John pointed out that since Yuanyang grows only one rice crop each year, and since we have just entered the final month of the dry season, it was likely that the paddies would still be barren. I was willing to take that chance.

As it happens, driving through the arid mountains south off Kunming, most paddies were dry, and I must say, unattractive. But we thought the town itself might have some charm.

Just after we crossed the Hong He (Red River, looking drably brown), a modern city, gleaming with tall, white-tiled buildings rose out of nowhere. According to our map, this was Yuanyang's location. Okay, so the paddies were dry and the town was monotonously sterile; we could take the next bus back to Kunming.

Well, our bus drove straight through the city and began climbing through more mountains. I asked the driver's assistant, "Wasn't that Yuanyang back there?" He said no, it was Nanshao, a city so new that it did not appear on our provincial map.

As we drove on, more and more paddies were flooded, reflecting the blue of the sky. We began to see people in spectacular traditional costumes of various ethnic minority groups walking along the side of the road. Our hopes tentatively fluttered.

Yuanyang is indeed an older town perched on a mountain peak. Its buildings rise so steeply that stairways connect many roads. There were few motor vehicles and even fewer bicycles. The town was a bustling mosaic of brilliant color. Women in dazzlingly embroidered outfits toted bushel baskets of produce that seemed to glow in the alpine light. Traditional costumes vastly outnumbered western dress. I didn't feel self-conscious about gazing at all this luscious clothing since everyone else was checking us out. I imagined them thinking, "If I were a rich foreigner, no way would I wear plain black and khaki clothing!"

"I feel like I'm in Tibet!" John exclaimed, although Tibetans were one of the few minority groups *not* represented in Yuanyang. I knew what he meant, and felt a twinge of sadness; in all likelihood, we will never be in Tibet long enough to discover a place like Yuanyang.

Strolling through the market was visually intoxicating. I didn't know where to look first: at the intricate bodice of the woman in front of me or at the embroidered cloth-soled shoes for sale; at the silver coins (was that really an American half-dollar?) dangling from someone's headpiece, or at the silk thread I yearned to buy. "I feel like I'm in a bird sanctuary," said John, "and I need Peterson's Guide to tell me what I'm seeing!" We didn't take many photos because we had a lead on a major Hani festival taking place the next day. That would surely be a riot of color.

We decided to take a break from the stimulation of the market and come back the following day for a closer look. We headed out of town, hiking along the edges of flooded paddies through Yi and Hani villages. It was a perfect afternoon. We returned to town so tired that all we could do was eat dinner and sprawl in bed. The whole next day beckoned like an unopened gift.

But we awoke the next morning to one of the most opaque fogs I've ever witnessed. The market seemed sleepy and none of the most intriguing items were available. At first we though the market was just slow to get moving, but then we learned that the real market takes place every fifth day, and the previous day was when all the action happened. I wouldn't see those embroidered shoes or silk threads, or such crowds of gorgeously clad women again.

We did participate in the Hani festival that afternoon (and after eating under the world's most unsanitary conditions, even escaped illness). Since most people in the village spoke considerably less Mandarin than even me, the rituals were hard to comprehend. We never really learned the significance of the holiday, just that it occurs annually, on a set date after the lunar new year. One thing I was able to gather is that the Hani worship flies because a long time ago, a fly rescued someone important (here's where the language gap got wider). Each Hani home contains a small packet of rice wrapped in banana leaf as an offering to flies. To me this points out that the elusiveness of one's god pervades all cultures. You would think that in a village in which each family had a hog, but nothing even as basic as a latrine, never mind a toilet, that flies would be all over the place. Strangely, in this village that tried so hard to entice them, we saw not a single fly!

This festival was not, after all, a chance to see and photograph hordes of Hani women in their deep jewel-toned tunics, because it was a guys-only event! Needless to say, it had been their wives and mothers who had done all the cooking however.

The really great moments of Yuanyang had all happened the day before, and I couldn't help wishing I had paid more attention, focused my excitement, bought those shoes and thread, and shot a whole roll of film. I realized there's a larger lesson here about the foolishness of making assumptions about the future.

So today, I'm trying to pay close attention and remember that tomorrow may not be what I expect at all.

Click here to see photos from Yuanyang