NEW YEAR, OLD CHINA

I was riding a bike in China, lost. A 50-foot-long blue and white dragon blocked traffic up ahead. “Man man zou,” yelled a smaller dragon dressed in a yellow jumpsuit. “Deng yi huier!” called a 7-foot ostrich. Not wanting the stilt-walking rooster with them to collar me, I did as commanded: went slowly and then stopped for a bit.

The calendar indicated it was Chinese New Year, or Spring Festival, as the Chinese call it. The most sacred of celebrations, it resembles America’s Christmas season in the sense that it’s a time for family get-togethers, a time to rest and reflect, a time to have fun. (This year it will be celebrated Jan. 28.) I had come here the year before on winter break from my home in bone-chilling Sichuan Province, where I was teaching English with the Peace Corps. For foreigners working or traveling in China, the holiday provides an opportunity to defrost and many head south to the 70-degree, blue-sky sunshine of Yunnan Province, bordering Vietnam, Laos and Myanmar (Burma).

Hip, expatriate students from Japan, Europe and North America bring their backpacks to Yunnan and bask under its sun. (Yunnan means “south of the clouds” in Mandarin.) This makes the province something like China’s answer to Florida during spring break. But the snowbirds avoiding the chilly clime of cities such as Beijing, about 1,100 miles to the northeast, are being joined by ever-increasing numbers of middle-aged nouveau riche Chinese who come to snap photos of the province’s incredibly diverse geography and demographics.

During my previous visit I had encountered so many foreigners that the area felt crowded. So this time I rented a mountain bike for a dollar from a local guest house and pedaled away from the backpacker mecca of Dali, which lies at the base of the 12,000-foot Cangshan Mountains. The road heading north lay flat, lined with verdant soybean fields, and my peripheral vision picked up both the snow-dusted peaks to my left and the turquoise shimmer of Lake Erhai to my right, while dead ahead gathered the dragons, an ostrich and a rooster.

It proved to be a parade organized by the Bai minority, a people whose history in this region reaches back to the 7th century, when they established a powerful kingdom that lasted into the 10th century, at one time controlling trade routes between China and India and Burma.

Yunnan, in fact, is home to more than one-third of China’s 55 ethnic minorities and one of the last places for visitors to see evidence of their presence. Assimilation into Han culture (the dominant ethnic group) is required throughout China, though in Yunnan, the provincial politicos seem to look the other way in order to maintain the colorful traditions that draw tourists.

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The result is a province within China, but not wholly of it, with a markedly different climate--one that’s so temperate, palm trees grow in profusion. It also has stunning geography (soaring mountains, plains and a rain forest) and the intellectual and sensory stimulation of varied religions, foods and languages.

As I watched from my bicycle perch on the road, the group of about 100 Bai prepared to march from the countryside into the hamlet of Dali. All were dressed in red or indigo scarves and papier-mache masks, and toted musical instruments and banners. With the drum sounding and the stilt-walkers taking their positions, several members of the entourage asked me to snap their photos, provided I mailed copies back. A few asked me to join them in their revelry, but not having any costume on hand I demurred. Then they struck up the band, fell into line and marched toward town, as late-model Toyotas zipped by on the road.

Back in Dali that afternoon, ducking off the cobblestone streets into one of the myriad cafes that have mushroomed there recently, it was hard to believe that the parade I had seen only a few miles out of town was real. Because in this tiny town, favored by both Chinese and foreign tourists for its ancient (although reconstructed) city walls, marched a different sort of parade: one dedicated to progress tied to tourism.

It had been only a year since my first visit, and the horse-drawn taxis still clip-clopped along. The three 9th century, 200-foot pagodas still stood watch. It still was necessary to carry your own roll of toilet paper into public restrooms.

But change wafted through the air as certain as the thick blanket of clouds that continually poured lakeward over the Cangshan range. The number of guest houses in town had grown from a couple to nearly 10. Cafes that just two years before only dotted the main street, Huguo Lu, now crowded it and spilled onto side streets. Overheard conversations revolved not only around the best places to hike but also which restaurant served the best pizza or chocolate cake. The grueling, two-hour uphill climb west of town to the Buddhist Zhonghe Temple could now be done via chairlift, courtesy of a Taiwanese investor.

Dali was still Dali, though, and an optimist would point to the uniformly low room rates due to an abundant supply--about $6 to $50 per night for rooms ranging from YMCA-like dorms to the heatless but otherwise Hilton-style hotel where I stayed, the Jinhua Bingguan on the corner of Huguo and Fuxing streets. There also was the bevy of hiking-supply and boat rental shops, the good selection of international paperbacks in restaurants and the increase in entrepreneurial, headdressed Bai women roaming the cafes barking, “Ganja! Ganja!” Marijuana, which grows naturally around town, is sold openly, although illegally, to backpackers. Tourists beware: The penalty in Yunnan for possession of even a small amount of marijuana can be time in jail.

