China: Lijiang to Guilin

We have been back in California for a while now, and China is starting to seem like a million miles away, and yet my mind is still whirling with thoughts about the trip. We talk about China during our various hikes, continuing to process and clarify details and meanings, and thus it is that the trip will have a life well beyond the actual days we were there.

When I last left off, we had finished our now infamous climb of Mount Emei, and were headed south, out of Sichuan Province. To reach Panzhihua, the jumping off point for the next stage of our journey, we decided to take the overnight train, traveling on what the Chinese call the "hard sleeper." This is a class of train between the hard and unreserved seats for cheap, and the expensive soft sleepers with private compartments and air conditioning. In the space that most European trains use to host six upright seats, the Chinese have put in six bunks, three on each side of a tiny central aisle, and still open to the corridor which runs down the side of the train car. The train beds are not actually "hard" at all, and in fact were much softer than many of the hotel beds we slept on in China (after about the first week of the trip we got wise, and when we would check out a hotel room, a defining plunk on the bed became part of determining the acceptability of the room). We were a bit dismayed at first when it was not certain that our fan would work, but once we got that functioning, it was actually quite comfortable on the train, and we fell asleep to the lull of the clackety-clack, following suit to the surrounding passengers. We awoke the next morning to find ourselves in extremely mountainous terrain, typical of the area in the Himalayan foothills and Western China. A river wound through the bottom of the very steep valley, churning and brown with sediment, and small villages clung to the hillsides above. Our view was interrupted by frequent tunnels, so many that it was difficult to have a long view, and gave us further appreciation for the ruggedness of the terrain. At the tail-end of a pouring rain storm, we pulled into Panzhihua, the town from which we would catch a bus to Lijiang, in the most Northwest corner of Yunnan Province. Typical to Asian travel and remote areas, by the time we reached the bus station, there were no buses available that day, and we were forced to wait until the following day to complete our journey. Meanwhile, we observed a fight in the bus station (typically busy), in which one man broke a plastic chair over the head of another man (just like our own action movie, but without subtitles or kung-fu). The opposite of a tourist town, Panzhihua seemed more like a regular Chinese city than any other place we visited. Despite the decrepit conditions of our hotel (we settled for one conveniently located next to the bus station, despite the crumbling plaster in the lobby, and ladders overhead as we walked to our third floor room), we liked this mid-sized city in spite of ourselves. We saw no other white tourists, observed many locals pursuing their everyday tai chi stretching in the park, made our way through their equivalent of a mall (an open-air collection of stalls with some products made in China, but many made in Indonesia—where exactly were the factories for all the stuff "made in China," we wondered?) and tasted several local treats approximating pot-stickers and filled sticky buns. The only people we were actively approached by were some students studying English, who helped recommend a good restaurant for dinner. Not seeming like a commodity was a break we had not expected, but thoroughly enjoyed. Nevertheless, we were happy to be on our way early the next morning (in yet another pouring rain storm), quickly out of the urban area, into the most rugged terrain we saw while in China. Similar the last section of our train ride, the bus chugged through deep valleys and switch-backed up the side of impossibly steep hills, carrying us for eight hours through the mountains. We passed through one drainage after the next, regularly going up or down two-thousand feet, pushing in and out of the cloud cover, and catching sight of thundering waterfalls and rapids as we whizzed by. Many small villages or farms hugged the hillsides, amazing us with the vibrancy and neatness of their rice paddies, and the precariousness of their high elevation positions. When we finally reached Lijiang, we were thoroughly appreciative of the remoteness of the town we had landed in.

