- You're going to Beijing? We're only going as far as Zhengzhou.
- Lanzhou?
- No, Zhengzhou.
- Zhoucheng?
- No, not Zhoucheng, to Zhengzhou.
- Ahh, Yangzhou!
- No! Zhengzhou. In Henan.
- Hunan?
- No. Zhengzhou IN HENAN.
- Oh, Zhengzhou!!
It's only a couple of hours into our journey and Gayle is already chattering away with the other passengers with mixed success. We're in hard sleeper class, which isn't as bad as it sounds - with two top berths out of a set of six. The carriage is carpeted, air-conditioned and kept clean by an attendant, despite the best efforts of the passengers who at some point all seem to be eating sunflower seeds and leaving mountains of husks everywhere. Hot water for tea and pot noodles is available between the carriages. It all seems so civilised.
Most of the passengers are heading back to Beijing after a few days holiday in Hunan. They're well-dressed and look rather urbane after our three weeks' travelling on country buses with the yokels. A couple of older women in the other berths keep an eye out for us and a young man and his girlfriend, who both speak good English, come and chat in the evening. Three young girls tentatively say hello and half an hour later, as I nod off, they are huddled around Gayle who is using the phrasebook to ask them questions.
Walking around Jishou before we left we had noticed for the first time many people giving us a second look. It's the kind of place that sees few tourists, I guess. Sitting down eating noodles at a street stall draws a few comments from observers who are probably amazed anyone could manage to eat anything holding chopsticks like that. Some people smile, some poke their friends and nod towards us, and a few shout "hello". If we reply, they dissolve into giggles. This is nothing new now for us, and if it's not irritating us it's reassuring in a funny kind of way.
On the train it seems quite normal for folk just to plop down on a seat and start up a conversation with others. It's like we've all been invited to someone's house party. Maybe it's this particular carriage load, but everyone appears very sociable. We could never imagine anything like this in Britain. Meanwhile the scenery flies past, like a frenetic slide show, as we pass through hundreds of tunnels. Green hills, empty valleys, little towns, big rivers, high bridges all zip past in a blur. At about 9pm people finish off their card games or pot noodles and start getting ready for bed. At 10pm the lights go out. We sleep until the attendant wakes us at 1.30am - time to alight at Zhengzhou. We're both sleppy and light-headed and everything has a dreamlike quality as we stagger out.
Chinese railway stations are fairly bleak, functional and souless buildings. For a start, you can't enter the waiting rooms without a ticket. These halls are designed to cope with crowds, not to provide comfort, and on this journey we aren't even allowed onto the platform until the train has pulled up. The only platform action you get is a desperate surge of prospective passengers lugging suitcases and a week's supply of pot noodles towards a closely-guarded train. Each door is defended by an attendant in navy uniform, brass buttons, epaulettes and a "Don't even think about messing with me" look. And it works. People get aboard and the train leaves on time. But there's absolutely no fun or romance in it - none of that expectant excitement thinking about the next destination. No family farewell scenes, no platform hawkers, no wooden benches worn smooth by the bums of previous travellers.
At 2am we emerge outside Zhengzhou station onto a wide open square surrounded by tall neon-lit hotels and 24-hour fast food chain restaurants. Travellers come and go in dribs and drabs. Some are lying down and sleeping. A police officer cruises past in an electric golf buggy, eyes peeled. There's nothing for him to do - no drunks, no unsavoury characters to move on. Just a whole bunch of bleary-eyed travellers like us. And like them, we retire to the nearest McDonalds for a hot drink and a blatant kip at the table.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
Ginger cracknell, anyone?
Fenghuang looks like it's been seeing tourists for many years. The old town bares its wares with a weary sigh but still puts on a smiling face for the punter. Grey stone buildings all decorated with the obligatory red lanterns line pedestrianised alleyways and display their goods to the passing tourists. There are the local specialities - tea, rice wine in bamboo bottles, ginger cracknell (quality gear, this) and cured pork, including pig's faces, plus a whole host of shops selling scarves, shawls and trendy clothes, naff t-shirts, Communist memorabilia, and batik clothing. The old ladies who are selling jewellery (of both the silver and tacky plastic kind) have probably been doing this since Mao popped his clogs. Dotted amongst all this are restaurants, trendy cafes and bars that have live music every night - usually one man and his guitar singing James Blunt songs off-key. The feature of the old town, as with many places, is a murky river with a grand covered bridge and a few more basic wooden bridges and stepping stones. Men in boats will punt you downstream for a small consideration, but not small enough for us to consider it.. The river shallows are clogged with a kind of weed that I think we've been eating every day since we arrived in China - water spinach, is it?
The holiday spirit is still going strong here and we wander along the old city wall, dodging tour groups led by diminutive women holding flags and barking instructions through small loud hailers. "And on our right is the oldest Buddhist Temple in Fenghuang. Admire its pagoda style roof. It is now used as the local middle school. Now, forward march!" The groups shuffle onwards towards the antiquities stalls. Down on the riverbank everyone is photographing everyone else. There's the usual array of folk costume stalls and girls and boys dressing up for more photos. Despite the tourist tacky edge to the place it's still rather pleasant. We amble into the new town to photocopy our passports. It takes a while, with frequent asking, to find a place, but everyone is very helpful. The town, like all the other places we have visited, is incredibly clean and free of litter. This is incredible because everyone throws their rubbish in the street. On the buses, the window is the litter bin.
The weather is the only let down as cloud and occasional drizzle dampens the days and dulls our photographs.
