Simple does it in the mountains of Shaxi

SHAXI, June 16 — Hunched over and struggling to catch my breath, I realised that trekking while not fully recovered from a sprained ankle was probably one of the worst ways to celebrate the first day of the Chinese New Year.

Besides, as a city dweller, I wasn’t a huge fan of the mountains and nature. The countryside was a tad too sparse for my liking.

“Oh, it’s not that difficult. It’ll be leisurely,” reassured Apple Li, the guide my wife and I hired before we commenced three consecutive days of trekking in Shaxi in China’s Yunnan province.

I guess what she meant was that it would be “leisurely” for her, or any other local for that matter. Because there I was in the middle of the wilderness, emptying a good portion of Yunnan Baiyao on my sore ankle after trekking for slightly over an hour.

Li told me that the pain relief spray is so reputable that even the national football team in China uses it. But it was ineffective.

I slipped my ankle guard back on, retied my shoelaces and soldiered on. It wasn’t as if I had much of a choice. After all, the trek back down to the hotel would’ve been even more arduous because the trail was filled with loose stones and boulders that would make descending a treacherous affair. Ascending the mountain was actually the less painful option, but it was still an exhausting one.

At about 2,500m above sea level, oxygen levels are lower. This is also the height at which some people begin to develop altitude sickness. Walking a mere 10 steps felt as if I had sprinted 100m at sea level.

But it was also the altitude which afforded us a bird’s-eye view of the valley below. From where we were, the landscape beneath the thin mist was like a jigsaw puzzle pieced together by juniper green fields, barren brown patches and buildings that looked like those from Monopoly sets.

The village we were going to was still about two hours away, perched near the top of the mountain at about 3,200m. The scenic trail was ever-changing, from rocky paths to muddy ones flanked by thorny bushes and undulating snow-filled ones as we got higher. About 90 minutes of non-stop climbing later, a relatively flat landscape adorned with low-lying shrubs and trees of all shapes, sizes and colours greeted us.

“Ah, we’re almost there. Just a little further,” said Li.

We finally caught a glimpse of civilisation 30 minutes later. At the mouth of a cluster of homes we found an old Yi minority woman, dressed in a traditional ethnic garb, smoking a pipe beside her grandchildren. The woman chatted with Li for a while before I asked if I could take a photo of her. Li asked that I send her the image after the trip because she wanted the old lady to have a copy.

“Wait, how are you going to pass the photo to her?” I asked.

“I’ll come back another day to pass it to her. It’s not as if she has a smartphone or an email account,” she said, chuckling.

I looked at my phone and cursed. GPRS signal only. My Instagram updates would have to wait.

Lunch was served at the home of another Yi minority family. We sat on tiny wooden stools within a spartan space that looked to be a kitchen-cum-dining room, the four walls blackened by smoke.

“Do you know where the restroom is?” I whispered to Li. She smiled and pointed to the fields.

A crevice in the floor, which was actually a makeshift stove, separated us from our hosts, Mr and Mrs Sha Ma. The matriarch left the room for a few minutes and came back with an assortment of wood. As the pot of pork stew simmered, she threw some twigs and raw potatoes into the fire. She would later peel the skin off the potatoes with her bare hands, as if immune to the heat, before offering them to us. The stew, comprising preserved pork, Chinese parsley, ginger, garlic and some herbs was surprisingly delicious.

The Sha Mas make a living as farmers. Because of the high altitude, the crops they can grow are limited to just potatoes, buckwheat and maca, something that the locals have likened to being “Chinese Viagra”. To sell their produce, they walk for hours to the nearest market at the foot of the mountain.

I later found out that in a good year, the Sha Mas make just 10,000 yuan (RM6,227), roughly the same amount fresh polytechnic graduates in Singapore earn in a month. I found it hard to imagine living there, isolated from the rest of the world and stuck in a vacuum devoid of modernity. Mrs Sha Ma then told us that we could stay the night if we wanted. We politely declined.

After lunch, we learnt that there was a village shaman who lived a very short distance away. When we arrived, the shaman invited us into what seemed like his living room. There, six people sat around a small bonfire, unfazed by the plumes of smoke engulfing the room, as they sipped tea and smoked cigarettes. The shaman eagerly showed us some ancient scriptures, before agreeing to pose for photos in his shamanic clothing. His wife, a skinny, tanned lady, looked on as she squatted along a ledge and smoked a pipe, seemingly amused by all the attention her husband was receiving.

The sun had already set by the time we returned to our hotel after a three-hour descent. As we entered our room at the Old Theatre Inn, the hostess scampered over to inform us that the kitchen was closed as the staff had gone home to have the reunion dinner with their families.

“Come to my home for dinner, it’s just around the corner,” insisted the hostess.

Besides pampering us with more than a dozen dishes and delicious homemade baijiu, she spent the entire time chatting with us about the simple life in Shaxi and the peace that the countryside affords. This wasn’t what I expected of rural China. No scam artists. No uncouth farmers. Just simple folk looking to help outsiders feel at home.

“To be honest, I can’t stand the city,” said our hostess.

“It’s just too crowded, noisy and complicated. Here in the countryside we have fresh food, clean air and beautiful scenery. It’s very simple. Simple is good.”

A contentious disposition, I thought. But it was one that had its merits.

After all, this was the first time in a very, very long while that I had been at a dinner table where no one was using their phones. No WhatsApp. No WeChat. Just old fashioned, face-to-face conversations. I thought that this disconnect was refreshing, surreal even.

And therein was the irony of it all. Although we rely on technology to stay connected to the world, we actually become disconnected to those around us.

At that very moment, a loud bang echoed through the compound as streaks of green, red and yellow illuminated the sky. This was followed by the crackle of firecrackers going off in the neighbouring home. We paused our conversation and looked up to admire the sights.

“Shall we come back again in the future?” my wife asked.

Perhaps it was the exhaustion talking. Perhaps it was the baijiu getting to my head.

But there I was, smiling to myself as I replied with a nod.

How to get there: There are daily flights from Singapore to Dali ranging from eight to 11 hours. It takes about three hours by car from Dali airport to Shaxi and it should cost between 700 to 750 RMB. Alternatively, you can land at Lijiang Airport (one flight per week from Singapore), which is a two-hour drive (around 650 RMB) to Shaxi.

Where to stay: Spend your nights at The Old Theatre Inn (http://ift.tt/1UkXCQ7), a boutique hotel with just five cosy rooms that come with comfortable beds, modern shower areas as well as good Wi-Fi connections. The soup noodles at the tiny restaurant across the courtyard is amazing. The hotel also provides complimentary bicycles for you to explore the surrounding area, such as the Dali Old Town which is located a 20-minute ride away. Have the friendly hotel staff arrange your airport transfers.

Why get a tour guide: If you’re hoping to visit the ethnic minority groups in the mountains, it’s best that you hire a guide because there are no maps for you to follow. A seasoned tour guide from the Bai ethnic group, Apple Li speaks fluent English and is a familiar face to many of the locals. For a truly local experience, have her arrange a house visit that includes a home-cooked meal. She charges around 600 RMB per day and can be contacted at hanmeili@gmail.com or +86 188 6905 9737. — TODAY

from Malay Mail Online | All http://ift.tt/1UekpjD

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