The streets of Hanoi were positively swarming with motor scooters, and the sidewalk was their parking lot. There was nowhere to move. We followed the gutter, stepping around piles of garbage and food scraps from a thousand different restaurants. We ate at one of the nicer looking ones--an upscale place named Little Hanoi--and walked away satisfied.
Next day, we set out for our 3 day/2 night cruise in stunning Ha Long Bay, which was less than stunning for us since it was overcast the entire time. Despite the slightly disappointing state of our ship, we did our best to make the most of it. After a half days cruise, we kayaked around karst islands that rose up from the foggy bay. Hyangmi had never kayaked before, but performed remarkably well, applying the necessary force to keep our tandem craft from being broadsided by a cruise ship, when the time came. At sunset, I jumped from the top deck into the water, something our guide assured us "most people did" even though I was joined by only one other. After dark, they fired up the karaoke. Of course. What better setting for karaoke than afloat in a perfectly quiet bay, under a tranquil night sky? The bartender, who jumped at the opportunity to go first, took to the mic with all the seriousness of a professional performer. He was terrible. From the deck, we looked enviously at the other ships, which apparently all had DJ's and dance parties in full swing. Just when we thought it couldn't get any worse, a Vietnamese-American woman we had met earlier--whose speaking voice and various speech impediments made everyone wince when she talked--began crooning a rendition of "Only You". Hyangmi and I just looked at eachother. We might have laughed, had our eardrums not been rupturing on four different levels. After the bartender slipped in a second song, Hyangmi showed them how it was done; belting out a Korean pop song--in tune--complete with improvised dance moves and flair. She did so completely sober.
Day two of our cruise brought us to Cat Ba Island, where we climbed a mountain. Our guide, a local woman named Jiang, did it in flipflops. Afterwards, we boated through a floating village on our way to Monkey Island. The monkeys were in good form, playing, hanging upside down, pulling eachother by the tail, and generally causing shit. The highlight came when a particularily brave monkey ventured out of the trees, snatched a 2 liter bottle of water from an Italian man and, impressively, hauled it to the top of a tree, where he proceeded to bite and smash it, before throwing the empty back down at some tourists. The message was clear enough: this was thier island, don't fuck with them.
Later, walking around Cat Ba town, we came across a man, with a crowbar in hand and thin rope tied around his waist, standing on the side of a cliff, prying rocks loose. Below him, not two meters from a pile of boulders that had accumulated at the cliff's base, a man smoked a cigarette and watched. This is how they were removing rock from a karst in order to make room for a new building. Typical Asia.
That night, in our hotel room on Cat Ba island, I discovered that Vietnamese television is excellent. This came as somewhat of a surprise, since Chinese TV was complete crap. In Vietnam, though, they have it figured out: HBO, MTV, Discovery channel, NatGeo, movie channels, CNN...I even came across an episode of The Wire, a show I've never before seen aired in Canada. Most impressive.
Another thing that's a lot better in Vietnam than China are the trains. Compared to the Chinese trains we'd been on, Vietnam's trains were downright luxurious. Big bunks, clean sheets, a door on the compartment, and, most importantly, Western toilets. Trains in China come equipped with only the squatter-type toilets, the sort that have no seat but a hole in the ground, and require you to take your pants off and remain in a squatting position until you are finished shitting and wiping, an almost impossibly difficult feat for all but the fittest, fastest and most well-balanced shitters, even on stable ground. But to have squatters on a train, something that is constantly lurching from side to side and grinding to abrupt halts, is nothing short of ridiculous. They might as well install toilets that spin at random, or ones that drop live snakes from the ceiling the minute you sit down. I became convinced that the bathrooms (if they can be called that) on Chinese trains all contained hidden cameras, which sent a live feed to some sick reality show in Japan, since Chinese TV would never air anything so entertaining as people trying to squat-shit on a moving train. Give thanks for your Western toliet, a bowl you can sit on, in privacy, and flush whatever needs to be flushed down it, for it is a rare and wonderful thing in this world, it really is.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
The Next Stage
A week before we started, I began the process of sifting through all my music and carefully selecting the tracks that I wanted to take along with me for the trip. Space was limited, so I tried to choose tracks that would suit a variety of different situations I imagined I would find myself in: riding a train through the countryside, cruising over turquoise water, sitting in a temple, or wandering frenetic streets, to name a few. Tracks, I hoped, would compliment these experiences, reflect the places I'd be visiting, and somehow, capture the essence of travel itself.
In reality, things didn't always match up. But sometimes, just sometimes, music and setting would align perfectly, completing the scene as though it had been choreographed. One such moment occurred when, taking off from Beijing en route to Hanoi, my mp3 player stopped. I pushed the display button to see what was wrong, and was delighted to see that it had reached the end of its 455 song playlist, and was waiting to be restarted. How fitting. The end of one journey marked the beginning of another. Our time in China was over, and while we had experienced a great deal during our month here, we were ready to move on. In fact, we already were; flying towards Vietnam at 700kph. The next stage could be started as easily as pressing play.
In reality, things didn't always match up. But sometimes, just sometimes, music and setting would align perfectly, completing the scene as though it had been choreographed. One such moment occurred when, taking off from Beijing en route to Hanoi, my mp3 player stopped. I pushed the display button to see what was wrong, and was delighted to see that it had reached the end of its 455 song playlist, and was waiting to be restarted. How fitting. The end of one journey marked the beginning of another. Our time in China was over, and while we had experienced a great deal during our month here, we were ready to move on. In fact, we already were; flying towards Vietnam at 700kph. The next stage could be started as easily as pressing play.
Beijing pt.II
With the fog blown clear, visibility our second day on the Wall was vastly improved. We started early, hiking forty minutes up a mountainside to reach a precariously positioned watchtower, offering views of the surrounding valleys, snaked with rivers, and the Wall itself, stretching out behind us like a huge stone serpent, shedding its ancient scales. From old to new, distant past to polished present, the wall transformed beneath our feet. Though we'd started alone, by the time we finished, the Wall was populated by hordes of tourists. People lined up to ride a cable car that carried them all of 200 meters to a designated lookout point--no one ventured further. Walking down, I saw something written, in huge Chinese characters, on the side of a mountain. Thinking it might be a dedication to a legendary general who was wrongly executed by a misinformed Emperor, I asked Chenney what it said, but he only replied, flatly, "We love Chairman Mao."
That evening, we checked into a hostel run by a pair of outrageously cute Chinese girls, whose friendliness bordered on flirtation. Giggling after everything she said, one girl showed us to our room, a room that Hyangmi soon deemed intolerable, insisting we leave after only one night.
On our final full day in China we went to the Forbidden City, which, in all honesty, was pretty disappointing. Like many famous places in China, the Forbidden City suffered from rampant touristification. Too many people and too much modern stuff crammed into an otherwise beautiful architectural space. Vendors, hawkers, gift shops, tour guides, trash cans, plasma screen TV's, electric golf carts. All these things only served to detract from the beauty of the site, and remove one completely from the feeling that they were walking through a Ming Dynasty building complex. I'm no expert in tourism, but, would it kill anyone to have some actors (or the staff) dress in traditional Chinese clothing and walk around the place? And wouldn't rickshaws be more appropriate for trucking lazy tourists around in than electric golf carts? Certainly, limiting the number of people who may enter on any given day, or at any given time, has never crossed the governments mind.
We walked through Tiananmen Square on our way back to our new hostel, which was, unsurprisingly, just a really big square. It did, however, have the widest television screen I'd ever seen in it. Two of 'em. Chinese police officers were scattered generously around the square, (actually, you have to pass through another one of those dreaded security check points just to enter it).
After spending nearly a month in China, I'd seen a lot of police officers. They were everywhere. But even after all that time, I still couldn't figure out what it was they did. It seemed to me they just stood, watching over things. Things like statues, fountains, and roads. If anybody stepped out of line, tried to take a photo too close to a fountain, or walked somewhere they shouldn't, the police were quick to blow a whistle and tell them not to do so, and that was it. The police are ever-present in China, standing at attention in perfectly pressed uniforms, ensuring nobody walks on the grass.
That evening, we checked into a hostel run by a pair of outrageously cute Chinese girls, whose friendliness bordered on flirtation. Giggling after everything she said, one girl showed us to our room, a room that Hyangmi soon deemed intolerable, insisting we leave after only one night.
On our final full day in China we went to the Forbidden City, which, in all honesty, was pretty disappointing. Like many famous places in China, the Forbidden City suffered from rampant touristification. Too many people and too much modern stuff crammed into an otherwise beautiful architectural space. Vendors, hawkers, gift shops, tour guides, trash cans, plasma screen TV's, electric golf carts. All these things only served to detract from the beauty of the site, and remove one completely from the feeling that they were walking through a Ming Dynasty building complex. I'm no expert in tourism, but, would it kill anyone to have some actors (or the staff) dress in traditional Chinese clothing and walk around the place? And wouldn't rickshaws be more appropriate for trucking lazy tourists around in than electric golf carts? Certainly, limiting the number of people who may enter on any given day, or at any given time, has never crossed the governments mind.