Lijiang was a lovely town, if a bit touristy. It is one of few places in rural China where many of the traditional buildings and houses of the old town remain. An area inhabited by the Naxi people, their visual mark is still strong on the town, even if their political rights have been severely limited. We stayed in a wonderful guest house, actually the traditional compound of a Naxi family which rents out several of their rooms to guests. Walking the streets of the old town, we wound our way through cobbled walkways, twisting alleys, and over bridges which spanned tiny canals still running with clean water. Men and women in traditional Naxi dress walk the pedestrian streets as well, carrying on their shoulders loads of produce to market or wares to hawk. Lance especially enjoyed the attention he sometimes got from elderly Naxi men who noticed his long goatee, and would smile at him, pointing to their own long goatees, and sometimes even want to shake his hand in appreciation. Night was perhaps our favorite time for meandering, as then the lights came alive: variously shaped bright red lanterns put together in chains surrounding doorways and windows, and reflecting their warm glow in the waters of the canals. Single story, close-walled, and immediate to the street, the shops sold many items geared to the throngs of tourists, but also evidenced the many crafts indigenous to the surrounding areas. As always, we loved heading out in search of food, giving our wanderings a purpose, and often landing us where we might not have expected. One night our quest landed us at a Tibetan restaurant, which was an interesting change from traditional Chinese fare; the Tibetan food was by far the least expensive food on this menu which also featured pizza, pasta, and Mexican chili (always be suspicious of Americanized food in a country which has fabulous food of its own was our motto). Our one western luxury was espresso, found one morning at one of several small cafes which cater to the backpacking type tourist. To explore the Lijiang valley, Gillian and I went for a bicycle excursion around the area, ending up at a small Naxi village. This village was surrounded by rural land largely used for farming, and the homes reflected this agrarian lifestyle. Made from carefully arranged large mud bricks, with several buildings grouped around an inner courtyard, the homes had a simple elegance as well as functionality: house, kitchen and barn all grouped together with space for tasks in between.

One morning, we took a bus out of Lijiang in search of a fabled valley: Tiger Leaping Gorge. About two hours away by bus and cut by the Yangtze River, this gorge was supposed to be of awesome depth, steepness, and beauty. As our minivan cut its way into the gorge along yet another precipitous road (about the only kind in this area of China, and made ever more unnerving by Chinese drivers' habit of driving in the other person's lane and honking a lot to accommodate for this), we knew that the reports were correct. We stopped first to observe the narrowest portion of the gorge, a rushing rapids where the fabled tiger supposedly leaped across, and then proceeded on to the center of the gorge, craning our necks to look up as we went along. We were dropped by the side of the road, where we found a convenient guest house nearby, as well as the trail, which we planned to hike. Once our minivan had passed, and we were left alone, it was a wonderful feeling to be in a place so quiet except for the rush of the river. We relished this opportunity to be away from the constant hubbub, and to be in nature more similarly to the way we might be at home. Emei Mountain had been wonderful, but not especially quiet or private; in Tiger Leaping Gorge the presence was that of rock, sky, and water, not humans. This said, we did come across a small village as we began exploring the trail, and enjoyed the chance to weave through village paths past manicured agricultural terraces and courtyards full of chickens and pigs. The road was only a recent advent here, and so the trail we used for recreational purposes was part of the original trails that were the route in and out of this remote valley. After spending the night in a hotel where our balcony overlooked a sheer portion of the canyon wall, we began a more serious trek along the high trail. At first we were weighed down by our rain gear, as we began the hike in a steady drizzle, but before long the clouds broke enough to free us from this burden (too humid for raingear to be comfortable), and we enjoyed watching the clouds slowly rise and the mist hover in and out of the highest peaks of Jade Dragon Mountain along the eastern edge of the gorge. The trail was fairly level and mostly in areas without trees, so we able to have sweeping views down to the crashing Yangtze, up to the mountain peaks, and across at the beautiful black streaked rock and many layered cliffs of the opposing wall. We passed a few other hikers, quite a few roaming goats, and several farmhouses along the route. Lance was interested to see evidence of old aqueducts and newer rural water transport systems, the parts of which were often right along the trail. It was wonderful to feel like we were truly seeing a valley and mountains which led to the highlands of Tibet, as well as the mighty Yangtze, a river well known for its widely meandering lower reaches, but not so much for its steep rushing upper reaches. We enjoyed every stretch of this ever-changing, ever-impressive, steep gorge straight from a Chinese painting, and were sad to finally reach the end of the trail. However, our sadness wasn't quite so keen as it might have been had it not poured down rain for the last solid hour and a half of the hike—even armed with raincoat, poncho, and umbrella we were soaked and squished down to every toe on our feet.