We have a couple of days before our train journey northwards, so we move on to Dehang, a village in a "Scenic Area". It's still grey and wet when we arrive, and although the narrow valley and gorges with karst peaks are lovely, the village itself is far from scenic. It's plain ugly, really. It's not helped by the new buildings, including an open-air theatre, built for the domestic tourists, that line the route from the coach carpark to the village square. Our mood is not helped by the grotty accomodation options. We are shown one room with two beds that would only permit standing room for one person at a time. The room has only wooden latticework over the windows, but a large piece of plywood is provided if we want to close out the damp and the light. Fortunately we are rescued by a woman who leads us to what looks like a school boarding house. The room is clean, and despite damp sheets, we take it and quickly head off up one of the walking trails to look at China's highest waterfall. The waterfall has no water, even though it looks like it rains here every day of the year. It's one of those days. What are we doing here? we ask ourselves.
The next day is much better, with sunshine breaking through the morning mist, and we hike up another gorge and climb up a long set of steps to a viewpoint at the head of the valley. The view looking back is wonderful, but turn around and you can see a new expressway just being finished. It seems improbably high up and looks ugly and out of place, but I guess all big roads do at first. We hurry down and checkout, having resolved to spend a night in Jishou, the town where we catch our train. There's nothing to do there, but there's good street food stalls and the hotel room has it's own computer. Gayle quickly gets to work uploading photos from China onto Flickr - a slow task at the best of times, and a bit tricky when all the dialogue boxes on the screen come up in Mandarin. So how does everyone type Chinese characters then? Roland had told us that everyone has to type in pinyin, the romanised form of the language. The pc will then suggest characters to match the pinyin. Another day I watched a woman texting on her mobile phone. She had a touch screen, and with a long fingernail scratched out her characters. The phone then suggested various alternative characters and she chose one. It looked a slow process, but it works.
The holiday spirit is still going strong here and we wander along the old city wall, dodging tour groups led by diminutive women holding flags and barking instructions through small loud hailers. "And on our right is the oldest Buddhist Temple in Fenghuang. Admire its pagoda style roof. It is now used as the local middle school. Now, forward march!" The groups shuffle onwards towards the antiquities stalls. Down on the riverbank everyone is photographing everyone else. There's the usual array of folk costume stalls and girls and boys dressing up for more photos. Despite the tourist tacky edge to the place it's still rather pleasant. We amble into the new town to photocopy our passports. It takes a while, with frequent asking, to find a place, but everyone is very helpful. The town, like all the other places we have visited, is incredibly clean and free of litter. This is incredible because everyone throws their rubbish in the street. On the buses, the window is the litter bin.
The weather is the only let down as cloud and occasional drizzle dampens the days and dulls our photographs.
We have a couple of days before our train journey northwards, so we move on to Dehang, a village in a "Scenic Area". It's still grey and wet when we arrive, and although the narrow valley and gorges with karst peaks are lovely, the village itself is far from scenic. It's plain ugly, really. It's not helped by the new buildings, including an open-air theatre, built for the domestic tourists, that line the route from the coach carpark to the village square. Our mood is not helped by the grotty accomodation options. We are shown one room with two beds that would only permit standing room for one person at a time. The room has only wooden latticework over the windows, but a large piece of plywood is provided if we want to close out the damp and the light. Fortunately we are rescued by a woman who leads us to what looks like a school boarding house. The room is clean, and despite damp sheets, we take it and quickly head off up one of the walking trails to look at China's highest waterfall. The waterfall has no water, even though it looks like it rains here every day of the year. It's one of those days. What are we doing here? we ask ourselves.
The next day is much better, with sunshine breaking through the morning mist, and we hike up another gorge and climb up a long set of steps to a viewpoint at the head of the valley. The view looking back is wonderful, but turn around and you can see a new expressway just being finished. It seems improbably high up and looks ugly and out of place, but I guess all big roads do at first. We hurry down and checkout, having resolved to spend a night in Jishou, the town where we catch our train. There's nothing to do there, but there's good street food stalls and the hotel room has it's own computer. Gayle quickly gets to work uploading photos from China onto Flickr - a slow task at the best of times, and a bit tricky when all the dialogue boxes on the screen come up in Mandarin. So how does everyone type Chinese characters then? Roland had told us that everyone has to type in pinyin, the romanised form of the language. The pc will then suggest characters to match the pinyin. Another day I watched a woman texting on her mobile phone. She had a touch screen, and with a long fingernail scratched out her characters. The phone then suggested various alternative characters and she chose one. It looked a slow process, but it works.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Five years old again
It's still cold and damp when we leave Xijiang, but the scenery is quite pretty. Eventually we reach a town where we catch our first train in China. It's a four-hour ride and we can't get a reserved seat. In fact we have no idea what we're in for and the characters on our ticket give no clues. We join the milling throng in the waiting room as far from the smelly toilets as possible. At one end is a fence with four gates. Our train number is on one of them and in front of it a huge queue. A tannoy announcement is finally made, the gate opens and the queue pushes forward. We queue jump with five hundred other like-minded people. There's a hint of desperation about the crowd and I start to sweat although it's cool out, but out on the platform there is order and calm. And there are several uniformed women with white gloves on making sure it stays like that. They bark out orders and point a lot. We are directed to a short queue - one of many that has formed along the platform. When the train pulls in we are slightly out of alignment with a carriage door. We are instructed to realign before we are permitted to enter. It's a bit scary but then no-one needs to be clubbed out of the way - something we once saw at an Indian railway station melee. Of course there are no spare seats on the train and we stand and watch the other passengers in their seats - families playing cards, children eating pot noodles, young couples kissing and cooing. Unbelievably, several seated passengers stand up to stretch their legs. After an hour I'm exhausted. But I'm getting off at 2 o'clock. This lot are going all the way to Beijing.