We walked through Tiananmen Square on our way back to our new hostel, which was, unsurprisingly, just a really big square. It did, however, have the widest television screen I'd ever seen in it. Two of 'em. Chinese police officers were scattered generously around the square, (actually, you have to pass through another one of those dreaded security check points just to enter it).
After spending nearly a month in China, I'd seen a lot of police officers. They were everywhere. But even after all that time, I still couldn't figure out what it was they did. It seemed to me they just stood, watching over things. Things like statues, fountains, and roads. If anybody stepped out of line, tried to take a photo too close to a fountain, or walked somewhere they shouldn't, the police were quick to blow a whistle and tell them not to do so, and that was it. The police are ever-present in China, standing at attention in perfectly pressed uniforms, ensuring nobody walks on the grass.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Beijing pt.I
Our final destination in China--Beijing--was a 12 hour train ride away. Not the longest train ride I'd been on, not by a long shot, but still a substantial amount of time to be confined to a single bunk. During this trip, I observed a man who had brought nothing--not a single thing--to do during the ride. I will never understand these people who don't bring anything to occupy themselves with on a long train trip. They only sit, stare at others, look out the window, and maybe fiddle with their cell phones. Are these people crazy? Masochistic? Stupid? Myself, I come equipped with an mp3 player, four books, and a Nintendo DS. Minimum. As long as the mode of transportation is comfortable, I'm ready for the long haul.
After fucking around at the hotel, (they only had one functional computer, which we waited to use for a solid hour while a chain-smoking Chinese man chatted away on ICQ. [Remember ICQ?] Finally, by switching out the keyboard and mouse of another computer were we able to get online. They then charged us 2 yuan for making a local telephone call), we made it out to a well-known art district, and took in a wide variety of works as night fell, exposing a wounded moon.
For over an hour, we walked in an enormous circle, searching for a famous food street, finding it finally, not 30 meters from where we'd started. There, we found a long line of stalls hung with paper lanterns, each serving up something different. None of it was very good, but with stalls selling locusts, cockroaches, bee larvae, beetles, chicken hearts, snake on a stick, scorpions (available in two sizes!), and centipedes, it was at least interesting. It was also funny. One fat, mustachioed Mediterranean man with a gruff voice bellowed, "Sheep balls!", at people, while, two stalls down, a Chinese vendor asked, "Do you like penis?" to passing tourists.
The following day, under a red sun cut cleanly into the sky, we set out for The Great Wall. Months earlier, I'd booked it as a private tour, a tour I now realized was outrageously expensive for China, but I wasn't going to let that spoil an experience I'd, in some ways, been looking forward to since elementary school. Our guide introduced himself as Chenney, and, after a couple of hours of driving, we had a hundreds-year-old section of the Wall entirely to ourselves.
We hiked along the Wall for 3 hours, some parts recently restored, and others crumbling with age, all the while moving through mountains shrouded in a heavy fog. Occasionally, we'd catch glimpses of lone houses in the valleys, people who'd shunned the nearby megalopolis of Beijing, and decided to somehow scrape it out in isolation. We passed through over a dozen watchtowers our first day, structures of heavy stone rising 2 or 3 stories which served as barracks and storehouses for the countless soldiers that manned the Wall continually; the oldest one, Chenney told us, was built over 6 centuries ago. 600 years. My mind reeled at the number. The tower was standing a hundred years before Europeans discovered Canada, (Vikings not included). The entire continent of North America remained unspoiled for a whole lifetime after the first stones of this structure were laid.
At one point, we had to leave the wall entirely, and follow a trail for some time in order to avoid a military base. I asked Chenny what sort of military base it was, but he only replied, "I don't know. It's secret." "It's what?" I asked, not hearing him. "Secret." Then I wondered, in a country as huge as China, why the military had chosen to set up a base right next to The Great Wall--probably the most popular tourist attraction there was--so close that they had to fence-off a portion of it and force people to walk around. I could only conclude that it must be some expression of communist power; the Chinese military is so badass, it can even close down the Great Wall.
Though the fog limited our view to a few hundred meters, Chenney assured us that, on a clear day, the view was spectacular. Afterwards, we checked into an isolated hotel in a deserted resort town. It was the low season, and we were the only guests. There were no stars that night, only a faint smudge of moon.
After fucking around at the hotel, (they only had one functional computer, which we waited to use for a solid hour while a chain-smoking Chinese man chatted away on ICQ. [Remember ICQ?] Finally, by switching out the keyboard and mouse of another computer were we able to get online. They then charged us 2 yuan for making a local telephone call), we made it out to a well-known art district, and took in a wide variety of works as night fell, exposing a wounded moon.
For over an hour, we walked in an enormous circle, searching for a famous food street, finding it finally, not 30 meters from where we'd started. There, we found a long line of stalls hung with paper lanterns, each serving up something different. None of it was very good, but with stalls selling locusts, cockroaches, bee larvae, beetles, chicken hearts, snake on a stick, scorpions (available in two sizes!), and centipedes, it was at least interesting. It was also funny. One fat, mustachioed Mediterranean man with a gruff voice bellowed, "Sheep balls!", at people, while, two stalls down, a Chinese vendor asked, "Do you like penis?" to passing tourists.
The following day, under a red sun cut cleanly into the sky, we set out for The Great Wall. Months earlier, I'd booked it as a private tour, a tour I now realized was outrageously expensive for China, but I wasn't going to let that spoil an experience I'd, in some ways, been looking forward to since elementary school. Our guide introduced himself as Chenney, and, after a couple of hours of driving, we had a hundreds-year-old section of the Wall entirely to ourselves.
We hiked along the Wall for 3 hours, some parts recently restored, and others crumbling with age, all the while moving through mountains shrouded in a heavy fog. Occasionally, we'd catch glimpses of lone houses in the valleys, people who'd shunned the nearby megalopolis of Beijing, and decided to somehow scrape it out in isolation. We passed through over a dozen watchtowers our first day, structures of heavy stone rising 2 or 3 stories which served as barracks and storehouses for the countless soldiers that manned the Wall continually; the oldest one, Chenney told us, was built over 6 centuries ago. 600 years. My mind reeled at the number. The tower was standing a hundred years before Europeans discovered Canada, (Vikings not included). The entire continent of North America remained unspoiled for a whole lifetime after the first stones of this structure were laid.
At one point, we had to leave the wall entirely, and follow a trail for some time in order to avoid a military base. I asked Chenny what sort of military base it was, but he only replied, "I don't know. It's secret." "It's what?" I asked, not hearing him. "Secret." Then I wondered, in a country as huge as China, why the military had chosen to set up a base right next to The Great Wall--probably the most popular tourist attraction there was--so close that they had to fence-off a portion of it and force people to walk around. I could only conclude that it must be some expression of communist power; the Chinese military is so badass, it can even close down the Great Wall.
Though the fog limited our view to a few hundred meters, Chenney assured us that, on a clear day, the view was spectacular. Afterwards, we checked into an isolated hotel in a deserted resort town. It was the low season, and we were the only guests. There were no stars that night, only a faint smudge of moon.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Xi'an
Throughout my trip, I've been keeping a journal, a paper record of my travels in a book my sister gave me, one peppered with quotations like "The first condition of understanding a foreign country is to smell it" and "Not all that wander are lost." At first, it was a daily journal, and before long, an every-few-days thing, but at the time of this entry--mid November--I'd neglected my journal writing duties rather fully, completely lost track of the date, and couldn't account for an entire day. After that, I vowed to make it a daily ritual, and have since kept up with it about twice a week. So, if anything seems askew, any details misaligned, then this is probably why. That, and I've also had three beers.
We arrived in Xi'an in the early afternoon, the sun blurred behind a heavy dome of haze. Immediately outside the train station, we were struck by the sight of the ancient city wall, a feature that lent Xi'an a quality of character which most Chinese cities lack. The following day, we would ride around the wall on rented bicycles, circumnavigating the old city. But that first day, we visited the Wild Goose Pagoda (or, more accurately, enjoyed it from a distance), got turned away from a history museum (closed by 4?), walked through a football field-sized fountain, and wandered the streets of the Muslim Quarter.
Later that evening, back at our hostel, I was roped into a drunken conversation with a trio of Brits. I'd been seeking a beer and a few quiet hours to write, but was instead bombarded by personal questions, rants, and wild theories that were progressively more difficult to understand. These guys weren't guests, they weren't even travelers (the oldest of them had lived there 9 years), they were merely sitting in the tiny lobby of this run-down hostel, drinking the 5 yuan beer. The youngest of them seemed like a reasonable fellow--the one among them with which I could have a real conversation--but he was unfortunately overpowered by the two older, louder, more bitter and sarcastic men, and hardly got a word in edgewise. Sometime after the third round, the conversation deteriorated to truly toxic levels, and I bid them goodnight.
After our morning bike ride, we caught a bus to the site of the Terra Cotta Warriors, the primary reason we'd stopped in Xi'an. Following a great deal of confusion and backtracking to get our entry tickets (despite the place being visited by hundreds of foreign tourists a day, there was no English signage indicating where to buy tickets, a place we found, finally, a good kilometer from the entrance gate) we eventually got in. The first few buildings we entered ranged from the disappointing (a sparse collection of artifacts, some of questionable authenticity) to the truly bizarre (a giant Terra Cotta Warrior marionette hanging from the ceiling, holding hands with a little girl).
