"You haven't come at the right time," an old woman of the Naxi ethnic minority selling zanba (a kind of cake made of roasted highland barley flour) at the door of her home, told me in Dayan Town, Lijiang County. "Twenty days ago, there was snow on Mount Yulong, and wild ducks on the lakes. Grass will grow on the marshes, and the azaleas will bloom after 20 more days."

She raised her swarthy face to the setting sun. The blue scarf on her head, her sheepskin jacket and the copper doorknocker covered with rusty spots behind her were as aged as her face and voice.

"Does zanba sell well?" I asked. She shook her head, saying, "People from everywhere, including Zhejiang, Fujian and Guangzhou, have come here to sell zanba. We Naxi people are not very good at business."

In this ancient city of Lijiang, covering an area of 3.8 square km, most of the shops are run by people from other places. A steady stream of tourists passes through, and European-style bars open to the street have sprung up. The local Naxi people almost seem like strangers here. Wearing their national costume and carrying bamboo baskets on their backs, they wander along the streets or talk to each other in front of their homes in their own language.

"We have yellow flowers in May and June, and red flowers in July and August," A Tibetan boy told me near a lake called the Bita Sea, which is over 3,000 meters above the sea level. The reason for it being called a sea is that the local residents in the past did not know about the real seas.

The 11-year-old boy was shy at first, but before long he took me home. Because the family was poor and locally there is a shortage of labor, none of the children in this family attended school.

"It's a champion horse; you'll never be able to ride it," a man on the Yila grassland said to me with gestures when he saw me trying to ride a horse. As I could not understand much of what he said, he immediately took to me a horse, which looked gentler, and patted the saddle, signaling to me to mount it.

It was a small meadow where men walk their horses, and women often sit in a ring, sewing while engaging in small talk. Seeing my camera targeting a dignified old woman, the other women immediately pushed her forward, and the old woman became as shy as a new bride.

A patch of opening ground was suddenly crowded with people when a campfire was lit in the evening. They danced to their hearts' content, regardless of the press and TV journalists' cameras. "Why are you so happy?" I asked a girl, who, at 14, was a student of a dance school. "I have no idea. I just like to sing and dance with the others," she said and then ran away, laughing while turning around, asking me, "Wouldn't you like to dance too? Let's dance together."

The festival, which originates from an ancient fire-worshipping ritual, is used today by people to relax after a year's hard work. I chased the jubilant team and fell down on the muddy ground after the rain. They burst into friendly laughter.

There was also a Tibetan girl who rowed a boat for us while singing songs; two sisters from the Yi ethnic group who allowed tourists to take picture of them sitting on the edge of the Huotiao Gorge, and a Kongba man who urged us to drink and then gave us tart pomegranates to sober us up.

Again and again, I experienced a sentimental feeling about the place and shared its joy and sadness. The people here earned my respect. These people dress differently but live on the same land peacefully. They are free, diligent and open. To me, it is their upright and sincere character that adds a real charm to the place.