I spent three days, I think, on that mountain---had forgot the name but recognised the pics and the mist, in 1986.
I remember the heavy robes which were given at the hostels. At that time few spoke english, and I had about 50 words of mandarin--and could count.
Ordering food from a menu was impossible, and verbally it was dicey. So I had developed the habit of marching about the kitchens and pointing at what i wanted, along with a few words. Usually I simply did this at the street kitchens, but also at restaurants.
It was so unusual for westerners to be seen in south central china that I drew the attention Kieth Richards might in downtown London--well much more. I would often be followed by 30 or 40 people and have all eyes in a crowded street on me. This was unnerving, but they had no problem putting up with my kitchen entries--usually.
So, I'm up on that mountain, in a heavy hooded robe, at a hostel, black of night, and enter the dinning hall, proceed past the guests and stroll into the kitchen. The matron reels about in fury (she could see my face) and screams at me for a good 15 or twenty seconds untill I pull off my hood, revealing the giant nose and pale skin of a foriegner.
I can still her face today, an expression of absolute fury transformed into complete and utterly gracious delight. She gave me a complete tour, beaming at each ingredient.
The monkeys, however, were not to be trusted, and could care less where I was from. If anything I was an especially vulnerable creature. They taunted you from the trees as you walked over the old stones in the mist, in a tone so menacing it pierced even my outsiders supreme sense of confidence-cultivated in years of dirt cheap travel.
I'd long since sent my Ftb home, since it was heavy and intimidating, but I did carry a fine yamaha clarinet, with which I tortured the locals and travelers alike. I was self taught, but practiced, and they could not quite decide if I was very terrible or very good.