When we do get off we have to reserve a ticket on an overnight train for a few days hence. We have researched the train numbers and routes and times, but when we try to buy the tickets the woman behind the glass screen just says "mei you". There are none. She says a lot more in Mandarin but I'm buggered if I know what she's saying and walk away in surrender. Gayle goes up to have a go and seems to make progress. There is another train we can catch. After a lot of scribbling and double-checking, the ticket seller showing us the choices on her computer screen (all in unreadable characters of course), we finally buy a ticket. But it's a crap deal. We'll arrive at 2am at a town that is only a transit point to our destination. Whilst I'm moaning and rolling around in anguish on the concourse floor a young student approaches us and offers his assistance. Too late!!!! Never mind - he's very nice and helps us get to the bus station for a bus to Fenghuang. Can we walk there? we ask. He tells us it's a 40 minute walk, better to take a taxi. We do. It's a four-minute ride to the bus station, just around the block form the train station. But at least there's a bus for us and seats. We get to Fenghuang at nightfall.
I've just read in a Bill Bryson his description of travelling in countries where they don't speak English. "I can't think of anything that excites a greater sense of childlike wonder than to be in a country where you are ignorant of almost everything. Suddenly you are five years old again. You can't read anything, you have only a rudimentary sense of how things work, you can't even reliably cross a street without endangering your life. Your whole existence becomes a series of interesting guesses."
As we walk down the street looking for a hotel I feel like I'm five years old again. I can't read a single sign, it's dark and we're disoriented. Ahh, but we can recognise a hotel reception. Gayle suggests we try the first one we pass. Bingo. The room is clean and cheap and there's a woman who talks sense (or at least we guess she does, since it's all in Mandarin of course. Whatever. She looks like she talks sense). Out on the street there are stalls selling food. It's busy with visitors and there's a liveliness to the place. We pick a stall run by a family - mum, dad and daughter. They have a display of fresh vegetables and skewers of meat. You pick what you want for barbecueing or for the wok. So simple. One thing noticeable in a country with a policy to reduce the number of children, is how child-friendly everywhere is. Especially the restaurants and food stalls who have furniture that looks straight out of my old infant's school. Of course, it's hard enough trying to eat your food with unfamiliar utensils, but to do so whilst sat on a kiddies' chair at a table about one foot lower than your knees, is an act of contortion. Amazingly no-one notices my Mr. Bean performance and we have a great meal. As I try to extricate myself from my limbo position under the table though, I really do wish I was five years old again.
When we do get off we have to reserve a ticket on an overnight train for a few days hence. We have researched the train numbers and routes and times, but when we try to buy the tickets the woman behind the glass screen just says "mei you". There are none. She says a lot more in Mandarin but I'm buggered if I know what she's saying and walk away in surrender. Gayle goes up to have a go and seems to make progress. There is another train we can catch. After a lot of scribbling and double-checking, the ticket seller showing us the choices on her computer screen (all in unreadable characters of course), we finally buy a ticket. But it's a crap deal. We'll arrive at 2am at a town that is only a transit point to our destination. Whilst I'm moaning and rolling around in anguish on the concourse floor a young student approaches us and offers his assistance. Too late!!!! Never mind - he's very nice and helps us get to the bus station for a bus to Fenghuang. Can we walk there? we ask. He tells us it's a 40 minute walk, better to take a taxi. We do. It's a four-minute ride to the bus station, just around the block form the train station. But at least there's a bus for us and seats. We get to Fenghuang at nightfall.
I've just read in a Bill Bryson his description of travelling in countries where they don't speak English. "I can't think of anything that excites a greater sense of childlike wonder than to be in a country where you are ignorant of almost everything. Suddenly you are five years old again. You can't read anything, you have only a rudimentary sense of how things work, you can't even reliably cross a street without endangering your life. Your whole existence becomes a series of interesting guesses."
As we walk down the street looking for a hotel I feel like I'm five years old again. I can't read a single sign, it's dark and we're disoriented. Ahh, but we can recognise a hotel reception. Gayle suggests we try the first one we pass. Bingo. The room is clean and cheap and there's a woman who talks sense (or at least we guess she does, since it's all in Mandarin of course. Whatever. She looks like she talks sense). Out on the street there are stalls selling food. It's busy with visitors and there's a liveliness to the place. We pick a stall run by a family - mum, dad and daughter. They have a display of fresh vegetables and skewers of meat. You pick what you want for barbecueing or for the wok. So simple. One thing noticeable in a country with a policy to reduce the number of children, is how child-friendly everywhere is. Especially the restaurants and food stalls who have furniture that looks straight out of my old infant's school. Of course, it's hard enough trying to eat your food with unfamiliar utensils, but to do so whilst sat on a kiddies' chair at a table about one foot lower than your knees, is an act of contortion. Amazingly no-one notices my Mr. Bean performance and we have a great meal. As I try to extricate myself from my limbo position under the table though, I really do wish I was five years old again.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Saudade in Xijiang
Saudade is a Portuguese word that crops up in Brasil a lot. It means something like nostalgia or a sense of loss or absence - I'm not quite sure because I don't have my pocket Portuguese dictionary on me just now. Anyway, you can hear it in many Brazilian songs. The feeling creeps up on us one day in Xijiang. We both are thinking of home. It's probably the grey skies and pending drizzle that does it. As usual when we get these feelings we start to talk about the people and the things we miss. It's probably not the best way to deal with it, but eventually we get on to the people and things we don't miss. And that does the trick. We've been enjoying our time in China so far, but the weather and Xijiang leaves us feeling a little off kilter.
