Crossing state borders, and navigating tight country roads, the coach from Zhuhai to Yangshuo took seven sleepless hours. Stopping only for petrol, iced tea and oily gyozas, we drove into the moonlight, past huge rock formations that seemed to be suspended in the mist. We pulled into the town centre, humming with neon lights and souvenir shops still open at 2am. The buildings; flimsy flats with gazebos jutting out of their sides, were shadowed by the mountains. Huge lumps of rocks, covered with a tangle of trees and weeds, went unnoticed by the locals, as they guarded the town. I woke up with the market traders. The singing and bickering in Mandarin floated through the hostel windows. Outside, the fog hung low, making skin sweat and itch in the sweltering heat. Street shutters were flung open and food vendors roamed the pavements, piled high with mangoes, papaya and boiled corn. We drove north for another hour, to the Li Jing river. Slow, heavy droplets of rain fell from the overhanging clouds. Children danced through the puddles whilst we slipped off the bus and into our ponchos, delaying the inevitable process of getting soaked through. Walking down the slippery river banks, we were followed by muddy carts, top-heavy with dream catchers, jade stones and wooden figurines. Old women tried to sell their wares, one hand on their money, the other holding their grandchild. The queue for the river boat tour was well over an hour long, but once the engine revved along the marshy banks, I felt like I’d gone back in time. Scattered along the river were tiny communities, repairing their houses with jetsam, scrubbing their clothes with stones, and casting fishing lines into the dull water. Babies latched onto their mothers, while older children helped carry water to boil back to their leaning homes. The silence of the morning was broken only by large brown birds diving for their first meal. The river boat cut its engine, and we now floated along, following the tide, bumping from bank to bank. The water swirled us around, while our captain was guided by the mountains. The huge chunks of stone seemed to be stacked on top of one another. Tonnes of the thick, grey rock had been eroded away, worn down by the river as it meandered over thousands of years. The clouds remained low in the sunless sky, hissing as the humidity burnt on the skin of the river. After the boat pulled back into the narrow jetty, we were led up through the market town at Li Jing. Paving stones were shielded by burgundy and cream striped canopies, dirtied by the rain which fell in fat droplets. Exposed brick walls were adorned with red and gold tapestries, brandishing dragons and calligraphy. Cafes spilled out onto slim passageways. The stench of roasted duck’s legs and ripe mangoes oozed into the stagnant air; candied, sticky and overpowering. Men in plastic flip-flops sat outside, the rain water rushing over their toes as they waited for customers. I dived out of the rain into a low-ceilinged restaurant, and sat at the bar to eat a meal of rice and honeyed tofu. The menu was laminated and worn away in parts. On the counter were jars of spirits with ladles poking out for the server. In one, a dead male python was immortalised in the liquor, ‘to rid bad spirits’ it was explained to me. Back near the hostel, the town had transformed into a night market. Fish on sticks were passed over the crowd, and flies buzzed closely behind, landing on the salty batter, getting slapped away by the hungry tourists. The crowd spilled across the winding streets, welcoming the persistent rain that washed away the sweat and dirt. Rickshaws beeped in and out of the huddles of bodies, swerving along the uneven pathways, and running over broken umbrellas. I hopped onto one, and watched the flashing lights blink in the drizzle as the crowds parted before us. Reaching the town edge, we slowed down, and I jumped off next to the wooden hostel door. The busy town became a whisper, and as I looked up at the mountains, they stared back silently.