The China Journal - Day 20

The small van comes to a sudden halt and there is a flurry of frantic movement from the back row as the three Tibetans squashed into a space built for one begin shouting excitedly.

The driver abruptly opens the sliding door and we all scramble out. I glance at the raging river that runs parallel to the road and I quickly come to understand the source of the confusion: a yellow chicken feed sack, the contents of which are the life possessions of one of the men travelling with us, bobs up and down as it is carried violently downstream.

The three Tibetans and I race down the road in the desperate hope that the bag might be tossed close enough to the shore for us to reach it. After a short distance, it becomes lodged between two rocks, however, the depth and current of the river between it and the shoreline makes it impossible to reach. Just beyond the outcrop of rocks where the sack has found its new home, however, is a diverted stream whose shallow depth would make it possible to cross.

I spot a stone bridge about 100 metres up-river, so myself and one of the others make a run for it. The Tibetan wades through the glacial stream and hoists the sack, which I later discover weighs more than me, back to the shore. After we get the sack back to the main road, one of the men frantically sorts through the water-logged contents and pulls out a carton of cigarettes, removes the individual packs from the damp packaging, and shoves them into his friend's jacket pockets.



Thirty kilometres from Tagong, we sit in a small restaurant waiting for our bowls of noodles. Two middle-aged men stroke the hair on my arm and leg, fascinated by its alien texture. I stare at the two Lauras in abject horror, but they only laugh in response.