It turned out to be an effort getting here. When we reached Conjiang, in Guizhou, to catch an onward bus, there were no tickets left for the 11 o'clock bus. In fact no tickets left for the rest of the day. We were stunned. This meant staying an unscheduled night in what looked like a one-horse town. Well, there's a river and a road and a bridge, and a lot of newish buildings. Later on we saw these were shielding little wooden houses up on the hillside. Undaunted we quickly did a tour of all the bus station hotels. There are plenty. One place said they had rooms, but when the manageress saw we were foreigners, she said no. Hotels have to be registered with the police to accept us - although we're sure we've already stayed in plenty that aren't. At another place the price of the room yo-yoed so much we gave up trying to pin it down. Everytime we tried to clarify the price it moved. The trouble is that hotels show rates that are ridiculously high, say 280 yuan, when the room can be had for something more like 80. Eventually we found an okay one at the Conjiang Broadcasting Hotel. Next we went to find food, and fell on our feet. A row of restaurants had tables of raw ingredients on display. You pick out what you want and it gets tossed about in a wok for a short while. The wok's usually so hot that the oil catches fire, but instead of everything coming out incinerated and burnt to a crisp, it's perfect. That little spoon of MSG probably helps it along too. If you're unlucky the cooking oil smoke blows past you, leaving you choking for breath and eyes watering, but the more sophisticated outfits have huge fans to disperse the smoke onto passersby instead. Like teargas. And that was it for Conjiang. Not much going for it at all. The onward bus the next day was a bumpy ride on a road half built. It was a long journey and we were delayed when the bus driver decided to pick a fight with a minibus driver. At one point in anger he picked up a rock. He knew it was a mistake almost straight away and the other man went beserk. Luckily there were plenty of onlookers to intercede and push the silly fools back to their respective vehicles. But our driver nearly totalled the bus and probably all us passengers too in trying to overtake the minibus.
So here we are in Xijiang, a very large Miao village (the Miao being another ethnic minority) and wondering what on earth went through the heads of the authorities when they 'tidied' this place up. It really is kind of awful how the main part of the village has been rebuilt, with a huge pedestrianised street down the middle, extra wide for the tour groups, lined with gift shops and hotels. New bridges have been built, and walkways introduced - it doesn't look too authentic even to our untrained eye. Chimneys on houses are cleverly disguised as trees - growing out of the walls. I couldn't find a single litter bin, until I realised all the tree stumps were bins. At some point it seems funny. Towards the end of the day some awful karaoke kicks off and can be heard all over the village. Then we realise it's the daily folk extravaganza put on for the visitors. Neither of us feels inclined to go and see. Nor do we go for the dressing up in folk costume - although it really is the thing to do in these places.
In the morning we head out of the village and into the rice terraces along a path that climbs and winds it's way into the mist. It's trying to rain and there's a chill in the air. It feels like Autumn. What a strange sensation. Later we notice quite a few yokels wandering into the village. There's a drunk staggering past and a street barber doing a roaring trade. These are the tell-tale signs that it's market day. At one end of the village there are stalls set up selling all kinds of clothes, food, bric a brac. Loads of folk are here, the women with their hair tied in another distinctive knot, the old women covering it with pink towels. In other places they use traditional woven cloth, but here the pink flowery hand towel is king. Even the Miao are modernising. We mooch about with all the locals - weighing up the farming tools, the vegetable seeds, the embroidery cottons, the underwear, the padlocks, the Hello Kitty sandals. Steamed buns are going like hot cakes, so we have a couple too. At the meat market there are puppy dogs for sale beside the chickens. Some of them look ridiculously cute. Oh well. There's a good range of vegetables for sale - baskets of beansprouts, bamboo shoots, leeks, tomatoes, cauliflower - this might be the best we've seen in a long while. In one corner some blue polythene hides the drinkers, but outside there's a stack of beer crates. We survey the bustling scene. There's not another tourist to be seen. Maybe they're all down in the new concrete plaza waiting for the folk extravaganza to begin.
It turned out to be an effort getting here. When we reached Conjiang, in Guizhou, to catch an onward bus, there were no tickets left for the 11 o'clock bus. In fact no tickets left for the rest of the day. We were stunned. This meant staying an unscheduled night in what looked like a one-horse town. Well, there's a river and a road and a bridge, and a lot of newish buildings. Later on we saw these were shielding little wooden houses up on the hillside. Undaunted we quickly did a tour of all the bus station hotels. There are plenty. One place said they had rooms, but when the manageress saw we were foreigners, she said no. Hotels have to be registered with the police to accept us - although we're sure we've already stayed in plenty that aren't. At another place the price of the room yo-yoed so much we gave up trying to pin it down. Everytime we tried to clarify the price it moved. The trouble is that hotels show rates that are ridiculously high, say 280 yuan, when the room can be had for something more like 80. Eventually we found an okay one at the Conjiang Broadcasting Hotel. Next we went to find food, and fell on our feet. A row of restaurants had tables of raw ingredients on display. You pick out what you want and it gets tossed about in a wok for a short while. The wok's usually so hot that the oil catches fire, but instead of everything coming out incinerated and burnt to a crisp, it's perfect. That little spoon of MSG probably helps it along too. If you're unlucky the cooking oil smoke blows past you, leaving you choking for breath and eyes watering, but the more sophisticated outfits have huge fans to disperse the smoke onto passersby instead. Like teargas. And that was it for Conjiang. Not much going for it at all. The onward bus the next day was a bumpy ride on a road half built. It was a long journey and we were delayed when the bus driver decided to pick a fight with a minibus driver. At one point in anger he picked up a rock. He knew it was a mistake almost straight away and the other man went beserk. Luckily there were plenty of onlookers to intercede and push the silly fools back to their respective vehicles. But our driver nearly totalled the bus and probably all us passengers too in trying to overtake the minibus.