But eventually, we found the real deal--Pit 1--the stadium-sized enclosure housing over 7000 figures: infantry, cavalry, archers, charioteers and generals, every one unique down to its hairstyle and sculpted in a detail that defies accurate description. In one pit, we watched as archaeologists excavated new figures right before our eyes, scooping soil out of a torso, and producing a leg that nobody had seen in over 2000 years. It was like the world's biggest jigsaw puzzle, only all the pieces were broken, buried, and extremely fragile. Complete excavation and reassembly will take decades. The Terra Cotta Warriors completely blew us away.
We arrived in Xi'an in the early afternoon, the sun blurred behind a heavy dome of haze. Immediately outside the train station, we were struck by the sight of the ancient city wall, a feature that lent Xi'an a quality of character which most Chinese cities lack. The following day, we would ride around the wall on rented bicycles, circumnavigating the old city. But that first day, we visited the Wild Goose Pagoda (or, more accurately, enjoyed it from a distance), got turned away from a history museum (closed by 4?), walked through a football field-sized fountain, and wandered the streets of the Muslim Quarter.
Later that evening, back at our hostel, I was roped into a drunken conversation with a trio of Brits. I'd been seeking a beer and a few quiet hours to write, but was instead bombarded by personal questions, rants, and wild theories that were progressively more difficult to understand. These guys weren't guests, they weren't even travelers (the oldest of them had lived there 9 years), they were merely sitting in the tiny lobby of this run-down hostel, drinking the 5 yuan beer. The youngest of them seemed like a reasonable fellow--the one among them with which I could have a real conversation--but he was unfortunately overpowered by the two older, louder, more bitter and sarcastic men, and hardly got a word in edgewise. Sometime after the third round, the conversation deteriorated to truly toxic levels, and I bid them goodnight.
After our morning bike ride, we caught a bus to the site of the Terra Cotta Warriors, the primary reason we'd stopped in Xi'an. Following a great deal of confusion and backtracking to get our entry tickets (despite the place being visited by hundreds of foreign tourists a day, there was no English signage indicating where to buy tickets, a place we found, finally, a good kilometer from the entrance gate) we eventually got in. The first few buildings we entered ranged from the disappointing (a sparse collection of artifacts, some of questionable authenticity) to the truly bizarre (a giant Terra Cotta Warrior marionette hanging from the ceiling, holding hands with a little girl).
But eventually, we found the real deal--Pit 1--the stadium-sized enclosure housing over 7000 figures: infantry, cavalry, archers, charioteers and generals, every one unique down to its hairstyle and sculpted in a detail that defies accurate description. In one pit, we watched as archaeologists excavated new figures right before our eyes, scooping soil out of a torso, and producing a leg that nobody had seen in over 2000 years. It was like the world's biggest jigsaw puzzle, only all the pieces were broken, buried, and extremely fragile. Complete excavation and reassembly will take decades. The Terra Cotta Warriors completely blew us away.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Lost
(I actually wrote this entry in its entirety over 2 hours late last night using MS Word because the hotel internet was down, then saved it in two formats before going to bed. When I came to cut and paste it online this afternoon I found it had been deleted. No hotel staff were able to offer any explanation as to why this was done. Awesome.)
For Buddhists, Emeishan is one of the four holiest mountains in all of China, but for the government, it is just another opportunity to cash in on entrance fees. To reach the summit, you must first take a two hour bus ride, followed by a cable car ride, each requiring an additional ticket. We opted, instead, to hike a trail partway up, one considered to have the most beautiful scenery on the mountain. Unlike Yellow Mountain, which is extraordinarily steep and difficult to access, Emeishan is relatively flat, and has therefore been developed to an almost unbelievable degree. With stalls and restaurants at every turn, it was sometimes hard to remember we were on a mountain at all, and not in the middle of a marketplace that just happened to have a lot of trees around. But the most appalling affront to the mountain came when we were asked to pay to enter a Buddhist temple. The amount they were charging was insignificant, but the fact they were even asking (and this, above and beyond the entrance fee everyone had already paid) was enough for us to refuse and turn away in disgust.
What Mt.Emei lacked in peace, it made up for in beauty and entertainment. Beauty, in the form of old-growth forests and lush ferns, waterfalls and intricate stone carvings, entertainment, in the form of monkeys, mischievous macaques tormenting tourists, snatching snacks straight out of their hands, and jumping on unsuspecting people's heads, much to our amusement.
An unwelcome rain forced us down the mountain and back to Chengdu to catch a train.
You know that annoying (and, let's be honest, useless) process you have to go through at airport security: x-raying your bags, emptying your pockets, walking through a metal detector, being scanned and patted down, gathering your belongings, and re-shouldering your pack? Well, in China, this is the process you have to go through before boarding every last train, subway, and long-distance bus. It's a tremendous pain in the ass, and, unsurprisingly, one that's multiplied when you're carrying three bags and in a hurry to catch a train. However, having been through the process countless times in the past few weeks, Hyangmi and I were pretty much security check masters, slinging our packs off with the effortless grace of Olympic gymnasts, before scooping them up again and gliding past an indifferent x-ray tech towards our train in a single seamless motion.
Since my ticket had already been checked, hole-punched, and checked again before boarding the train, I didn't think it particularly careless when I tossed it onto my bed before helping Hyangmi to reach her bunk. This turned out to be a mistake. Minutes later, I was looking over my sheets, in my pockets, under my bag--I couldn't find it anywhere. No big deal, I thought, maybe they wouldn't even ask to see it again. Shortly after this thought, a train worker appeared at the compartment door, asking to see everyone's ticket. I explained I couldn't find it. They just shook their head and left.
The search began: behind my mattress, under my pillow, on the bunk beneath mine, on the floor. It was nowhere to be found. The train worker returned. Hyangmi showed them a receipt, proving we had bought two tickets only half an hour before. "No good, need ticket." More people joined the hunt. Hyangmi searched high and low, and a Chinese woman began offering suggestions on where to look: under my sheets, in my pockets, on the bottom of my shoes. A man from the same compartment produced a lighter and began searching the floor, pulling out bundles of dirty blankets from beneath the beds.
By this point, word had traveled throughout the entire car about the stupid foreigner who had lost his ticket, and a small crowd had gathered in the hall to watch. The search continued, in vain, the possible places the ticket could be having long run out. The scale of the search was getting entirely out of hand, and the places we were looking becoming increasingly more absurd. People were starting to get pissed off. I was ready to give up, resign myself to paying for the ticket again (at around $40, it was among the most expensive in Asia, outside Japan), it was simply gone. The train worker returned a final time, and, perhaps feeling pity for me for becoming the laughing stock of the entire train, or perhaps satisfied by the extensiveness of our search, allowed me to ride without buying another ticket, suggesting, next time, that I put it in my pocket.
For Buddhists, Emeishan is one of the four holiest mountains in all of China, but for the government, it is just another opportunity to cash in on entrance fees. To reach the summit, you must first take a two hour bus ride, followed by a cable car ride, each requiring an additional ticket. We opted, instead, to hike a trail partway up, one considered to have the most beautiful scenery on the mountain. Unlike Yellow Mountain, which is extraordinarily steep and difficult to access, Emeishan is relatively flat, and has therefore been developed to an almost unbelievable degree. With stalls and restaurants at every turn, it was sometimes hard to remember we were on a mountain at all, and not in the middle of a marketplace that just happened to have a lot of trees around. But the most appalling affront to the mountain came when we were asked to pay to enter a Buddhist temple. The amount they were charging was insignificant, but the fact they were even asking (and this, above and beyond the entrance fee everyone had already paid) was enough for us to refuse and turn away in disgust.
What Mt.Emei lacked in peace, it made up for in beauty and entertainment. Beauty, in the form of old-growth forests and lush ferns, waterfalls and intricate stone carvings, entertainment, in the form of monkeys, mischievous macaques tormenting tourists, snatching snacks straight out of their hands, and jumping on unsuspecting people's heads, much to our amusement.
An unwelcome rain forced us down the mountain and back to Chengdu to catch a train.
You know that annoying (and, let's be honest, useless) process you have to go through at airport security: x-raying your bags, emptying your pockets, walking through a metal detector, being scanned and patted down, gathering your belongings, and re-shouldering your pack? Well, in China, this is the process you have to go through before boarding every last train, subway, and long-distance bus. It's a tremendous pain in the ass, and, unsurprisingly, one that's multiplied when you're carrying three bags and in a hurry to catch a train. However, having been through the process countless times in the past few weeks, Hyangmi and I were pretty much security check masters, slinging our packs off with the effortless grace of Olympic gymnasts, before scooping them up again and gliding past an indifferent x-ray tech towards our train in a single seamless motion.
