I Think I Went to Yangshuo but I'm Not Certain


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August 5th 2007
Published: August 15th 2007
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Later it Turned Really BlueLater it Turned Really BlueLater it Turned Really Blue

It was a good sunset, alright?

I Think I Went to Yangshuo but I'm Not Certain



I fear this could be a boring journal, I really do. That is of course to say that I am irrationally not fearing that all my journals are boring, but for the sake of self indulgence I'll keep on writing anyway. The thing is though, I don't have much to say for myself due to several factors. The primary factor is of course that I am a lazy sod, something that anyone who has ever met me will testify to. This was exacerbated by the fact that I had spent two weeks running around the country trying to keep up with my parents (they will probably tell you that I ran them off their feet, but rest assured it was the other way around. Have you ever wondered how it feels to wake up early, organise massages, transport, planned activities and other sundries while suffering from last night's indulgences?). To be Frank, who I am not, I was exhausted and Yangshuo provided the perfect means of relaxation: retail therapy.

In case you were wondering, the other factors were either alcohol, weather, female or Austrian related.

For several days I did precisely nothing. That is not an exaggeration, which is unlikely enough already due to it's lack of any topical information, nor an understatement. I simply sat in internet cafes trying to catch up with the world while trying to remember what it felt like to be itinerant. It felt good, so I extended the few days into something closing in on five. Between waking, breakfast, shopping for things I didn't need, thinking of things that I could shop for that I may possibly need, neglecting to remember to buy any such items, lunch, further shopping, a cold beer on the roof, a sunset which never ceased to amaze me, dinner at the night market, some more drinks and then sleep, I did practically nothing that required more than a cursory thought. Those were some good, relaxing days.

The scene of my crime was, as previously stated sufficiently often, Yangshuo. What I haven't said about Yangshuo so far is that it is by far the most beautiful place to sit and do nothing in. The town itself is surrounded by limestone peaks (these make night-time navigation difficult, particularly when you find yourself at the doorstep of an unfamiliar hotel), a blissfully luxuriant river (which I was too lazy to swim in), and a collection of friendly people. The town itself comprises an awkward yet relieving collection of old and new, some buildings kept for their aesthetic values, others for their lack thereof - or so it would seem. Street life ebbs and flows with the boat loads of tourists, as well as with the indecisive weather. Yangshuo is the kind of place where it feels alright to sit in a cafe while you watch the world go by, and who am I to disagree with that?

I stayed at Monkey Jane's guesthouse, a less than pristine block of cheap rooms tucked away at the back of a less than appealing alley. However, what the place lacks in outwards appearance it more than makes up for in character. The whole place operates like a backpacker family with friends constantly arriving and leaving. Farewells seem less common than hello's, something that I still wonder about, and it was always guaranteed that someone would be around for you to talk to. The staff themselves became friends to me, particularly Jane herself: the only person I've met in China with such a powerful and split personality. One minute she would be happily telling a funny story, the next she would bring the conversation crashing to a desperate, depressing low. A name could never fit more snugly than that Monkey grips onto Jane.

The highlight of Monkey Jane's was the Rooftop Bar. This was for two reasons. One: It was on a rooftop. Two: It was a bar. Views and beer? You must be kidding, that's too much for me to bear! Suffice to say, I spent a lot of evenings on that rooftop. Usually I would head there for the sunset in the early evening, to watch the sun sink behind a karst on the other side of town, before heading off to get some streetside food from the nightmarket (not to be missed, the best food in town), before inevitably returning to that haunt of alcohol and beer pong to watch the night unfurl and the neon lights from the riverine entertainment show cover the surrounding peaks.

It was on that fateful rooftop that I met three Austrians and by virtue of our nations' audible proximity we became good friends (da triumvirate, caution: it's in German). The catch was
Lo "Plays" Beer PongLo "Plays" Beer PongLo "Plays" Beer Pong

This is what happens when you lose.
that it took me all of a week to remember their names (they each had two or three of them, awfully confusing and partially schizophrenic). Philipp (Toupe) was the sober looking one who partied later than the rest, later to become known as Barry thanks to his enviably deep voice and use of bad pickup lines. I of course was responsible for teaching him the pickup lines, but he was responsible for using them. Lo, Lawrence, Lars, Batty or whatever you wished to call him was the tall one who could always make me laugh but never had as much fun as the other (until eight pints of Guinness were added to the broth). And Joseph, Joe, a.k.a. Harry Potter (according to every Chinese girl, a fact which did help him on at least two documented occasions) was the third, a softly spoken guy with enough inhibitions to drown a cat (all of which were at one point or another broken). These three awfully convoluted characters and I met through a game known as beer pong, which unlike beer flavoured ping pong is actually a tasty cocktail made out of fun and drinks. The main element of the game was
A Friend At Beer PongA Friend At Beer PongA Friend At Beer Pong

This is a very happy winner (ie. sober person).
simple: throw ping pong balls the length of a billiard table and land them in glasses of beer at the other end, thus making your opponent drink the landed drink. Simple. The tricky part was deciding if you actually wanted to win.

