Upon returning to Beijing, we convened the Second Congress of the Petersburg Party Representatives at the time-honored establishment, "Meiwei Zhai." After the Fatty devoured three plates of Shanghai-style Sizzling Prawns, the meeting smoothly passed the resolution to head south to Yunnan for a dao dou (tomb raiding).

The Fatty wiped the oil from his mouth and said to me, "I tell you, Old Hu, Yunnan is a fine place. That bit about the golden-threaded bird flying down from the heavens really got to me back then. I've long wanted to go meet those ethnic minority maidens whose hearts burn with the flames of passionate love."

I told him, "Yunnan isn't as great as you imagine, and not every ethnic minority maiden is a peacock. Frankly, I didn't see many decent ones when I went before. Back then, our unit was deployed near the border at the foot of Laojun Mountain for a month of live-fire drills. That area was the junction of the autonomous prefectures of the Hani, Yi, and Zhuang peoples—so many different groups, and they looked pretty much the same as the Vietnamese, in my opinion. All that talk about the Five Golden Flowers or Ashima—that's just artistic license from movies and TV. You can't take it seriously. Don't build up your hopes too much, or you'll be severely disappointed."

Da Jinya chimed in, "How so, Master Hu? The place you went was probably some remote mountain valley. When I was sent down to Yunnan during my youth period, I actually saw quite a few beautiful Dai and Jingpo girls. Every single one was slender, and those tiny waists—tsk tsk—simply incredible... If I could marry just one of them, I'd consider my life complete."

The Blind Man, having nearly finished eating, heard our conversation and slammed the table, declaring, "My esteemed heroes, what’s so rare about the women of Yunnan's borderlands? Furthermore, among the Miao people lurk Gu Po (poison witches) who command malicious and insidious love Gu spells, impossible to guard against. It would be best if you gentlemen avoided provoking those women."

Da Jinya nodded in agreement, "The old gentleman speaks some truth. When I was down in Yunnan during my posting, I heard that among the numerous minority groups, the Miao are the ones most adept at using Gu. And the Miao themselves are divided into Flower Miao, Green Miao, Black Miao, and so on. The Green Miao excel with herbs and insects; the Black Miao specialize in raising Gu and applying poison. These two factions are natural enemies themselves. The Black Miao are almost extinct now. But if one were to accidentally provoke a Gu Po among the Miao women, it truly would be a headache."

The Fatty chuckled, "Old Jin, you underestimate the charm of us brothers too much. If there aren't any fiery Miao women, then forget it; but if there are, I swear I'll sniff out a few and bring them back for you. We'll meet right here, and I’ll hand each of you a 'Miao Honey' as a gift."

I was a bit drunk, my tongue starting to go thick. I hooked my arm around the Fatty’s shoulder and teased him, "If those eighty-year-old Gu Po fixate on your barrel of meat, Fatty, they'll skin you alive and stretch your hide over a drum! The place we're going this time has the most Bai people. Bai girls are nice, though—they're fair-skinned."

Shirley Yang was also enjoying her meal. If you traced her ancestry back halfway, her roots were somewhere around Jiangsu and Zhejiang, so the Huaiyang cuisine in this restaurant suited her taste perfectly. Seeing me, the Fatty, Da Jinya, and the Blind Man together, and with the topic constantly revolving around the minority maidens of Yunnan, she knew there was nothing to be done but let nature take its course. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, she gave a delicate cough.

Her reminder brought me back to the serious business at hand. My drunkenness receded by a third, and I raised my glass to address everyone: "Comrades, tomorrow the Fatty, Shirley Yang, and I will set off for Yunnan. This journey is over mountains high and roads long; this journey is through forests of guns and rain of bullets; this journey carries the heavy burden of revolution on our shoulders. Who knows when we'll return. However, a true man's ambition must span the four directions, riding horses and shouldering guns to travel the world. Gorky said that the foolish sea-gull does not deserve the pleasure of the fight; Chairman Mao said ten thousand years is too long, seize the day. Now, with fine wine and a beautiful night before us, we should cherish every single second we can gather like this. When we return victorious, we shall hold another banquet and raise our glasses to the heroes."

Everyone else simultaneously raised their glasses to toast our smooth journey. Da Jinya drained his cup, grabbed my hand firmly, and said, "Master Hu, your old brother truly wishes to accompany you to Yunnan, but this old frame can't stand the hardship; going along would only be a burden to you. Everything you just said nearly brought tears to my eyes. Why don't I sing you a chorus of 'Ten Farewells to the Red Army'?"

I was deeply touched, and I told him, "Jin Ye, saying things like that makes it sound like there's distance between us brothers. Our trip to Yunnan relies heavily on you acquiring the equipment from the rear; that is the guarantee of our success! Rest assured, half of the mingqi (funerary objects) unearthed will be mine, and half will be yours."

Da Jinya detailed the equipment he had managed to buy and what he hadn't, and the three of us—him, Shirley Yang, and I—discussed what else we needed to carry. Meanwhile, the Fatty and the Blind Man weren't idle; they were relentlessly bothering a pretty waitress at the restaurant, insisting on telling her fortune. The night before departure passed in this clamor.

The next day, Da Jinya and the Blind Man saw us off at the train station. We bid each other farewell, and as the train rumbled away, we parted ways.

Shirley Yang, the Fatty, and I traveled south by train, eventually arriving in Kunming. We stayed there for three days, during which we had much to accomplish. Following the contact address Da Jinya provided, I located Yingxi Village near Tanhua Temple. A revolutionary comrade of Da Jinya's from his youth lived there, maintaining constant business contact with him. With his assistance, I procured three imitation Type 64 pistols. These guns even bore official serial numbers; they were replicas made in Burmese arsenals copying Chinese standard issue, which had then flowed back into China—a case of manufacturing for export that ended up being sold domestically.