Since my ticket had already been checked, hole-punched, and checked again before boarding the train, I didn't think it particularly careless when I tossed it onto my bed before helping Hyangmi to reach her bunk. This turned out to be a mistake. Minutes later, I was looking over my sheets, in my pockets, under my bag--I couldn't find it anywhere. No big deal, I thought, maybe they wouldn't even ask to see it again. Shortly after this thought, a train worker appeared at the compartment door, asking to see everyone's ticket. I explained I couldn't find it. They just shook their head and left.
The search began: behind my mattress, under my pillow, on the bunk beneath mine, on the floor. It was nowhere to be found. The train worker returned. Hyangmi showed them a receipt, proving we had bought two tickets only half an hour before. "No good, need ticket." More people joined the hunt. Hyangmi searched high and low, and a Chinese woman began offering suggestions on where to look: under my sheets, in my pockets, on the bottom of my shoes. A man from the same compartment produced a lighter and began searching the floor, pulling out bundles of dirty blankets from beneath the beds.
By this point, word had traveled throughout the entire car about the stupid foreigner who had lost his ticket, and a small crowd had gathered in the hall to watch. The search continued, in vain, the possible places the ticket could be having long run out. The scale of the search was getting entirely out of hand, and the places we were looking becoming increasingly more absurd. People were starting to get pissed off. I was ready to give up, resign myself to paying for the ticket again (at around $40, it was among the most expensive in Asia, outside Japan), it was simply gone. The train worker returned a final time, and, perhaps feeling pity for me for becoming the laughing stock of the entire train, or perhaps satisfied by the extensiveness of our search, allowed me to ride without buying another ticket, suggesting, next time, that I put it in my pocket.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Huge Disasters, Giant Pandas, and Big Buddhas
I'd arranged to be picked up at the airport in Chengdu a week prior to our arrival. We were landing after midnight, and were therefore concerned about finding transportation at such a late hour. I confirmed this with our hostel via e-mail, including our arrival time, date, and flight number, but, come 12:40AM on Wednesday November 11th at Chengdu International Airport, there was nobody waiting to pick us up.
(I had expressed concern earlier that perhaps they would mistake 12AM with 12PM, which I assured Hyangmi was a common mistake, but she dismissed such a thing as being impossibly stupid) We tried to call the hostel, the payphones only accepted Chinese calling cards. We borrowed somebody's cell, nobody answered. We called the complaint line, nobody answered there either.
This went on for good two hours until we finally managed to reach our hostel, which was closed.
Things only went downhill from here.
Suffice to say, it was a disastrous day, and one I don't intend to relive either through writing about it now, or ever.
The following day was a considerable improvement. We started by visiting a mountain in the forest, where rustic gazebos sprang from the side of trees like mushrooms, and a bearded blind man climbed steep stone steps playing an enchanting tune on a bamboo flute. From there, we visited an ancient dam, crossed a couple of rope bridges, and finished things off with an Indian dinner.
Our third day in Chengdu was a mixed bag. Things started well with a visit to the Panda Breeding Center, where we saw Giant Panda adults (looking very hungover, sleeping), sub-adults (eating), and babies (being adorable) as well as Red Pandas (fighting). Every panda has a doctor, a nutritionist, and a keeper. Their meals are prepared in a private kitchen. Indeed, these pandas enjoy better living conditions than the vast majority of the Chinese population.
Next was a trip south to the Big Buddha, a 70m statue carved into a cliff I had been looking forward to seeing for some time. Unfortunately, due to time constraints and crowds, we were only able to see his head and glimpse his big toe before making a mad dash back to a waiting cab. Afterward, we checked into the Teddy Bear Hotel, which thankfully, wasn't teddy bear-themed, but did dish out simple-yet-tasty Chinese. It would also be our base camp for Emeishan, the mountain we would climb the following day.
(I had expressed concern earlier that perhaps they would mistake 12AM with 12PM, which I assured Hyangmi was a common mistake, but she dismissed such a thing as being impossibly stupid) We tried to call the hostel, the payphones only accepted Chinese calling cards. We borrowed somebody's cell, nobody answered. We called the complaint line, nobody answered there either.
This went on for good two hours until we finally managed to reach our hostel, which was closed.
Things only went downhill from here.
Suffice to say, it was a disastrous day, and one I don't intend to relive either through writing about it now, or ever.
The following day was a considerable improvement. We started by visiting a mountain in the forest, where rustic gazebos sprang from the side of trees like mushrooms, and a bearded blind man climbed steep stone steps playing an enchanting tune on a bamboo flute. From there, we visited an ancient dam, crossed a couple of rope bridges, and finished things off with an Indian dinner.
Our third day in Chengdu was a mixed bag. Things started well with a visit to the Panda Breeding Center, where we saw Giant Panda adults (looking very hungover, sleeping), sub-adults (eating), and babies (being adorable) as well as Red Pandas (fighting). Every panda has a doctor, a nutritionist, and a keeper. Their meals are prepared in a private kitchen. Indeed, these pandas enjoy better living conditions than the vast majority of the Chinese population.
Next was a trip south to the Big Buddha, a 70m statue carved into a cliff I had been looking forward to seeing for some time. Unfortunately, due to time constraints and crowds, we were only able to see his head and glimpse his big toe before making a mad dash back to a waiting cab. Afterward, we checked into the Teddy Bear Hotel, which thankfully, wasn't teddy bear-themed, but did dish out simple-yet-tasty Chinese. It would also be our base camp for Emeishan, the mountain we would climb the following day.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Shangri-La
While the "real" Shangri-La may only exist in legend, nestled in the mountains in the extreme southwest of China is a town which shares more than a name with that mythical land. It was quickly evident from the yaks wandering the streets, the abundance of Tibetan shops, and the absence of people shouting and spitting that this wasn't Han China. In fact, when walking through the streets of the old town, it didn't feel like China at all, but somewhere else entirely. Gone were the crowds, the noise, and the paranoia that plagues the majority of places in China.
The Shangri-La of Yunnan Province is a place of clear skies, peaceful people, and wide open spaces. Searching for our hostel our first night, we came upon a public square in which people of all ages and dress were gathered in a large circle, rotating slowly, and dancing easily to traditional music played out of an overhead speaker. When I asked a local if this was some kind of festival, or week-end celebration (it was Sunday) he said, "No, this happens every night."
During our time in Shangri-La we explored the old town, (walked its stone streets between temples and weapon shops) took a trip to a monastery (out in the country, past yaks and huge wooden hay-drying racks) visited a Chicken Temple (we ate beef that night) walked in the outlying grasslands (a big brown valley between hills, grazing horses, flocks of birds, more yaks) and visited a National Park (great scenery, presented poorly). Shangri-La also had the best street food in all of China: BBQ veggie skewers for 1Y, meat for 2, or about 15 & 30 cents, respectively). All-in-all, we left feeling relaxed, refreshed, and fulfilled; a feeling that would be shattered within minutes of landing in Chengdu.
The Shangri-La of Yunnan Province is a place of clear skies, peaceful people, and wide open spaces. Searching for our hostel our first night, we came upon a public square in which people of all ages and dress were gathered in a large circle, rotating slowly, and dancing easily to traditional music played out of an overhead speaker. When I asked a local if this was some kind of festival, or week-end celebration (it was Sunday) he said, "No, this happens every night."
During our time in Shangri-La we explored the old town, (walked its stone streets between temples and weapon shops) took a trip to a monastery (out in the country, past yaks and huge wooden hay-drying racks) visited a Chicken Temple (we ate beef that night) walked in the outlying grasslands (a big brown valley between hills, grazing horses, flocks of birds, more yaks) and visited a National Park (great scenery, presented poorly). Shangri-La also had the best street food in all of China: BBQ veggie skewers for 1Y, meat for 2, or about 15 & 30 cents, respectively). All-in-all, we left feeling relaxed, refreshed, and fulfilled; a feeling that would be shattered within minutes of landing in Chengdu.
Tiger Leaping Gorge
Tiger Leaping Gorge, a 15km long gash in the Earth found between two massive mountains, is said to be the deepest in the world, and, teetering at the edge of a cliff on the back of a willful horse, it is not hard to believe it.
We hadn't planned on riding horses in the gorge, but, after hearing that we could avoid several hours of torturous climbing for the very reasonable price of 100 yuan, we decided to go for it. Joining up with a group of Koreans, (Hyangmi is able to spot them, instantly, from 50 feet away) we started hiking towards the trailhead, gaining horses and handlers as we went. After an hour, we formed a line eleven people and six horses long, the jagged crown of Jade Dragon Snow Mountain coming into full view just as we reached the start of the trail. It was time to mount. For reasons I still do not understand, (perhaps it was because I was wearing a cowboy-style hat, or perhaps because the Chinese figured everyone from Canada was an experienced horseman) I was the only person in our group allowed to ride unassisted, that is, without anyone leading the horse by its reins. Of course, I had no idea how to ride a horse, I had tried it only once, when I was eight, but I was delighted at the opportunity nonetheless. After listening in on a few pointers given to the other riders (again, why not me?) and quickly recalling all the episodes of Have Gun - Will Travel I had recently watched, we were off.
