This is the 2nd part of the sexy librarian post, which has apparently been what passes for popular around here. Prepare to be disappointed.

I pulled into Wudang Shan town (Wudang Shan Shi) today at around 2 in the afternoon and immediately checked into the nearest hotel, which happened to be the only one my guidebook felt worth mentioning. I had intended to look around for a youth hostel or a guesthouse, but after today's journey, I felt I deserved an easy out.

That didn't stop me from feeling a slight pang of guilt as I peeled off an obscenely long series of hundred-yuan notes into the immaculately manicured hands of the receptionist at the front desk. In fact, among the splendour of the hotel's lobby and the staff's gleaming uniforms, I was feeling decidedly shabby and out of place. This didn't last for very long, though; the receptionists warmed to me in a pitying sort of way as soon as they discovered I had a sub-par grasp of Chinese, and I'm guessing the inch-thick wad of cash I slapped down on the counter didn't hurt, either.

After the day's events, I was beyond caring. As long as I got a hot shower and a bed to sleep in, they could spit on me all the way up to my room if they wanted. In fact I probably would have profited from it, coated as I was in road grime and day-old sweat.

The day started out well enough. Having made my mystery bus successfully with Zhi Hui's help, I had settled in and was looking forward to an air-conditioned nap on the way to my destination, which could have been any number of places, since I had no idea what bus I was on.

But China wasn't about to let me off that easy.

The mystery bus filled up rapidly in the way of Chinese buses -- as soon as you think you're on your way, the driver's cell phone rings, he conducts a brief screaming match with someone on the other end, and the bus pulls over on some unidentifiable stretch of highway. Soon after, a minibus rockets up alongside, cuts across three lanes of traffic, and comes to a skidding, sideways halt to deposit a handful of passengers. These run the gamut from the nonchalant -- seasoned backpackers or locals -- to green-faced, trembling Western tourists clutching at each other in terror.

After a few of these stops every seat was occupied, so I wound up with my pack resting firmly on my lap, having neglected to put it in the luggage hold. The middle-aged woman sat directly in front of me was sorely displeased with this, since she wasn't able to recline her seat, so she harangued me at length while the other passengers looked on with a blend of annoyance and amusement. I couldn't understand most of what she was saying, so I just smiled and shrugged. She eventually gave up with a disgusted snort, and comforted herself by poking at me through the seats whenever she remembered the source of her bad mood.

Later on, I would discover that putting a loaded pack -- or any number of things, such as a bag of vomit, a few pints of baby pee, or a cardboard box full of ducks -- in the center aisle of a bus is perfectly acceptable in China. In the meantime, however, I just had to accept the inevitable loss of my legs to cell death by blood starvation, and try to fall asleep despite the various prods and nudges from my new nemesis.

This went on for a good two and a half hours, until we pulled into a near-deserted gas station and people started yelling at me to get off. The bus attendant, a sympathetic soul, led me patiently to a waiting minibus and helped situate my luggage. This he accomplished by heaving my pack into the too-narrow trunk and repeatedly slamming the lid on it until he heard a click.

He patted me on the shoulder, looked me in the eye and enunciated clearly, "Wudang Shan," as if to a small and particularly dim child. Then he went back to his bus, where I'm sure he received a hero's welcome for getting rid of me. I was fairly sure I could hear them singing as they pulled away.

I clambered onto the minibus, where I was surprised to find an open seat. Taking my place in the back row between a pair of farmers who had just enjoyed a hearty meal of chou doufu, or "stinky tofu" -- trust me, it's easy to tell -- I immediately started nodding off.

This did not last long.

The Chinese minibus, in the established tradition of its larger cousin the inter-city coach, also makes various screeching stops at apparently random points in the journey, whereupon the attendant will lean out the door and scream at whoever happens to be standing by the side of the road.

About half the time, this will result in people getting on the bus and giving him money.

Fifteen minutes after I'd managed to get comfortable, the attendant's screaming was rewarded with two new fares, a young mother and father with an infant in tow. The single open seat was promptly occupied by the father, who was apparently an asshole.

