We somehow avoid the dangers concerning our ousted hotel and ignore the yells of drivers for 'GANZI' while ordering onion bread and a boiled eggs. The onion bread is loaded with meat so there is no breakfast for the hitchers this morning. I'm so fricking grumpy about it and throw clumps of the bread in disgust. Trying to draw strength from Prue who has been suffering stomach problems, harsh cramps and the runs yet is ever determined to continue we march on. Prue toileting in the bushes now and then as we endlessly wait for someone to pull over. The mini buses only leave Xinlong when full (and they mock us as they pass with a 'you missed your chance' smirk) so we have no choice but to return or devote ourselves to the chance of a hitch. We flip a cigarette box which determines our continuation north, always good to blame fate ey? The warmth of the day, the gushing river and the swooping kites flying at head height heighten our positivity.

What we do not expect is to be escourted by phone line repair men. Prue hates these lines, with a passion, getting agitated with every photo that has been smeared with their presence. But somehow today, they are not so bad, and we appreciate the effort and time it takes (toilet dashes ahoy) to clamber upon the poles and pulley themsleves along the wires. Saving the world from two potential hazards in one trip allows many an attempt at communication by the driver. We manage home towns, family and names, good effort!

Halfway to Ganzi we are deposited back onto the roadside in almost map-worthy Dagaixiang. We barely have time to gather ourselves (Prue runs straight for the bushes once again) before a mini van halts and assists us with our northwards quest. First he has to drop off blankets at a local village, I'm in for the ride. Having her bracelets fondled and glared at (mine got a thumbs up) by the large greasy Tibetan man seated to her right encouraged little Miss conspiracy to believe the journey to actually be a con and we disembark halfway to sit amongst the flowers. A small staggered village in the hillside backed by snow caps is our entertainment for 20 minutes or so. I am almost convinced into the negative conspiracy club when the toy truck bounces its way towards us smothering old women -who are carrying heavy baskets full of, well, something like leaves- in its coom. Trust Prue, trust.

Screaming past the model villages, jerking through heards of Yak and leaping over potholes we rapidly enter the valley where Ganzi sits peacefully. A broad town, slated at for being tatty and dusty Ganzi is actually pretty sweet. Its critics are obviously unnaware of its 540 year old monastery sitting amidst Tibetan homes, snug market stalls with elaborately dressed hosts, the buying and selling of authentic Tibetan wares all backed by jagged grey ridges which border flowering grassland, a wide river and then the town itself. Our problem is that Prues bowels are running faster than we, and that doesn't give us much patience while finding a room. Looking for the ever present thin vetrical strip that denotes sleeping rooms we run into a tight doorway and within a minute of room searching have achieved comfortable beds and more importantly our own bathroom. I go on a pharmacy hunt and return with charcoal (for which I have had to use expressive hand signals on several occasions), lots of fluid and a string of prayer flags which I drape everywhere just for the extra luck. No toilet in town was used more than ours that night (apart from the rankest of all, the blocked gutter toilets of the min van station maybe) as my sytem catches up and we both cramp up, throw up and send what doesn't come up down at inhumane speeds.