We followed a narrow, rock strewn trail along the side of the gorge, passing palms, cactus, and petrified trees, never far from a cliff that tumbled steeply down to the raging Yangtze below. This, combined with waterfalls, mountainside villages, and the sight of snow-capped mountains looming in the distance, made for a dramatic ride. However, it wasn't long into our trek before I discovered that my horse did pretty much whatever it wanted, stopping frequently to munch on grass and refusing to climb the particularity difficult sections, requiring a stern word or slight yank of the reins to continue; and it wasn't long after that that I discovered why cowboys walk so funny.
After a much-needed lunch break we were back in the saddle, riding up towards the infamous "28 Bends" (the section of the trail we had hired the horses for) when, passing a small wooden hut I heard a middle-aged Chinese woman say, "Coca-Cola. Ganja" Did I just hear that? Impossible. But, sure enough, after finishing the 28 Bends and leaving our horses behind to continue on foot, we came to a small stall, with another woman selling water, soft drinks, beer, chocolate bars, and, bags of marijuana. Perhaps equally incredible, was a man nearby, asking for 8 yuan to take a picture from the cliff behind him, which apparently offered the best view on the trail. I was tempted to buy the weed, but, knowing the Koreans would view this as a sign I was deranged and immoral, I abstained.
We arrived at our guesthouse a couple of hours later, a large but simply outfitted place made great by the beauty of the operators, and the fantastic view from our window. We had dinner, and I ordered my first beer. Halfway into my second beer, I had to pee. When leaving the sloped ditch that was the men's bathroom, I noticed a very interesting plant growing nearby.
Minutes later, I was back in my room, rolling a joint using one the cosmetic papers Hyangmi used to wipe oil from her skin; she didn't partake. Afterward, we went out and looked at the starriest sky I've ever seen, a sight I guessed was due to the fact we were above 3000 meters, and far from any city.
The following morning, we got up early to see the sun rise, but stars still filled the sky at 6am; we had forgotten that China adheres to only one timezone--Beijing time--and while the sun may rise on Yellow Mountain in the East at 6am, we were now far to the West, our true time being perhaps just 4 or 5am.
The sun eventually rose, revealing wisps of fog which gathered in the gorges base, then slowly swirled up, growing ever-larger until they blotted out all but Jade Dragon's highest snowy peaks.
We hadn't planned on riding horses in the gorge, but, after hearing that we could avoid several hours of torturous climbing for the very reasonable price of 100 yuan, we decided to go for it. Joining up with a group of Koreans, (Hyangmi is able to spot them, instantly, from 50 feet away) we started hiking towards the trailhead, gaining horses and handlers as we went. After an hour, we formed a line eleven people and six horses long, the jagged crown of Jade Dragon Snow Mountain coming into full view just as we reached the start of the trail. It was time to mount. For reasons I still do not understand, (perhaps it was because I was wearing a cowboy-style hat, or perhaps because the Chinese figured everyone from Canada was an experienced horseman) I was the only person in our group allowed to ride unassisted, that is, without anyone leading the horse by its reins. Of course, I had no idea how to ride a horse, I had tried it only once, when I was eight, but I was delighted at the opportunity nonetheless. After listening in on a few pointers given to the other riders (again, why not me?) and quickly recalling all the episodes of Have Gun - Will Travel I had recently watched, we were off.
We followed a narrow, rock strewn trail along the side of the gorge, passing palms, cactus, and petrified trees, never far from a cliff that tumbled steeply down to the raging Yangtze below. This, combined with waterfalls, mountainside villages, and the sight of snow-capped mountains looming in the distance, made for a dramatic ride. However, it wasn't long into our trek before I discovered that my horse did pretty much whatever it wanted, stopping frequently to munch on grass and refusing to climb the particularity difficult sections, requiring a stern word or slight yank of the reins to continue; and it wasn't long after that that I discovered why cowboys walk so funny.
After a much-needed lunch break we were back in the saddle, riding up towards the infamous "28 Bends" (the section of the trail we had hired the horses for) when, passing a small wooden hut I heard a middle-aged Chinese woman say, "Coca-Cola. Ganja" Did I just hear that? Impossible. But, sure enough, after finishing the 28 Bends and leaving our horses behind to continue on foot, we came to a small stall, with another woman selling water, soft drinks, beer, chocolate bars, and, bags of marijuana. Perhaps equally incredible, was a man nearby, asking for 8 yuan to take a picture from the cliff behind him, which apparently offered the best view on the trail. I was tempted to buy the weed, but, knowing the Koreans would view this as a sign I was deranged and immoral, I abstained.
We arrived at our guesthouse a couple of hours later, a large but simply outfitted place made great by the beauty of the operators, and the fantastic view from our window. We had dinner, and I ordered my first beer. Halfway into my second beer, I had to pee. When leaving the sloped ditch that was the men's bathroom, I noticed a very interesting plant growing nearby.
Minutes later, I was back in my room, rolling a joint using one the cosmetic papers Hyangmi used to wipe oil from her skin; she didn't partake. Afterward, we went out and looked at the starriest sky I've ever seen, a sight I guessed was due to the fact we were above 3000 meters, and far from any city.
The following morning, we got up early to see the sun rise, but stars still filled the sky at 6am; we had forgotten that China adheres to only one timezone--Beijing time--and while the sun may rise on Yellow Mountain in the East at 6am, we were now far to the West, our true time being perhaps just 4 or 5am.
The sun eventually rose, revealing wisps of fog which gathered in the gorges base, then slowly swirled up, growing ever-larger until they blotted out all but Jade Dragon's highest snowy peaks.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Lijiang
Our horrid bus ride from Kunming had the single benefit of arriving on time--to the minute--in Lijiang. Unfortunately for us, our arrival time was before that of the opening of our hostel, so, after some waiting and banging at the gate, we were let inside to rest in a recently vacated room until ours was ready.
The hostel was the best we'd seen, (and indeed, the best we would see for the rest of our time in China) being clean, comfortable, quiet, cheap, with good facilities and a friendly and helpful staff. This, and they made a delicious breakfast, served in a lovely courtyard, as well as offered a traditional Chinese dinner for the price of a cup of coffee.
Located on the edge of the charming Old Town, this hostel proved the perfect starting point for a day out wandering the ancient streets, admiring the architecture, and enjoying the various local dishes. Here, in a city of falconers and food stalls, Naxi natives and water wheels, we finally got a sense of ancient urban China. Sadly, many of China's ancient buildings and structures have been destroyed (all part of Mao's idea for a 'New China') leaving most of its cities looking the same, which to say, Westernized and dull, with little to differentiate them from a thousand other cities found around the world. Lijiang's Old Town, however, managed to escape this fate, and still allows travelers the opportunity to step back into China's past. We walked its labyrinthine streets until the paper lanterns reflected red in the waterways, then found our way back to the hostel to prepare for our trek into Tiger Leaping Gorge.
The hostel was the best we'd seen, (and indeed, the best we would see for the rest of our time in China) being clean, comfortable, quiet, cheap, with good facilities and a friendly and helpful staff. This, and they made a delicious breakfast, served in a lovely courtyard, as well as offered a traditional Chinese dinner for the price of a cup of coffee.
Located on the edge of the charming Old Town, this hostel proved the perfect starting point for a day out wandering the ancient streets, admiring the architecture, and enjoying the various local dishes. Here, in a city of falconers and food stalls, Naxi natives and water wheels, we finally got a sense of ancient urban China. Sadly, many of China's ancient buildings and structures have been destroyed (all part of Mao's idea for a 'New China') leaving most of its cities looking the same, which to say, Westernized and dull, with little to differentiate them from a thousand other cities found around the world. Lijiang's Old Town, however, managed to escape this fate, and still allows travelers the opportunity to step back into China's past. We walked its labyrinthine streets until the paper lanterns reflected red in the waterways, then found our way back to the hostel to prepare for our trek into Tiger Leaping Gorge.
Waterways
After a mere 22.5 hours, we arrived in Guilin. Our aptly named Oasis Inn rejuvenated us with such comforts as fresh air, food, and toilets.
We took a night walk by the lake, admiring the gaudy lighting of pagodas, trees and just about everything else one can string some LED's on or shine a multi-colored light at that seems to be an epidemic across China.
The following day, we were thoroughly disappointed to find that each and every landmark and famous site citywide was fenced off and charging admission fees. We refused to pay them, instead admiring what we could at a distance, (where the view wasn't blocked by carefully placed bamboo) and forging our own path through the city. Our wanderings led us to a rickety wooden bridge, spanning a dry riverbed, where we witnessed a man actually ride his motor-scooter across, despite the wobbly thing being hardly fit for walking; even the other Chinese pointed and snapped pictures in disbelief. After passing some chickens amidst bamboo, we found ourselves alongside the river proper, and, somehow, got onto an almost island, cut off and hidden by tall grasses from the city's sight. Here we stumbled upon a group of Chinese youths, who, for their sake, I hoped were doing something illegal.
That evening, after a cruise, we went to the ballet. Now, to be clear, I don't have anything against ballet, I happen to find the art quite moving and the physicality very impressive, but I still wanted to have a beer beforehand. Maybe two. The thing was, I wasn't sure if drinking in the street was legal in China--it was fine in Korea (for foreigners anyway, for locals it was considered shameful)--but, considering both the chaos on the roads, and everything else that went on in China, I figured that "anything goes", and if it didn't, I could always play the foreigner card.
