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.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
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.
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