Shan Qiong Shui Jin Yi Wu Lu, Liu An Hua Ming You Yi Cun (山穷水尽已无路，柳暗花明又一村). Thus goes a Chinese saying: “The mountains are steep and forbidding, the rivers deep and ferocious, will I ever get out of here? Suddenly, there are calm willows swaying in the breeze and myriad flowers blooming in fine fields. And look!, there is after all another village.”

And so I felt when I arrived, late on Tuesday afternoon in Kongdang, a hamlet by the Dulong River. Driving for nine hours west in the direction of Burma on a ninety six kilometre long dirt road from Gongshan, a small town in the upper reaches of the Nu River valley, I was wondering all along whether and what kind of dwellings I would find at the other end. Kongdang, the seat of the Dulong River Township government, proved to be not as enchanting as the Chinese poem suggests: there are no forests of peaceful willows and no fields of blooming flowers, only a few sleepy houses, one dilapidated hotel, a police barrack and a handful of ruggedly clad farmers milling about in the village’s only street. But seeing the crystal clear, rapidly flowing waters of the Dulong River that are a kaleidoscope of blue, green and frothy white, and recalling as well the day’s memories of utter remoteness and untouched nature, I was not only delighted to have arrived, but enchanted by the loveliness of this remote corner of China.

(On Google Maps)

Very few people come here, the home of one of China’s smallest minorities, the Drung of which there are said to be no more than 6,000 in all. Why have I?

Because three months ago I had received an email from a lady from Lonely Planet TV telling me that they were going to send a team to Yunnan to film an episode for a new TV series to be aired later this year. The email continued: “We’re wondering what sort of adventures you would recommend for our author/presenter - we would like to get him behind the wheel and do some real off-the-beaten track exploration. The show will be all about ‘back roads’ and adventure. He will be using all sorts of transport from motorbikes, pick-up trucks and mountain bikes to horses and, hopefully, a car. Can you let me know your thoughts, what sort of vehicle we could use and your availability?”

“My availability?” I wanted to reply “yes, now, anytime, wherever, whatever, I will name my first born after you”, but then formulated a more measured response, “Dear Emma, I am incredibly busy, but …”.

I was excited about this journey because, need I say it?, I love driving, I love the concept even though not always the reality of adventure, and I had never been to the Nu River, let alone the Dulong River. But I had heard about this region, especially the Nu River (known as the Salween in the West) which is the westernmost river of the Three Parallel River World Heritage site, the other two being the Mekong and the Yangtze. These three rivers do indeed run parallel to each other for a few hundred kilometres in southwest Tibet and northwest Yunnan before each carries on in a different direction. Here is what a recent issue of National Geographic wrote about this region:

“Described by the UN as the ‘epicentre of Chinese biodiversity’, Three Parallel Rivers has more than 6,000 vascular plant species - more than 200 types of rhododendrons, 300 species of timber trees, and some 500 medicinal plants. With such floral diversity, it follows that the fauna would also be extensive. There are at least 173 mammals-including rare species such as the clouded leopard and red goral-as well as more than 400 types of birds.

Radical topography also engendered human diversity. Separated by uncrossable rivers and soaring mountains, individual ethnic groups developed distinct languages and traditions unique to their own environments. Three Parallel Rivers has at least a dozen ethnic groups, including Tibetan, Yi, Naxi, Lisu, and Nu, comprising some 300,000 people.”

A few months after Emma’s email had arrived in my inbox, I flew into Kunming and picked up the rental SUV – a Hyundai Galloper, locally made in a JV – that I had arranged for the purpose of this project. In one day, I drove from Kunming to Liuku, the gateway to the Nu River valley. The following day, I continued to Gongshan. While driving on the meandering S228 (“S” for ‘sheng’ (省), meaning ‘province’) that follows the shape of the Nu River toward Gongshan, I learned from one loquacious villager that not only is the valley populated by different ethnic groups, but that different religions are represented as well, chiefly Tibetan Buddhism, as expected, but also, less obviously, Protestantism and Catholicism thanks to eager missionaries from both camps. I was surprised and delighted to hear that it is not uncommon hereabouts that under one family roof the three religions cohabit without strife and that the minorities easily and readily intermarry. They, as well as most of the officially recognised minorities, are also allowed to bear two children in this part of China.

The following morning I met Shawn, the author/presenter of the show, and the film crew. Shawn, a Singapore-born Chinese, now resident in Australia, was eager to get behind the wheel, despite him never having driven a 4×4 (nor ever on the right side of the road) in his life.

“I’ve heard some harrowing stories about driving in China,” Shawn started the conversation. “But they say you love it. How do you do it?” he asked me after inspecting the Galloper and having heaved himself into the driver’s seat.

“I suppose it starts with this. To me, driving’s a bit like going through life. If you’re on a straight road, yes, you cover a lot of distance like when everything in life is going smoothly. But in the end straight roads are like uneventful stretches of life…they can be rather boring. When I hit winding stretches of roads or climb mountains and descend into valleys, however, then that tests my skills and presents me with challenges. These are the times that are fun and memorable, just like in life,” I waxed philosophically Shawn.

