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Published: August 6th 2007
Meeting Myself in Chengyang
I've met solo travellers, I've met travelling couples, families, newlyweds, sisters, brothers, best friends, tour groups, school trips and several undiscernably related travellers. In my opinion the option of travelling as a pair is optimal as it offers the best mix of freedom and security (this leads into concepts of "wingmen" and "package deals" but we wont go into these here now shall we), however, trying to find someone travelling in the same direction as myself has proven to be problematic. Recently, in Sanya that is, I met Felix and we have travelled for some two weeks together, but he of course is heading eastwards around the world, not westwards. Then, as if in a deliberate attempt by some higher power to prove themself right, I ran into the saying "when it rains, it pours".
After a bus ride which from Longsheng to Sanjiang which is precisely six hours long when taking into account the delay caused by our steering column dismantling itself as best it could and the incredibly massive 70km between the two towns, we found ourselves heading slightly north to an old favourite destination of mine: Chengyang village. The region is inhabited
by the Dong people, one of China's many racial minorities, who still live using means similar to those of centuries past. Their villages are wooden, rice is grown on almost every available square of land, money is only relevant due to the presence of tourists, primitive tools and methods are used for every daily task, from washing clothes to building houses. Of particular interest in Chengyang is the most impressive "Wind and Rain Bridge" in the region, a massive covered and ornamented bridge built from stone and wood without the use of a single nail. The village has changed somewhat since my last visit, mostly in terms of improved tourist infrastructure including street lights (actually, last time there wasn't a street into the town at all), wide and smooth paths, handrails, hostels and restaurants, but the overall charm is yet to be completely lost.
The best view of Chengyang, and one of my favourite views of the world in general, is found at the top of a mountain on the opposing side of the river. A bend in the stream surrounds the fields and houses of Mingan village (the name Chengyang actually applies to a collection of six or
so small villages in the valley) directly below the mountain's viewpoint and creates a natural fish-eye effect. It was to this point that Felix and I first ascended, one of several climbs and hikes that we undertook in the region. When we arrived we found that another westerner, an American man in his late twenties or early thirties with short-cropped blonde hair and a half-grown beard. As the three of us sat there and began talking, admiring the scenery about us as we went, it dawned on me that I was talking to myself. He's even heading off to Yushu and Zatou! Felix and left town fairly quickly which was very welcome, I'm not sure if I can handle myself: no one else seems able, but because he's me we keep running into each other. If anyone out there placed a voodoo curse on me so that all of this happened I would like to complain; next time could you make it a girl?
Micah, as we eventually learned to call the man, has just finished university (grad school in his case) as an Engineer, precisely as I have done. Instead of being normal and working he decided to
travel again, this time heading across China, through Nepal and India, across the middle-east and then into Eastern Europe. Surprisingly identical to my plans. What's more, he plans to do it to the same schedule as I am. Add to this his passion for photography and I started to get freaked out. The more we talked to more we found out that we were practically identical; I had to pinch myself constantly for six hours before I believed it.
When Casual Bus Rides Go Bad: A Day When I Was Glad to be Wearing Underwear
In the world of vagrant world backpackers there are a certain few constants. These include a wanton wanderlust, a general lack of hygiene and an abnormally high tolerance for abject poverty, however, several other traits are held in common by those who have run away from their homes in search of the more exciting parts of the globe. One of these traits, one which has until recently been difficult for me to exhibit, is the ability (or want) of travellers to tell their personal take on "the bus from hell". We've all been there, sitting in a cramped seat in all but
unendurably hot weather while the baby next to us paints his mother, but some rare individuals have a tale which makes all but the most worthy stories pale in comparison, a story of such horror and horrifically horrible other kinds of bad things that fellow travellers in the room "ooh" and "ahh" in commiserating admiration. I give to you now my submission, my current and up-to-date worst story of public transportation: When casual bus rides go bad.
