Here, there and everywhere else

As the old city of Dali fades into the distance, the land surrounding ear-shaped Lake Erhai becomes occupied by rice paddies and the small local communities which tend them. Seeking to explore one of these, I follow a rain saturated road, as pock-marked as a craggy old grandmother, which deposits me in the middle of a bustling fishing village.

White washed buildings, whose plasters depict both hand painted frescoes and spattered mud coats, crowd close along cobbled laneways, rife with activity and interest. Their curved roofs, whose tiles are grassed over and in disarray, point towards the surrounding hillsides, where the ghostly forms of graves are set into the slopes like tiny windows into another world.

A gaggle of women in the traditional blue smocks of the Bai minority heft handmade baskets over their shoulders. Tied neatly closed with strips of coloured cloth, the huge hand-made containers dwarf their owners, who natter enthusiastically as they pass through town.

Through an intricate gateway, a square plays host to a collection of older gentlemen in dusty Mao era uniforms. Beneath the snapping pennants of prayer flags, they gather around a table, their hawk-like stares fixated on the painted wooden discs occupying a chess board. Each holds a pipe in their hand and puffs away on it whilst discussing outcomes.

Food vendors also occupy the square, their wares laid out randomly on heavy cloth mats. The deep red of hundreds of chilli's, the warm orange of miniature pumpkins and the vibrant yellows of drying sunflowers tempt both the eye and the camera lens.

Along the main street, an elderly woman sits alone in a doorway, her straw hat resting on a shrub beside her. The many lines of her weathered visage suggest a lifetime of work in the fields yet she sits there with poise and grace. I offer her a smile as I pass to which she flashes me the biggest grin I have ever seen, her eyes twinkling with surprising vitality.

I follow a lane towards the water, the cobblestones losing a battle to contain the grasses beneath them. The distinct metallic scent of dye permeates the air here, and as the scent grows stronger still, I notice materials, the colour of moonless midnight, hanging to dry from wooden archways. Beneath them, a vast cauldron of inky blue liquid is being worked by a young girl, her bare arms stained to the elbows.

Closer to the lake, a pair of farmers work in unison to try and dislodge a donkey who has decided that nibbling at the gigantic mound of grasses tied to his back is preferable to returning to his stable.

I reach the waterfront and sit for a while , as tiny fishing skiffs split the mirror-like surface, rows of cormorants upon their bows. I feel saddened to leave this place of such simple beauty yet know it has given me new perspectives. Whilst my own existence is vastly different, I feel happy knowing this place exists.