Eating lunch in a simple diner in the town of Songpan. Muslims in white caps, Tibetans in their brown green cloaks and red waist sashes, Chinese women with scarlet cheeks. Doubt works its magic on my wellbeing.
The immensity of my planned journey to Kashgar seems today overwhelming, the time of year foolish, the cost potentially high.

Waiting to organise my few days of horsetrekking, but beyond that, a windy void of uncertainty. Aba town, I discover, is interdicted to foreigners - so I guess I should forgive the LP for not describing it in detail. Just been reading around a copy of the Rough Guide - always unwise, left me feeling rather silly and stupid for my plans. [Incidentally, some days on, I still have no idea if this plan for Kashgar is very sensible. Part of me is thinking how much it would be so easier to turn south and head for Laos.]

Feeling my lungs and brain adjust once more to the high altitude - my face hot under powerful sun. Woke up the first morning in the town and snow had turned the world black and white.

Not sure if there are any other foreigners here right at the moment, think most people arrive in the evening then set off on horseback the next morning, so the afternoons are the town's.
A strange story about Songpan from Emma, the manager of the town backpacker cafe. In years past, farmers would be at this point beginning the year's sowing - but now, the government pays them to plant trees. Fearing desertification in this prime tourist region, Beijing prefers the locals to plant trees and in return sends them food supplies from the farming heartlands in the east. As I sip my instant coffee, Emma says she is all for this, it gives the farmers more leisure and time to pursue their lives. I wondered how sustainable this all was and marvelled anew at the Chinese drive to build up tourist infrastructure.

In the afternoon, I go to book my horsetrek, starting the next day. I had discovered in the morning, from Emma, that the two companies whom long had competed were one now firm. As soon as I heard this, the economist in me muttered, "Uh oh"... Hence the whole relaxed grinning of the men who had met us as we disembarked - their's was the only game in town. I don't like this, but decide I would rather horsetrek than carry on north.
I decide on booking at the office nearest my hotel room, the most nominal exercises of choice; 80 yuan a day (circa six pounds), all equipment and meals provided. I decide on four days trekking, and ask for a discount. Everyone's grin widens, I am shown a note written by a past backpacker. I can only hope the author was attempting to be funny, but his superior tone, "Hi there earthlings" just adds to the reek of monopoly. The note advises future travellers that no reduction from 80 yuan is possible, because local police require bribes. Do I believe this? On one hand, from some articles I'd read while in China, it seems very plausible that the police may be demanding money. However, it seems odd this has just started now - this is a prime backpacker trail activity and it does seem the kind of thing the guidebooks would have noticed and reported were it happening in previous years. What should I do, it's pay or walk away. My internal economist is now chuckling furiously: this is such a classic case of competitive markets versus monopoly that you could draw it on a textbook diagram - prices rise, but the monopolist then spends all their time (and profits) maintaining their position through valueless activities such as bribing officialdom.
The sun dried out old men are smiling at me with mocking eyes, waiting for a decision. It's pay or walk away. I pay.

After all that, what was the horsetrek like? It was ok. The first day was fantastically uncomfortable - five or six hours on a heavily packed horse may sound enchanting, but as the schoolgirl said to the vicar, my legs aren't usually spread this wide. To say I rode the horse would be immensely self delusional - I sat on it while it walked a path it saw as clearly in its memory as through its eyes. I tried to cheer myself up by thinking how remote these mountain paths were, and indeed lots of the scenery was fantastic, I took lots of photos, but I couldn't shake the knowledge that this was a path taken almost every day by horse trekkers, so could one really call it remote? In general, it was a standard tourist type activity - nothing was expected of me beyond sitting on the horse, walking the really steep bits and waking up each morning. The sense that the guides didn't attach much importance to whether we were enjoying the trek was corrosive; on the last hill, they told us to walk up it then just meet them back at the camp when done - they were too lazy to guide us for the final couple of hours. The final, majestic mountain.
I did in all fairness learn a little about horseriding, and in particular how terrifying it can be when the horse heads downhill at speed. I have an odd fears of heights that comes and goes, but when the horse's body just fell away from me on the downwards slope, and the only way to hold on to was to push my feet hard into the stirrups and lean backwards, oh, it came back alright. The three English ex language teachers whom I had done the last two days with asked me rhetorically whether I would recommend this to their friend - I felt sure there must be better horseriding options out there.

Now, on the first night, I met another three travellers, who had come from my other planned destination, the famous park of Juizaghou. They were still in shock from the prices required to enter: 145 for the ticket plus 90 for a day's use of the park buses. So, 235 yuan, almost 16 pounds - plus more costs if you wanted to stay more days. On my budget, no thanks.