So here we are in Xijiang, a very large Miao village (the Miao being another ethnic minority) and wondering what on earth went through the heads of the authorities when they 'tidied' this place up. It really is kind of awful how the main part of the village has been rebuilt, with a huge pedestrianised street down the middle, extra wide for the tour groups, lined with gift shops and hotels. New bridges have been built, and walkways introduced - it doesn't look too authentic even to our untrained eye. Chimneys on houses are cleverly disguised as trees - growing out of the walls. I couldn't find a single litter bin, until I realised all the tree stumps were bins. At some point it seems funny. Towards the end of the day some awful karaoke kicks off and can be heard all over the village. Then we realise it's the daily folk extravaganza put on for the visitors. Neither of us feels inclined to go and see. Nor do we go for the dressing up in folk costume - although it really is the thing to do in these places.
In the morning we head out of the village and into the rice terraces along a path that climbs and winds it's way into the mist. It's trying to rain and there's a chill in the air. It feels like Autumn. What a strange sensation. Later we notice quite a few yokels wandering into the village. There's a drunk staggering past and a street barber doing a roaring trade. These are the tell-tale signs that it's market day. At one end of the village there are stalls set up selling all kinds of clothes, food, bric a brac. Loads of folk are here, the women with their hair tied in another distinctive knot, the old women covering it with pink towels. In other places they use traditional woven cloth, but here the pink flowery hand towel is king. Even the Miao are modernising. We mooch about with all the locals - weighing up the farming tools, the vegetable seeds, the embroidery cottons, the underwear, the padlocks, the Hello Kitty sandals. Steamed buns are going like hot cakes, so we have a couple too. At the meat market there are puppy dogs for sale beside the chickens. Some of them look ridiculously cute. Oh well. There's a good range of vegetables for sale - baskets of beansprouts, bamboo shoots, leeks, tomatoes, cauliflower - this might be the best we've seen in a long while. In one corner some blue polythene hides the drinkers, but outside there's a stack of beer crates. We survey the bustling scene. There's not another tourist to be seen. Maybe they're all down in the new concrete plaza waiting for the folk extravaganza to begin.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
The Huangzhou Amateur Photography Club Annual Outing
It's the end of the day when we reach Zhaoxing, a large Dong village that is being tarted up for the national tourist trade. The main road is a dusty mess from construction vehicles ploughing through taking concrete and aggregate to the new expressway being built on the other side of the hill. Everywhere in China there is construction work, catching up for lost years. Around the village there are signs of new build and old houses being dismantled, but incredibly it still retains a charming atmosphere. The locals seem to carry on with their normal lives as they always have done. But everywhere there are groups of Chinese tourists with monstrously huge cameras and tripods, clicking away endlessly. It's hard to tell whether they are desperately trying to capture digitally a way of life that is shortly to expire or to photograph the new 'improved' parts of the village. And, excuse me, but why are you pointing that 3 foot zoom lens at me? I'm only sitting on this bridge and watching the world go by. Stop it!
Gayle has learnt her first Mandarin. "Wo neng pai ni ma?" Can I take your picture? Some of the locals look surprised. The Chinese tourists just point a long black lens and shoot. It seems very rude, but no-one seems bothered. The rice processing is carrying on in earnest here - laid out to dry and gathered up again each evening. Fluffy baskets of cotton hang in the sun. Old and young women stagger past with yokes laden with rice or grass feed or buckets of foul-smelling shit. Not sure whether it's human or animal - some of the houses look too old to have toilets. A farmer returns from the fields with his cow and calf, and leads them straight into his house. The older folk are wearing the dark blue clothes of the peasant farmer. Standard issue green plimsolls. Conical hats. The women tie their long hair up in an unusual knot. The youngsters are looking more trendy - drainpipe jeans, assymetrical haircuts. Occasionally young women pass in traditional costume, locally woven and dyed deep purple with a sheen. But the women are dressed to perform for the tourists.
The new buildings stand out because the varnished wood is nine tones brighter than the old wood. Brick and concrete is being used on the ground floors, with wood panelling to cover up. We're not big fans of the 'beautification', but no-one can mind the locals getting new houses, new footpaths and bridges, can they? Interestingly, many of the hoteliers do not look like local Dong. Just a minute, we're being photographed again.
We try and escape the photographers the next day and take a walk with Roland to a neighbouring village. The path climbs up a hill and onto a dirt track that twists ever higher. We are rewarded with lovely views, but come no closer to the next village. Roland asks locals who pass by the distance. It always seems to be another 3 kilometers. Hot, thirsty and hungry we eventually turn around, but after refreshments we take a path to a village we can actually see. It's very quiet, with a few men working below a drum tower, and at one end a group of men and women labouring to dismantle another house. No nails. If you move house you could literally take it with you. This village has old paths, a dirt road, dilapidated buildings, but no photographers - it's the real thing.
