Farmland in the Sunset
We immersed ourselves once again in those natural wonders whose majesty evoked from all of us an awe and reverence reserved for only the most delightful, inspiring spectacle. We were but meek travelers, alone, surrounded by so many karst peaks as to effectively sequester us from any signs of civilization. The nestled valley was tranquil. And we continued along on our bicycles, in peace, stopping every so often to gaze like the inspired travelers we were, and to listen to the interminable quiet of nature.
After cycling through a series of undulating hills, our band at length reached the river over which according to the map we were to cross; that is, if there were a bridge. No walkway, however, could be found so we entrusted ourselves to the inhabitants of this verdant marsh, who eagerly offered their inveterate hands and bare feet to ferry us across such a watery expanse. An man whose weathered countenance was only matched by that of his diminutive bamboo raft volunteered to deliver us across the swarthy waters. I paid him and we set off, with our bikes in tow. Alighting from the embankment, we progressed rapidly downstream, on a course towards a makeshift pier on the far shore. Yet, the initially tepid waters then manifested their ferocity and rendered the offices of our guide as futile as if he were trying to stir a bathtub with a toothpick. To our horror, we crashed into a piling of stones but in the unfolding of the disaster we verily were relieved that our rickety craft had not dashed itself to pieces - it proved heartier than we thought. And with our feet back on dry ground and our safety assured, we mounted our bicycles and rode madly into the sunset.