When we reached a point where the road was no longer navigable in the large tour bus, we transferred our luggage to smaller shuttle buses that hugged the mountainside as we slowly wound higher into the clouds. When we arrived in a large parking lot where traffic was forced to stop (the road could no longer support vehicles) we were met by small spry porters with hand-woven baskets fixed to their backs, prepared to schlep our possessions up narrow foot paths in the midst of sudden bursts of rain.
A tiny woman whose height was somewhere between by elbow and shoulder prepared to hoist one of the Johnson's four suitcases up to the Ping An guest house. She was fifty, and partly toothless, and deep wrinkles made her look older. But her physical ability was like that of someone half her age. She and the other porters took off up the slippery hillside, and disappeared.
Our going was much slower... and it is certain this is not a trip we could have done a year ago. The girls were troopers, climbing the winding walk ways, but the views and encounters we had with the inhabitants of these carved-out hills was worth it in all our minds.
There was just so much to see:
- We walked past supper prep: a chicken, freshly killed and recently blanched in scalding water was being plucked in front of our eyes (photos in previous posts)
- Sweet local grandmas peddled fragrant mountain tea and deep red dried peppers.
- Traditional dress of the minority peoples were beautiful and unique.
- Hand embroidered baby carries kept young mountain mother's hands free.
And the scenery... amazing! Lush greens, nearly constant fog, and the centuries old terraces carved out with manual labor in order to increase the amount of available space for crops. The weather literally seemed to change every five minutes! Fog to sun to rain to crisp clear, where the terraces snaked slowly out of sight... and then more fog, rolling slowly in until visibility went to five feet!
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