On the bus when we leave the next morning we drive through a landscape coated in dust. The villages, the fields, the trees, the people. For many miles we are never far from the new expressway being constructed high up on the hillside. Huge concrete pillars rise into the sky waiting to be connected. Lorries rumble back and forth spreading more dust everywhere. The sky is a flat white and for a moment it looks like it snowed in the night. I'm sure it'll be a great road when it's finished.
Gayle has learnt her first Mandarin. "Wo neng pai ni ma?" Can I take your picture? Some of the locals look surprised. The Chinese tourists just point a long black lens and shoot. It seems very rude, but no-one seems bothered. The rice processing is carrying on in earnest here - laid out to dry and gathered up again each evening. Fluffy baskets of cotton hang in the sun. Old and young women stagger past with yokes laden with rice or grass feed or buckets of foul-smelling shit. Not sure whether it's human or animal - some of the houses look too old to have toilets. A farmer returns from the fields with his cow and calf, and leads them straight into his house. The older folk are wearing the dark blue clothes of the peasant farmer. Standard issue green plimsolls. Conical hats. The women tie their long hair up in an unusual knot. The youngsters are looking more trendy - drainpipe jeans, assymetrical haircuts. Occasionally young women pass in traditional costume, locally woven and dyed deep purple with a sheen. But the women are dressed to perform for the tourists.
The new buildings stand out because the varnished wood is nine tones brighter than the old wood. Brick and concrete is being used on the ground floors, with wood panelling to cover up. We're not big fans of the 'beautification', but no-one can mind the locals getting new houses, new footpaths and bridges, can they? Interestingly, many of the hoteliers do not look like local Dong. Just a minute, we're being photographed again.
We try and escape the photographers the next day and take a walk with Roland to a neighbouring village. The path climbs up a hill and onto a dirt track that twists ever higher. We are rewarded with lovely views, but come no closer to the next village. Roland asks locals who pass by the distance. It always seems to be another 3 kilometers. Hot, thirsty and hungry we eventually turn around, but after refreshments we take a path to a village we can actually see. It's very quiet, with a few men working below a drum tower, and at one end a group of men and women labouring to dismantle another house. No nails. If you move house you could literally take it with you. This village has old paths, a dirt road, dilapidated buildings, but no photographers - it's the real thing.
On the bus when we leave the next morning we drive through a landscape coated in dust. The villages, the fields, the trees, the people. For many miles we are never far from the new expressway being constructed high up on the hillside. Huge concrete pillars rise into the sky waiting to be connected. Lorries rumble back and forth spreading more dust everywhere. The sky is a flat white and for a moment it looks like it snowed in the night. I'm sure it'll be a great road when it's finished.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Mooncakes
Lutz is on the bus heading to Sanjiang. We'd met him on the walk to Ping'An, going in the opposite direction and instantly started chatting away like friends who've not met for a while. He's been studying Kung Fu for 9 months at a Shaolin temple and is travelling around China for before returning to Europe to start a new life. Roland, a Welshman who teaches English in Beijing and is taking advantage of the national holidays, is with him. We're all going to Chengyang - renowned for its Wind and Rain Bridge.
It sounds like a long shot - travelling into the countryside to see a bridge (it is a lovely bridge), but there are also a series of traditional Dong villages, the Dong being one of China's many ethnic minorities. The countryside is very pretty, a river winding through wooded hills and surrounded by rice fields - what else - with wooden houses huddled together around Drum Towers. These are buildings that mark the village centre, usually with a small square and a stage to one side. The towers have pagoda style roofs here and usually an open room below where all the old fellas sit to play cards, smoke, drink tea. There are several villages clustered near to each other and connected by a series of these 'wind and rain' bridges - ornate wooden bridges supported by stone columns. Many of the buildings are built without nails, just interlocking joints.
We love the area and are undeterred by all the other tourists - most of them daytrippers who hurry to take photos of themselves in every conceivable location, the youngsters holding up two fingers in the V for Victory sign. Or is it Peace, man? You can even hire local costumes from the entrepreneurial locals for a few hundred more photos. Everyone seems to be having a lot of fun and so are we. It's harvest full moon, a special day in the traditional Chinese calendar, and perhaps a greater reason for everyone to be on holiday. Special cakes are being sold everywhere and some are delicious - like mince pies without the fruit. Lots of pork suet and peanuts. Yummy. It's also Lutz's birthday and we celebrate with beers on one of the bridges as the full moon rises. Around us, from all the bridges, firecrackers explode intermittently, like a Triad gang shootout. In the moonlight the fields and villages are perfectly illuminated.
Another day we walk between the villages and over a pass linking two of them. The views are great and it looks like good walking country. Back in the village there's a pumpkin fight being held in front of the Drum tower. Roland wangles us up on to a balcony above a shop to watch as young boys from the neighbouring village attempt to drive out heavily armed women from beneath the Drum tower. It gets extremely messy and some of the crowd join in or withdraw from the onslaught. Lots of oohs and aahs. Great fun. It seems a shame to move on.
It sounds like a long shot - travelling into the countryside to see a bridge (it is a lovely bridge), but there are also a series of traditional Dong villages, the Dong being one of China's many ethnic minorities. The countryside is very pretty, a river winding through wooded hills and surrounded by rice fields - what else - with wooden houses huddled together around Drum Towers. These are buildings that mark the village centre, usually with a small square and a stage to one side. The towers have pagoda style roofs here and usually an open room below where all the old fellas sit to play cards, smoke, drink tea. There are several villages clustered near to each other and connected by a series of these 'wind and rain' bridges - ornate wooden bridges supported by stone columns. Many of the buildings are built without nails, just interlocking joints.