Having been in China long enough to know how unlikely it was that anyone else was going to step up to the plate, I stood and offered my seat to the mother, who accepted with good grace and not a small amount of surprise.

This put me in the bus attendant's favor, who rummaged in a corner for a moment then turned to me, beaming triumphantly and clutching a miniature pink plastic stool. He placed it ceremoniously in the aisle before me, where it immediately sagged to one side and fell over.

We contemplated it in silence for a moment, until the driver looked around and savagely informed his partner that it would never hold my weight. A more substantial wooden affair was conjured up from some dark recess of the bus, and I was installed in the aisle to the friendly amusement of my fellow passengers.

Thus convinced of my position until Wudang Shan town, I fell into a fitful sleep, perched on my little stool and braced against the seats on either side, where my elderly neighbors ceded their armrests -- and occasionaly their arms -- to my comfort as I rocked back and forth.

A couple of hours later, I was jogged awake by the bus pulling into another gas station, and we were all ushered off for lunch. Although famished, I didn't relish the idea of having to use a gas station squat toilet, so I opted for a bottle of water instead of the cafeteria style lunch my fellow travelers were wolfing down. After a reasonable interval, we were all herded back onto the bus, where -- to my happy surprise -- two seats had opened up. Whether their former occupants had connected for another destination or had simply been left behind, I was past caring. I collapsed gratefully into one and immediately started to doze, my skull juddering against the window as the bus rattled down the freeway.

After another hour or two, the bus attendant cast a doubtful look in my direction. He picked his way along to the back of the bus and asked where I was going.

"Wudang Shan," I reply, a phrase I repeated often today, with steadily increasing levels of despair.

Immediately, there were groans of dismay all around me. Not in anger or annoyance, as I first assumed, but with that now-familiar mix of pity and sympathy. I am helpfully informed that I should have asked for a stop a while ago... probably at that one place on the freeway with the tree, and that patch of dirt. I bite back any sarcastic remark to that effect -- I wouldn't have been able to communicate the sentiment in Chinese anyway -- and listen patiently to the solution.

I'm told that they'll drop me off at the next stop, where I can easily get a bus back to Wudang Shan town. When I look skeptical, the bus attendant waves dismissively and says, "Don't worry, you can't miss it."

The next "stop" winds up being -- as I imagined it would be -- a random patch of sidewalk on the side of the road. I'm deposited in the middle of it with my pack, where I watch as the only people who know where I'm headed, or how to get there, disappear down the road in a cloud of blue smoke.

Trying to dismiss the small voice within me insisting that the appropriate time for panic was right now, I approach the only guy in sight, who readily agrees to help me flag down the bus I need.

Naturally, his bus shows up first, and with many apologies and best wishes I am deprived of my good samaritan. I hike down the road a bit until I find a local family, who are enjoying their lunch on the sidewalk.

I approach them and after some conversation, the father also agrees to help me find a bus. Immediately, the entire family abandons their meal to stand silently next to me and stare down the empty stretch of road. I try to explain that it's all right, they can just tell me when my bus is coming and I'll flag it down myself, but either they don't care, or I can't make myself understood. They just smile briefly at me and go back to peering at the horizon. Perhaps this is what passes for entertainment around here.

Thankfully, it's only about five minutes until a brown minibus comes rattling along, and although it looks absolutely identical to all the others that have passed by without incident, there is an excess of hallooing and waving until it screeches to a honking stop, and they hustle me aboard.

The father of the family has a brief word with the bus driver, who just glances at me and shrugs. I manage to shrug back and smile uncertainly before I'm shooed dismissively to a nearby seat. I wave wearily to the family as we pull away, but my vision's rapidly narrowing to a point, and I don't notice any response. After much rattling and honking, during most of which I'm dead to the world, this last minibus pulls into Wudang Shan station.

It's not until I'm peeling off my socks in my hotel room that I realize the substance of the father's comment to the driver... I was never asked to pay a fare.

I'm exhausted, starving, dehydrated, lost, broke, and filthy, and have been more or less in that same state for the last 20 hours.

But it was a pretty good day, after all.