Aba town off limits (I had no desire to sneak in Tom Clancy style), Songpan a disappointment, Juizaghou a rip off. The whole northern Sichuan thing, so wonderful seeming to me back in Chengdu, had become a collosal let down. But then, at the last gasp, the town of Zoige redeemed them all.

Between Songpan and Zoige, we drove through what really felt like Central Nowhere. Herd animals but no people, fields but no grass. This was clearly yellow and brown season - I had come at the worst time, scenery wise, after the overthrow of the snows but before the grass could assume power. One amusing incident among a really rough and stifling journey. At the start, a woman a little older than me had drew the seat next to my place by the window. She keenly examined the seat numbers, making no bones about disliking sitting with the foreigner - but she had no option. However, later in the journey, a few large Tibetan women from these nowhere villages joined the bus. Every time one of these Mariah Carey backing singer sized women passed our two seats, my neighbour pressed herself away from them, her leg gripping mine from ankle to thigh, her shoulder doing likewise. She spent the rest of the journey with her head bowed and her nose blockaded by a folded over tissue. It was nice to see that while clearly I was high up her yukky scale, I was far below these villagers, who probably brushed their teeth in pig shit or something.

In Songpan, an Israeli traveller had told me Zoige was a "shithole" and that I should shoot straight on to Langmusi. Why I didn't make plans to stay in Zoige immediately after hearing this, I don't know, but it will be a policy I adopt going forward. Walking out of the admittedly rather shitty bus station, I came to the town's main road - it was immediately obvious Zoige was no shithole. It was a sunny little town, appeallingly painted shops and many busy restaurants. I sat in one and ordered some Mo Mos. Just from looking around, it was then instantly obvious that the people of Zoige, the Goloks, were fascinating, and I decided to stay. The Goloks wear the same clothes that Tibetans all over this region wear, but they unquestionably take it to the next stylistic level. They wear the Tibetan knee length brown-green winter coat, white fur lining keeping out the cold, frequently slipping out of one sleeve or both, if the weather turns warm. The men then select one or more from the following accessories: black stormtrooper boots, two to seven layers under their coat, big red sashes as belts, big stone necklaces, silver earrings, aviator sunglasses, 70s porn star moustaches. The whole effect varies between some WWII wilderness scout and 70s drug taking pop star.
The women frequently cover their faces with their bright headscarves, or wear other more ingenious face obscuring devices. Their long coats are full of complexity, strips of leopard fur, bright orange or blue sections - but their belts are the best bit. These look like ornate, over large metal designs, with sections hanging down for a foot or so at the sides - very He Man (or pehaps She Ra).
That copy of the Rough Guide back in Songpan warned that Zoige can be "an intimidating place". Certainly, after getting used to pale, slight Chinese men, these dark, tall, powerfully built Goloks, with their wild clothing and their heroic shoulder length black hair do look a bit, well, scary. Mao's army is said to have suffered terribly when they entered Golok territory during their long march - this did not surprise me. These are some of the most assured people I have ever seen, which is what drew me to stay in the town. In the restaurant where I sat down and waited for Mo Mos, three women (one young, one old, one with a baby) stared at me, but not in that gormless Chinese way, they scrutinised me. They would return my smiles, eventually, turn to talk, then turn back and scrutinise me again. "He is tall, this one, good leg muscles", perhaps one mused - "Mmm, no, I would break him in minutes", decided the youngest.
Frequently in China, one feels either ignored or made into a superstar. These, however, were people that looked me in the eye - it was great to be among people so confident it was easy for them to welcome me. Often I would get a look somewhere between a not unfriendly, "What the hell are you doing here?" and an approving, "Hmm, most of the foreigners get scared off, you must be worth talking to". They wanted to talk to me, I wanted very much to be able to talk to them, but of course it was impossible. I felt, for the first time in China, immense regret at not being able to speak any of the language. There was absolutely no sense of menace from anyone in Zoige during day or night - if the traveller is intimidated here, it is by their own choice. Two things to note: many people didn't dress like this - probably the Chinese and Muslim populations; I've since been told that Golok really refers to nomadic Tibetans, so to call the people of Zoige Goloks could be, well, bollocks. However, it is more exciting to call them the Dr Who-esque Goloks, so I will continue to do so.
I left the restaurant and was immediately accosted by a student who spoke moderate English. He took me to a hotel, rather grotty, and told me we would go to see his school in a few hours time. But as five came, I was too tired and rather ill, unexplicably shivering. So after apologising, I sat in bed and finished my current novel, The Satanic Verses. I can see why the Ayatollah didn't like the book: it depicts Mohammed and the origin of Islam as pretty cynical and rather undivine, though, as with many aspects of the story, what is real and what is imagined is hard to untangle. It is a great read, densely beautiful language, difficult to follow in many places, offering questions rather than explanations, shifting between (modern day) England and India and seventh century Arabia. I was immediately planning which of Rushdie's books to read next.

