Burma was cool...

They might as well build a fence... My adventure across Sino-Burmese border was more of an accident than anything else. "Zhe shi Zhongguo ba?" A smirk appeared on my Wazu guide's face. I pointed at the ground again, having had some idea of the general direction which we drove and then hiked - West - "Zhe shi Zhongguo ba? Mian dian zai na li?"

Might as well not have asked. He didn't say it specifically, but we were in Burma.

Here there was a massacre, a war, and the ancient ruins of a Lafuzu temple. I had no clear understanding of where we were. West of Laoxianchen - that's about all I know. Up a dirt road, up a hidden mountain path, over a rock wall (shown above), and into Burma. Simple. Not many foriegners come to this place. Hardly anyone outside of Ximeng has heard of it.

The shuiniu, or water buffalo, lined the road, lead by men holding large crossbows. The men had small, brightly colored satchels over their shoulders. I would see more of these people later - in an area where Chinese wasn't standard, where they spoke the old languages.

The baskets is where the men would put the heads. The Wazu most highly valued men with beards. Sikhs were prized for their beards. These non-Chinese trans-national minority represent Southwest China for what it once was. In Ximeng, outside of the inaugural city, destined for a great future they said, now in shambles, China doesn't exist.

People exist.

We went to this village before Burma. They offered me beer at 11:30 in the morning, I remember looking at my watch. The men were chopping meat, a recently slaughtered pig. Two men were washing out pig intestines while shoo-ing away the hungry bush chickens.

One old man was shaving mugua, at least that is what they called it. I asked a young man next to him about the baskets - already knowing what they were. As I asked in Chinese and pointed across the field, the old man remembered, he looked up at me and roared a dirty, short laugh. He remembered.

Nine baskets in total, each at one point in their history erected for the fulfilled purpose of holding a human head. This man remembered.

Today, I Found China

The group went clubbing the night before. I am just not one for massive amounts of beer, cigarettes, and dancing. I simply tagged along in hopes of meeting a few Chinese students. The experience was overwhelming.

We entered the club only to find it packed. We were all crowded into one corner. Eventually all twenty-two of us were tightly fitted into one section of the bar.

A rather eccentric college-aged Chinese man sat next to us. His hair exploded out of a bun into the air. His shirt was opened down to his stomach and he wore a long silver chain around his neck which followed the curve of his plaid shirt. Twenty-five beers and a platter of fruit sat on his table.

He was absolutely uninterested in any of us waiguo ren, completely unamused. I think all I did was try and figure out, through observation, who he was the entire hour I was there. At first I thought he was some loner. I later realized the twenty-five beers at his table, which he didn't pay for, were not for him, but the club staff.

He was systematically getting the staff and the dancing girls drunk. He was the owner.

I have never been in a more Western, or maybe even Chinese, place in my life. The lasers and lights danced across moving bodies, and dancing girls; the light shot through the smoke with strength. The beat of the music made one's heart strike out of sequence.

I tried to have a beer but ended up leaving instead. It was surreal.

Apparently not a single soul in Kunming has heard of Kunming Minzu Daxue, not even the most experienced of taxi drivers. With extremely broken Chinese I tried my hardest to communicate with the taxi driver about where exactly it was that I was going.

Wo yao qu Kunming Minzu Daxue. Ni zhidao zai na li?

From there my experience began. The taxi driver had no idea what I was talking about - or at least where I was trying to go. After lots of apologies, telling him "Cong zher wo keyi zou," lots of laughter, and a cell phone call, we arrived. It was awesome.

I got home, or at least to my dormitory, around midnight. The rest of the group got back around 3AM.

The next morning I woke up around 9:45AM. I waited for a few of the others to get up. At about 11:00 AM, after an ice cream bar and a bicycle repair, two others and I left for the Bamboo Temple, a 12 kilometer ride.

Our bikes were small, rusty, and entirely broken, but they sufficed. A few free repairs were needed along the way.

After about 45 minutes we came to a local market. Fresh meat and vegetables washed in the local stream lined the street. Up the hill, along the street, and through the gate we went. We were stopped by a road block, blocking the entrance to a small village. We stopped for water and to use the bathroom.

Outside the guard post five old men were playing board games. The three of us looked around as we caught our breath. We turned around and got off our bikes. A faded slogan was visible, "The writings of Chairman Mao" adorned the wall behind the guard post.

The entrance opened up onto a square where children were playing. The ruins of some originally well tiled complex lay in the middle of the square. The ruin had been there for some time.

Our guess, based on the size, was that it was either a former Communist Party outpost or a small temple. "This is China," we all said almost simultaneously.