Lijiang woke up well before we did, with roosters crowing, yak yogurt well at work culturing, and all manner of delightful foods sizzling away. On the recommendation of the hotel, we visited a very local restaurant, which consisted of a giant pantry of vegetables and some kerosene burners downstairs and a couple tables which shared the space with a hefty amount of hanging laundry upstairs. We proceeded to sit down for a most succulent breakfast: crispy pork, amazing Chinese greens, home made rice noodles, and a bizarre but tasty mashed-potato-esque dish.

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It was once again 5 am in Dali and we were peeling ourselves out of the starchy comfort of our beds. By the time I had pulled open the curtains, Scott too was awake and hard at work assembling some Necafe packets of coffee into hot sticky drinks. At the Dali bus station, we found our assumptions about bus times had been quite wrong and we had awoken too early. Rather than waste time, we quickly set into intense negotiations with one of the many Cab drivers who were already hassling us. Within ten minutes, we were speeding along through the Yunnan countryside and listening to the same music which you, dear reader, were exposed to in the previous post.

As we drove and listened, our driver warmed quickly to the music, and in the end was singing along. Also, curiously, the more time we spent with the fellow, the more he grew to resemble Woody Allen. We’ll let you be the judge.

When we reached Lijiang, we gave the disc to our driver as a parting gift, and set out into the old city. Then we about faced and returned to the main road while the driver returned to bring the GPS device which Scott had left in the car (a vital component of AsiaWheeling). Again we set forth.

The Lijiang old city was quite striking, with sloping clay roofs and seemingly endless meandering streets. Our hotel was once again, alarmingly cheap and pleasant. This hotel, however, took the cake, with large shuttered windows, which could be opened wide, onto a little private courtyard, meticulously clean rooms, friendly staff, and dirt cheap laundry service.

First thing is, as always dear reader, first. Bicycles. (more…)

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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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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With woody still under the weather, once again, your dear correspondent, Mr. Scott Norton, returns to the writing desk.

We were speeding through Eastern Bihar towards the border of West Bengal when Woody mentioned he wasn’t feeling so hot. His stomach was the culprit along with purple and green discoloration on his hands.

“What do you think this is?”

“Have you tried washing it off?”

“Its probably nothing.”

We both offered explanations about the blotches, but neither of us dare mention leprosy after thee encounters of the night previous. Leprosy takes longer than 12 hours to take hold, right?

The train was three hours late and Woody pounded a breakfast of omelets and toast in an attempt to reboot his system by loading his inbox. “Not helpful,” he groaned.

He put on his flowing Khadi pants, and attempted to coax his body into healing itself.

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