We love the area and are undeterred by all the other tourists - most of them daytrippers who hurry to take photos of themselves in every conceivable location, the youngsters holding up two fingers in the V for Victory sign. Or is it Peace, man? You can even hire local costumes from the entrepreneurial locals for a few hundred more photos. Everyone seems to be having a lot of fun and so are we. It's harvest full moon, a special day in the traditional Chinese calendar, and perhaps a greater reason for everyone to be on holiday. Special cakes are being sold everywhere and some are delicious - like mince pies without the fruit. Lots of pork suet and peanuts. Yummy. It's also Lutz's birthday and we celebrate with beers on one of the bridges as the full moon rises. Around us, from all the bridges, firecrackers explode intermittently, like a Triad gang shootout. In the moonlight the fields and villages are perfectly illuminated.
Another day we walk between the villages and over a pass linking two of them. The views are great and it looks like good walking country. Back in the village there's a pumpkin fight being held in front of the Drum tower. Roland wangles us up on to a balcony above a shop to watch as young boys from the neighbouring village attempt to drive out heavily armed women from beneath the Drum tower. It gets extremely messy and some of the crowd join in or withdraw from the onslaught. Lots of oohs and aahs. Great fun. It seems a shame to move on.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Wo is me
Mandarin is allegedly a wonderfully simple language to learn. The grammar is very straightforward, verbs require no conjugation and it is pronounced as it reads.....in Pinyin (the romanized form of Mandarin). Aha, that's the catch. There are thousands of Chinese characters, but apparently you only need to know a few thousand to read a newspaper. I don't think we'll be putting that to the test. Instead I'll be thumbing through our phrasebook trying to find an essential word or two to get by. Apart from useful phrases like "How much is it?" and "I think it's the medication I'm on" there are others that we are unlikely to use such as "Do you know a dentist who's good with children?" or those that we may only need the once, such as "Is this the bus to Huangzhou?" (unless, of course, we go to Huangzhou twice.) Gayle is persevering with her tried and tested technique of speaking English and miming. Frustratingly for me, with my thumb stuck in my phrasebook, she can be very successful.
We venture forth from the safe haven of Yangshuo and to one of those beautiful Chinese locations given the typically poetical name of Dragon's Backbone Rice Terraces. Catching the buses is made easier when you have your destination written in characters, but everyone seems helpful, and there's quite a few women working the buses. As everyone knows, women are much more responsible than men or rather, much less stupid. Sometimes we walk into a hotel and the man looks at us like we came from another planet. A mixture of anxiety and fear crosses his face. Can't even comprehend that we might want a room for the night. The woman meanwhile responds with a couple of clarifying questions, a smile and shows us a room. Chromosomes, eh?
The Dragon's Backbone Rice Terraces are a couple of very pretty areas where there are um, lots of rice terraces. It's a classic scene and there are several traditional villages where you can stay and wander to viewpoints along traditional stone paths (built for the traditional tourists, but in keeping with the place) to take photos and admire the wonder of it all. The viewpoints have evocative names like "Seven Stars and The Moon", "Nine Dragons, Five Tigers" or the Zeppelin-esque "Stairway to Paradise". There are a few tourists around but plenty more hotels than punters. They remind us of the trekking lodges in Nepal. After a couple of nights in one area we trek across to the other. We are accompanied by a guide who leads us without asking along a quiet path, traversing the hillsides and climbing the ridges, just below the trees and just above the rice terraces. If we dawdle, our guide hurries back to look for us and if we stop for a break to admire the views, he whines. Now, as everyone who knows me knows, I don't like dogs. But this one is friendly and quiet and sticks close to us without getting under our feet. He looks very happy to be out and about. Small wonder, really, as they eat dogs in these parts. The night before, a Canadian recounted to us how two villagers picked up a dog in front of him and tried to kill it. They couldn't. In the end they put it in a gunney sack and smashed it with an iron bar. Later they were seen burning off the fur with a blowtorch. He appreciated that the killing was not a random act of violence - they were just sorting out their tea - but the method was a little upsetting. Our guide meanwhile runs ahead of us and leads us to a village that sees few tourists. It's tucked away in a small valley and the wooden houses look old and warped compared to the new tidy wooden lodges we've seen. There are few other tourists walking the path, and no Chinese. Eventually we reach Ping'an our destination. Before we enter the village we climb up to a viewpoint. Whilst we chat to an American, an old lady who is selling drinks catches our guide dog and ties him up with wire. The dog wails. I try and release him, but the old dear has a grip like a vice on my wrist and pulls me away. She even bears her ragged teeth in rage. It's futile. I can't look after this dog - I don't want to. But I have no doubt he'll end up in a gunney sack like the other one.
Ping'An sees a few more tourists than the other villages, and it's particularly busy because of the 1st October holidays. Sixty years ago Mao proclaimed the People's Republic of China. Lots and lots of people are on holiday for a week or more and the hotels are responding accordingly. Our room costs 60 yuan for the night, but we have to change hotel for the next night because the price is rising to 220 yuan. At the weekend it will be 400 yuan. I wonder how much the word 'communism' is aired these days in China. We find another room in a simple little place that has no other guests. No TV + no air-con = no punters. We like the family who run it and we're invited to sit down with them to watch some of the celebrations from Beijing in the evening. Lots of singing and dancing and folk costumes and fireworks and extras forming huge colourful patterns for those great aerial shots. The Chinese can do spectaculars. Shots of the stony-faced Central Committee, in dark suits watching from their balcony. It goes on for hours. We go to bed.
