Year of the Golden Pig

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The morning was chilly on top of the mountain, a rather crisp start to the New Year. Zhangjiajie was experiencing a bit of a cold spell, not the most desirable of conditions when your hotel room is devoid of both heat and heavy blankets. But then again, it wasn’t really much of a hotel in the first place.

Following my aimless, foggy wanderings of the night before, and the bus that proved to be my salvation, I was deposited once again in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere. Dark and desolate, a large man standing singly in the fog waited for me to exit the bus. He would be my inn keeper for the night, and his beaming smile as we shook hands seemed to make most of the darkness disappear instantly.

We walked in to his place. A dirty hallway served as the entrance, a small TV at the end accompanied by two chairs surrounding what appeared to be a space heater with a blanket on top. I was led to my room. While indeed the rather bleak and grimy room was part of a hotel, this only meant two other spaces were available for wandering souls. Three rooms would be enough though, as I imagine business is not too heavy in these parts.

I enjoyed a quick meal in their “restaurant” area, prepared especially for me by the most jolly and rotund man in China. Once my bucket of rice was thoroughly devoured, I was invited to sit and watch TV by the boss’ wife, a small pregnant woman in her early 30s. Pulling up a chair, I sat half under the blanket with my lower body warmed up by the space heater. Or not quite. Turns out we were sitting around what was actually an open pit fireplace. As their small son added more wood, I was greeted by a plume of black smoke, my first hint that this heater wasn’t working quite right.

Time for bed. I made my way two steps from my perch at the fire and in to my empty room. It was freezing, and the attempt at a hot shower only discover no hot water had thoroughly extinguished any remaining bits of heat and happiness. I decided to sleep completely clothed and under the protection of two jackets, yet still not enough as I cracked open a hand warmer. I thanked my grandmother for the Christmas gift and the only bit of warmth I had through the night, placing the packet at my feet for added satisfaction.

A giant bowl of noodles had been prepped for my 8am wake-up. I thanked the family for their incredible hospitality in providing shelter, grateful that I didn’t have to stay in the empty shack I noted on my wandering trek the night before. Soon though, I found myself in a rather familiar situation.

Back in to the fog, walking without direction, I was soon lost for the second time this trip. I had set out on the main bus way, which according to my map would lead me directly to the base of Tianzi Shan, my goal for the day. That was nowhere to be seen, and the enveloping grayness was my only company for the next two hours. Loud cracks of fireworks would cut the thick air every so often, a promise of civilization and the start of New Year’s festivities. Sadly, the explosions would simply escape back in to the darkness, their source as hidden as the trail ahead.

The long walk was taking its toll as my legs began to cramp from the lack of stretching, sustenance, and sheer motivation. Through the gray, I approached a small roadside hut, selling water and the normal assortment of postcards. After asking directions and being advised to wait for the bus, I was given a seat at the roadside. I watched the owner’s two young kids play with small bottle rockets in the street. Noting the shrieking loudness of the explosive toys, I sat calmly in the morning haze. Bolting from the kid’s hand, an errant rocket headed straight for me, promising both pain and a loss of hearing. I twisted my body away in a speed only known by the gods, and was slammed in the thigh by the propelled explosive. Yet my guardian angel was looking after me at that moment - the firework was a dud. Lying lifeless on the pavement next to me, the kid quickly apologized for the rocket’s course. “Mei wenti,” no problem, I said with a panic-relieved grin.

I boarded my bus for the base of Tianzi Shan, or as most of the tourist components of the park limited your actual contact with nature, the summit of the peak. When I arrived, I was glad I had not walked it. Pure and absolute fog engulfed every nook and cranny of the mountain top. A small sign noted some grand peak in the view ahead, but haze had reduced it to a dark stain in the surrounding gray. A golden statue revealed itself like a ghostly apparition as I walked around the nothingness of the gardens.

My map noted a small trail to the base. While it had steered me wrong more than once already, I decided to test my luck once again, this time with the rare taste of success. Halfway down, I relaxed to ponder both life and the pain in my shins. A small leaf hanging lonely on a dead tree in the distance caught my eye, and I sat quietly in the stillness, now accompanied by its abandoned presence.

Another hour of hiking found me at the base of Tianzi Shan, home to a rather precarious little train. Marking the trail through the Ten-Mile Gallery section, the train shuttled what seemed to be mostly Korean tourists through the stunning sights. While an attractive break to the climbing, I needed to head the opposite direction, down what the map noted as a “Natural Path.” Its location though seemed to be a bit too natural, as thick underbrush and boulders hid any semblance of an actual path.

