.

We continued to descend until we reached the 'Tea Horse Inn.' According to the tourist brochures, the trail through the Tiger Leaping Gorge is part of the old network of tea horse trails – the trails that went from Yunnan, China to Lhasa, Tibet. Little horses like the ones we'd seen carried great cakes of compressed tea. It took them months to make the journey. We were doing our little section of the trail in spring, when it was reasonably warm and dry. They did the whole length of it in all seasons. It's hard to imagine how tough and grueling those treks must have been for both the horses and the men who lead them.

The Tea Horse Inn was a pleasant spot, made more pleasant by a comfortable room with a hot shower, and the company of several other travelers, including a group of three Australian blokes who were almost our age. They, like us, were taking the trail slowly – enjoying the scenery. There were also four lads from San Francisco who've been working in Singapore for the past 10 months. They're engineers, working for a pharmaceutical company that manufactures antiviral drugs. Incredibly there was also a young couple from Germany who work for another major (rival) pharmaceutical company. As the Disney song goes, it's a small, small world.

The next morning was cool and drizzly. Everyone else set out in the rain, but we had no rain gear with us, and were reluctant to get wet: the next guest house was four or five hours away. So we waited. Doug found an umbrella under a stack of books. I found an old plastic rice bag that I cut open to form a cape. When the rain let up, we headed off. About half an hour up the trail Doug spied another umbrella, this one shoved into a high crevice in the rocks. It was a little worse for wear, but it worked. As it turned out, we needed them only for another hour or so, by which time the rain stopped.

The second day's trail was in some ways more challenging for me. It was often no more than a narrow ledge chiseled out of the mountain side. I avoided looking down, and tried not to think about how high we were, and how steep and hard the mountain side below me was. We crossed a couple of waterfalls. Finally we came out upon a grassy meadow. Far below us we could see the road and Tina's Guest House – our luncheon spot.

The descent to Tina's was treacherous: very steep and rocky, and hard on the knees. When we got to Tina's we found the San Francisco lads already lunching. They were up for doing the one and a half hour hike from Tina's right down to the river – a hike that involved climbing down, and then up, some rather dubious-looking ladders. We wished them luck and told them we'd reserve a couple of rooms for them at the guest house at the end of the gorge.

The final leg of the walk was along the new paved road, and all downhill, to a village called Walnut Garden. When we got to Sean's Guest House, the one most highly recommended in our Lonely Planet Guide, we saw one of the Australian blokes who advised us that the best place, where he and his friends were staying, was the 'Chateau de Woody.' He was right. Woody, who we never met (he was off guiding) had built an incredible small stone patio overlooking the gorge. Woody's sisters – or daughters – were good cooks. And again we had a room with a hot shower.

We liked Woody's and Walnut Garden enough that we decided to stay another day there. We walked down into the terraced hillside below Woody's, and then along the slope of the mountain, following the river, for an hour or so. It was a beautiful day, sunny and warm. As we hiked back up to the guest house, our legs screaming and trembling with the effort, our lungs aching in protest of the thin air, we congratulated one another on having done the Tiger Leaping Gorge hike. Wow. We did it!

The next day we caught a local bus back down the gorge to Jane's. The ride through the gorge was gorge-ous. And indeed the steep walls of the gorge were in some ways more impressive from the bottom. But we were glad we'd seen it from above, stretched out below us like a great and violent gash.

Jane greeted us with a warm smile and a hot bowl of home-made tomato soup. He was mightily impressed that we'd done the walk. The next morning he walked us down to the corner of town where the buses to Shangri La stop. Twirling his wavy hair around his ringed fingers as he talked to several of the mini-bus drivers who also collect there, he managed to sweet-talk one into taking us to Shangri La for just 5 Yuan more than the bus would cost. When we left, instead of shaking our outstretched hands, he held them briefly, in both of his own, and wished us well on our travels. Quite a remarkable person, Jane.

The Road to Shangri La

We expected the road to Shangri La to be a tortuous series of twists and turns up through rocky mountains. And certainly there were some pretty hairy hair-pin curves, made hairier by our driver's insistance on passing cars, trucks and buses on blind corners. This is common practice in China, as in pretty much all of Asia. The people here are fatalists: if it's their time, it's their time: no use being careful. I did my best to ignore it – the only strategy if you want to keep your sanity.

