I couldn't take it any longer. Quiet, rustic, secluded Yunnan, home of the exiled, end of the line, land of the uncontrollable tribes and untameable mountain was too noisy, too touristy, and too commodified. I planned to venture further to Shangrila and Dequin, on the Tibetan border, but two travelers had warned me that these places were just as bad as Lijang and Dali. The locals had been driven out completely by developers. No culture left but that of the Yuan. It didn't sound like the place for me. It seemed there was only one unspoiled place left, where the locals still live, where the tribal life flourishes, where people still travel across the river by zip-line. The Nujiang is a valley so revered, so untouched, the people of China actually stood up to the government to prevent them from damming it. It is the only untouched river in China. Over half of the nation's endangered species live in its valley. It was the Yunnan I'd been looking for.
Getting there though was a bit of a trek. Though Dequin is only a few miles from Bingzhongluo at the top of the valley, one has to cross 6000m high mountains to get there. A road is planned for the future and given China's track record for destruction of nature and blind progress, despite any obstacle, it is probably not far in the future. For now though, I had to bus back to plains in Dali, then cross a series of valleys until I reached Liuku. From there, I caught an eight hour bus up the valley, on a cliff side road through the steep canyon cut by the Nujiang.
What I found was not what I expected, of course. The road was well maintained, paved the whole way, only a couple stretches were too narrow for the passage of two buses. Despite the modest population of this dead end road, traffic was continuous. The tribal villages looked like any small Chinese town: dusty, flat and architecturally characterless. I saw the famous zip-lines, but the villagers were more keen on using real bridges built by the government.
The valley itself though was beautiful, but not as dramatic as expected. The jungle was thick on both sides, but despite the deepness, it was not nearly as craggy as the Yangzi. I did love the green quilt pulled over the hills, sometimes towering to thousands of feet. I felt small in this forested wonderland. There was one mountain with a big hole through it peak that I thought was really cool.
When I reached Bingzhongluo, the end of the line, last city before the wild mountain frontier of Tibet, I could not help but be let down. Bingzhongluo was a dusty wasteland, with a sizable population of Han Chinese. All of the tribes wore their traditional LA Laker's jerseys. I was also the only tourist in town, which was simultaneously relieving and unnerving. When walking the streets, I was the White guy in town. Everyone knew who I was; it was that type of town. Thankfully, I wasn't hassled by anyone.
After a boring night alone, sipping beer and writing, I awoke with a mission. Since this wasn't the end of the line, I'd find it. So I strapped on my shoes, threw some water and snacks in my bag and headed for Tibet by foot.
The valley changed immensely once on foot. The unimpressive valley that just flew by seemed deeper; embarking alone made the jungle more formidable and the villages more charming. The people were smiling, interrupting their farming or bong smoking to wave and chuckle at the unlikely sight of a white guy walking alone through the valley. There were constant signs showing a police officer beating any who decided to cut down powerlines. Maybe this was the end of the line after all, just the end of the line China differs from Laos or other less developed countries. After about 10km, I passed a tiny village with a police checkpoint. Here was the border of Tibet. They waved me through with a smile after a terrible conversation between my broken Chinese and their broken English: the road just stopped a few miles ahead anyway and I doubt they expected me to trek up the mountains into Tibet proper without supplies. I could have gone further, but I'd reached my goal; I walked to Tibet and I was damn tired and had to walk all the way back again to Bingzhongluo.
The next day, I relocated down river. My goal was to see a zipline in action, then use one myself. A village with a wire bridge was rumored about 20km south of Gongshan. I walked a while, then hitchhiked 10km with a bus full of friendly Chinese tourists from Kunming. They dropped me off in the village which seemed to confuse the locals, and I headed south in search of the Lisu, the rope bridge. Finally, I found one. Two cords stretched across the river, quite high up, one sat a few meters above the other. They were just wires across a river. I thought there'd be a rope or a harness or something, but it was just a cord. A local villager whistled by in his Kobe Bryant t-shirt; I asked him if this was a rope bridge, he confirmed. I tried to get him to demonstrate, but he just encouraged me instead with a laugh. I crawled down to the wire and considered how it would work. I looked down at the raging river, a hundred feet below; I could see why it had the name Nujiang, "angry river". I decided to leave the local tradition in the past, instead starting up an unlikely broken conversation with now traditionally yellow and purple clad youth, until he left me at a real bridge. This is as close as it gets to authentic anyway. Much of China's past is but an idea. On my way back down the valley, I saw the villages for what they were, still lovely examples of the rare rural China with their markets and dust. I saw a woman hook up an elaborate pulley apparatus to one of the Lisu, but we sped by too quickly on bus to watch it work. I was the only who bothered to even look.