Felix and I intended Thursday to be casual, relaxing and slow, so we set out from our hostel rather later than usual. The plan was to catch a short local bus back to the hub of Sanjiang, before catching a second bus to the next destination known to us, so we were to be found in the bus station after a most pleasant bowl of Guanxi style noodles. Heading northwards the road from Sanjiang deteriorated into a thin black line, or so our atlas said, which sounded like a perfectly pleasant way to explore the countryside. After 50km or so the road forked and we would enter the Chinese province of Guizhou on a yet thinner black line which continued a further
30km to the town of Zhaozing which itself was not even drawn on our map (note to self: get a new map). Travelling through the countryside, particularly the mountainous and ever-changing scenes of southern China, is an incredibly pleasant experience, however, the condition of the interior of the bus can bring this point into question.
To summarise an otherwise slightly longer description, our bus was filled with such a cross-section of the world's animal life that Old MacDonald would be turning green. Near my seat, which fortunately was within two steps of the door (a vital fact to know when vomit avoidance is of critical importance) I could see clearly see a chicken and a cat along with ten or so bags of unidentifiable dead things. In China, seeing dead animals is a part of daily life, seeing a Chicken being skinned during your lunch is almost mandatory, but when the dead animals are expected to endure a six hour endurance test in the confines of a hot bus and still be edible this writer is skeptical of all bag contents. Further back in the bus, back where I had initially sat before thinking through my escape plans, the
ever present smell of rotting fish was somewhat unsurprisingly present. I was later told that the entire bus ride in that area was a battle between the fishy interior scent and the dusty exterior barrage.
Around us in the bus there were perhaps thirty locals, a variety of the minority groups in the region as Sanjiang is a central trading city for the Yao, Dong, Miao and Zhuo people. Traditional dress was almost as common as westernised diversity, as was the dirty rag school of fashion thought. Under such conditions, those of sardine packing and rampant personal capitalism that is, the term "seat" becomes fluid and arbitrary. Extra seats appeared in the aisles, the engine compartment was simply a self-heating recliner, our backpacks were play castles for the children, and I am fairly sure that I had at least sixty percent of the seat that I had paid for. This is how we set out: hot, cramped, smelly and jovially unaware of the actual length of time involved in covering 80km in this part of the country.
The northern reaches of Guanxi are all but untended by the government due to their comparative insignificance. In this region their
lie some of the most diverse and interesting cultures present in China, however, the populations are small and the areas remote so funding for roadworks is sadly lacking. Once the tourist havens of Longji and Chengyang are passed (and sometimes before even that) the roads deteriorate into dirt tracks carved high into the sides of mountains above raging rivers. Row after row of rice terraces appear around dozens of seemingly randomly placed villages, each of which carries a charm and intrigue seldom present in the modern version of China. Frequent landslides restrict traffic flow, or would do so if sufficient traffic was able to traverse the roads, and even in the good sections the bumps and potholes restrict speeds to no more than twenty kilometers per hour. For almost three hours this continued as more and more passengers piled into the bus, some bringing bags, barrels or boxes of new and even more unidentifiable smells with them, until finally the bus turned into Guizhou.
As soon as the new province was entered the roads changed, clearly the Guizhou government has a priority of maintaining roads as the previously bumpy dirt road became a smooth and wide bitumen strip leading
through the mountains ahead of us. However, the problems facing the roads to the south remain, particularly those of landslides. However, rather than disappearing entirely as is the case in Guanxi, roads in Guizhou manage to endure rather severe lacks of substrate: when the land does give was below the road the bitumen appears to hold together under it's own weight, however, the weight of a car would complete the destruction process. Therefore, the road-workers put large cement pylons into the road to prevent the passage of cars near the edges, thus resulting in the same end result: a road which is much thinner than it should be, however, in this case the road looks perfectly fine rather than being a gaping hole. In some ways this is comforting, in others infuriating. In some cases though, the slide is so large as the pull the majority of the road with it. At one such area I noted with no small surprise that three children were trying to balance just outside my window. They were no more than ten centimeters away from me, slowly rocking back and forth as though they were undecided about whether falling onto the bus was the
desirable outcome. I glanced out of the window to see with horror that the bus was slowly advancing on the very edge of a precipice, the children were standing on the small amounts of mud pushed up next the the tire tracks between my vehicle and certain death. At this point the bus tilted noticeable towards the abyss.
