Ghosts

Drip. Drip-drip. Thick drops are falling down. Two, three at first, soon followed by more. Within seconds the dusty pavement takes on the appearance of a Jackson Pollock-style drip painting—an ever-changing pattern of miniature pools, each with a corona of even smaller droplets. One lands on my head and immediately finds its way to my neck. I shiver. Out of nowhere umbrellas pop up, like mushrooms in a damp forest.

Pingyao after a downpour

I enter the tiny hostel where I'm staying and climb the stairs to the six-bed dormitory. By now, it's lashing down. On the landing a diagonal sheet of rain has found an open window. When I've finally figured out how to close it, I'm wet to the bone. The rain pounds the pane with angry fists, demanding to be let in. I press my nose to the glass. Outside, the sky is as grey as the slated roofs of Pingyao's ancient low-slung houses. Dragon-like chimeras guard the corners of the curled eaves, their beaks frozen in an anguished cry.

Even when it's pouring down there's no denying that Pingyao is lovely. Perfectly preserved Ming-era town walls embrace a warren of alleys lined with lavishly decorated two-storey mansions. And even though the paper lanterns that light the streets at night lend it a touristy feel, Pingyao is no open-air museum. It's a living, breathing town where tourists from all over the world rub shoulders with locals going about their daily business.

Still, there is something uncanny about the place. Sounds seem muffled, and a certain drowsiness envelops you as soon as you enter the gates. Perhaps it's the fact that the narrow streets are pedestrianised—a rare feat in China. Maybe it's the uniformity of the houses. Or could it be that the town is haunted? At night, it is said, the spirits of deceased citizens return to roam the age-old alleys.

Pingyao at night

'Is it still raining?' The sleepy voice of one of my roommates drifts up from the bottom bunk. I lift myself up. There is something about him that tells me he hasn't moved all day. 'I think it's letting up,' I say. 'Ah,' he replies cheerfully, but doesn't move.

And so the days turn into a dreary blur. In between showers backpackers drift in and out. For many, Pingyao is the last stop before Beijing. It's September; the summer holidays are drawing to a close. They're still here, but their mind is somewhere else. Their old life is beckoning. Playtime is nearly over.

'I'm going to Kathmandu first, then home,' a French girl tells me. She makes it sound as if Kathmandu is a place where only horrible things could happen. She smiles apologetically. 'It's not that I'm not looking forward to it. But I've been travelling for such a long time. I miss my family, my apartment.' She straps her backpack to her back, a bulging daypack to her front. Then she picks up a suitcase. Another smile. 'Too many souvenirs.'

I watch her leave. Through the window I can see fresh clouds come sailing in. Dark ghost ships in a leaden sky. Looks like rain.