Although we went to bed relatively early and only had a little to drink before we did, we don’t manage to wake up early. A few unfortunate workers who had shambled in the night before because their motorbike broke down on the mountain strike up a short conversation before leaving. They’re going to catch the only bus to Shangri-La and attempt to get home from there. It’s well past 10 am when we finish a breakfast of instant oatmeal, Dali bars and instant coffee while talking to Dan (who was so nice to replace my broken Camelbak valve with a spare that he’d brought).
The morning sun sees us off on a good start through the gorge, a pleasant false flat along a tranquil blue river and rustic scenery. Tibetan architecture is now prevalent, houses interspersed with huge wooden racks on which highland barley, a main staple of the region, is drying. Along with Tibetan architecture come the ubiquitous prayer flags, of which we learn that they’re strung in windy places so the wind can read up the prayers written on the flags. Saves the Tibetans some time to concentrate on what really matters while not neglecting their religious duties. We come across more such spiritual efficiency on a small side stream. A small cabin with a turbine sticking out of its bottom is driven by the water. Where in most areas in Yunnan you’d find a milling stone attached for grinding wheat, these Tibetan folk have connected a prayer wheel to it.
Despite all this religious activity, Sandy gets a puncture which is fortunately easily repaired by slapping a new tube on. As if the gods were involved, the road suddenly deteriorates into a dusty pain in the ass with pointy stones negating the advantages of cycling over walking: rolling was virtually impossible. Traffic, fortunately, consisted mainly of a few motorbikes and a few trucks kicking up dust. Coming down a hill like this would not be much fun either.
By a fast-flowing river we decide to take a little break and cook some food. We fire up the gas stove and make delicious pasta with spam and cheese, followed by Tom Yum soup. Heavy though it is, it tastes divine and gives us the mental power to carry on with our slow grind to the top. On the way we’re stopped by an older woman who swims across lakes for fun and charity. Her much younger female hitch-hiker and her insist on taking a few pictures with us (standard procedure). They lob a few succulent pears at us before leaving us coughing in a cloud of dust.
A popular way for bandits to hold up strangers is by blocking the way with a large log or a truck. When the unwitting victim then gets out of his car he’s threatened at knife or gunpoint to surrender his belongings. I had climbed ahead of Sandy a bit when I suddenly spot a group of people moving a truck and a few logs across the road. I frantically seek my memory for the location of all my valuables and think how I’m going to deal with these people. Turning around to speed down the hill would probably be my only way to escape. Not feeling much like turning back, I decide to chance it anyway and am merely treated to a few cheery “zhaxidelei” (a Tibetan greeting equivalent to godspeed).
Sandy also seems to have cleared the trap unscathed and we advance together to the pass. This one is nearly 4400 m high and offers stunning views of the surrounding scenery. The distant views, however, also provide us with a less pleasant prospect of an equally high pass some kilometres ahead. Having climbed all day, we felt pretty faint at heart, but had no other choice but to start our first small descent to the inevitable next hill.
Sandy has run out of water so we stop at a Daoban (道班), a small compound on the side of the road where construction workers live and store their material. They are often equipped with a small shop that can sell basic stuff such as water, as well as provide services such as motorcycle repair, adding water to cool brakes etc. They also mentioned that we were welcome to set up our tent on their terrain. After a moment’s hesitation, we decide it’s probably better to camp out before the sun goes down than to venture into the unknown and have to camp and cook after dark.
We learn that the Daoban boys are assigned to their solitary mountain confinement for a year at a time. During all this time they work and live under fairly extreme conditions, at a giddy and ice-cold 4100 m above sea-level, with no entertainment or indeed other humans nearby but themselves and the woman who does the housekeeping. The toilets are stinking piles of poo and the single shower is basic to say the least. During all this time, they do not go home at all, working through public holidays and weekends alike. Money must be good.
We set up our tent while the workers eat and fire up their stove. Chopping and collecting firewood also seems to be part of their duties. A spectacled worker comes out with a guitar, claiming that all westerners can play the guitar and that we should play for him. The others refer to him as fengzi (nutter) and, when we buy a bottle of booze, stress that we should by no means share any with him.
The cold and darkness send us into our tent before 8 pm where we have a most uncomfortable night of sleep due to a combination of low oxygen levels, the lack of a sleeping pad, and a full bladder.
