Upwards on a dirt track, boulders pitched above us to the left, the drop to the river on our right, we walked until we came to a fork in the road. "Now which way?" We sat a little dejected and finished up the last of the water we had. A car approached and stopped. What seemed like man and wife and three teenage and up daughters got out and began preparing a meal, sitting by the road. Don't expect much from my chinese. With the little I knew, in twenty minutes I'd worked out which track to take and that there were places to stay up there. So we trudged on up another hour. Always hoping the next corner would bring dwellings in sight. Brook decided to walk on ahead, which I respected, as it was the best way to cope with his exhaustion and would, as it turned out later in our trip, give me the freedom to do the same.
The first homes and guesthouses we came to didn't seem used to westerners. One lady was very friendly but insisted she didn't have any toilets or place to wash. I got her in the end to show me her tap outside and a trench that drained off out onto the mountain side. Others just laughed and said we couldn't stay at what clearly seemed to us to be guesthouses. Finally we found an old man sitting in a chair thirty metres up from the road. Seeing us look at the guesthouse sign he called us up. He showed us the room with two new looking single beds. Outside was a salted pig carcus and straw and farm intruments lay around. This old Tibetan man reminded me of a cornish farmer, with his fat cheeks and side-burns. Rugged and independent. He had a cheeky laugh when I asked him where the toilet was and where I could wash. He said he didn't have either by his head shake and hand movements. OK. We made it our prerogative to piss off his roof overlooking the village and later I shat in his barley field.
After an evening of looking up at the stars, with some baijiu ("white alcohol"/whisky) in hand, we got an early night. Our farmer had fed us scrambled egg mixed with tomatoes but Brook again stuck to rice and a little tomato. We both drank green tea. A little musing and we were out. In the morning we awoke, aware of the chore ahead of us. With our aching muscles it felt like a chore but there wasn't much to be said for sitting around. So after some noodles we set off. We re-gained eager moods, which transcended our physical states and we stomped up the mountain path, this time having left our packs in our room. We would return later. The goal today was simply to get to a glacier, which came down to 2900 metres altitude, on the side of this monster, Kawo Karpo. The peak being approximately 6700 metres. And then return for some rest. Other tourists ambled up, stopping for breathers and some took rides on the many horses offered by the local mountain people. The desire to get there and back pushed me on and we continued to pass the "average" man and woman. For one and a half hours we drove our legs into the slope and then we came to wooden steps which helped us climb to a viewing structure in front of the glacier. It was worth the effort. The sun was shining on our smiling faces and we shared the experience with mostly chinese people, who took photos of their companions before the natural wonder, with their hands raised in victory signs saluting the future viewer. The clouds parted for a lucky view of the peak some 3800 metres away as the rocket shoots.
We allowed our bodies to be guided down the mountain by our feet, skipping past stones and places of mud. The remainder of the day was for resting. But after some of the said, and our bellies filled, we wondered what joys awaited us in the one street of Mingyong. We ambled out of our home and bought ourselves some bottles of beer. The local wooden hut/shop was playing music from some three foot speakers. We sat down on the pavement and chatted as the village life went on before us. Horses began their descent from their heights of work to a more auspicious altitude for rest. Old women passed with large bundles of four foot sticks strapped on their backs. Two young women passed on the road and looked our way and some more sat across the street on some steps. Mini tractors with trailers, that had carried rocks from a nearby road and cliff-face all day, swung in near to us, for the last stop at the store before their trips home. And then we were told by an attractive woman in her twenties that later there would be some dancing on the street and that we were invited to join in. We sat some more and then got invited into the hotel nearby where this woman and some other friendly people were conversing. Brook and I mostly spoke between ourselves.
We were told that it was time for the dance. The local women did a traditional dance in a circle and attempted to teach us. I couldn't follow the fairly basic moves. I was more interested in the pretty woman who had first told us about the event. She was smiling pleasantly with me. But my poor dancing, which eventually turned into something that the tambourine shaking Bez would do, as Brook teased me, seemed to be putting her off. So I sat down, drunkenly talking of my failure.
After the dancing we were invited into the hotel again and sat with an english speaking chinese man, an elderly japanese tourist and his english speaking guide, a retired traditional opera singer from the Naxi tribe, and the pretty girl who turned out to be called Fing. She sat between me and the opera singer. He had a wonderful talent and shared some traditional Naxi songs and then encouraged Fing to sing from her repetoire. Her crying voice was full of emotion, which cut through me and made me feel the folk art in her.
Brook and I were drunk and after the others moved off we sat playing cards. It took the english speaking chinese man to tell us that they must close up for the night before we left. Fing waved through the window, sitting on the stairs to her room. Brook stumbled on down the road and fell over. I helped him up and he fell again. We got the 100 metres to our guest house, but had to climb some steps passed the farmers barking dog which was always mad with rage. I came close and tried to show some affection, which I'd taken to doing on each occasion. The fact that he was tied by a rope to a post giving me some confidence. I felt some friendship with the beast. But Brook hadn't got over his appearance and ferocious bark. He stumbled off the steps into the mud two metres below to the side, catching the asbestos roof to the pig sty and breaking a peice off it.
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