The road to Shangri La was new and in good condition, save for one or two spots where very recent landslides were being cleared by back-hoes and guys with shovels. Geotechnical considerations don't seem to figure much in road planning – huge cuts have been made through mountainsides, leaving almost vertical slopes of bare earth and rubble.

We climbed steadily around and over hills once thick with pine forests, but now completely denuded, the trees having been used for houses, fences and firewood. Replanting, where it had occurred, had not been successful. Just before we got to Shangri La we came into a dry and quite barren-looking grassland. We saw our first yak! And yak baby! And a fair number of much more plebian cows, sheep and goats.

As we neared Shangri La we noticed a change in the architecture of the houses. The white Naxi houses with corduroy tiled roofs that we'd seen in Dali and Li Jiang were replaced with big earth-coloured Tibetan-style houses. Tibetan houses are part house, part barn – large solid two-story blocks of mud brick or, increasingly, rammed earth (mixed with cement). The walls are thick, and lean in slightly towards the top. They tend to have few windows on the lower level, which is used mainly for food drying and storage. There are more windows on the upper level, where the family lives.

The superstructure of the house is wood, supported with massive wooden columns from trees bigger than any we have seen (where do they come from?). Windows, doors, floors and roof are all made of wood. All around the windows and under the eaves are wide bands of decoratively carved and painted woodwork, mostly with geometric patterns, but also with fish and flowers.

The roofs of the houses are made of corrugated tin, often covered with wood (cedar?) shakes , which are held down with big rocks. We noticed that the gable end of the roof was often open, revealing sheaves of drying grasses or corn. It must be cold in the winter, with the winds blowing through. Some of the gable ends had been covered up with wood, brick, or fabric. There were no chimneys, but the great piles of firewood outside all of the houses would suggest that fires are lit inside, likely small and mostly for cooking, but still smoky.

Shangri La

By the time we got to Shangri La we were at a lofty 10,000 feet (3200 metres). We felt the effects of the altitude right away – dragging ourselves and our bags along the bumpy cobble-stone streets as we looked for a place to stay. We found the perfect place – a hotel with a stuffed deer in the lobby and wifi in the rooms.

Shangri La has yet to be discovered by the hordes of Chinese tourists and turned into Shangri La La Land. In fact, the town seemed almost deserted when we got there. Since then it's livened up a bit, and we're seeing a few tourists around and about. But it's a much more authentic town than either Dali or Li Jiang, with many older, crumbling buildings, many made of mud brick. A few have been restored, a few turned into tourist shops and restaurants. But people still live and work here. It's a town with both character and soul. We liked it right away.

We spent our first day wandering the old town, drifting off towards the edges where development and renovation have not as yet had their way with buildings. We visited Mr. Abu in his 400-year-old house. He lifted the edge of a poster to show us an uncomplimentary cartoon of Mao that had been drawn on the wall many years ago, during the Cultural Revolution. He asked us for Canadian money to add to his little altar; we gave him a fiver (all we had with us, and much more than we really wanted to 'donate,' but hey...). And he posed with Doug for a photo under the ancient wooden balcony.

Another day we went to the market – a big covered square where you could by just about anything. As usual there were several gals serving up local dishes. The first table was the busiest. A couple of Tibetan gals and an old Tibetan man were slurping bowls of noodle soup. They looked good. The old man smiled up at us and waved his hand for us to sit down. We 'ordered' by pointing at his soup and holding up two fingers. It was by far the best (and cheapest, of course) soup we've had in China. Made more enjoyable by the colourful company – and not one other gringo in sight.

Once we'd 'acclimatized' to the elevation (ie. weren't dragging ourselves around on the flat), we decided to walk to a nearby monastery – the Ganden Sumtseling Gompa (or Gedansong Zanling Gompa, depending on whose spellling you're going by) – the most holy Tibetan site outside of Tibet.

