A new chapter in the annals of inter-city bus trips in China, this time from Kunming to He Kou, the Vietnamese border crossing.
South Yunnan roads are terrible. I can hardly believe we keep passing through toll plazas. They charge money for this? How much worse would the roads be if they didn’t charge? We enter the motherland of rhododendrons and azaleas. The azaleas are blooming lavishly everywhere, great splashes of shocking pink. I remind myself how lucky I am to be here, of all places in China, this week of frigid weather everywhere else. Rice growing, fields of sugarcane. A kind of karst (limestone) I haven’t seen before, scattered boulders. Farmers have cultivated the ground between the rocks and there are vegetables growing everywhere. A small city in the making on the plain, every bit new and raw, just finished or almost finished. Something that looks like a deserted university, all in identical red brick. An imposing government building with the doors barred with slabs of stone.
At intervals, checkpoints for our drivers. I am wedged behind the fully reclined seat of the sleeping relief driver, but at least I have the window. And there's a relief driver!
There are imposing mountains in the distance, their tops in the clouds. Little do I realize we are about to cross them. The climb begins, and the scenery is as breathtaking as the switchbacks that we negotiate. The rice terraces are brilliant green as light rain begins to fall. Small rivers run through deep ravines; we whisk past a waterfall that belongs in a guidebook. Our two-lane road has no shoulders, no guardrails. On one side, the sheer drop; on the other, an irrigation trench. Just as I’m trying to decide whether to be enchanted or terrified, we ascend into the mist and my decision is made for me. Forget mist. This is dense fog. From its milky opacity spring farmers and water buffalo, motorbikes, the aftermath of rockslides, mudslides and their axle-racking debris, cliffside washouts. And giant cargo trucks sparing the headlights as they careen past us. I am all but praying aloud.
After perhaps an hour of this, we clear the summit and begin to descend. The fog clears quickly, and the view is more spectacular than ever. We are high up, the valley floor far below. We have passed from orange growing, on the other side of the range, to coconut growing on this side. The palms grow almost horizontally down the sides of the vertical cliffs. How do they harvest the coconuts? Rappelling? Hoisting them up using pulleys? I am baffled.
At last, well after dark, I spot a sign that says, "He Kou 19 km." Almost there! Suddenly, we stop. Some PLA (People’s Liberation Army) officers, who look about sixteen years old in their bulky green uniforms, board the bus and ask everyone to show identification. They take my passport and those of a Japanese and Korean passenger and leave the bus. Finally, they return and give us back our documents. “Welcome to He Kou!” the young soldier says as he hands the passport to me.