But the relatively easygoing atmosphere may make Yunnan one of China’s last good frontiers for do-it-yourself tourism--a place where going it alone is possible, with a modest tourism infrastructure for support. Some hotel personnel and bus drivers speak English, but not all. (Taking a Chinese phrase book is advisable.) And the province is international enough that you can find cheeseburgers, nachos and English-speaking postal employees, especially in the capital city of Kunming, a 10-hour bus ride from Dali.

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But along with these positive changes for tourists inevitably comes the slipping away of some traditions. And after reflecting on the parade seen earlier in the day, the China-veteran realist in me wondered, for a moment, if the whole scene had been staged for the benefit of tourists.

Wanting to test the extent of the development, I boarded a bus the next morning for Ruili, the most southwestern town in Yunnan and, thus, in China.

The bumpy, two-day ride took me and 15 locals up stunning peaks, down twisting palm-lined dirt and paved roads, then up and down again and again.

Ruili is the kind of town you pull into and sigh, “Is this it?” Yet the dust you cough isn’t from an economic bust, but from construction heralding an economic boom. It’s tiny, with only one main strip. It’s lovely, with palms on one side and Burma near the other. And it’s hedonistic for China, meaning there’s rum, a large black market and an open-air disco/roller rink for teens. OK, in front of it stood a board featuring photos of that week’s executed drug-runners. But the kids ignored the display and their shrieks of “Heyyyy Macarena!” sliced the night.

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Following a three-mile bike ride to the Burmese border, I spent a day sitting at a snack stand, chatting with the shopkeeper, who had emigrated from central China to Ruili where the economy was better. I was content to watch, for a few hours, the evolving tableau. Chinese border guards, lounging under a sun umbrella, seemed disinterested in the wide-open international gates beckoning in tractor loads of Burmese, and the legions of Burmese cabbies and their Toyotas waiting on the other side of the border for fares. “Can I go?” I asked, motioning toward the gate.

“Sure,’ the shopkeeper replied. Then, surveying the land across the fence, which looked pretty similar to the land on our side, he added, “But why?”

As it turned out, the border cops weren’t at all nonchalant about allowing foreigners out: No visa, no Burma. But on a village riverbank, just a few miles away, a pair of young boys poling a 10-foot bamboo raft couldn’t be bothered with such formalities. They’d take me across the river to Myanmar and back for just 12 cents. The shopkeeper’s question rang in my ears, and I settled for the view.

Ruili is itself a kind of Chinese Tijuana with many of the mixed-metaphor signs of other border towns. Burmese sarongs were a more common sight than pants; flip-flops more apparent than loafers. Indian pop stars’ faces lined restaurant walls, and Burmese script flowed on menus and stall walls, as plentiful as Chinese.

Alongside the bazaar, where one could procure anything from cashews to ceiling fans, squatted a coffeehouse with enough characters to fill a novel. Strong doses of Nescafe mixed with condensed milk were served by teenage boys fresh from Myanmar to older Burmese men, most of whom were playing chess. During four days of chess playing, I was thoroughly whipped by a polite, English-speaking Burmese teen who told me he had come to Yunnan in search of freedom--a pretty subjective concept in southeast Asia. “Money” may have been a better translation, I suggested. No, he said, it was freedom.

My trip to the movies that night provided yet another example of local attitude. Our viewing of a pirated copy of “Broken Arrow” lasted a mere 10 minutes before the porno film “Beijing Bathhouse” clicked on, unannounced. No one except me seemed surprised.

Emerging from the steamy flick, I found myself on a darkened main street pulsating with karaoke stands; flower vendors and cafes serving up Thai fried noodles, rum-and-Cokes and fresh papaya, strawberry and pineapple shakes. At one joint, Green Jewel Cold Drinks, I bonded with the teenage cook because I identified the pouting face on his T-shirt as Kurt Cobain’s.

Ruili does have problems with its laissez faire attitude; the kind of problems you read about in such publications as the Economist, including drugs, prostitution and AIDS. The massage parlors seem to outnumber the 10,000 or so residents, and that porous border crossing means your bus will be stopped and searched more than once on your way out of town toward Myanmar. But nobody pushed anything harder than curry powder on me, and only the lure of another catch-it-while-you-can Yunnan destination could pull me away from the energy of sunny Ruili.