As I sat in my room, the full depths of its grottiness dawned on me - it not the book deserved to be called Satanic. The dirty white of the walls and sheets, cords for the electric blankets ending in frayed naked wires instead of plugs, in the small desk drawer some past occupant had left chewed bones and a brown rotten apple (well, I hoped it was an apple). As darkness fell, it suddenly struck me the room had no light bulb. Where the ceiling light should be wires dangled... I sat bemused - a light is not usually something you need to check for in hotel rooms. In the blue twilight, surrounded by grime and naked wires, the room suddenly seemed a fraud, the bare essentials maintained only so that I would agree to stay, later Goloks would burst in and eat my still warm limbs. They would clean everything up afterwards, perhaps only forgetting a few gnawed bones and my chewed heart left to rot in the desk drawer.

Hmm, what to do. The English speaking student had said the last lot of visiting foreigners had stayed in this room - had they managed without a light? I went down to reception - they showed me the light switch, outside my room, lighting a neon circle around those previously spotted dangling wires. My faith in seeing the next dawn grew, so I went back in, pointed out the pile of chewed bones to the staff, finished the adventures of Gibreel, Saladin, Mahound and Baal and went out in the evening for a walk and dinner. Although Zoige has ample street lights, none of them were turned on, so my steps were lit only by the red and green from the traffic lights and the pale escaping glow from restaurant windows. I came to what must be Zoige's disco street - a series of intimately small places with music and glass curtained fronts. In the blue light peeking out of one, a woman danced alone, slowly, her back to the window. I knew it would be fantastic to go in, I knew I would be welcomed and probably wouldn't pay for a drink all night, but equally, knew I was ill enough that the touch of beer would be awful, let alone a touch of dancing. With one last look at her sensuous posterior, I turned away - and in fact went back to the hotel, as I found I couldn't face the touch of food either.

The next morning, I woke up and soon realised my stomach illness had stepped up the fight. Three times that morning I blew brown liquid over different Zoige toilets - I booked a ticket for Langmusi and swallowed two Immodium tablets over lunch, preferring to avoid shitting myself over the four hour bus journey. Why didn't I stay in Zoige? Firstly, it was too, too painful not being able to speak with these people. Secondly, there would be English speakers in Langmusi and so I could get a better diagnosis than simply making loud pooing sounds to a pharmacist. I went back to the restaurant of my arrival and ordered Mo Mos - well, that's all the place served. Once again, the manager's two eight year old daughters came out and talked to me, remembering my name from the previous day. Zoige is that kind of place - even the eight year olds take you seriously.

To call the road to Langmusi a bad road would be flattery, to call it a road at all would still be praise. Everywhere around us, yellowybrown. A site proclaims this area to be a wetland, evidentally this is not one of the wet seasons. Yaks mill, picking at the yellowybrown. To my unherbivored eyes, frankly they have more chance of finding an easter egg than an edible piece of grass in these fields, but then, this is what they get paid for I suppose. I use this nothing time to write, the Buddhists crammed in next to me use it to chant softly. We are indeed very diligent passengers.
We crest a hill, the road curves back and forth onwards and under. Lorries turn on the road slowly, both from the distance and because they really are going slowly. One has terrible troubles: it reluctantly advances a few feet up the hill then joyfully falls back the same distance, before the driver, hurling foot on brake, begins the cycle again. We pass the for all purposes stationary vehicle, I feel immense sorrow for the implacable face of the driver - imagining he is not in a position to ring the office and casually quote an insurance number.

Suddenly, after hours of rough driving, it occurs to me I can't see my rucksack anywhere. It had been very near to me initially, but more and more people sat around it and then, as they get off at different points, I see that it clearly isn't where I thought it was. Has it been added to the load on the roof? It seems unlikely that anyone could have nabbed it from the bus without me seeing - but that thought is clearly flawed, because someone obviously has taken it, either for the bus's roof or for their living room. I debate options, but either it's gone or it isn't, I will gain nothing by making a big unintelligible scene now. My "wise" words in the previous article on balancing protection with openess come back to me, accompanied by the familiar laughter of a God who loves hoist-by-his-own-petard style joking. I draw up an obituary for my rucksack, realising for the first time its name was Bertha, dividing its inhabitants into things I would miss and things that would be expensive to replace. The second list was surprisingly short. I was thankful that I am just clever enough to keep all the really necessary stuff with me in my day bag when I travel. Part of me looked forward to starting again with only what I really needed, the other half sent a silent call to my divine tormentor, acknowledging, "OK, you got me again, please don't actually take the rucksack". I sensed the heavens were happy with the joke ending there, and when the bus stopped, my rucksack was taken off the roof and thrown down to me. I winced at its weight, "If you're so full of stuff I don't need Bertha, no wonder you're so heavy".

Daniel, Langmusi, March 19