Bus through Yunnan

In two weeks, I've spent 60 hours on buses.  Buses with beds, livestock, dirt, cargo – you name it – I've been on that bus.  Today, on the way back to Lijiang from Baishutai, a 4 hours trip turned into 7 hours. 

Chain-smoking Chinese men figure into most bus trips. There is a routine, a custom – an etiquette – for smoking with other Chinese men.  One takes out his pack and fingers two or three or four cigarettes.  He offers them to the other men.  Laughter and grunts – never words.  The other men accept. They suck on the sticks, cross their legs, and spit.  The butts are tossed on the ground after the last satisfied sigh.  Moments later (two or three minutes after the first, ten or more minutes after the second), when there is any reason at all – an observation about a landmark, a joke, a sigh, a successful flat tire recovery operation – and the process starts over.  Another man pulls out his cigarettes, nudges them towards his compadres, and coughs.

I coughed a lot today.  I'm all for smokers' liberties – I like to pull a drag now and then, but I feel like I'm eating nicotine every time I'm on a bus.  There's no escape, and the ratio of smokers to non-smokers favor future lung cancer patients. It's a toss up whether all that smoke is coming from cigarettes or from the exhaust. And with all the etiquette about smoking, no one ever bother to exhale out the windows.

A woman climbed on with a bamboo basket.  Her bundle, wrapped in mesh, squirmed.  It squealed. Grunts. Then squealed again. "To the market - Quitao!" she barked to the driver.  I was careful not to step on someone's future dinner, but it was hard not to stretch out my legs on a 6 hours ride.

There are some serious mountain ranges to cross on the road back from Deqin.  At our highest point, we were about 3.5 miles above sea level.  The road pretzeled and rhombused.  At certain points, the mountains devoured the pavement, leaving only gravel and dirt.  Within fifteen minutes, my window was splattered.  The passenger in front of me had dropped his head out the window, spread-eagled, and let his dinner fly.  He wiped his arm, sat back, sighed.  It was dawn, and high up on the Baima Range, the clouds had spread into a thick blanket, soggy and cold. The sun, afraid of the jagged peaks, hid behind the mist.  The wind whipped into the still opened window, angry at our intrusion.  I shivered.  What I needed were three more layers. What I got were opened windows that framed sallowed faces.

Thirty minutes passed.  This time, there was less residue flung towards my window.

Behind me, I heard a man retched.  On my right, sitting next to Blowingbubbles, an elderly lady tipped towards the cracked window and groaned.  Then she spilled.  A smell like spoiled butter hovered. For the next 4 hours, the bus, full of locals, succumbed to the savagery of the mountains. 

The bus creaked and groaned around the hairpins.  Its belly was filled with the moans of passengers used to the habits of their feet planted on solid ground.

The best part? The poor souls were too busy being sick to light up.