Two days later I was on a bus bound northwest for Lijiang, jumping-off point for Tiger Leaping Gorge. My driver would have none of it, though, and instructed me to get off in the middle of nowhere and hitchhike the remaining 40 miles because it would save me time. As it turned out, he was probably correct. An afternoon and a sunburn later, I made it to the town of Qiaotou.

There is only one bridge in town, and it leads to the entrance of one of the world’s deepest gorges: 12,870 feet, from river level to mountain top. That’s deep but it seems deeper, thanks to the narrowness of the jade-green Jinsha River crashing below and 18,000-foot Jade Dragon Snow Mountain looming in the background.

Walking through the gorge isn’t as easy as traipsing the Great Wall, but give Chinese tourism officials a few years and they’ll probably fix that. The pleasure of it now is that it takes two days of hearty walking, up and down, to complete the 24-mile walk through the gorge from Qiaotou to the town of Daju. But what your legs suffer, your spirit gains: two days of solitude far-removed from the go-go dance of modern China, 5,000 feet above a rumbling green river. In two days I walked up two summits, passed through two waterfalls and enjoyed the 20-home, two-hotel hamlet of Walnut Grove, just past the walk’s halfway point. (This year, though, travelers will need to double back at Walnut Grove. Rock slides and road construction prevent taking the full trip.)

Depending upon the source, Tiger Leaping Gorge derives its name from either a rock outcropping that resembles a tiger pouncing or a legend stating that a cat actually did make the jump. Lugging a couple gallons of water, sunscreen and food eight hours under a blistering sun felt like penance for trodding through such an exquisite site, but I hate to imagine what “improvements” next century’s tourists may experience. Currently, you trod a spindly horse trail that relies on yellow arrows painted on rocks every now and then to indicate the route. (There is a map available in Qiaotou, though one hiker correctly observed that a picture of the gorge on a pack of local cigarettes seemed more to scale.) Progress dictates easy access, however, so another road is being bulldozed. It will open the gorge to bus and truck traffic and close it to tranquillity.

That night in the gorge, after a hot shower using water boiled on a wood-burning stove, I watched a full moon shine on the granite V that pinched the stumbling river. The river whispered “Shhhhh,” and I knew it wasn’t staged.

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GUIDEBOOK

Understanding Yunnan

Getting there: Thai Airways flies between LAX and Kunming, China, with one change of planes in Bangkok. Or fly nonstop from LAX to Hong Kong on United Airlines or Cathay Pacific and change to CAAC (Civil Aviation Administration of China) or Dragonair airlines for the nonstop flight between Hong Kong and Kunming. Or fly nonstop between LAX and Guangzhou on CAAC and then change planes for Kunming. Advance-purchase, round-trip fares start at $1,717.

Yunnan Air and CAAC fly from Kunming to Dali, Lijiang and Mangshi (Ruili); about $80 round trip. Flights can be booked in China at any domestic airline office. For details on buses and taxis, check with the largest local hotels.

Where to stay: (All of the following hotels have staff that speak some English.)

In Kunming:

Holiday Inn, 25 Dongfeng Road East, Kunming; telephone (800) 465-4329. Upscale rooms, a travel service and an excellent American grill. Doubles from $125.

Kunhu Fandian, Beijing Road, north of Huancheng intersection, Kunming; tel. 011-86-871-3133737. Modest rooms, some with bath, some without. Doubles in the newly remodeled wing are a steal for $20, dorms go for $5, and the location near the backpacker cafes, and train and bus stations is convenient.

In Dali:

Jinhua Bingguan, corner of Huguo and Fuxing Lu, Dali; from the United States, tel. 011-86-872-2673343, fax 011-86-872-2670573. Upscale rooms in the heart of Dali near shops. Doubles from $40.

MCA Guesthouse, just outside the South Gate on Fuxing Lu, Dali. The locals know about this place but the guidebooks don’t. The rooms aren’t much and it’s necessary to trek outside to a shared restroom. But dorms are a dollar and doubles cost up to $10. And it has a swimming pool. (No telephone number available.)

No. 5 Guesthouse, Bo’ai Lu, Dali; tel. 011-86-872-2670382. The place for young people looking for noisy dorms and music. A buck for a bed, or up to $25 for a double.

In Ruili:

Mingrui Hotel, Nanmao Jie, Ruili. Shabby, but with a nice location near the bazaar, movie houses and good restaurants. The only place in town that rents bikes. Doubles with bath for $12. (No telephone number available.)

For more information: China National Tourist Office, 333 W. Broadway, Suite 201, Glendale, CA 91204; tel. (818) 545-7505 or (818) 545-7507.