In the morning we walk away from the village and the hotels advertising folk remedies and foot massages (one, the Li Qing Hotel, even offers blood-letting services) and the Chinese tourists who are huffing and puffing their way to a viewpoint. Half an hour away is another village, virtually untouched by the outside interest. Another world almost. In the fields the harvesting has begun. Farmers are cutting the rice and laying it out to dry on the edge of each paddy field. Once it's dried for a few days they then thresh it into a wooden box in the field and cart off the rice grains. These are then spread out on plastic sheets to dry for a few more days. The grains are then winnowed, leaving the grains free of their husks, and put out to dry again. It's a labour intensive process that we are to witness again and again in the coming days.
One evening we walk into a noodle joint and I start stammering out "Wo....wo.....wo..." (I would like two bowls of rice noodles.) Gayle meanwhile has pointed into the pan of steaming broth and the pile of noodles on the side, given the two fingers to the cook and sat down to wait. "Wo xiang liang wan mifen!" I finally spit out as the said noodles are delivered to us. Mandarin sometimes sounds like a series of tongue-twisters that are best attempted when drunk...........
We venture forth from the safe haven of Yangshuo and to one of those beautiful Chinese locations given the typically poetical name of Dragon's Backbone Rice Terraces. Catching the buses is made easier when you have your destination written in characters, but everyone seems helpful, and there's quite a few women working the buses. As everyone knows, women are much more responsible than men or rather, much less stupid. Sometimes we walk into a hotel and the man looks at us like we came from another planet. A mixture of anxiety and fear crosses his face. Can't even comprehend that we might want a room for the night. The woman meanwhile responds with a couple of clarifying questions, a smile and shows us a room. Chromosomes, eh?
The Dragon's Backbone Rice Terraces are a couple of very pretty areas where there are um, lots of rice terraces. It's a classic scene and there are several traditional villages where you can stay and wander to viewpoints along traditional stone paths (built for the traditional tourists, but in keeping with the place) to take photos and admire the wonder of it all. The viewpoints have evocative names like "Seven Stars and The Moon", "Nine Dragons, Five Tigers" or the Zeppelin-esque "Stairway to Paradise". There are a few tourists around but plenty more hotels than punters. They remind us of the trekking lodges in Nepal. After a couple of nights in one area we trek across to the other. We are accompanied by a guide who leads us without asking along a quiet path, traversing the hillsides and climbing the ridges, just below the trees and just above the rice terraces. If we dawdle, our guide hurries back to look for us and if we stop for a break to admire the views, he whines. Now, as everyone who knows me knows, I don't like dogs. But this one is friendly and quiet and sticks close to us without getting under our feet. He looks very happy to be out and about. Small wonder, really, as they eat dogs in these parts. The night before, a Canadian recounted to us how two villagers picked up a dog in front of him and tried to kill it. They couldn't. In the end they put it in a gunney sack and smashed it with an iron bar. Later they were seen burning off the fur with a blowtorch. He appreciated that the killing was not a random act of violence - they were just sorting out their tea - but the method was a little upsetting. Our guide meanwhile runs ahead of us and leads us to a village that sees few tourists. It's tucked away in a small valley and the wooden houses look old and warped compared to the new tidy wooden lodges we've seen. There are few other tourists walking the path, and no Chinese. Eventually we reach Ping'an our destination. Before we enter the village we climb up to a viewpoint. Whilst we chat to an American, an old lady who is selling drinks catches our guide dog and ties him up with wire. The dog wails. I try and release him, but the old dear has a grip like a vice on my wrist and pulls me away. She even bears her ragged teeth in rage. It's futile. I can't look after this dog - I don't want to. But I have no doubt he'll end up in a gunney sack like the other one.
Ping'An sees a few more tourists than the other villages, and it's particularly busy because of the 1st October holidays. Sixty years ago Mao proclaimed the People's Republic of China. Lots and lots of people are on holiday for a week or more and the hotels are responding accordingly. Our room costs 60 yuan for the night, but we have to change hotel for the next night because the price is rising to 220 yuan. At the weekend it will be 400 yuan. I wonder how much the word 'communism' is aired these days in China. We find another room in a simple little place that has no other guests. No TV + no air-con = no punters. We like the family who run it and we're invited to sit down with them to watch some of the celebrations from Beijing in the evening. Lots of singing and dancing and folk costumes and fireworks and extras forming huge colourful patterns for those great aerial shots. The Chinese can do spectaculars. Shots of the stony-faced Central Committee, in dark suits watching from their balcony. It goes on for hours. We go to bed.
In the morning we walk away from the village and the hotels advertising folk remedies and foot massages (one, the Li Qing Hotel, even offers blood-letting services) and the Chinese tourists who are huffing and puffing their way to a viewpoint. Half an hour away is another village, virtually untouched by the outside interest. Another world almost. In the fields the harvesting has begun. Farmers are cutting the rice and laying it out to dry on the edge of each paddy field. Once it's dried for a few days they then thresh it into a wooden box in the field and cart off the rice grains. These are then spread out on plastic sheets to dry for a few more days. The grains are then winnowed, leaving the grains free of their husks, and put out to dry again. It's a labour intensive process that we are to witness again and again in the coming days.
One evening we walk into a noodle joint and I start stammering out "Wo....wo.....wo..." (I would like two bowls of rice noodles.) Gayle meanwhile has pointed into the pan of steaming broth and the pile of noodles on the side, given the two fingers to the cook and sat down to wait. "Wo xiang liang wan mifen!" I finally spit out as the said noodles are delivered to us. Mandarin sometimes sounds like a series of tongue-twisters that are best attempted when drunk...........
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