Watching the oxen.
Watching the oxen graze.
The old men watch the oxen graze.

The oxen hate me. Each evening the perfect old men, empty-eyed but sanguine, lead two large females and a skittish calf back toward the village on the river. If on my walk back to camp I pass them on the gravel path, I have to hide. The smaller female can spot me at a distance and will set her eyes and horns on me if I get too close to her calf. I am convinced that the little pug-faced dog that lives near Banyan Tree has been telling her hateful things about me, that I want to eat her calf, that I’m a bad animal. My mane is unruly, and the pug-faced dog believes that I am a giant cat. He is vicious but cowardly, and is conspiring against me when he’s not nipping at my heels.

Our campsite lies amongst the terraces, in the shadow of a karst. The sun hangs in the southern sky throughout the day, bringing hot afternoons and cool evenings drenched in a thick mist. Thick, subtropical greenery is everywhere, and has been since we came inland from the sea. While Beijing sits crusted in ice, we’ve been sporting short sleeves. Leaving Wuyishan a day early, having found loose rock, we skirted the southern coast from Fuzhou to Guanzhou. Guanzhou, formerly “Canton,” was startling in its size and scope, but we only brushed shoulders with the city. We spent a day in the huge park, climbing a modest cliff there, chatting with the local climbers, and (like everywhere else we go) attracting a lot of attention. Hordes of teenage girls wielding cameras queued to have their pictures taken with us, all smiles.

En route from Guanzhou on small country roads, we stopped in a bustling little town. I don’t know its name. Someone spotted a roller rink on the fourth floor of the shopping mall across from our hotel. It sat empty, waiting for us and our case of beer. Once the locals heard that the foreigners in the big truck were roller skating in the mall, the place turned into a bit of a zoo.

The karsts appeared on the horizon in the middle of the next morning. We were in the little city of Yangshou before noon, surrounded by the limestone giants, all itching to climb them. Yangshuo, or more precisely its eastern coutryside, would be our first permanent home in more than a month. At first we all resented the little campsite on the terrace; it’s a twenty minute walk and a bus ride from the Internet, English breakfast, and hot showers. It’s funny how much one can miss modern conveniences even amidst the wonders of distant world. We’ve all fallen for the charms of the little camp, though. A few nights ago we threw a birthday party in the deep, hollow bowls of a karst and shot fireworks into the night’s sky. The sound bounced along the many limestone towers, building to a cacophony. The next day, a village wedding party did the same. The villagers all smile at us, “Ni hao!”

~br