A mid-sized tour bus is taking me, uncomfortably, from the outskirts of Chéngdū (成都) into the foothills of the Sìchuān mountains to the north.

It is not the bus itself that is making me uncomfortable.

Rather, the potent combination of a recent guāshā massage and eating Sìchuān’s famously spicy, brake-light coloured food for the past week, for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

I’m having a tough time.

Most of Sìchuān is a broad plain in the base of a bowl ringed by mountains on all sides, giving it a mild, windless climate.

The mountains in the north are populated by people who migrated there from Tibet, likely due to their high altitude and relative proximity.

I've journeyed this far to join a tour group to visit the famous Nine Village Valley, a secluded area among the Sìchuān mountains full of exceptionally beautiful and multicoloured lakes.

Tibetan heritage meets rapid construction

The local Tibetan heritage means every meal we consume along the journey contains yak in some form or another.

In fact, the amount of yak served is directly proportional to the altitude at which the meal is taken.

Well into the mountains, I spot an enormous bridge-like structure cutting through the valleys, tunnelling through the mountains.

I was informed that it was a very un-Tibetan high-speed railway that would reduce our 8-hour bus journey to an hour-and-a-half train ride.

I asked about its progress and was told it would be “finished by Christmas.”

With a hundred or so miles of mountains still to blast through and gaping valleys to bridge, I can't help but laugh at the incredible pace of construction in China.

I think about the faltering train line project in my home country, HS2.

It aims to provide a similar distance of track over far less challenging terrain.

So far, it has taken 14 years to not be completed.

Jiǔzhàigōu group tours sell clothes for all sizes

My tour guide warns me again about the extreme temperatures we will experience at high altitude, and I use a pit stop to search for a coat to augment my customary holiday outfit—shorts and Hawaiian shirt.

This is not your run-of-the-mill Chinese supermarket, I've become accustomed to, but rather a roadside warehouse, repurposed to sell supplies to ascending tourists.

As I enter, the proprietor dashes over to me, which is always a good sign for a tourist hoping not to get ripped off.

She tells me to follow her and leads me deep into the recesses of her winter clothing warehouse.

She then hands me a jacket and informs me that, of the thousands of items in her roadside depot, this is the only one that has a hope of fitting me.

Looking like a redacted credit card number, the label of the coat bears a frankly offensive number of Xs before the L.

I try it on, scoffing as I do.

It fits like a glove.

After overpaying for it, I sulk back to the tour bus.

My hotel has a cholera room

Before I collapse onto the bed in my accommodation after a challenging day, I must undergo the arduous process of checking into a Chinese hotel as a foreigner.

For my efforts, I am not rewarded.

My room's carpet is an intricate patchwork of overlapping tide marks.

It looks like someone has laid a heavy sepia filter over that tie-dye top I made in primary school.

The bathroom, with its identical off-white tiles, floor, walls, and ceiling, succeeds in putting the “wet” in “wet-room.”

The proprietor tells me not to make direct skin contact with any of the floors and that the air-con is broken, before swiftly exiting stage left.

Fully and safely clothed, I lie on top of the covers, willing dawn to break.

The following day, after the short drive from the accommodation to our destination in the mountains, I’m forced to stand in the special visitor queue with my tour guide.

I hope his outward nervousness is not an indicator that I might get turned away at the gate.

I am admitted!

My tour guide shuts his eyes, his heart rate slows, and his temperature drops. I wave him goodbye.

The nine village valley. 九寨沟

I’ve finally reached the jiǔzhàigōu (九寨沟), the Nine Village Valley.

Its name refers to the Tibetan settlements in the region.

Jiǔzhàigōu is located in the mínshān (岷山) range, and contains around 180 lakes of varying colours.

It is home to some very exotic wildlife, including giant pandas, snub-nosed monkeys and takin, which are a kind of sturdy sheep that have come to resemble muskox by convergent evolution.

An impressive armada of buses ferries up to 40,000 visitors a day around the 55 square kilometre park, and there are restaurants and bazaars in a central location for those wanting noodles, and trinkets and spices to take home.

The legend of the five-coloured lake. 五花海

Perhaps the most striking of the lakes is the so-called five-coloured lake (五花海).

Its variable depth, suspended travertine nanoparticles, and the presence of algae, create five distinct bands of colour that range from sapphire in the depths, through jade and turquoise, and then pale green and gold in the shallows.

This five-coloured lake is culturally significant, and the legend surrounding it starts in the same way legends do in so many other cultures:

A beautiful goddess meets a mortal boy, and they fall in love.

Jealous god–demon wants the beautiful goddess for himself.

God–demon attacks the goddess and tragedy besets her.

Fortunately, all the goddess loses is her multicoloured shawl (a homemade gift for her mortal boy), which, in the scuffle, floats downstream and creates the beautiful five‑coloured lake.

The tourist market in the "primeval" forest

Having spent a day being stunned by the different lakes, along with the varied terrain and geology in which they are located, I travel to the far end of the park to walk through the “primeval” forest.

Set on a high mountainside with wooden walkways through the towering firs, spruces, and birch trees, this should have made for an awe-inspiring, serene walk.

The only spanner in the works was the Chinese salesmanship.

Countless hawkers offering teas, noodles, and fruits physically restrained unsuspecting customers with the classic “lái lái lái!” (It means "come come come!" and is a common ululation in East Asia. Usually, it is a forewarning that heavy sales tactics are incoming.)

The menus of their wares are blasted at full volume through megaphones laid down on the ancient pine-covered floor, in my mind spoiling the ambience.

After a dinner of yak noodles and a final warning that tomorrow's ascent to Huánglóng (Yellow Dragon) Valley would be an early start, I retreat to my hotel room with the five-coloured carpet.

If a woman dropped her shawl to create this unsanitary mess, I shudder at the thought of who she was or what she might have done for a living.

Sleep eludes me, and I decide to brave the wet-room to wash my hair, then reward myself with a small bottle of booze with a picture of a panda on it.