Dali

I have to execute my escape plan perfectly. And since I have very little Mandarin at my disposal my task will prove difficult. The kind folks in Lijiang had informed me that there are two Dalis: Ancient Dali Town, the backpacker darling, and Xiaguan, expansive Dali city proper. The bus, I am told, will stop at the outskirts of Old Dali before going the extra 10 kilometers to Xiaguan. I need to disembark at the correct one.

I sit at the front of the bus, on its second floor. The window is huge in front of me. Over the coming bend, I see the shimmering waters of a large lake. I glance down at my poorly-drawn map - a child with a red pen and paper could have done a better job – and decide that body of water must be Lake Erhai whose shores both Dalis sit on. To the west, I see a row of craggy mountains that I determine are Cragshan – the famous range standing sentinel over Dali and its lake.

For the moment, my thigh stops shaking and I relax. Whenever the bus stops next, I will jump.

And then I see them: The Three-Pagodas. Resembling three cream-colored Toblerone bars, these brick-structures rise majestically from the earth. Dating from the Tang Dynasty (618-907), these tiered towers were a site of Buddhist ritual and instruction. During the Tang years, leaders established contact with the outside world via trade (the Silk Road). This foreigner-friendly policy opened the door to Buddhist and Christian devotees who facilitated the spread of their respective religions. Buddhism became a dominant one.

I pay little attention to these 1200 year old buildings – I know my stop approaches. I gather my things and after a few more circles and turns the bus does come to a complete stop. I pull my backpack out from underneath the bus after which time it speeds away.

Taxi drivers approach me as a hummingbird would a nectar-rimmed flower: salaciously. I am brimming with confidence, however, and arrogantly brush them away. I soon realize that my brashness was premature: I see nothing that resembles an ancient town.

Dali is ancient: people have resided in its lush, rice-covered valleys for 4000 years. The Bai ethnic group calls this part of China home. And a thousand years ago, they resided over one the longest dynasties in Chinese history centered at Dali. Lasting 316 years and only ending with the Mongol invasion of 1213, the Kingdom of Dali ruled over a unified southern China including parts of modern day Myanmar, Laos and Vietnam. Although parts of Dali town originate from this era, many of the traditional buildings now protected by the Chinese government date from the Ming Dynasty (1368-1644).

I begin to walk. I breath quickens. I try to decipher Chinese characters and match them with my useless map. I continuously glance back, turn around, re-trace my steps – it cannot be this far from the bus stop. Did I get off at the right stop?

Finally, I spot an elaborately-painted gate that must be one of the entrances to the fabled city. I see men milling around motorized carts and hand one the address of my hostel written in Chinese script. He nods and points in the direction I had hoped. He says more. I think he is responsible for shuttling tourists around on these carts and is offering to give me a lift. I politely decline. I want my legs to carry me these last few hundreds of meters.

I enter through the East Gate – one for every compass direction - and proceed into the walled city. The town is touristy without a doubt but holds it better than Lijiang. The alleyways feel more spacious, airy – more authentic. Ornately-manicured conifers dot the stone-paved streets; willow trees hang over shop entrances selling anything and everything. I pass a group of hundred or so elementary school kids who have just been released; they team through the narrow streets. Tourists and locals yield to them.

I continue through foreigners’ street lined with restaurants, bars and cafes with Chinese and English written menus hanging from their doorways. I stop at an elaborate tobacco shop with more tobacco products for sale than I knew existed in the world. I look through the glass counter and point to one of the cheapest brands. I then make the universal symbol for lighter. She nods, hands me the pack and the matches. She smiles.

Most of the houses are traditional Bai which means they have one major room and two side wings. All are richly decorated with woodcarvings, marble crafts and traditionally-dyed clothing.

I pass the West Gate and follow the highway to my hostel at the foot of the Cragshan Mountains. I light a cigarette and enjoy a beer by the make-shift fire roaring in the middle of the hostel’s courtyard. The familiar stories waft through the air and over the rollicking flames. I join in and there – making sure to stay within the confines of friendly, de-politicized, neutral traveler talk. After all, the entire travel industry rests on that vacuous foundation.

I find the people particularly loathsome but I do not let their words ruin my spirits. I watch the smoke float up into the crisp mountain air.

Today, I had a small victory.

And the stars are out.