The nearby police took no interest in our drinking cans of Tsingtao beer, sitting on a pair of cinderblocks in an alley beside a store where Hyangmi had bought a pack of duty-free cigarettes under the counter from a 12-year-old boy. The "Dreamlike" ballet turned out to be a combination of dance, acrobatics, and Kung-fu--the combination of tutus and swordplay proving especially satisfying.
Next day, we caught a bus South to the much smaller (and nicer) Yangshuo. There, we took a 2-hour cruise down the Li River. The scenery was fantastic. Huge karst peaks lined a narrow, meandering river, on the banks of which grew bundles of lush bamboo. Our raft drifted past cormorant fisherman and grazing water buffalo. At one point, Hyangmi shrieked, and I turned to see why: a man carrying a python from the river, the fat snake draped around his neck, like a scarf.
This brief cruise would prove to be one of the highlights of our time in China.
Yangshuo held other treasures. Biking through he countryside the following day--along the Wulong river--we arrived at a "Water Cave". After boating in, we were treated to an array of impressive rock formations, mud pool, and natural hot spring chamber. Laying in our rock baths, looking up at the cavern ceiling 50 meters above us, and listening to the gentle cascade of spring water, it was hard to say we had not chosen wisely.
That night we walked the neon-lit streets, scored some 5Y (75 cent) coffee & beer, and, after talking with a friendly Israeli couple, turned in.
We took a night walk by the lake, admiring the gaudy lighting of pagodas, trees and just about everything else one can string some LED's on or shine a multi-colored light at that seems to be an epidemic across China.
The following day, we were thoroughly disappointed to find that each and every landmark and famous site citywide was fenced off and charging admission fees. We refused to pay them, instead admiring what we could at a distance, (where the view wasn't blocked by carefully placed bamboo) and forging our own path through the city. Our wanderings led us to a rickety wooden bridge, spanning a dry riverbed, where we witnessed a man actually ride his motor-scooter across, despite the wobbly thing being hardly fit for walking; even the other Chinese pointed and snapped pictures in disbelief. After passing some chickens amidst bamboo, we found ourselves alongside the river proper, and, somehow, got onto an almost island, cut off and hidden by tall grasses from the city's sight. Here we stumbled upon a group of Chinese youths, who, for their sake, I hoped were doing something illegal.
That evening, after a cruise, we went to the ballet. Now, to be clear, I don't have anything against ballet, I happen to find the art quite moving and the physicality very impressive, but I still wanted to have a beer beforehand. Maybe two. The thing was, I wasn't sure if drinking in the street was legal in China--it was fine in Korea (for foreigners anyway, for locals it was considered shameful)--but, considering both the chaos on the roads, and everything else that went on in China, I figured that "anything goes", and if it didn't, I could always play the foreigner card.
The nearby police took no interest in our drinking cans of Tsingtao beer, sitting on a pair of cinderblocks in an alley beside a store where Hyangmi had bought a pack of duty-free cigarettes under the counter from a 12-year-old boy. The "Dreamlike" ballet turned out to be a combination of dance, acrobatics, and Kung-fu--the combination of tutus and swordplay proving especially satisfying.
Next day, we caught a bus South to the much smaller (and nicer) Yangshuo. There, we took a 2-hour cruise down the Li River. The scenery was fantastic. Huge karst peaks lined a narrow, meandering river, on the banks of which grew bundles of lush bamboo. Our raft drifted past cormorant fisherman and grazing water buffalo. At one point, Hyangmi shrieked, and I turned to see why: a man carrying a python from the river, the fat snake draped around his neck, like a scarf.
This brief cruise would prove to be one of the highlights of our time in China.
Yangshuo held other treasures. Biking through he countryside the following day--along the Wulong river--we arrived at a "Water Cave". After boating in, we were treated to an array of impressive rock formations, mud pool, and natural hot spring chamber. Laying in our rock baths, looking up at the cavern ceiling 50 meters above us, and listening to the gentle cascade of spring water, it was hard to say we had not chosen wisely.
That night we walked the neon-lit streets, scored some 5Y (75 cent) coffee & beer, and, after talking with a friendly Israeli couple, turned in.
In Transit
Never play chicken with a Chinese bus driver; this is the lesson I learned on our drive down from Yellow Mountain. I understood why our driver was in a hurry--more trips up and down the mountain meant more money--but I don't think he considered the fact that you can't get paid if your dead, or, for that mater, that a bus full of dead tourists might be bad for business. In addition to trying to set a new land speed record for 1986 minivans, our driver also felt it necessary to pass everything on the road, whether there was oncoming traffic or not. Once, we came within about 3 meters of a head-on collision with a bus. This didn't phase our driver, who seemed intent on giving every one of his passengers a near-death experience, and consequently, a renewed lust for life, having survived the ordeal.
But survive we did, even arriving to our destination early enough to have a tasty lunch of chicken and fried rice before our (much calmer) 4 hour bus ride back to West Lake to catch a train.
Shortly after boarding, we discovered that our 14 hour train ride was actually going to take 24 hours; one full rotation of the planet Earth. This, we were to spend in a dirty, narrow bunk, in a creaky compartment beside the bathroom, within earshot of every hork and flush. It was not very pleasant. But, as luck would have it, the passengers below us (there were 6 bunks to a room, stacked 3 high) got off in the morning, so we at least had a place to sit during the day. Between the reading, eating overpriced fruit, and listening to music, I brought out the hand-gripper I had brought along in order to get a little exercise on these long trips. A Chinese student saw it immediately, climbed down from his bunk, and asked, a little nervously, "How many can you do? I think I can do more. Friendly bet."
I agreed to a bet of 10 yuan (about $1.50) and said he could go first. He took the gripper in hand, and started squeezing it together at great speed. I counted. He kept a good pace until about 30, and then started slowing down. By 40 he had really slowed, and then struggled, and barely managed to make 50. "Fifty" I said, "pretty good." He smiled, rather proud of himself, and handed the gripper over to me. I took it, confident I would beat his score, and did, with a total of 76 repetitions. However, just as I finished, a Chinese businessman who had been sitting in the corridor leaned over and said something to the student, who translated: "He'd like to join, and raise the stakes--50 yuan." (about $7.50)
With only a tinge of doubt, I agreed. He looked about 45, but was probably younger. His fingers were significantly thicker than mine, but I figured, how much time did a Chinese businessman really have to work on his grip strength? He turned out to be pretty strong. The businessman showed little sign of slowing down until he hit 50, but kept on, reaching 60, and eventually, 70, but now he was very red in the face, arm trembling, and teeth gritting against the pain. Somehow, he summoned the strength to go on, heroically beating my score with a total of 82.
I was just about hand over his prize money when a monk emerged, as if from thin air, in the corridor. He had the unmistakable shaved head and orange robe of a Shaolin, and, judging by the look on the faces of the two men in front of me, no one had seen him up until that moment. Without saying a word, the monk presented a 100 yuan bill with his left hand, and reached his right hand out for the gripper. With some reluctance, the businessman handed it over, and set his 100 yuan note on the fold-down table.
The Shaolin began squeezing, with what looked like no effort at all, at a slow and steady pace. It took him 30 seconds to do just 25, and a full minute to reach 50, but on he went, 60...70...80...90--the businessman left at 100.
The Chinese student and I watched, in amazement, as this monk passed 150, 200 repetitions! Finally, (I think more out of boredom than exhaustion) the monk stopped after an astonishing 212 reps, returned the gripper, and gathered his money.
Jokingly, I said to the student that I didn't think monks were allowed to gamble, but, taking this seriously, he translated the comment to the monk, who responded, smiled slightly, and left. After the Shaolin had gone, I asked the student what he said. He told me, "He said: 'It is not gambling, if victory is certain.'"
But survive we did, even arriving to our destination early enough to have a tasty lunch of chicken and fried rice before our (much calmer) 4 hour bus ride back to West Lake to catch a train.
Shortly after boarding, we discovered that our 14 hour train ride was actually going to take 24 hours; one full rotation of the planet Earth. This, we were to spend in a dirty, narrow bunk, in a creaky compartment beside the bathroom, within earshot of every hork and flush. It was not very pleasant. But, as luck would have it, the passengers below us (there were 6 bunks to a room, stacked 3 high) got off in the morning, so we at least had a place to sit during the day. Between the reading, eating overpriced fruit, and listening to music, I brought out the hand-gripper I had brought along in order to get a little exercise on these long trips. A Chinese student saw it immediately, climbed down from his bunk, and asked, a little nervously, "How many can you do? I think I can do more. Friendly bet."
