In Which The Plan Actually Works: Hiking in the Rice Terraces of Yuanyang, Part 1
It’s a beautiful day when we are dropped off at Qingkou. We step out into the sunlight, strap on our packs, and are soon on down the road.
Ert has been an incredible leader to our party already, planning everything, haggling in fluent Mandarin over taxi prices. But the true depth of his preparedness shows in the route maps he has created in Google Earth and printed for each of us.
This story is the continuation of a series that begins here.
This first route, a two-day loop, is six double-sided pages of about seven aerial-photo strip maps per double-sided sheet. We switch maps at points labeled A through Nu. We pull out our thumb compasses as we begin the trek.
The first bit is cobblestone next to flooded rice terraces. We are excited to see people plowing with water buffalo, farmers carrying hoes along the muddy edges of the terraces. There are huge mounds of manure on the road, and Ert calls out to us:
“There are only two rules for this trip!
“Rule number one! Don’t fall in a rice paddy.
“Rule number two! Don’t step in shit.”
We laugh and skirt the dung.
We wind through a village, where old men watch us from doorframes and women in Hani traditional clothing point the way onwards as we pass. We begin to descend a farming trail down between the rice paddies.
The trail is good. We cross a bridge, see more women in beautiful clothing sowing fields. Farmers cluck to their water buffalo, which are grazing on the rice stalks.
In a town, I see the heads of young girls poke out from behind a cottage.
“Whoaw,” one breathes, staring at our packs, our skin, our hair. I wave, and all the girls giggle and duck out of sight.
When we stop for lunch, it’s a little kebab stand outside a school. We are swarmed by children, who gather around to stare, but draw back when we say hello. They cluster around the aerial photo of their town Ert has left on the ground, pointing out the houses of their village to each other.
In another village, a cluster of Hani women calls us over to sit with them. They are embroidering the backflap pieces of their outfits, lovely flower patterns in white I would be worried to sit on, but part of their everyday costume.
We hike for hours, all day. In villages, we see pigs and water buffalo and chickens with broods of chicks and cats and dogs all wandering around. Old women slap our packs and laugh at the size or weight, or something about them that is different than their forehead-strap-carried baskets.
Outside villages, there are rice paddies without end, reflecting the clouds and blue of the sky.
The first day’s hike ends with a steep uphill through the rice paddies to Pugao. The trail is slick, muddy, and questionable in places, so we are pleased to arrive at the village and find our guesthouse in the maze of little streets.
We watch the reflection of the sunset over the rice paddies, then enjoy showers, dinner, and sleep with the unique relish of sweaty backpackers.
To be continued…
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