We walked past a shop in Dali, and they were pumping this interesting music out of giant speakers. So we bought it to share with you.

Submitted for your approval.

I awoke still somewhat under the influence of the anti-anxiety medication I had taken to help me sleep on the bus. It was 5am in Dali and we were being told to vacate. Feeling goofy and unfazed, I donned my pack hopped in a cab. I woke up 6 hours later in a very nice hotel that Jie had gotten for us at the tremendously low rate of 50RMB ($7) per night. We locked our luggage in the room, and took to the streets, a savage Chinese meal for breakfast and a can of Nescafe later, we were on a bus to the old city of Dali.

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I awoke, still feeling the last sniffly bits of the cold which had followed on the coattails of the E-Coli. It was a sunny morning in Kun Ming. Jie and Scott were already diving into putting the day together. We took the elevator downstairs (past the mysterious brothel floor) and met up with a fine gentleman who explained to us that he ran the only licensed bicycle rental shop in all of Kun Ming. Whatever this meant, we expressed gratitude and interest in cycles, and followed him on foot to the city gymnasium complex. It was covered with Beijing 2008 olympic paraphernalia, as Scott assured me would be the norm all over china.

We stood and frowned at the cluster of bicycles presented to us. They were very new, all tiny, and most were mountain/stunt jobs, with funny attachments, mudflaps, and no bell. Shrugging these drawbacks away, we climbed aboard and were off. The things were very small. Good for stunts and going over curbs, hard on the knees.

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“Resistance is ornamental” – Rem Koolhaas, on China

China has become a bit of a dirty word in the American lexicon. While I’m detached from what any given American may think about this country, attention to media headlines would suggest the following: Killer toys and deadly toothpaste. Dictatorship by committee that displaces families in the name of power generation projects. Censorship of Wikipedia, our latest oracle of knowledge. Unbridled economic growth threatening our own sovereignty, underpinned by a currency lauded by our own economists as an unfair weapon in the war of international trade. And with equity markets unilaterally considered less governed than casinos, China tempts money managers and financial alchemists the world round.

Of course, as AsiaWheeling’s resident adventure capitalist and resident ???????, this leads me to look deeper and asses the foundation of these claims. Do these above assumptions still leave China undervalued? Or are the implied future growth rates driving overvaluation? I hope to provide data that I have collected to you, our dear reader, so that you may be better informed to approach these questions.

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去年三月份，准备从广州回深圳，买了票便坐在候车室里。远处有一个大约182CM的身影，是的一个大帅哥，仔细一看，一个洋帅哥。看他两眼困惑的样子，是不是需要帮忙。不过，他会不会不理我呢，会不会认为我是骗子想骗钱什么的呢，这个是车站，很多这样的人。如果他不理我，那我不是很没面子。我下意识的看了看周围，人好像还不少，不过好像没有注意到我。那如果他大吼一声，把周转的人都引过来了怎么办….短短的20秒，我的脑子里已经浮现出100个假设了。上去先认识一下吧，如果拒绝了，大不了走人….还在犹豫中，双脚已经不听使唤的朝着正9点的方向走去，正好是他的那个方向。其实他是背对着我的……” May I help you?”  他像是在沙漠里见到绿洲，看到了救命草。含着眼泪地看着我，”yes, I am going to Shenzhen, do you know where I can get the train ticket?” 这不是我想就的地方吗？我也要去深圳，咱们可以坐同一趟车。刚说出去，我就后悔，怎么说我也是个女生，好像不该这么直接吧。不过这家伙好像还挺乐意的。于是开始了我们之后一个小时的trip. 他对一切都那么的热爱，那么的好奇，你只要接近他，就会深深的被他所影响。他读经济的，可是酷爱高科技。见到我就开始说他现在滔滔不绝地描述起去过的去方，什么日本呀，香港，上海，杭州呀….

