“Hang on tight” gestured the rosy-cheeked woman who was about to give me my first-ever ride on a rope bridge over a river. I clutched the rope that attached me to a harness with one hand and swung my other hand around her waist. She pushed us off a rocky ledge and we were hurtling over the foaming waters below, propelled by nothing more than the force of gravity and a pulley set on a thin steel cable.
We crossed the canyon in less than five seconds, but my heart kept pounding for minutes afterwards from the adrenaline rush. I had spent a week in the Nujiang Valley marveling over the majestic scenery and wandering around ethnic markets, but flying across the steep canyon was, without a doubt, the highlight of my journey up the raging river.
In Chinese, nu means ‘raging’ or ‘angry’ and jiang means ‘river’, and the name seems entirely appropriate given the river’s thunderous persona. It begins life in Tibet and flows on from China through Myanmar as the Salween River. During its precipitous descent through Yunnan, it roars over rapids and surges through narrow canyons. Its current is far too strong for swimmers or boats of any description, so while it provides irrigation for the valley’s inhabitants, it also commands respect for its power.
I began my journey in Liuku, the capital of Nujiang Prefecture, from where I headed north up the valley, passing two other sizeable towns, Fugong and Gongshan, before rolling into Bingzhongluo, a one-street town just a short distance from the Tibetan border.
During the ride, I craned my neck upward to glimpse the rugged peaks of the Gaoligong Mountains to the west and the Biluo Mountains to the east then looked down with a gasp at the churning river crashing over boulders. For most of the valley’s length, the mountain slopes pitch down at a steep angle to the river, making landslides an ever-present danger. By chance, I had arrived during the rice-planting season, and in small pockets of comparatively flat land, gaily dressed villagers were bent over, transforming the ingeniously constructed rice terraces into a patchwork of greens.
In Bingzhongluo, I was attracted by the sight of distant slow-clad peaks, so I set off up a path to the west of town, passing stone and log houses with tidy gardens, then past prayer flags fluttering on a promontory, until I reached a dirt road that followed the mountain’s contour high above town. I took several shots of the imposing, snow-capped mountains then clambered down a steep track back into town.
Just south of Bingzhongluo, the Nu River twists around a couple of dramatic U-bends, the second of which has become an icon for the Nujiang Valley. A few stone houses and neat fields of crops occupy the inner bend, while the river sweeps by and mountains rise behind to magnificent, snow-dusted peaks. A roadside viewpoint allows passers-by to pause and take in this breathtaking scene.
The dramatic scenery of the Nujiang Valley would be reason enough for any nature lover to venture there, but the presence of hospitable ethnic groups who dress in wild outfits makes the region even more appealing. Locals put on a traditional dress on market days, which provide people from outlying villages with the chance to stock up on supplies and catch up on all the latest gossip.
My first impression of the Fugong market was that it was forgettable. But as I delved deeper, I came across rough-hewn crossbows and quivers made of animal skins, as well as deer hooves, flying squirrel carcasses and dried snakes. Then I spotted a group of Lisu women dressed in the traditional outfit of a long, flowing skirt, brightly colored jacket and head-dress of red and white beads. They were sifting through embroidered panels, strings of beads and shoulder bags, looking for accessories to complement their already striking appearance.
In the following days, I visited the markets at nearby Lishadi and Lumadeng, and was met by a succession of endearing sights: children comparing their newly purchased toys; mothers buying flouncy dresses for their daughters; teenagers walking around with cuddly dolls they had won at a coconut shy; villagers scrutinizing piglets and ducklings to take back to the farm; vendors of medicinal herbs doling out packets of potions; and young men checking out the sights on a crossbow to see if its aim was true.
On leaving Lumadeng market, I hopped in one of the three-wheelers that provide transport for locals and went a few kilometers upriver to the rope bridge at Majadi, where foreigners were permitted to cross over the stream. Though there are several bridges along the river’s length, rope bridges provide a quicker, if risky, way of crossing the river in remote areas. The riverbanks at Majadi were connected by two steel cables set in cement bases, and each cable dipped at a slight angle to allow gravity to carry riders to the other side.
Locals used nothing more than a couple of straps tied to a big hook beneath a pulley, but I was provided with a wicker harness in which to sit, tethered by ropes to the hook. The rosy-cheeked woman who offered to take me across held a fistful of ferns in one hand to prevent burning her palm as she grasped the cable during the crossing. We zipped across the gaping void, but then my extra weight brought us to a terrifying halt just before we had cleared the river. Fortunately, she dragged us hand over hand along the cable to the safety of the ledge on the riverbank while I tried to avoid looking down at the raging torrent below.
Before arriving at Majadi, I had wondered whether I would pluck up the courage to risk riding the rope bridge, but as soon as we touched down on the west bank, I couldn’t wait for the return ride. I clung fiercely to the ropes and my escort’s waist as she pushed us back into thin air, then lay with a petrified grin on my face as we flashed over the river again.