We could have gone to the monastery by bus, but the Chinese government has recently decided to raise the price of admission from 10 Yuan ($2) to 85 Yuan ($17). Many foreign tourists are no longer going to the monastery, which is a shame. But a few intrepid souls have found a way around the ticket booth. It involves hiking up over a small mountain (big hill), through a fence or two, and over a wall. Then through the town below the monastery, and in a secondary gate, not 300 yards from the main gate.

The walk was beautiful, and quite literally breath-taking. We took it slow, with several breaks to admire the views – looking down on the monastery and the little village that surrounds it – and the pinky-purple blooms of the azalea that grow wild on the hillsides.

The monastery is quite a large complex, with a number of different temples. The buildings are large, built in the Tibetan style, painted white with colourful window and eave trim, and very imposing. The inside of the 'main' temple is a riot of colour. It had several statues (big figurines?) of various Hindu-like gods with scary faces and too many arms. I snapped a photo of one just before a chanting monk called out 'no photo!' Oh well.

Walls and ceilings were painted with scenes of various half-human half-animal deities vanquishing demons – or mere mortals. Hundreds of Buddha statues in glass cases lined the walls at the back of the temple. Massive columns of shiny multi-coloured silk (well, polyester) fabric hung from the ceiling, some three stories above us.

The focal point was a huge statue of a golden seated Buddha with droopy Tibetan all-seeing-without-having-to-look eyes and a Mona-Lisa smile, but even more enigmatic. He's modestly draped in a tent of fabric, and wears a pointy yellow hat similar to a KKK hood, but not covering his face. In front of him are great bowls of oil and water, dozens of yak butter candles (the whole place smells like fermenting cheese), fake flowers, and hundreds of whispy, mostly white, prayer shawls.

We walked around the interior of the temple twice, clockwise of course, in the Tibetan way. It's too much to really take in, especially when you don't know the stories, the significance, the spiritual tradition. As we were leaving I saw a monk coming down a set of stairs. I asked if we could go up. He said “of course.” And so we climbed to the next two levels, where we saw more statues and more paintings, and finally came eye to eye with the great Buddha, could even look down upon him, see what he held in his hand, see the dust on his robes.

On the third level there was an even smaller set of stairs. I couldn't resist. They took us up to a little balcony just under the roof-top. Behind us was a locked room – a library with old books and scrolls – and probably photos of the Dalai Lama (there were none in the temple below, but the Chinese government considers the D.L. a seditious trouble-maker, a 'separatist,' and 'strongly discourages' Tibetans from hanging his photo in their temples.

In front of us was a spectacular view of the town of Shangri La, interrupted by the gold (real gold we bet) figurines and prayer wheels standing on outer edge of the roof. My camera, which had been in hiding since the monk's admonishment, insisted on coming out of my bag for this photo op. And we were quite alone in our aerie, save for a couple of very old horns lying on the floor at our feet. We wondered when the last time was that someone came up here and played them...?

We went into several other temples, including one very old one that few 'tourists' go to. There were a few monk-ets there – boys of perhaps 8 or 10 – sneaking drinks of pop from cans as they pretended to read their 'scriptures.' We wandered into a back room, which appeared to be a kitchen of sorts. It was very dark, and the walls and ceiling were blackened from the smoke of many fires. There were two massive pots of water under an old tap, and dusty dishes and blackened cookware on an old wooden shelf. But amidst all this there was a relatively new electric blender – milkshakes anyone?

We were at the monastery for several hours, wandering around and poking our noses anywhere that looked interesting. One of the temples was filled with female pictures and statues – it seemed to be a 'women's temple.' But there was a male monk sitting there at the entry. When he saw us he asked us, in English, where we were from. “Chanada.” He smiled and held up one finger. “Dalai Lama, Chanada,” he said. We held up two fingers. “Dalai Lama, Chanada, two times (and maybe more, but two we're aware of).”

The monk then listed all the countries the Dalia Lama has been to. And then he said “China, no!” held up his fists in fighting style, and then made a gun of one hand, took aim, and fired. “No good,” he said, “no good here.” That was the extent of his English, but truly it's not safe for either him or us to say more. It is what it is.