“That’s almost worth remembering,” he responded dreamily. “But that won’t get me through China, will it?”

“True. For now, just remember to go slow and toot your horn a lot because in rural China the thinking seems to be that ‘if I can’t hear you, you’re not there’. Shawn seemed to have no difficulty remembering this point from the get-go he tooted the Galloper’s horn non-stop during the entire ninety six kilometre drive even though we came across no more than five cars, nine farmers and two cows.

“Anything else?” Shawn wanted to know.

“Well, yes, quite a bit…” I continued, but Shawn was ready to hit the road.

“’Nuff talk. Lets gets on with it,” Shawn declared confidently and, without further ado, drove off while I sat next to him. For the full nine hours to Kongdang he worked hard on “taming the beast”, as he came to call the Galloper. In moments of success – when he parried the Galloper just so – Shawn gave off a yodelling sound of sorts that told me how happy he was with himself for enjoying the freedom of driving in the splendour of this remote corner of China. At other times he said “sorry”, not to me but the Galloper, when he failed to see a particularly sharp rock that made the Galloper yelp in pain. I came to like Shawn because he manifestly was attuned to cars which, for me, are humans too, you know.

When we arrived in Kongdang in the evening, Shawn, exhausted, wanted to know, “So, how did I do?”

“Not bad for someone who drives an Opel Corsa in Melbourne,” I assured him. He mustered a smile.
Kongdang itself is home to a few hundred souls. It also has a China Mobile tower which, I was told, can handle at most eight phone calls at the same time. But that there *is* mobile coverage at all in a place so remote is remarkable.

The Dulong River area is not known for its China Mobile tower, however. Instead, what everyone will tell you when you mention Dulong is the odd practice of Drung women to tattoo their faces. At least they used to do that. Nowadays, women who’ve tattooed their faces are exceedingly rare, and the youngest of them is fifty eight years old, I was told.

Nobody seems to be certain how this custom came about.

“To be honest, no one knows,” a villager shared with me. “But I’ve heard of four different reasons. First, the Drung women of old used to think that it was pretty. Second, the Drung tribe is small in physical build compared to the nearby Tibetans. In order to avoid being raped, they made themselves ugly. Third, it signified that a Drung woman had achieved a certain status in their society; in other words, it was a privilege to be tattooed. Fourth, different Drung tribes would choose different facial tattoo patterns in order to differentiate themselves from each other,” he finished off his encyclopaedic explanation.

From this I concluded that whatever else the Drung may be, they are just like everyone else in the world: make yourself pretty to procreate; fiercely resist being raped; declare and project elevated status; and draw clear lines between “us” and “them”.

On the following day, the television team continued on foot deeper into the Dulong River valley while I began my return journey. The Galloper, a broken beast when I picked it up and now closer to death than ever, did not seem to relish the thought of being forced back over the bad road we’d come from. In fact, it’s droopy eyes suggested that it might not go the distance. With no mobile coverage for long stretches and helpful people few and far between, I decided to look for someone who would accompany me. There were few takers, but in the end I managed to persuade one fellow to accompany me on the way back to Gongshan. His name was Mr. Zhou. He and I departed Kongdang at 7am and drove into a brilliant morning.

Right from the start, we began to learn more about each other. Mr. Zhou had come to Dulong from Lijiang upon the recommendation of a friend. He told me that he makes a decent living in Dulong as a farm truck driver. Each year he sends his savings back to his wife who remains in Lijiang.

“How often do you see your wife?” I asked Mr. Zhou.

“About once a year. Last year she came to visit me in Dulong. My wife’s much younger than I, in fact, one cycle of the zodiac [12 years] younger. When she came to Dulong for the first time, all my friends here thought she was my daughter,” he explained with a throaty laugh.

“How old are you?” I enquired.

“49, I’m a 1960s rat” he replied.

“I can’t believe it, so am I. When’s your birthday?”

“February 13th,” he revealed.

“What a coincidence, I’m February 3rd”, I exclaimed, “our birthdays are only ten days apart.” Not that this is really all that special when I think about it, but then I must admit that I felt excited about meeting someone in such a remote place with whom I had at least something in common.

“Do you have children?” Mr. Zhou asked me.

“No, we used to think about it, but then decided not to,” I explained to Mr. Zhou.

“Hmmmm, you don’t get them by thinking about them…” Mr. Zhou mused.

Then there was silence for a little while until Mr. Zhou volunteered that he has three sons. The eldest, now 24 years old, married, had a baby, divorced, married again and made another baby. Mr. Zhou rolled his eyes as if to say that sometimes thinking about children rather than making them would not be such a bad idea.

And we kept on driving, humpy-de-bump along the dirt road waltzing in and out of patterns of light and shadows sharply drawn on our path by the bright sun and ancient trees.

“Do you know that we get a lot of leeches around here?” Mr. Zhou changed subject.

“Yes, I’ve heard about them though I haven’t seen a single one despite lots of warnings from friends,” I replied.

