A few weeks ago I decided to dig blindly, knowing no more about the red country than The Great Wall, Mao, rice and ni hao. I was immediately pulled down by China’s force and popped-up in the antipodes of South America. Just me, my backpack and no planned itinerary whatsoever.

I landed in Chengdu’s gray and silent winter, and the culture (or rather, language) shock began. Chendu proved to be an extra-large city: a place where the buildings are square and huge, the sidewalks are five times wider and the dishes are as big as a vinyl record. I got lost too many times, couldn’t find any bus stop, had to ask for directions using sign language, almost cried in despair, ordered food blindly (the menus were in Mandarin and with no pictures) and felt ecstatic at one minute and very frustrated the next. Chengdu’s immutable routine told me it was time to keep moving, so I took the bus to Kangding, a small Tibetan town in the mountains.

Suddenly, the colors reappeared: the red, yellow, blue, green flags fluttered in the cold air; traditional Tibetan paintings decorated the streets; dozens of men and women danced silently at night following an invisible leader in the main square of town. Even though I was in a place that could be walked around by foot, I still felt lost among millions of Mandarin speakers.

While I was trying, without success, to buy a ticket at the bus station, she appeared: Eva, a Chinese girl who helped me decipher the characters from the timetable and invited me for noodles and porridge. Later we met her mother and a friend who spoke excitedly and asked me questions in Mandarin and I laughed and shook my head, feeling happy and helpless at the same time. It was the first un-conversation of many more to come in China.

A few minutes later we arrived at their bright, wooden apartment to have dinner. In front of me, a bowl full of colorful candy and cereal asked me silently to devour it. Meanwhile, the rice was being heated in the living room and we continued the un-conversation sharing cups of tea as if old friends. Eva’s grandma, a small, rugged and charming 80-year-old woman asked me many questions, perhaps expecting my Mandarin answers, which never came.

Eva told me that they all belonged to the Yi minority. Unbelievable. I asked permission to take pictures and as soon as the grandma saw my camera, she ran into her room. I thought, sadly, that she didn’t want to be photographed. I was wrong: she returned dressed in her traditional clothing and posed. When I left they begged me to visit them again and to send them the pictures.

I walked away feeling that, even if I was in a country where language was a barrier, real human connection doesn’t always need words.