I agreed to a bet of 10 yuan (about $1.50) and said he could go first. He took the gripper in hand, and started squeezing it together at great speed. I counted. He kept a good pace until about 30, and then started slowing down. By 40 he had really slowed, and then struggled, and barely managed to make 50. "Fifty" I said, "pretty good." He smiled, rather proud of himself, and handed the gripper over to me. I took it, confident I would beat his score, and did, with a total of 76 repetitions. However, just as I finished, a Chinese businessman who had been sitting in the corridor leaned over and said something to the student, who translated: "He'd like to join, and raise the stakes--50 yuan." (about $7.50)
With only a tinge of doubt, I agreed. He looked about 45, but was probably younger. His fingers were significantly thicker than mine, but I figured, how much time did a Chinese businessman really have to work on his grip strength? He turned out to be pretty strong. The businessman showed little sign of slowing down until he hit 50, but kept on, reaching 60, and eventually, 70, but now he was very red in the face, arm trembling, and teeth gritting against the pain. Somehow, he summoned the strength to go on, heroically beating my score with a total of 82.
I was just about hand over his prize money when a monk emerged, as if from thin air, in the corridor. He had the unmistakable shaved head and orange robe of a Shaolin, and, judging by the look on the faces of the two men in front of me, no one had seen him up until that moment. Without saying a word, the monk presented a 100 yuan bill with his left hand, and reached his right hand out for the gripper. With some reluctance, the businessman handed it over, and set his 100 yuan note on the fold-down table.
The Shaolin began squeezing, with what looked like no effort at all, at a slow and steady pace. It took him 30 seconds to do just 25, and a full minute to reach 50, but on he went, 60...70...80...90--the businessman left at 100.
The Chinese student and I watched, in amazement, as this monk passed 150, 200 repetitions! Finally, (I think more out of boredom than exhaustion) the monk stopped after an astonishing 212 reps, returned the gripper, and gathered his money.
Jokingly, I said to the student that I didn't think monks were allowed to gamble, but, taking this seriously, he translated the comment to the monk, who responded, smiled slightly, and left. After the Shaolin had gone, I asked the student what he said. He told me, "He said: 'It is not gambling, if victory is certain.'"
Into the Clouds
While Yellow Mountain is known the world over for its majestic scenery and other-worldly peaks, the city of Huangshan--at its base--is dark, dirty and gives one the feeling they could be mugged at any time. After much confusion (our hostel operator didn't speak a word of English, and everything had to be translated, over cell-phone, to someone we never met, who did) we finally had a plan to get up Yellow Mountain, spend the night, and then get back to West Lake in time to catch a train to Guilin.
We took a minibus to the mountain, found loads of tourists at the entrance, (including one woman, hurling into a trash can, who evidently couldn't handle the ride up), and bought our cable car tickets to the top. It became clear, before we even set foot on it, why this mountain was so famous. Our cable car lifted us gradually out of this world and into that of a classical Chinese painting brought to life. I'd seen the artwork many times before; improbably steep peaks, shrouded in fog, pines clinging to their sides, and temples perched atop, as if floating in the sky. I never believed these scenes were real, until I saw Yellow Mountain. The views transformed at every turn as we climbed up, down, and around the stunning mountainscape.
If Yellow Mountain has a flaw, it is that it is too beautiful, and therefore too popular and somewhat over-developed. We were there on a week-day, yet still encountered hundreds of Chinese tourists, and at one point even had to line up, two-by-two, in a congested gorge while hikers climbed a particularly steep and narrow part of the trail. There is little connection with the mountain, either, as the entire trail consists of stone steps, carved into the rock, along which are frequent signs, trash cans, fire-hydrants--even shops, hawking souvenirs. However, despite these drawbacks, there is still plenty of magic to be found on Yellow Mountain. Whether watching a distant temple slowly reveal itself through the fog, or coming down of a summit and, for a few minutes, finding yourself completely alone, witnessing the frosted tips of pines melting off the branches, causing sudden snowfalls along the trail.
After seeing the sun rise (through the trees) on our second day, we took the cable car down. During the descent, Hyangmi said, "I think a white dragon lives in these mountains." Considering the view just then, I couldn't argue with her; but I took the thought one step further. Maybe the mountains were the dragon, a great slumbering beast, petrified by time, whose bad dreams cause earthquakes, half a country away, which wipe out entire villages, and bury towns.
We took a minibus to the mountain, found loads of tourists at the entrance, (including one woman, hurling into a trash can, who evidently couldn't handle the ride up), and bought our cable car tickets to the top. It became clear, before we even set foot on it, why this mountain was so famous. Our cable car lifted us gradually out of this world and into that of a classical Chinese painting brought to life. I'd seen the artwork many times before; improbably steep peaks, shrouded in fog, pines clinging to their sides, and temples perched atop, as if floating in the sky. I never believed these scenes were real, until I saw Yellow Mountain. The views transformed at every turn as we climbed up, down, and around the stunning mountainscape.
If Yellow Mountain has a flaw, it is that it is too beautiful, and therefore too popular and somewhat over-developed. We were there on a week-day, yet still encountered hundreds of Chinese tourists, and at one point even had to line up, two-by-two, in a congested gorge while hikers climbed a particularly steep and narrow part of the trail. There is little connection with the mountain, either, as the entire trail consists of stone steps, carved into the rock, along which are frequent signs, trash cans, fire-hydrants--even shops, hawking souvenirs. However, despite these drawbacks, there is still plenty of magic to be found on Yellow Mountain. Whether watching a distant temple slowly reveal itself through the fog, or coming down of a summit and, for a few minutes, finding yourself completely alone, witnessing the frosted tips of pines melting off the branches, causing sudden snowfalls along the trail.
After seeing the sun rise (through the trees) on our second day, we took the cable car down. During the descent, Hyangmi said, "I think a white dragon lives in these mountains." Considering the view just then, I couldn't argue with her; but I took the thought one step further. Maybe the mountains were the dragon, a great slumbering beast, petrified by time, whose bad dreams cause earthquakes, half a country away, which wipe out entire villages, and bury towns.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Here Comes The Sun
Hearing that it was the best in China, we made for the Shanghai Museum the following morning. When we arrived, we found there was a line-up leading out the door, down the steps, and well out in front of the building. This was on a Monday. Thankfully, it moved fast, and, in what may well be a singular occurrence in China, entrance was free. We were not disappointed: ancient swords, awesome stonework, minority clothing and thousand-year-old paintings fascinated us for the next two hours.
Next we caught a bullet train to West Lake (I'd later learn that our ride was its last run. It was being replaced by a new high-speed train the very next day; twice as fast, and twice as expensive). Assuming we could take any seat, we unloaded our packs and plopped down for the trip. A few minutes later, a young Chinese man gently informed Hyangmi that she was sitting in his seat, and, taking a look at our tickets, told us we didn't have seat tickets. We were supposed to sit in the aisle or stand for the whole trip! However, along with speaking excellent English, (and getting us seats) this guy also turned out to be ultra-helpful and generous; later finding our hostel, paying for our taxi, and treating us to a fantastic dinner of local food with his wife. Oliver, the forklift salesman--friendliest guy we've met in China.
Took a stroll by the lake that night, a welcome peace after the chaos of Shanghai.
Lake hostel was a bunk bed affair, and the toilet leaked, but it had a great staff and American style breakfast.
Our first day in West Lake began with an hour long city bus ride to the terminal to buy our tickets to Yellow Mountain. If the bus had been travelling in the opposite direction it would have taken 15 minutes. Our bad luck continued that morning when a taxi driver misunderstood our request to go the lake, and took us instead to the nearby "Xixi wetland" For its exorbitant entry fee, Xixi offered very little. Within an hour we were searching for the exit. We wanted to see the thing the city was famous for--what we had come here for--the real West Lake, and we had to see it fast, we had a bus to catch. Once we made our way back to the terminal, Hyangmi asked me: "Do you want to try a motorcycle taxi?" This turned out to be an excellent idea. Minutes later we were speeding down the road, cutting into the bike lane, and hurtling up onto the sidewalk, striking fear into the hearts of pedestrians, and scattering entire tour groups in our path. It was great. West Lake was lovely, and the nights bus ride into the mountains was gorgeous; ever-oranger tunnels swallowing us like so many fiery kilns.
Next we caught a bullet train to West Lake (I'd later learn that our ride was its last run. It was being replaced by a new high-speed train the very next day; twice as fast, and twice as expensive). Assuming we could take any seat, we unloaded our packs and plopped down for the trip. A few minutes later, a young Chinese man gently informed Hyangmi that she was sitting in his seat, and, taking a look at our tickets, told us we didn't have seat tickets. We were supposed to sit in the aisle or stand for the whole trip! However, along with speaking excellent English, (and getting us seats) this guy also turned out to be ultra-helpful and generous; later finding our hostel, paying for our taxi, and treating us to a fantastic dinner of local food with his wife. Oliver, the forklift salesman--friendliest guy we've met in China.
Took a stroll by the lake that night, a welcome peace after the chaos of Shanghai.
Lake hostel was a bunk bed affair, and the toilet leaked, but it had a great staff and American style breakfast.
