The Songstone

Hired an electric scooter; trundled to Xizhou. Lunch at the Linden Centre , charmed. Then wandered by the lake a while, went back, discovering strange flora. Burned a bit; should have worn the long-sleeve silk.  

Dali old town. Ten years ago, when I first came, this was a laid-back backpack haven; old Bai women sold you weed, (not that I tried it). No longer: now the roads are crushed with Chinese trippers. Still, there is quiet away from them. The climate's wonderful, 2000 metres high, 25 ° N. Mountain streams lilt along the streets. I sit in peace.  

Yi people, fire festival, Dali. In immemorial time, the hero Atilaba drove a plague of locusts from the land. Remember him: a greater deed than all the business done.  

Dinner of bacon, local red and bamboo worm. Morning another train to Dali; carriage three between eleven, twelve: 云南 . The city fades; the hills advance in echelons. The weather turns: the clouds cling to the peaks like sodden s heets . We're climbing high.  

My journey to the Himalayan hills starts with a twenty-eight hour train from Guangzhou. Dozing and fruit, rattling along the slow. The humid Pearl behind and into clear. A day's recuperation: Kunming – Green Lake oasis of tranquility.  

A glorious past, and future more than full. From salt Atlantic - crowning Caucasus, from crystal tundra - undulate Sahara, united, softly spoken languages. Creed cannot matter here, for all are true or false, or useful, superstitious too. Race will not care here: European though saturnine, blond, or black, blue irises. No eagle empire with its rending conquests, you thoughtful country of a peace expansion. A murmuring glade, your loose bounds lasting longest of any bloody map yet drawn by nation. In Story's steaming alleys you'll stand tall - a home of many mansions: room for all

Today is the 50th anniversary of the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution ( 无产阶级文化大革命)