Leaving Lijiang, we somehow ended up on the tourist bus. Until this point, we had done all our transport as locals do, but when we allowed someone else to make our reservation, we were chagrined to learn that we had been booked on a bus radically more expensive than any other we had seen--and from the cleanliness and coolness of the air-conditioning we knew that it was not the locals' transport. In this way, we were trundled across rural Yunnan Province to Kunming, the capital city. It was only a quick stop in Kunming, as we were using it as a travel hub for our journey to Guilin, many miles to the east. We made our reservations for another overnight train ride leaving the following day, and used the in-between time to see something of this city. Dinner was once again to the accompaniment of a World Cup soccer game. All throughout our time in China, the World Cup was in full swing. Compared to the US, soccer was big-time here. Game schedules were posted in various public places, TVs would be placed at random public locations, always tuned to the current game, and a common conversation starter was if you had watched the game the previous evening. While the commentary was always in Chinese, we could mostly follow along based on tone of voice, and our growing ability to recognize various countries' flags. After not being in a large city for some time, we were amused to recall the crazy mix of modern and old world in Chinese transport. Streets would be crammed with buses, cars and trucks, but then bicycles packed along street edges, many carrying huge loads of goods much higher than the head of the cyclist (such as a man with a tower of styrofoam boxes piled five high by four long, miraculously held together with twine and bungee cords), and even the occasional mule drawn cart clomping along at a fraction of the speed of the surrounding vehicles—one of which we spied on a freeway on-ramp. The Kunming train station was vast and chaotic when we entered, people crammed into waiting areas with mountains of luggage which were somehow going to end up on the train with them. We were happy to have reservations, and thus avoid the seat free-for-all of the cheapest tickets. Despite this image, overall we were impressed with the Chinese transportation system. We were able to get all the tickets we desired with a minimum of confusion (although at times Pictionary was employed in the process), buses and trains were as efficient as the terrain would allow, and we never felt gouged on the price simply because of the color of our skin. The Chinese have definitely stepped up to the plate and modernized in many ways which suit tourists and locals alike. Similarly, the people were extremely friendly. We were often stopped on the street so that someone could practice their few words of English, or exchange a hello with the widest smile possible, and we regularly met new friends (whose English was quite good) with whom we ate a meal, sipped green tea, or taught a new game, primarily to learn about each other and our countries of origin (and practice English). Ready to discover another part of China, we boarded the train, locating our sleeper compartment, and not too sad to be forced into traveling in a soft sleeper with functioning air-conditioning as the result of a full-booked train.

The train ride was pleasant, and gave us a good chance to view the countryside between Kunming and Guilin, as well as catch up on our reading. Dinner was a bit challenging—we finally had to enlist the help of a scrounged up Chinese man who spoke English to help us order food in the dining car, as we were NOT allowed into the kitchen for pointing. Nearing Guilin, the landscape slowly began to resemble the famous images so common from China: mysterious limestone karsts pushing up from flat farmland. Guilin is nestled between forests of limestone karsts. The karsts, which are about 300-600 ft. high, push up with steep sides often resembling cliffs, and usually host a jungle of vegetation on a portion of their surfaces. Their tops are somewhat rounded or pointy, and a silhouette of karsts over the city has a shape like the ragged spine of a dragon. Guilin seems unphased by its environs, buildings nestled right up next to limestone cliffs, and streets curving around their bases as necessary. For visitors wishing to view the city, it's wonderful. Our first afternoon we entered a park which included the peaks of seven limestone karsts; with familiar Chinese stone stairs leading to the top of a peak, we were afforded an amazing view across the city and down the sides of this geologic phenomenon. Many parks in Guilin are built around karsts, and include beautiful gardens, pools, pagodas, and paths to enhance your appreciation of these forms. A special adventure was a tour into a limestone cave beneath one karst (a very common feature in limestone). While the tour itself was in Chinese, we decided it was an advantage, and lingered far from the guide at the end of the group, appreciating the amazing stalactite and stalagmite forms somewhat privately. The Chinese penchant for creative lighting was rather amusing—every section of the cave was lighted with differently and brightly colored lights, highlighting various forms, and feeling as bit like a laser light show. Our favorite section was an interior pool, collecting water and dripping it slowly down a sloped surface. Walking back to our hotel at night, we enjoyed several illuminated pagodas, their images reflected in surrounding pools.

