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As I yanked my thigh unstuck from Jack’s leg, even Madonna’s ‘Virgin’ blaring through the little karaoke box in the front of the minibus couldn’t ease the frustration that built with the heat. Everyone had stopped singing 4 hours before and all we could still see was, greenery. Life ceased to exist as the green slopes of the tea plantations swept by and the promise of a wonderful three-day escape to the Fujian tea plantations seemed a tedious stopgap in comparison to the grandeur of Shanghai and the bustle of Xian. I breathed in hard and let the thick air stifle my nose and then pushed it out harder and shut my eyes, just to let everyone know that even I, I who continually prided myself on loving long journeys, was fed up of this one. I awoke from the bumping of shoulders as the minibus jiggled across the dirt track to the entrance of the hostel. A hostel that looked nothing like a hostel really, more like an amphitheater with tiny windows like the boxes of a Sudoku. But there were no tiny people peeping out, or walking around, or any life at all. Apart from another strange amphitheater settled lower into the engulfing tea plantation and its unintentional steps that looked like the ripples of water. Almost as though if you pressed play on a remote control, the ripples of green would cover the round building and no one would ever know it had been there. Our driver told us to knock on the door and said he would be back in three days and as he swung himself up and into the drivers seat once more, he shouted ‘oh and don’t buy too much’. And with a giggle, he left. I rolled my eyes at jack, us both naturally assuming he was being sarcastic about this weird and seemingly lifeless little place. But the door opened and as we piled in, a very unexpected scene unfolded. Small silk dressed women, with charmingly lined skin, indicating every smile and every sadness, piled bags of tea into our arms as we all laughed at the unusual hostel greeting. With mountains of clear plastic bags already bursting at the seams, full of fragrant tea leafs that were inevitably going to be purchased, one of the women guided us to seats positioned around tiny carved wooden tables, perfectly laid with doilies and silk tablecloths. With delicate hands, she poured cup after cup of warming teas, waiting for us to laugh and shake our heads or smile with approval to gage our delight, or dislike. With our bladders full and thirst quenched, we paid for our new and plentiful purchases and considered the starting up of a new teashop back in England, as lady number two was already greeting us with a smile that could not be ignored, ready to repeat the process all over again. The only difference this time, being the colour of her admirable silk garment, which stood out like fire to a match compared to our khaki and worn backpacker attire. There was a comfort knowing that every silk laden lady, every child we passed, and even every wandering chicken, was part of the same family. This roundhouse was home to one extended family and they were welcoming us. We weren’t staying in a hostel; we were staying in a home. The children darted from one another along the wooden balconies, eyes locked constantly as there were no corners to hide around, just ongoing houses side by side in a cyclical formation; no start and no finish, no house grander or smaller, all identical. When the stifling mini bus chugged back along the bending and silent road three days later, I didn’t close my eyes this time. From above, the houses appeared to be similar to the rings of smoke one can blow with the rounding of their lips and as the bus climbed, lucky wells decorated with charms and richly coloured silk ribbons were the only indication of the hidden happiness below.