A guide accompanying two backpackers seemed like a good person to ask for directions. I pointed the way ahead, and was immediately met by a violent head shake and a “No no no!” Too dangerous she claimed, I would have to stick to the path straddling the train ride. I was a bit unsure how to proceed. My advice was coming from a woman leading two men dressed in full Everest gear, backpacks the size of cows undoubtedly stuffed with every emergency tool imaginable, who had been following me off and on for the past two hours. The past two hours was a fully-paved path with shops and rest facilities everywhere, hardly Everest. More like a stroll through the park, albeit a slightly steep one. Could it really be that bad?

Probably not, but being that I had no idea where it was, I followed the train down. At the end, a small bus station was the only way to go. I was on the complete opposite side of my desired location, Tianzi Shan Village, an entire mountain away with no direct roads leading there. So I changed my plans, heading for nearby Suoxiyu, home to the stunning Huanglong (Yellow Dragon) Caves. I would make the town my stop for tonight. Upon exiting the park and saying goodbye to the scenery of Zhangjiajie, the sun began to break the cloud cover, revealing a brilliant blue sky and the multitude of craggy peaks surrounding me. Of course…

The bus ride deposited me in what I could only assume was Suoxiyu. The absolute lack of any living beings and pure, unadulterated silence had me wondering. For the second time on this trip, I had found a ghost town, shops and hotels boarded up down every alley. I began my hunt for somewhere to stay, discovering that the only places still open were 5-Star digs, running upwards of $100 US per night. I don’t have that kind of cream, the $10 a night back in Senlin Gongyuan was already killing me. Still, that sounded like a pretty good option now, being that I preferred not to spend the evening on the streets with ghosts and pad locks.

My only choice was to head back to the Minsu Hotel, where a friendly family had been my host days before. While I was disappointed to leave behind the sights in this area, the motorcycle ride to Senlin looked pretty exciting too. It turned out to be the best decision I made during my aimless travels through Zhangjiajie.

The night of Spring Festival, or Chinese New Year, was quickly turning in to a bore as I sat lonely in my hotel room. The town was empty, an occasional firecracker breaking the silence, definitely not the raucous event I was expecting from China’s most important holiday. I weighed my options, or lack thereof, and decided to head out down the dark streets in search of a quiet meal. I took one step downstairs, and immediately found something quite different.

The family of the Minsu Shanzhuang had been friendly ever since I first set foot in their hotel. The wife always wore a giant smile and her husband was perhaps the most patient man I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. As I made my way out the door, a holler called me back in. “Zuo, zuo!” Sit, sit! I was invited to sit with their family, around yet another open fire, keeping warm while munching on sunflower seeds and oranges. While I didn’t want to intrude on what was their family gathering during this most important holiday, I was literally dragged to my seat by the family’s grandmother. She immediately snatched up a handful of seeds, filling my open hands and jacket pocket.

We kept warm discussing simple things about my life and travels. Only the husband and young daughter really spoke much Mandarin, but the fun came when the other members fired rapid questions my way, and I replied with a blank face and open mouth. At one point, I gave a brief lesson on sunflower seed chewing. While they preferred to crack each one individually with their front teeth, I demonstrated the tried and true baseball player method of using the back chompers for cracking and the front only for aim while spitting them out. They liked it, and now there are even more spitters in China, now with style rather than just saliva.

While the small gathering was enough for me to thoroughly enjoy my Chun Jie (Spring Festival), the night was hardly over. It was time to eat, and I was led to a small, dark room in the back of the hotel. A card table was set up in the middle, hardly big enough for four people, definitely not the twelve in our group. A long table on the left held up a large wok, flames burning its charred underside. I was given a stool at the table, which I refused until the grandmother shoved me down.

Rice in hand, two large bowls were placed on the table, and the feast officially started. There, in a room meant for maybe six, the entire family and I worked our way through beef and veggies. I tried to be polite and take little, but was continuously served more and more by the group. A modest meal for twelve, I was honored and humbled as I was forced to be the last to eat. This family, with barely enough among themselves, had invited me in as their guest of honor, and gave me more than my fill of everything. Their hospitality and sheer friendliness gave me a renewed sense of just how truly nice people can be in the world.

The grandfather placed a small bowl of brown liquid in front of me. He clicked his bowl with mine. “Hao Jiu!” Good alcohol, and we said cheers for the New Year. Strong and absolutely horrible, the men in the family laughed at me as I grimaced through every sip. The grandmother again came around with a handful of goodies. This time, she held something all too familiar.

A handful of Mati is a good bedtime snack. It seems the New Year brings everything full circle.

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Photos

Minsu Shanzhuang
Friendliest Family in the World

Comments

[LAWRENCE]

terrifying
very cool image connects somehow to the past and reminds me of LOTR