他说喜欢中国康师傅绿茶，特意要到深圳去带很多回香港，说是香港很贵。呵呵，我心里暗想，这家伙才没来多久，就知道中国物价，还学会买便宜货，难怪学经济的。 于是，我就带着他到Luohu汽车站的超市去买了绿茶。之后，他就回香港，我就在深圳回到自己的身活中去了。

Suddenly we were in Hong Kong. The airport and the emigration process were easy, efficient, and metallic. All around us, money flowed with a furious intensity. In no time we had turned our Baht into HK$

and were purchasing Octopus cards. Octopus cards are a kind of universal proximity card. Our primary use for them was to ride the MTR, the spotlessly clean, efficient, and devastatingly metallic subway/light rail system of this fine city.

Using the Octopus card, one can not only ride all over Hong Kong on trains, but they are also able to buy snacks from vending machine, pay for your purchases at the pharmacy or 7-11 (Hong Kong is full of 7-11s), take a boat ride across the Harbor, and all simply by smacking your wallet down on a yellow landing pad. One can even visit any of the strategically located octopus inquiry pedestals, and slap down your wallet to see you transaction history and current balance. The most unbelievable thing about the octopus card is that when you are done with it, you get not only your 50 HK$ deposit back, but also the money you had placed on the card! Unbelievable.

Much of our time in Hong Kong it was raining hard. The rest of the time is was threatening to rain or misting fiercely. This is not to say the the city was not a beautiful sight to behold. This is to say that we spent a lot of time dashing through the rain in and out of shops, restaurants, and tea houses. Hong Kong was a time for getting things together, refueling our minds and bodies, and purchasing much needed provisions for the upcoming journey into the heart of China.

A List of Important Tasks Accomplished in Hong Kong:

Umbrellas — purchased

Woody’s Health — verified by physician (no charge; the man liked asiaheeling.com)

Pants Which Were Terribly Filthy After 11 Days in India — cleaned

Terrible Plaid Shorts — jettisoned

Colds — Discovered in both Scott and myself

Strange Chinese Medicines — averted

Inordinate Amount of Cash — spent

Very Tight Pants — purchased

Tap-water — consumed with relish

Replenishment of Spirit — achieved

Internet — found readily available

Savage New Calculator Watch — purchased from fantastic Pankisani fellow

Ability to easily communicate with the US — present

Our time standing on the doorstep of China was a much needed interim in the savage adventure which is (oh dear and valued reader don’t worry) is about to continue with renewed savagery. I found Hong Kong to be a very livable city. So much did this place appeal to me, that at times I found myself considering working and living there for a piece of my life. But as always, I stand by the mantra, of it is not so much where you are and what you are doing, as who you are doing this thing with. And Scott, having lived in Hong Kong for his study abroad experience, was a most knowledgeable and capable guide, with many charming friends.

For deeper insights into our time in Hong Kong, I fear I must refer you to the gallery, where you will no doubt enjoy our rather large chunk of Hong Kong photo-documentation.

Suddenly we were in Hong Kong. The airport and the emigration process were easy, efficient, and metallic. All around us, money flowed with a furious intensity. In no time we had turned our Baht into HK$

and were purchasing Octopus cards. Octopus cards are a kind of universal proximity card. Our primary use for them was to ride the MTR, the spotlessly clean, efficient, and devastatingly metallic subway/light rail system of this fine city.

Using the Octopus card, one can not only ride all over Hong Kong on trains, but they are also able to buy snacks from vending machine, pay for your purchases at the pharmacy or 7-11 (Hong Kong is full of 7-11s), take a boat ride across the Harbor, and all simply by smacking your wallet down on a yellow landing pad. One can even visit any of the strategically located octopus inquiry pedestals, and slap down your wallet to see you transaction history and current balance. The most unbelievable thing about the octopus card is that when you are done with it, you get not only your 50 HK$ deposit back, but also the money you had placed on the card! Unbelievable.

