Zhangjiajie National Forest Park, China's first national forest reserve in Zhangjiajie, central China's Hunan province.GO CHAI HIN/AFP / Getty Images
A sea of coloured caps swirls around the parking lot, awaiting instruction. Yellow heads, red heads, pink heads, blue heads. Dr. Seuss would be proud. They are domestic tourists, in groups of 50, distinguishing their clan through vibrant headwear.
I have arrived at Zhangjiajie Scenic Zone in Hunan province, central China, a national park as jaw-dropping as it is tongue-tying. Here, hundreds of limestone karst peaks - narrow pillars of mossy, misty rock - reach for the sky like giant stalagmites.
This is prime bus-tour territory.
The tourists' beacon is a flag that matches the hats, carried by a guide who barks into a megaphone, forcefully enough to drown out the din of competing tour groups.
It's an irritating scene for a serenity seeker, but I soon discover its magic. This cluster effect has left the park's beautiful secondary trails deserted. I huff up and down old stone staircases, discovering long-forgotten caves, exploring waterfalls and staring at endless pillars from towering peaks. The place is a natural playground.
But, duped by a combination of curiosity and propaganda, I join the hordes for the park's most-heralded attraction, "The No. 1 Natural Bridge in the World." The bridge is predictably oversold. Not so much "No. 1" as it is most accessible for bus tours. So it surprises me when behind the flashing cameras and posing subjects I find a sweet little taste of Chinese travel culture.
A padlock. Just a normal one, with a brass body and steel U-shaped shackle, like you might use on a gym locker or a shed door. It has been hooked to the protective railing on the viewing platform, about a hundred metres above the ground. So has another. And another. Now that my eyes have registered them, I can see nothing but. Thousands of padlocks fight for space on the railing, piled on top of each other in bunches.
There's a Chinese inscription on the body of every single one. I don't read Mandarin, but thanks to a crudely translated sign, the tradition reveals itself.
The natural bridge under my feet is believed to be "absorbing the nimbus of the Earth and collecting the essence of the sun and moon." If I were back home, I might write it off as hippy gibberish. But I'm in China, and mysticism seems appropriate here.
Clasping a lock here is a literal expression of the "harmonious unity" of man and nature and believed to bring good fortune to whoever clasps it. The inscription on the lock is a wish, a dedication of fortune to loved ones. The Chinglish examples of wishes range from "husband and wife treat each other with respect and be together forever" to "everything is smooth and lucky!"
The position on the railing is meaningful as well, speaking to different fortunes. Among others, there are zones for longevity and heart-linking, whatever that is. I buy a lock from an enterprising salesman, and have him engrave it, pointing to "smooth and lucky" on the sign. Figure I can't go wrong with that.
I wander over to the "family delight" section, push aside some locks (hopefully not affecting their fortune) and snap it shut. You can thank me later, family.
For a brief moment, I understood Chinese mass travel. Instead of escaping, these folks were bonding; using the natural world as a link to one another; seeing the value of collectivism and belonging. For a brief moment, I got it. Then a megaphone screeched in my ear.
Special to The Globe and Mail