The Li River runs through the heart of Guilin and the surrounding limestone karst landscape, and so it was this artery we sought to follow along its course. We scheduled a several hour boat trip through a man whom we had met at the train station, and waited for the appointed bus (to bring us to the boat) the following morning. The bus was late, and when someone finally arrived to usher us to a bus, it didn't look quite right. We got on nevertheless, and began a ride which left Guilin and wove through the beautiful gardens and vegetable fields of small towns. After some time we started to get nervous, as it seemed we were traveling far too long for the supposed jump off point for our boat adventure. I finally took some initiative and began matching the characters on the passing road signs with those of my map, and it wasn't long until I knew that weren't where our trip arranger had told us we would be. When our bus ride finally ended at a town nearly twice as far from Guilin as we had been led to believe, we were beginning to feel a bit irate. Did this man think he could get away with false representation of his trip? Were we actually going to be able to see the portion of the river we wanted to? Forced to wait for him to arrive in person, we ate lunch, seethed, and tried to think of an alternative plan. We were fortunate to discover that two other tourists on our bus were in the same boat (literally), and so we joined with them to negotiate with our trip man (they were Japanese and spoke Chinese, a significant boon). Miraculously, when Mike the trip man arrived, our combined rage was more than enough to convince him that we meant business, and without much trouble he handed our money back to us (but not without a last ditch effort on his part to offer us a special lunch with our boat trip in exchange for sticking with him!). At this point, we used our returned money to hire the services of a local boat driver and his small boat (with our Japanese friends), and took off from that point, hoping to salvage the best part of our day and the river tour. Soon we were on our way, enjoying what our guide book said was the best part of the river anyway. The terrain was truly spectacular: limestone karsts rising steeply all around us, sometimes straight from the river, at other times back a little, in clumps with other karst peaks. Each one had a unique shape and hue of green or gray. The river was a gentle reflective surface between them all, a path that stretched out before us like a road into some mystical landscape. All along the river were people fishing and swimming, and animals using the water as well. In one place we saw unusual shapes emerging from the water, and when we got close, saw that they were water buffalo, perhaps 15 of them, swimming across the river. Their heads barely cleared the surface of the water, and we wondered about the purpose of their swim. A little less than half way through the boat trip, our driver suddenly pulled up on shore, announcing that we had to get out and transfer to another boat. This all seemed a bit fishy, especially when he mentioned that we would have to pay yet another fee. After further discussion (translated for us), it seemed that in order for local boat owners to take tourists on the tightly controlled Li River, they either had to pay many fees, or break up the trip such that it was not a "cruise." There was no question our trip was being broken up, and we wondered if we would ever have smooth sailing. Happily, after this there were no further deceptions or interruptions, and we could simply enjoy the river from the open front of our boat, trying to immerse ourselves in the landscape and the life of the river as we felt it rush by on the bottoms of our bare dangling feet.

Our boat journey down the Li River brought us to Yangshuo, a small town which has become a thriving tourist center. Beautifully set among the karsts, and yet without the urban fixtures of Guilin, Yangshuo was rightfully popular. Walking the streets packed with Western and Chinese tourists and an accompanying number of shops and restaurants for them to visit, we tried to see the old town that had once been here. It was easier the following day, when we met up with a friend of Gillian's to go walking in the countryside. Here, not on a bus or busy street, but rather a potholed road left muddy from the morning's downpour (did I mention that it rained a lot?), we were able to see rice paddies, banana trees, and traditional homes all with a backdrop of dramatic karsts and shifting clouds. The brilliant greens and yellows of the neat rice paddies were especially beautiful as a contrast to the dark karsts, and their disused ponds sometimes offered a perfect reflected image. Having found a bit of its original charm, we were sad to leave Yangshuo the following day, but it was time to begin our journey homeward.

Our last day in China was spent in Guilin, buying a few souvenirs (tea, of course), and visiting one last park. As we ate our final dinner, relishing yet another meal of exquisite eggplant and spicy red peppers, we mused over our trip. Among all the splendors of the beautiful sights we had seen, and charming grandmothers we had met, was also a lasting impression of China actually being a nation of over a billion people. Every bit of land was used in one way or another, whether for small scale farming or tall apartment buildings, and whether flat or mountainous—and everything was efficiently done, no space wasted. No land was left unexplored or untamed, wilderness did not exist, and population was indeed dense. This is what a billion people looks like, mile after mile, and it was somehow profound. After a dusk ride through the streets of Guilin atop a roofless double-decker bus (we seem to have tried every mode of transport China has to offer), we flew out of Guilin, stopping in Shanghai only to await our flight to Los Angeles. We thought it fitting that our trip ended with two humorous events: one, the English language newspaper given to us on the plane which headlined the story of a crashed airplane, replete with photographs; and two, the hotel in Shanghai which was relatively expensive with pretensions of swankiness, only for us to arrive and find that it was one of the worst hotels we stayed at in all of China (so much for advertising). It was a mostly smooth flight back across the Pacific, with plenty of time for mental transitioning since we couldn't sleep.

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