Spices of Life in Sichuan

an you trust a man who wears flared trousers? We didn't expect this to be an important question on the New Long March, but it was hotly debated on the Red Army trail all the way down to the very small town of Jiuba, Guizhou. We had thought Jiuba might be too tiny to have a guesthouse or even anywhere to eat, and so we were wondering how the locals would react to us when we showed up begging for food and lodging. Then around the corner came a flamboyant young hairdresser named Xiong Gang.

Yes, he said, there's a place you can stay in Jiuba. Andy tried a harder question. Is there an Internet bar? Oh, yes, said Xiong. We're had enough false dawns on this journey not to get carried away by answers like this. Look at those trousers, said Ed after Xiong had departed; can you really believe anything that guy says?

We reached Jiuba about half an hour later. Where's the guesthouse, we asked a young man outside the primary school? There isn't one, he said. Well, we didn't believe that, either. The next person we asked sent us down a side-street, where we were surrounded by a crowd of about 30 onlookers. 'Could anyone help us find the guesthouse?' Ed asked. 'It's that way,'said a middle-aged woman, gesturing toward nothing in particular.

'Um, could anyone actually show us, or at least give some detailed directions?' Ed asked. A toothless character made a comment from the back of the crowd. Everyone had a good laugh. Ed took a deep breath. 'Could anyone help us find the guesthouse?' he asked. Silence. 'Could anyone ...

And then around the corner came Xiong Gang, flares flapping. 'Oh, it's you, hello,'he said. 'Come with me. I'll show you where the guesthouse is.' Not only did he do so, he also introduced us to the boss, then showed us a little place where we could have dinner. Xiong sat with us while we ate. He was 24, and had worked a couple of years in a factory in Guangdong before coming home to try his hand at the hairdressing business. He was a mild-mannered, courteous young man, and he helped us out of a spot without any particular reason to do so. We promised never to judge anyone by their trousers again. He was wrong about the Internet bar, though. Moving west from Jiuba, contrasts and conflicts multiplied as the roads vanished into mud, and mountains became too steep even for rice terraces. On the border between Guizhou and Sichuan, a group of goatherds showed us the narrow track that leads up to the village of Longba and along which the Reds fled from the battle of Qinggangpo.

As we crested the ridge at the top of that particular mudslide, we found a spectacle that, in other circumstances, would have stopped us in wonder - twin waterfalls, the highest at least 100 meters. As it was, the sun was setting and we needed a place to sleep. All day, villagers had been offering us food and shelter. Here at dusk on our first night in Sichuan, we arrived at the courtyard of a large, well-lit building. We knocked at the open doorway, through which we could see a fire and a row of thermos flasks.

The man of the house, a 30-something farmer, appeared. 'There's plenty of other houses down that way in Longba, he told us. "Why don't you go and stay there? 'But it's getting dark,' said Ed. 'If we can't stay here, could you at least show us the way? He made a familiar wave, into the air. 'That way, only 10 minutes.' 'How can we find it in the dark? Won't you help us?' Silence. Andy took charge. 'Well, it's too late now,' he said. 'We'll just put our tent up here in your courtyard. We won't bother you. Is that OK?' Silence. And so we pitched camp and cooked dinner.

Some young men from Longba popped by. They took turns leaving the warm hearth of our host to supervise proceedings. One pointed at our tent. 'It's raining,' he observed. 'Won't it be cold in there?' Yes, we said. Thus fully briefed on our situation, our friend returned home, rubbing his hands to keep the chill at bay. Time and again on the New Long March, our attitude to a place is decided by the behavior of just one or two people.

Three hours below Longba the next morning, we finally reached a road, itself little more than a dirt track that had only been put through in 1987, according to a young man named Zhao Fuping. We had reached the village of Shashan, a couple of kilometers outside the one-street town of Huangjing, and were taking some photos of a stone bridge that bore the name 'Hong Jun Qiao' Red Army Bridge.

Zhao stopped to chat and explained how the villagers had clubbed together to build the bridge after the old wooden one had rotted away. While we were talking, Luo Zezhong, 78, emerged from the house by the bridge. He was excited to have visitors and recalled how as an eight-year-old he had seen the Reds descend from the hills and cross that very wooden bridge, beside the house where he was born and still lives.

'Come in and have a cup of tea,' Luo said. Through spontaneous friendship and hospitality, Luo and Zhao made us feel Shashan was a fine village inhabited by fine people. How easy it would have been to come away with the opposite impression of the town of Deyao, where we arrived the next day on Spring Festival Eve. Darkness had just fallen and children filled the streets, lighting firecrackers and throwing them at each other. Adults paid no attention, except those that were selling the kids fireworks.
Andy said he used to think Beijing's firework ban was a killjoy, but having seen parents total disregard for the welfare of their own children, he now thinks fireworks should be banned all over the country. Anyway, that's by the by. We found a guesthouse and knocked on the door. The boss opened up and said: 'Go away.' Huh? 'You can't stay here.' Ed goggled. 'It's Spring Festival Eve, where are we supposed to go?' 'Go somewhere else. You can't stay here.' 'What's your name? Ed asked. The effect of this simple question can be amazing. 'Mr Wang' apologized. He still wouldn't let us stay, though.

'Did you see those turn-ups ...?' muttered Andy. Things were looking bad for Deyao. We walked along the main street and found another guesthouse, its doors also shut. We knocked, entered and asked if the family - who were settled down watching the Spring Festival TV special - could put us up for the night. Of course. Come in. Would you like some buckets of hot water to wash your feet and faces? Cup of tea? A few minutes later, Su Wei arrived. Our friend had come all the way from Beijing in the morning, finally hiring a car in the county town of Xuyong to make it the final 40 kilometers to meet us.

The Zhao family welcomed her, too, arranged a room and then led us to a small restaurant where we ate what passes for jiaozi dumplings in these southern parts. Deyao was redeemed. But of course, we shouldn't be jumping to conclusions either way. It seems, however, that we're all somehow programmed to do so. It's amazing how one person can colour attitudes to a village, a town, a whole province even.

'That's Sichuan people for you,' remarked one friend-from Henan - after hearing the tent story. As the first foreigners many people on the Long March route have seen, we worry that our behavior will dictate their impression of all foreigners. We don't exactly relish the role of ambassador for more than a billion people, especially first thing in the morning.

The next day, the first day of the Year of the Goat, Su Wei joined us for the 40-kilometer hike to Xuyong. About 10 kilometers along the road, we passed through the ugly Miao minority town of Jianzhu, where we called into a shop to buy some drinks. Ed chose a bottle of Future Lemon, 2.5 yuan down your local supermarket. 'Yhat'lll be five yuan,' said the shopkeeper. 'Happy New Year,' said Ed, deciding he'd stay thirsty.

We reached the town of Zhendong around two and stopped for a late lunch at the Shiqiao Restaurant. The family that ran the place seemed a bit bemused by our arrival, but recovered to treat us in courteous fashion and feed us quite well. Mindful of earlier experiences, however, before it came time to ask for the bill we placed bets with each other about the 'Spring Festival supplement'.

Restaurant boss Qin Jihong approached. 'Oh,I couldn't possibly take any money,' he said. 'It's Spring Festival. Welcome to our little town. Let's make friends and do you mind if we take a photo?' Ed studied his shoes. Andy blushed. It's a great place, this Zhendong. Wonderful peope ...