However, the killing power of these weapons was limited, making them suitable more for police work than for serious combat; they could serve merely as self-defense. I tried to buy two more rifles commonly used by Yunnan poachers from the man, but I was told he had none in stock, so I had to drop the matter. I figured I could look for locals to buy a few high-caliber fast-shooting guns before entering the Worm Valley—that deep ravine was utterly deserted, and if any ferocious beasts appeared, being unarmed would be quite inconvenient.

Concurrently, Shirley Yang and the Fatty purchased two insect nets and three beige lotus-leaf sun hats. According to our prior plan, we were to disguise ourselves as staff from a natural history museum, heading into the forest to collect butterfly specimens—since the banks of the Lancang River are rich in rare butterfly species, posing as insect collectors would serve as excellent cover to prevent anyone from noticing our true purpose of dao dou in the Worm Valley.

We kept the rest of our gear minimal. The mountainous regions of Yunnan are not like the deserts and Gobi; we didn't need excessive water or food. We made sure to fill the empty space in our backpacks primarily with various medicines, to cope with the poisonous insects in the forest.

I distributed the three Type 64 pistols to the other two. The Fatty was dissatisfied, muttering what use these beat-up guns were, capable of killing nothing, not even a rat. In a fit of pique, he fashioned a slingshot for himself. Back when we were posted in the Greater Khingan Range of Inner Mongolia, we often used slingshots to hunt birds and rabbits; a well-made one, he argued, had greater stopping power than a Type 64 pistol.

With all preparations complete, we took a vehicle along National Highway 320, traversing between the Ailao Mountains, the Wuliang Mountains, and Erhai Lake near Dali's Cangshan Mountain. We arrived at the beautiful banks of the Lancang River. Our destination was the area with the densest concentration of mountains and rivers within Yunnan Province, still quite a distance from the Sino-Burmese border.

This final stretch of road was steep and narrow, with the long-distance bus navigating precariously along the cliff edges. The driver was clearly experienced, driving with almost careless ease. The road surface was terrible—bumpy, full of loose gravel and potholes. One sharp bend followed another, the vehicle pitching violently up and down, miraculously pulling back from disaster time and again. This gave the Fatty and me cold sweats, terrified that the driver might momentarily lose focus and send the entire bus tumbling into the Lancang River below.

The other passengers seemed utterly accustomed to such routes; they were completely unconcerned, some chatting, others sound asleep. Compounding the situation, many people were carrying live poultry in baskets, mixed with the cries of babies and women, creating a pungent, overwhelming stench. I am no delicate flower, but even I couldn't tolerate the environment. Unable to bear it any longer, I rolled down the window to breathe the fresh air outside.

I leaned my head out and saw the turbulent Lancang River far below the cliff, flanked by towering stone walls—truly a natural fortress. The river wasn't particularly wide, but looking down from that height, the water appeared a dark, reddish hue, winding its way south.

The Fatty’s vertigo kicked in; he was trembling all over and didn't dare glance out the window, only muttering curses, "This bastard driver dares to do this—is he driving or performing acrobatics? If this continues, Old Hu, I'm done for! If we don't get off soon, I'm going to become one with the earth."

Shirley Yang also couldn't handle the roller-coaster ride. She simply kept her eyes tightly shut, not looking outside, which somehow made her feel a bit safer.

I told the Fatty, "The revolution is not yet won, we must persevere. Hold on a little longer. Even getting off the bus means a long walk ahead. Think about how the Red Army endured crossing the snowy mountains and grasslands; your current hardship is nothing. To tell you the truth, I *** am about to shake apart in this damn bus."

A local tea vendor sitting nearby told us, "Seeing you folks looking so pale, take some motion sickness pills. Ride a few more times and you'll feel banzha (great). Where are you fellows headed?"

The local dialects of Yunnan are complicated and difficult to understand. Since we didn't want excessive contact with the locals this time, I didn't catch a word of what the tea vendor said, nor did I know how to reply.

Seeing that I didn't understand him, the tea seller switched to stiff Mandarin: "I said, seeing you look miserable and unaccustomed to this kind of driving—you’ll get used to it. Where are you going?"

I figured this man was a native and the perfect person to ask for directions. So I told him, "We are going to dao... dao... doing museum work. No, we are from the Natural Museum, looking to catch big butterflies in Snake River. Could you tell me how far it is to Zhelong Mountain from here? Where would be the best place for us to get off?"

The tea vendor pointed toward a high mountain by the riverbank in the distance: "Not far now. Turn that mountain bend, and you’ll be at Snake Crawler River below Zhelong Mountain. I'm going there to collect tea too; just get off when I do."

I followed his gaze. A gigantic, gray, bowl-shaped mountain loomed at the end of the road, its summit shrouded in mist and clouds. From inside the vehicle, it truly gave one the feeling of looking up at something immense. Although it was in sight, seeing the mountain doesn't mean the distance shrinks; the road was winding and treacherous, so this part of the journey would still require us to suffer in this broken-down vehicle for at least another hour.

We were all seated at the back of the bus. Just as I was speaking with the tea vendor, the bus suddenly lurched violently, as if it had run over something. The driver slammed on the brakes, sending the passengers pitching forward and backward in immediate chaos. Amidst the confusion, I heard someone shout that something had been killed. The Fatty cursed the lunatic driver, saying, "How could he not run something over driving like this?" He, Shirley Yang, and I peered out the rear window toward the road behind us.

I only glanced back once before my scalp tingled, and I quickly averted my gaze—if I looked again, I'd vomit. Damn it, whatever it was that the car had run over... what in the hell was that thing?