The road up was done in drizzle, and when we arrived after 8hrs on the bus it was still lovely and overcast, but it had stopped raining. However, we had somehow accidentaly travelled upwards about 3km as well (Xiahe altitude, 3500m) as doing an inordinate amount of overland travelling, and this made breathing, let alone sitting down, an Olympian task. Something that was particularly appreciated as we walked another 2km (horizontally) up to our hotel.

The hotel was quite lovely, being run by a band of 3 Tibetan sisters, all of whom couldn't stop smiling even when we had to wake them up the next morning to leave at 5am. Xiahe had quite a lot of different peoples in it, notably the Han Chinese, Tibetan (Chinese), Golok nomads (also part of China), Hui Muslims (obviously Chinese) and generic westerners (not Chinese). They were all rather friendly (apart from the last group, who adopted a form of indifference to any other westerners who were cramping the style of their `unique experience' of Tibet which they no doubt paid $3000 for), and even offered to take us around in a taxi for less than 3 weeks wages. Our hotel bed was a sort of school stage covered in many blankets and matresses, and the showers were outside in the courtyard, the character of which was best appreciated when the ambient temperature was below the freezing point of blood, which occurred at the same time of day as when they switched the hot water on.

We had arrived at the town at about three in the afternoon. After customary indulging in some western food (fried egg and chips), it was time to embark on a tour of Labrang Monastery. A monestary is a collection of buildings the size of Xiahe itself, which houses, feeds, teaches and generally keeps monks in the high life which they so rightfully deserve (they are celibate). There were several large buildings among the little monk huts, each housing a different size and importance of Buddha (gold leaf covered, naturally) surrounded by the usual trinkets and fabrics and prayer napkins, all encompassed in the fumes and stench of yak butter lamps. Rather amusingly, the monk who was giving the tour took the shrewd move of turning the fairy lights and spot lights off before the westerners came in, thus increasing our sense of authenticity. Actually, these monk blokes looked like they spend all day mucking around and doing anything but serious religion, including not giving us the correct change (the monk's ability to speak English is enhanced greatly when one starts to argue with them about their inability to subtract 4 from 10). Other meaningful relgious activities spotted included making sculptures out of yak butter (3/10 for religious effort, but 10/10 for artistic ability), runnning around burping and farting in front of foreigners (0/10 and 9/10 respectively, with 10/10 given to one Mr E. G. Speyer) and the ancient practice of behaving like idiots for the whole day.

After this exhausting stumble around the monastery, we decided to go for an exhausting stumble around the edge of the monastery, which is a walk about 4km long and on the side of a shallow slope, and has prayer wheels placed every metre aruond the flat bits, and views of the temple from all the steep bits. Very nice indeed, especially the bird's eye view of the monks doing their evening lesson of pratting about. Bed-sleep-up at five the next morning for the bus journey to Hezou then Langmusi.

Langmusi [Tuesday]

The bus actually stops a few kilometres outside of Langmusi, with the sealed roads stopping a few kilometres before that. Take note. So we got off at the junction and climbed onto a sort of chainsaw with seats, cunningly disguised as a taxi by a sign to that effect and an old man sitting on top of the contraption shouting `llllaaaaaangmusssiiiiiiiiii'. Rode into town, which swiftly developed a wild west feel to it after the rodeo-stylee voyage into the village and went to the hotel I stayed in last time I was in the area. In need of fortification Ed and I hotfooted it to Lesha's Cafe where we downed several pies and plates of hot vegetables and tea, most of the noodle menu and half of the rice one. Now with fortifications roughly the size of Pingyao's, we stumbled up a little canyon (this is becoming a theme n'est pas? -ed) and looked at the rocks before stumbling back own, poking around a few temples and returning to Lesha's for some more pie. Lesha is a Hui Muslim who runs a fantastic restaurant with the capacity to hold about five people but regularly caters for up to twenty, such is her fame among travellers in Western China. Famous features include pie (hurrah!), catchphrase (`Too much yak' - often used in conjunction with blokes trying to prove their masculinity by overcoming the 'McYak Burger' a burger with dimensions not dissimilar to a stack of dinner plates, only with [you guessed it] a lot more yak) and now the 'Blowjob' card stuck in one of the picture frames, which I find provides a charming juxtaposition to the 'Intrepid Travel' business cards.

