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China's "Kingdom of Women"

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Entering the Kingdom

By Cynthia Barnes
Posted Tuesday, Nov. 14, 2006, at 12:06 PM ET

Kunming, ChinaKUNMING, China—The Victorians traveled the world with crumpled letters of introduction, and the Internet has revived that charming tradition.

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I need a translator for the Mosuo villages, preferably a female, and I know exactly one person in China. Fortunately, that person is Peter Hessler, author of River Town and Oracle Bones. (He grew up in my hometown before becoming The New Yorker's man in Beijing.) Peter sends an e-mail to his friend Mike, who sends one to Anna, who introduces me to Daniel, who fixes me up with Candy.

Candy's 21, just graduating from university, and as sweet as her name. She belongs to the Jingpo ethnic minority and tells me about her village on the Burmese border. "Everyone knows our town. We are very famous for drugs."

She's also a Communist Party member, so I'm being escorted by a woman of authority. "I didn't want to join, but my teachers insisted," she confides. "I hate meetings. They are so boring. Blah, blah, blah." She also hates math and must retake her English examinations, having flunked despite phenomenal fluency. "Studying is so boring. I like to be outside, having fun. Hey, do you like really spicy food?" Already, we are sisters.

Green Lake's an oasis in the bustle of Kunming. I relax after lunch while Candy runs an errand. Two tiny wizened ladies stare and then walk over, gesturing at my Egyptian earrings. I think they're complimenting them, so I say "ni hao"(hello) and "xiexie" (thank you), and finally hand them over for inspection.

Candy returns. "They wanted to give you a banana, but they were afraid you wouldn't want it. And they say you have a pretty smile but you should know better than to hand your jewelry to strangers."

We eat small, sweet bananas in the sunshine while the grandmothers continue their questioning. Forty-one. America. Children? I knew I forgot to do something.

Cynthia and Candy board the train.Morning finds us on a 9 a.m. train. A reserved young couple sits opposite, and for the first hour or so they don't speak. Then the Sock Man shows up. He's wearing an official-looking uniform of blue shirt and pants. His voice is loud and authoritative. "Does he want to see my passport?"

Candy laughs. "He's selling socks."

But not just any socks. He is, as he proudly informs our car, a man. He does not need to sell socks. No, he is selling these socks on the train because they are the best. He certainly doesn't have to sell them, but we are among the few lucky enough to be offered this quality hosiery. Good for your feet. Don't smell. And only 10 yuan! As we all know, you can't even buy a decent pack of cigarettes for 10 yuan!

The Sock Man has broken the ice, and we become friendly with our seatmates. The girl looks like a student, with her blue-and-white acrylic nails and a glitter T. She's a policewoman. Although I've stressed that I'm an incognito journalist, traveling on a tourist visa, Candy tells her that I'm writing travel articles for American magazines. Houston, we may have a problem. But the fashionable cop seems unconcerned and opens a plastic bag crammed with goodies. The bag is all too familiar. "Everyday Low Prices."

"Wal-Mart?!? You have Wal-Mart here?"

"Oh, yeah. There are two in Kunming. One of them is the most profitable in China."

The train climbs higher. I begin to count tunnels, but there are so many I lose track. The landscape is arid, but large yellow flowers bloom in the brown fields. One of the flowers stands up. They are people, squatting beneath bright straw hats.

Noodles for lunchWe eat for seven hours: puckery preserved plums, spicy shrimp fries. Carts roll by selling watermelon and soup. I pull out pumpkin seeds. Glitter Cop passes around thin slices of something tasty. "Beef." After I've demolished four or five slices, Candy shows me the blue vein on her inner arm. "This part. It carries the blood." It's good. I keep chewing.

We arrive in Dali and are immediately hustled onto a minibus that promises delivery to Lijiang in three hours. "Maybe they fixed the road," Candy puzzles. "The last time it took five."

This mystery is solved when our driver squeals onto the highway. Elvis has a sneering contempt for other cars and an abiding affection for his horn and for passing on blind curves. Every vehicle, no matter how far in the distance, is an affront to his mother, his manhood, his musical legacy. Somehow, we survive to Lijiang.

The old quarter of Lijiang is beautiful, its graceful architecture and clear canals accented by the grandly named Jade Dragon Snow Mountain. A UNESCO World Heritage site, it's authentic in the way that Colonial Williamsburg would be authentic if it had been completely rebuilt 10 years ago. (Much of the city was destroyed by a 1996 earthquake.) Three million visitors crowd into this ethnic Disneyland every year, drawn by one of the few places in China where the architectural past has been preserved. A tiny Naxi woman leads us to a guestroom in her home, where two clean beds and hot water cost 50 yuan—less than $6. We spend a few moments on the tour-group-choked stone streets, grab a bad meal, and collapse for the night.

A healthy breakfastFortified with a breakfast of Oreos and Orion (Moon) pies, we board another minibus early the next morning, grabbing window seats in the back. There are plenty of empty spaces, but a woman with immaculate clothes and a snooty expression appropriates the spot between us. It's a move she will come to regret.

Today's driver is no Elvis. Elvin has, perhaps, never seen a motor vehicle, let alone driven one. We swerve sloppily around countless hairpin turns, passed at every opportunity by tour buses and cement trucks. Elvin tries and fails to overtake a small van. We passengers all cluck softly at his lack of cojones. For God's sake, be a man! Use that horn!

The scenery more than compensates for the chauffeur. It's not often that I'm struck dumb, but each ridge and valley is more amazing than the last, towering cliffs coated with evergreens and tree-sized azaleas. My mouth hangs open. The tourists look bored. Then Candy tosses her cookies.

I'm in my line of work because I don't suffer from jet lag, motion sickness, or hangovers, and today is no exception. While I've been gaping, my new sister has been quietly turning green. She erupts all over the woman between us. Elvin doesn't stop, but other passengers hand wet wipes and water bottles. I help Candy's victim rinse puke off her pants and offer mints and consolation to my tearful translator. "It's OK. It's not your fault."

The next time, she's able to make it to the front of the bus, and Elvin stops just in time. We're approaching the Lugu Lake area. The women working in the fields are in native dress, so apparently the costumes aren't solely for tourists. Two girls in a rice paddy are taking pictures of one another with a cell phone. This sight relieves my Western techno-guilt, so I use mine to check sports scores on ESPN Mobile.

We finally reach the kingdom of womenThere's a checkpoint at the road, with guards charging 70 yuan—$9—per person for tourist passes. Elvin stops at the first scenic overlook and everyone troops off for photos. The lake the Mosuo call "Mother" glows sapphire in the sunlight, surrounded by mountains covered in evergreens and azaleas. It makes Tahoe look like Terre Haute.

We have entered the kingdom of women.

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