Look at it this way (this is the non-convoluted, controlled, and properly typed explanation of the game. It was not, however, despite contrary evidence, written while sober): if you win the game by getting the ball into all six of your opponents drinks, they have to drink all remaining drinks at your end of the table as well. The winner then stays on and the challenger buys the new drinks. Therefore, if you win perfectly (your opponents don't get any balls in your drinks so you don't get to drink them) your opponents drink all the beer. This is fine, unless of course you bought those beers. If however, as would normally happen, your opponent does land some balls then you get to drink a little bit before you win. In the end the winners end up drinking a lot over a lot of rounds and don't have to pay anything, while the losers end up buying lots of beer and drinking most of it straightaway. A better option would be just to drink without the game. But then again, that wouldn't be anywhere near as much hysterical fun.

Thanks to beer pong I managed to protract my stay in Yangshuo by three days.


The One Day When I Did Something



Nine days in Yangshuo. I must have done something. . . let me think. Oh yeah, I nearly fell off a mountain.

On one fine day I awoke early. By that I mean I pulled myself out of bed at 11am on a day reminiscent of the sixth layer of hell (a comparatively cool day by Yangshuo standards) and I was set on undertaking a bike ride around the countryside. By twelve I had set out and nothing but the long road stood in my way. Well, that and about a thousand Chinese people yelling the word "bamboo" with increasing rapidity.

I decided to ride up the Yulong river, a small river which runs somewhat parallel to the Li River, to the Dragon Bridge where I intended to take a swim. The river is famed, or in-famed (is that a word? who cares), for it's bamboo rafting. This activity can be described simply and with a minimum of fuss, but I choose not to do so, just imagine the laziest and most unorthodox idea that springs into your head after reading the words "bamboo rafting". Despite this, and despite the seventeen or eighteen thousand docks set up for this activity, the river has some of the most beautiful scenery in the region. It does not have the grandest, the largest, or the most aptly named peaks in the region but something about it's rural air gives the area a charm that is lacking elsewhere.

The ride was slow and stately, no chance of me winning any races with my out-of-shape frame, but that made it all the more enjoyable. Slowly tracking the river upstream through villages, along dirt tracks, beside rice paddies and through the local farm life, I headed further north for several hours until I reached the bridge. Guess what. The bridge is now used for rafting purposes. Luckily for me though, slightly further upstream there was another bridge, this one without touts and the hustle of tourists.

I headed for the second bridge, scampered down
Moon HillMoon HillMoon Hill

From the bottom, not on the bike riding day.
to a small concrete pier, threw off some clothes and plunged two foot deep into the mud. After frantically shifting around while yelling such choice phrases as "lightning sand" and "I regret nothing" I freed myself from the evil clutches and found myself a much more satisfying pile of rocks upon which to support myself. There I lay cooling off in the mid-afternoon, enjoying being in a river again, watching fish dart by when suddenly I heard a frightening sound. Behind me there was a bamboo raft being slid down the embankment directly towards me!

To cut a long story back to what it should be, I gave up on enjoying the Yulong River and tried to find peace atop a mountain instead. The mountain I chose could have been better chosen. In other words, I chose badly, 25km badly to be precise, when I decided to cycle to Moon Hill. Despite the long ride under the waning sun the view of the hill was most definitely worth it. Here Mother Nature has produced another one of those head-tilting views that bring about sentences the likes of "no, really?" or "that can't be natural". Yet here stands a mountain with a perfectly shaped cresent moon punctured through it's peak. Climbing to it's peak (360 steps followed by a 100m off-the-track climb) I hoped to find some peace and a thrilling view as the sun dipped ever lower among the peaks of Yangshuo. Instead I found a rock-climbing team preparing for an abseil on a peak that smelled distinctly of things which shouldn't be found on peaks. "Oh well" I thought, at least the view is good.

I raced back to town as fast as I could (slowly thanks to sore legs), I showered, ate and hit the roof-top bar. Never stray from a working formula.


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