One of the first evenings we were in Shangri La we went for an after dinner stroll in the old town. We came upon a large group of people – people of all ages and from all ethnic groups – dancing in the main square. They were doing traditional Tibetan and Naxi dances, a fairly simple series of steps and arm swings, loosely organized in a big many-layered circle. We saw old women and men shuffling and strutting, young women shaking their booties, young guys hip-hopping it, kids jumping, and a few people dancing as gracefully as gazelles. They were all dancing together, and they were all having a great time.

We went to the square almost every night to watch the dancing – unfortunately we didn't have the energy to join in, but one or two gringos did, much to the delight of the locals. It's hard to imagine such a spontaneous happening in our part of the world. And we later learned that the dancing is an every evening event. More than just 'dance' – this is the 'peoples' daily exercise,' encouraged by the government, but occurring spontaneously by the collective desire and organization of the people. How great is that?! What a wonderful community, and communal, activity.

Another evening we walked up a little hill above the old town to a temple where there's a huge prayer wheel – according to a guy there the largest prayer wheel in the world. It must be around 75 feet high, and 15 feet in diameter. It's painted gold, with Tibetan symbols in relief all round.

We watched as men, women and children said their prayers, grabbing the metal railing that encircles it, or one of the many strips of cloth attached to the railing, and pushing or pulling to make the wheel turn. One kid managed to find a strip of cloth that had been tied to the rail at both ends: she sat in this sling and went round and round. Doug took a turn – don't know what he prayed for, but his comment was: “it's heavy!”

While we were in Shangri La, which is just about as close as you can get to Tibet without going there, we went, twice, to talk to a tour agent about going to Tibet. The good news is that flights from Shangri La to Lhasa are apparently (apparently, we think, we hope) going to be reinstated as of May 12. The bad news is that none of the tour companies in Shangri La seem willing to book a 'minimum tour' of three days in Lhasa, after which we would be able to do our own thing.

They insist that we must have a planned itinerary for every day of our stay in Tibet – an itinerary that must outline exactly what we plan to do every morning, afternoon and evening of our stay there – including which hotels we will stay at. We must also hire a guide for every day of our stay, and a car or jeep for all travel outside Lhasa. And we must pay for it all before we go: around $3000 for 7-8 days, airfare or train to and from Tibet not included.

Shangri La may therefore be as close to Tibet as we get. Certainly there are lots of Tibetans here. Some of them are still wearing more or less 'traditional' dress, although many of the women wear jeans and high heels under their more colourful aprons and skirts. Most of the women wear shocking pink turbans or scarves wrapped around their heads. The men are much less colourful, mostly wearing western pants and jackets. There are also other ethnic groups here – many Naxi – and of course a veritable horde of Han Chinese.

One of the most interesting things we've noticed is how friendly the Tibetans are to foreigners. Friendlier than the Han Chinese. They almost all say 'hello' (not the Chinese greeting of 'mee-how'), and give us big smiles. A few talk to us – they seem to know more English than many of the Han Chinese. How much of their friendliness is just part of their nature and how much is tacit acknowledgment of the West's support of them and the D.L. is impossible to say. And it doesn't really matter. It's just nice being around them; they're a wonderful people.

While we were in Shangri La we decided to extend our one month Chinese visa. We'd heard that this was one of the most efficient (ie. least time-consuming) places to do it. The first time we went to the office we didn't have one of the forms we needed, so we went back the next day. The young woman who helped us – a member of the police force that specializes in visas and passports – was fabulous. She spoke great English, and was exceedingly friendly and helpful. She managed to convince us to go back to Li Jiang via Baishuitai – a series of limestone terraces and pools described in our guidebook as 'resplendent.' Her sister has a guest house there. We promised to say 'hello.' And we came away with visas now good until June 13th, with the option of leaving China and coming back in if we so desire.

We ended up leaving Shangri La after five days. I didn't seem to be acclimatizing to the altitude. If anything, I felt worse as the days – or more significantly nights – progressed. During the day, when I could consciously breathe a little faster and more deeply, I was o.k. But at night, as I drifted off to sleep and my breathing went on auto-pilot, I'd startle awake, gasping for air like a fish out of water. It was most uncomfortable. One more reason why Lhasa and Tibet, which are even higher than Shangri La, will not be on our itinerary.