“That’s because we’ve had two or three beautiful days. On sunny days, they burry themselves in the mud. But when it rains, then they emerge and crawl up trees and bushes. Because they can sense the vibration of human footsteps, they often manage to jump onto unaware trekkers. You know, for example, onto their boots. And then they slither up their pants. They’re really fast, you know.”

“How big do they get?” I wondered.

“About ye big,” Mr. Zhou indicated with his thumb and index finger a leech about two inches long.

“Especially after they’ve been sucking your blood for a while. And if you try to flick them off with your finger, their mouth, if that’s what you call it, gets stuck in your skin and blood gushes out from the wound because the leech’s saliva contains an anticoagulant. You can lose a lot of blood in a very short time,” Mr. Zhou embellished his explanation.

I looked heaven-ward and praised the blue skies.

“Any other frightening animals hereabouts?” I asked.

“We’ve got bears. Large brown bears. Only last year one of the farmers in Dulong had his entire face torn off by one.” Mr. Zhou really seemed to revel in lore of gore. But for some reason I liked his no-nonsense and matter-of-fact storytelling. It also prompted me to wonder why is it that natural beauty often is intermingled with frightening stuff.

After around three to four hours of driving we arrived at the tunnel which marks the point of highest elevation on the road from Dulong to Gongshan.

It turned out that Mr. Zhou and I had also reached the high point of our relationship.

We got out of the car and decided to snack a bit. Near where we stood there were traces of snow reminding us that here winter had only just ended. In the distance mountains soared skyward. And in between unfolded a lush green valley.

Then my eyes fell onto the ground where we were standing. I noticed that it was littered with refuse – one discarded running shoe here, a torn shirt there, and snack food paper and plastic wrappings everywhere. Here, near Dulong, the juxtaposition of indescribable natural beauty and filthy garbage felt particularly revolting.

“How can anyone dump stuff here rather than take it along?” That’s what I was wondering when Mr. Zhou, who was by then squatting next to me, cast away a beef jerkin wrapper. Then he opened another and flicked the wrapper away once again. It landed where the first one fluttered in the wind. Then he repeated it with the third morsel of dried beef. A little pile of plastic wrappings soon began to accumulate. I watched this for a while with increasing anxiety. Should I say something, I wondered. It’s his country, I said to myself. Then I watched some more. After a while I couldn’t help myself any longer and said, timidly,

“What do you say? Take these wrappings with us?”

“Why?” Mr. Zhou was perplexed.

“Well, because, you see, it’s so beautiful here. Why sully the place?” I explained myself.

“Never mind. Look, there’s garbage everywhere, what difference does a little more make? Others do it. I do it. As I please.” Mr. Zhou not only didn’t understand what I was concerned about, he actually seemed a bit annoyed.

“But, but, this won’t rot for a long time…it’ll spoil the place for your children and grandchildren too, no?”

“Nah, it’ll rot before long. Nobody’s here. The mountains are huge, we’re far away from the city.
Don’t worry.” With that he flung away another jerkin wrapper and, with a huff, closed the matter.

A few minutes later, we got back into our car and continued on our way. After a while, with both our windows open and the sun shining strongly through the windshield, Mr. Zhou reached for a plastic bottle of water that had been sliding left and right on the dashboard. “Wah! That’s hot. Can’t drink it anymore,” said Mr. Zhou and threw the bottle out of the open window where it came to rest somewhere in the otherwise undisturbed wilderness. I couldn’t help but detect a smirk and a whiff of defiance. I suppose I shouldn’t care, but I felt bad about Mr. Zhou, about myself and the future of China.

When I told this story after my return to a Shanghai friend of mine – twenty five years my younger – she recoiled and felt a sense of shame for her fellow citizen, Mr. Zhou. As unimaginable as it is for me (and my Shanghai friend) to contemplate leaving a trail of muck behind, so it is natural for Mr. Zhou not to worry about discarding waste. How can this be? I suppose cleaning up after ourselves is a matter of education. I recall my first few days in Hong Kong. Then the local hiking trails were littered. Today, seventeen years later, Hong Kong hiking trails are, if not immaculate, then vastly improved from before. How long will it take for environmental education in China to reach the edges of the realm which are at once the least disturbed as well as the ones treated with the least care?

After dropping off Mr. Zhou in Gongshan, I decided to carry on to Liuku since we had reached Gongshan by as early as 2pm. What a lovely drive it was gobbling up the well paved, winding road along the Nu River and in the midst of the lush splendour of this bio-diverse corner of China. After driving for an hour or two, I suddenly saw by the road side a class of grammar school students. They all sat there on the grass and under the shade of large trees, gazing intently out across the Nu River and the stupendous mountains rising on the other side. Each one of them had a canvas on their lap and captured the beauty of nature that lay before them. Some smiled. Others frowned as if the natural scene weighed heavily on them. But all looked content spending the afternoon immersing themselves and their thoughts in the appreciation of a lovely spot not far from their homes. I felt better again: there’s hope after all that some of China’s remote and unspoiled regions will be protected and retain their charm.

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