Our first day in West Lake began with an hour long city bus ride to the terminal to buy our tickets to Yellow Mountain. If the bus had been travelling in the opposite direction it would have taken 15 minutes. Our bad luck continued that morning when a taxi driver misunderstood our request to go the lake, and took us instead to the nearby "Xixi wetland" For its exorbitant entry fee, Xixi offered very little. Within an hour we were searching for the exit. We wanted to see the thing the city was famous for--what we had come here for--the real West Lake, and we had to see it fast, we had a bus to catch. Once we made our way back to the terminal, Hyangmi asked me: "Do you want to try a motorcycle taxi?" This turned out to be an excellent idea. Minutes later we were speeding down the road, cutting into the bike lane, and hurtling up onto the sidewalk, striking fear into the hearts of pedestrians, and scattering entire tour groups in our path. It was great. West Lake was lovely, and the nights bus ride into the mountains was gorgeous; ever-oranger tunnels swallowing us like so many fiery kilns.
Born Slippy
(Yeah, this is late. Very late. I'm facing internet censorship, infrequent computer access, and a serious lack of writing time. So, these will probably trickle out, in bits and pieces, as soon as I can get them written & posted.)
In many ways, my trip through China has been getting better every day: better weather, better experiences, better luck. That is, until I reached Kunming.
Kunming was shit. We arrived at midnight, checked into a small, dark room with no adjoining bath. Slept. The next morning, we had our plans for the day almost immediately dashed when we discovered that the Stone Forest ("First Wonder Of the World!") was actually too far away, overpriced, and not that great. So, we decided to visit a lake. The weather was miserable. We waited an hour for a bus, on which I was pick pocketed for $50. Hyangmi was furious, more so at me than the pickpocket, as she had warned me about keeping money in my pants pocket before. The pocket had served me well up until that point--it had a zipper--and it was my money anyhow. But anyone who's ever been in a relationship knows that all the logical arguments in the world can't save you once a woman is good and pissed, especially when she's right. So we walked, angrily, by a brown lake under a grey sky until we had seen enough shacks full of garbage to head back to the hostel.
An 8 hour night(mare) bus awaited us that evening. What was called a "sleeper" bus consisted of a Chinese action movie being blasted for the first two hours (speaker directly over my head), another couple of hours of loud talking, cell phone music and chain-smoking, followed by a military-like awakening for a bathroom break (blind and freezing, I gave up on trying to figure out which reeking hut was for men and peed behind the bus) and the next 4 hours tossing and turning in a cramped bunk, clutching my belongings, trying to will myself to sleep.
By comparison, my first day (which was pretty shit itself) seemed not half bad. Hyangmi's family saw us off at Jeju airport. Her mother gave us bracelets and told me to be happy, get rich, and be good to her daughter (Hyangmi translated). Hyangmi's 98-year-old grandmother had said similar things the previous week (several times, actually), after she had been reminded that she was indeed 98--not 88, as she had guessed--and exclaimed, "Oh! I'll be 100 soon!" Hyangmi's Jeju connections paid off immediately as one of her friends boosted us to first class. The flight to Shanghai was only 1 hour, but it was raining heavily when we got there. This wouldn't have been a big deal if there were any taxis available. There wasn't. So, we spent the next 3 hours wandering the rainy streets of Shanghai, not knowing where to go, or how to get there. This would have gone on much longer had Hyangmi not asked a hip young couple for help. These two would be the first of many almost unbelievably helpful Chinese we would encounter on our trip. They led us under a bridge, where we could get shelter from the rain, and proceeded to run all over the intersection attempting to flag down taxis for no less than half an hour. We finally got one, and after an initial "no" the Chinese couple (along with Hyangmi's pleading) finally convinced him to take us to our hostel.
We woke at 5 the next day, wanting to catch a bus, half an hour away, departing for an Ancient Water Town at 7. The first bus was at 8. We failed to beat the crowds, which, along with the continuing rain and touristization, nearly spoiled the otherwise lovely "Venice of the East" We did manage to find some solitude, in a trendy little cafe overlooking one of the cities many canals, where people boarded gondolas to be taken around the waterways. The coffee, however, was awful, and when I tried to take out my camera, a waitress told me, "No picture here." After spending a couple of hours in the parking lot, waiting for our bus back, we returned to Shanghai. Our first stop was an art district that Hyangmi wanted to check out, which turned out to be pretty cool. Loads of nice shops, restaurants, and sights packed into a bundle of narrow, stylish streets. Then, we took the subway to see the famous Bund and Shanghai skyline. Blade Runner's Los Angeles may have been inspired by Osaka, but with it's skyscraper-sized digital billboards and constant rain, Shanghai can certainly give it a run for its money. It is a place at the same time historical, retro, and hyper-futuristic. And while the tops of the tallest buildings were obscured by fog, the impact of the cityscape was no less huge.
In many ways, my trip through China has been getting better every day: better weather, better experiences, better luck. That is, until I reached Kunming.
Kunming was shit. We arrived at midnight, checked into a small, dark room with no adjoining bath. Slept. The next morning, we had our plans for the day almost immediately dashed when we discovered that the Stone Forest ("First Wonder Of the World!") was actually too far away, overpriced, and not that great. So, we decided to visit a lake. The weather was miserable. We waited an hour for a bus, on which I was pick pocketed for $50. Hyangmi was furious, more so at me than the pickpocket, as she had warned me about keeping money in my pants pocket before. The pocket had served me well up until that point--it had a zipper--and it was my money anyhow. But anyone who's ever been in a relationship knows that all the logical arguments in the world can't save you once a woman is good and pissed, especially when she's right. So we walked, angrily, by a brown lake under a grey sky until we had seen enough shacks full of garbage to head back to the hostel.
An 8 hour night(mare) bus awaited us that evening. What was called a "sleeper" bus consisted of a Chinese action movie being blasted for the first two hours (speaker directly over my head), another couple of hours of loud talking, cell phone music and chain-smoking, followed by a military-like awakening for a bathroom break (blind and freezing, I gave up on trying to figure out which reeking hut was for men and peed behind the bus) and the next 4 hours tossing and turning in a cramped bunk, clutching my belongings, trying to will myself to sleep.
By comparison, my first day (which was pretty shit itself) seemed not half bad. Hyangmi's family saw us off at Jeju airport. Her mother gave us bracelets and told me to be happy, get rich, and be good to her daughter (Hyangmi translated). Hyangmi's 98-year-old grandmother had said similar things the previous week (several times, actually), after she had been reminded that she was indeed 98--not 88, as she had guessed--and exclaimed, "Oh! I'll be 100 soon!" Hyangmi's Jeju connections paid off immediately as one of her friends boosted us to first class. The flight to Shanghai was only 1 hour, but it was raining heavily when we got there. This wouldn't have been a big deal if there were any taxis available. There wasn't. So, we spent the next 3 hours wandering the rainy streets of Shanghai, not knowing where to go, or how to get there. This would have gone on much longer had Hyangmi not asked a hip young couple for help. These two would be the first of many almost unbelievably helpful Chinese we would encounter on our trip. They led us under a bridge, where we could get shelter from the rain, and proceeded to run all over the intersection attempting to flag down taxis for no less than half an hour. We finally got one, and after an initial "no" the Chinese couple (along with Hyangmi's pleading) finally convinced him to take us to our hostel.
We woke at 5 the next day, wanting to catch a bus, half an hour away, departing for an Ancient Water Town at 7. The first bus was at 8. We failed to beat the crowds, which, along with the continuing rain and touristization, nearly spoiled the otherwise lovely "Venice of the East" We did manage to find some solitude, in a trendy little cafe overlooking one of the cities many canals, where people boarded gondolas to be taken around the waterways. The coffee, however, was awful, and when I tried to take out my camera, a waitress told me, "No picture here." After spending a couple of hours in the parking lot, waiting for our bus back, we returned to Shanghai. Our first stop was an art district that Hyangmi wanted to check out, which turned out to be pretty cool. Loads of nice shops, restaurants, and sights packed into a bundle of narrow, stylish streets. Then, we took the subway to see the famous Bund and Shanghai skyline. Blade Runner's Los Angeles may have been inspired by Osaka, but with it's skyscraper-sized digital billboards and constant rain, Shanghai can certainly give it a run for its money. It is a place at the same time historical, retro, and hyper-futuristic. And while the tops of the tallest buildings were obscured by fog, the impact of the cityscape was no less huge.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Starting Out
This coming Saturday October 23rd, I will begin a sixty-two day journey through Asia.
I have not traveled much before, and indeed, have never undertaken anything even remotely near the scope of this trip, but am positive that it will be a mind-blowing experience.
I will be joined by my finance, Hyangmi, who, despite her small size, is a force to be reckoned with, and an excellent haggler.
We've been planning, researching and booking this trip for over six months. Our route starts in Shanghai, takes a wide arc through China, hitting half a dozen world-renowned locations before finishing in Beijing. Then it's on to Vietnam, Cambodia & Thailand, and the absolute best that those countries have to offer.
So bring it on, Asia, we're ready!
I have not traveled much before, and indeed, have never undertaken anything even remotely near the scope of this trip, but am positive that it will be a mind-blowing experience.
I will be joined by my finance, Hyangmi, who, despite her small size, is a force to be reckoned with, and an excellent haggler.
We've been planning, researching and booking this trip for over six months. Our route starts in Shanghai, takes a wide arc through China, hitting half a dozen world-renowned locations before finishing in Beijing. Then it's on to Vietnam, Cambodia & Thailand, and the absolute best that those countries have to offer.
So bring it on, Asia, we're ready!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)