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I was frantically feeding the last of my Baht into the international phone-call machine in the luxurious and futuristic Bangkok airport. My mother was on the other end. It must have been two or three in the morning there, but  we struggled against the Bhat clock to relay vital information:  from my mother to me: that I had most likely contracted and E-Coli infestation, and that the discoloration of my hands (now almost completely gone) was due to blood vessels inside me breaking apart and bleeding into the interior of my body cavity. Furthermore, it was the right move to be on the, Cipro, despite the disappearance of my symptoms. I was trying to communicate to my dear mother a sense of confidence and that she should not worry. Some 30 seconds into this reasonably complicated exchange, the Baht ran dry and the connection was cut.

At least some information had been transmitted, and it looked like, as I had been hoping, I was not going to die. After a nip of Thai tea (not to be confused with bubble tea, as it so often is in America). The creamy beverage was more like a mildly sweet melted ice cream than an iced tea, but none the less, blew me away. We sipped and looked out the window at the face of the Thai king. Thailand is a thriving monarchy, and the likeness of the king is to be found everywhere.

We reached the waiting area for our flight and sat down near the first class flight attendants. This day we were flying Emirates, and the first class attendants were dressed in the most lavish uniforms, with tan veils hanging from their bright red caps. On the flight, though, we were not treated by these women. Instead we had an honest to goodness prince working the cabin. He was tall and majestic and very regally told the Indian fellows ahead of us that, no, they could not have another beer before they finished the one they were currently consuming. All in all, the flight on Emirates was splendid. The food was great,

service was impeccable, the airplane was clean and smelled so good, and I was feeling the best I had in days.

Our Airplane landed in Thailand, I looked out the window, and my jaw fell open. The Bangkok airport is amazing, like a giant metal caterpillar sprawled across the tarmac, airplanes suckling at its many teats. We exited the plane to find the interior to be not so different than that of Icheon, that is to say, a giant hyper-sheik shopping center.

Scott explained to me that the place we were going to spend the night was called Khaosan Road. So when I was at the immigration desk, I scribbled “COWSAN” on my card and handed it to the man. He laughed out loud and stamped my passport. That was it. We were into Thailand. As far I was was concerned you could have told me this was Tokyo, and I would have ate it up. I scanned the gleaming hall for Scott’s Panama hat. I quickly located him, but not as quickly as in India. One of the first things I noticed was that there were white people here. Lots of Europeans and Britts. And American music was playing everywhere. We went to an ATM to procure some Baht (see the symbol below) and we hopped a bus to Khoasan Road.

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I awoke on the soft sheets of Mrs. Jalan’s guest room after my 16 hours of rest. The bed still called to me, as did the bathroom, but not with the urgency it had possessed the day before. I felt much better. My plumbing was still reeling from the disease which had racked it, but I was able to put some lentil pancakes into my stomach and eat some mango pieces which were served to my by the most gracious and capable house staff. As I ate, I looked down at my hands. Both of them were covered in purple and green splotches. This, it seemed, was the last straw. I logged onto the internet in the house’s most luxurious technology room, and quickly sent off some pictures of my hands, to be examined by AsiaWheeling’s doctors back in the states. Despite this bizarre symptom, I felt on the whole much better. I had also taken a pill to relieve the dysentery, so, despite the impeding journey to Thailand there was little to fear…

…until the Malarone crazy hour hit. This time it hit hard, my system was empty and the Malarone took rein. It was just after Mrs. Jalan’s most gracious driver dropped us at the Kolkata airport, that I began to be wracked with indecision and anxiety. We walked to the Jet airways check-in and a man next to a large contraption asked if we wanted to have our bags wrapped in cellophane to prevent tamper and damage. We declined. But the sneaking suspicion that we perhaps should have obliged him and protected our luggage crept upon me like a begging leper. We checked in, went through security, had our passports stamped, all the while I was, on a certain level, mortified that we might, just might, have made the worst decision of our lives. And our bags would, without the added protection of cellophane wrap, be spit from the universe like a watermelon seed.

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