Got woken up early (the one four-wheeled vehicle that drives into Langmusi has a horn the size of Qinghai, ref. Map of China) and wandered around, up some more hills, made more meaningful relationships with two year-olds, who seem to know from birth that laowai only understand one form of communication (`HEEEELLLOOOO!') and ate more pie. We left for the junction where we waited for about two hours before a sleeper bus came along and requested that we cough up 200 RMB for a seat on the floor of their bus for four hours. So we laughed and sat back down on the verge to be even more thoroughly examined by the Tibetans waiting for the right bus, which came long four minutes later, charged 25 RMB and left for Zoige, overtaking the sleeper bus within two minutes of our boarding it. I, unfortunately was not able to witness this as my head was buried somewhere in the roof. The suspension in the back of the bus was somewhat hyperactive and Ed and I spent most of the four-hour journey bracing ourselves for re-entry.

Ed: The trip over was startling, alternating between Rhino's pass (Wrynose shurely? -ed) and vast grassland. We realised that about 50% of the enjoyment of our travels so far in the mountains had been devoted to staring out of the window in awe at the scenery. We even saw a vulture sitting by the road. It was about four feet tall and had a wingspan of about 6 feet, which is rather intimidating. The locals use vultures as part of their sky burial service, whereby dead Tibetans etc. are wrapped in prayer lavatory paper and left on the side of a hill to be pecked at by the vultures and either be a) flown to heaven by the majestic vulture or b) shat back to earth onto the traditional felt hat of someone out of favour with the heavens or c) shat back to earth because that is what vultures do, they aren't actually angels you silly Tibetan non�that's enough -ed). Nevertheless, it was rather bizarre to think that the vulture we saw was probably that big and healthy because it had been eating someone's grandma about five minutes earlier. Yak (yuk shurely? -ed)

Zoige [Wednesday]

They had caught the bus from Langmusi junction with us that lunchtime, and had decided that they would follow us around and see where the leadership would come from. Naturally this involved me getting annoyed and starting to do my Blum (my father) impression by going around shouting and telling people what to do. This form of leadership sort of worked in that the Norgies and Jo worked out the best plan to do whilst I was shouting and sweating, and when I got round to making a suggestion, they had already worked out what was best to do. In this case, it meant going back out to the main road near Zoige post lunch and trying to hitch a ride on a passing cotton truck. We didn't see any trucks that had room, but we did meet the sleeper bus again who said 100 RMB to get to Songpan. We declined and got a pair of pedlacabs (cyclorickshaws) back to town. So much for a good plan.

I think it was here that I really started to become affected by the altitude. Having been panting and sounding like someone slowly suffocating, I thought it would be a good idea to have a go at peddling the cycle cab thing. No. Bad idea. Not well. Must lie down. All very well, but I needed to go straight to bed after that, and waking up at five in the morning with a hangover from lack of oxygen in a sub-zero mountainous environment at only 75% atmospheric pressure was not much fun. However, it looked like it was going to be a clear day, and we had a much better suspension system on the bus to Songpan. Things were getting better, especially as the cold weather and darkness gave a sort of Chrismassyness to the whole place.

Songpan [Thursday]

Songpan is a horsetrekking town, i.e. there is nothing to do or see there unless you happen to feel the urge to go jogging up and down 1:1 hills for a few days. It did look really pleasant as we got off the bus. One of the blokes I went whorestrekking (horsetrekking shurely? Once more and you're fired -ed) with last year recognised me and we had a bit of a chat with him. As we walked off, all the good feelings and benevolence evaporated as in quick succession a little boy came up to us and said `Fuck You' and a taxicab driver spat at Ed (although I am convinced that he was spitting simply due to an sudden deluge of saliva.)

The hotel was nice, the twenty-eight kebabs were similarly nice, and the eight hours to Chengdu through gorges, around hairpin bends, along cliff-side roads and mountains was beautiful.