With my hearth tickling the back of my mouth I dared to look over the edge, to see what fate lay ahead of me. We a constantly bombarded with news of rolled buses, tipped ferries and plane crashes, would my final gift to the world be a five second news story hidden somewhere beyond the weather report? Below me I saw the path most likely to be chosen by gravity, a sheer cliff or bare rocks leading twenty meters down to the river, and there, perched in the river in a slightly more sideways manner than usual, precisely where my bus would land, there was another bus. Are twelve car pileups restricted to motorways or do they occur at the bottom of cliffs? I am unsure.
As evidenced by my writing of this article the bus cautiously righted itself and
cleared the danger, but my heart remained behind two rows of teeth and my fingernails stayed fast within the wooden armrests. A secret wish for the bus to be over filled me. Unperturbed by any such everyday occurrences the bus continued as though nothing was even close to astray; picking up a group of five passengers almost immediately. The five men boarded and spread themselves along the aisle. The man nearest me was a real talker, chatting away in a friendly manner to anyone who would listen, particularly so if they were ladies. Behind me another man did much the same with some of the others until he said something untoward. Quickly the conversation deteriorated into argument, the whole bus was alive and yelling, settling a point well beyond my reckoning. Words flew back and forth till the man near me threw a pack of cards out as a way of settling the dispute. Faster than a slothful blink the bus was rearranged: a table came out, cards were dealt, people crowded for a view. Words flew back and forth, more than his fair share from the man by me, excitement built and the tension remained. The game was three
cards, rearranged like the New York street hustlers do. A practice round unfolded, the rules explained, the game began. The cards were laid out, face down, money was pulled from pockets in wads and bundles. One of the five placed what looked like 30,000 yuan on the left card: he was certain of his bet and he cajoled his comrades to join him. As he looked behind him the cards were stealthily resorted beyond his gaze, the savvy contestants brought forth their money and bet against the first. In an effort to bring in the bets the men yelled and screamed, the younger passengers were the easiest to convince to their side and more money presented itself. One young man, perhaps 19, tried counting his money only to have all of it pulled from his hands and placed against his will. He grabbed his money and a tug-of-war ensued until finally his bet was settled, I know not how much was placed. With a second the cards had been turned the winner found and the money put into pockets. No time for argument existed and calm was restored almost instantly. The bus stopped violently and the child in the seat
next to me laid a corn and rice mosaic on the floor.
The sudden stop also startled me as I was pushed forward into the barrier between the seats and the door. The bus driver was up in his seat, demanding the hustlers off the bus. Vehemently he stared them down as they exited, much to the appreciation of the passengers. The five men went around to the drivers door, they pulled open his door and started towards him only to come to a stop when the driver pulled a foot long kitchen knife from behind the dashboard. The driver lunged out of the door, driving his assailants away long enough for him to close and lock the door, only to have the men run back into the bus via the side door. As they jumped into the bus, immediately in front of my face, the driver's assistant (presumably his wife) produced a second knife, this one half as long again as the first, and started waving and yelling towards the men. Immediately there, a meter from my face a knife flashed towards the men who threw words and fists back; I was lost in indecision, to help throw
the men off seemed necessary yet entirely futile and suicidal, my mind turned in turmoil in the face of mortal danger. Twice in fifteen minutes I though I was done.
Eventually the men realised that their cause was lost, they were after all facing two crazed Dong people (although not as warlike as the Khampa or Miao, I would daresay that the Dong would take little effort in teaching such people lessons). As the door closed behind the men and the clutch threw the bus back into motion I could see the men, still yelling abuse, hitching a lift in the truck which had stopped behind the bus. From then onwards the bus was stalked, all the way to Zhaoxing. In hindsight I would have preferred the choice between five hours of rotten fish or five hours of dust at the back of the bus.
Good Timing, a Plethora of Dong and the Impromptu Performance
Timing is important, a girl once told me that, but what is good timing? Good timing is what Richard Halliburton had when he chanced upon the ordaining of the new Llama of Ladakh in 1925; in other words, pure blind luck.
Presumbaly they were celebrating the construction of this building.This is something that I don't have, and this is why I rarely have anything truly remarkable to talk about. But even so, sometimes things must work out for everyone, right?
Zhaoxing is a small, insignificant town near the South-East border of Guizhou province. As far as I knew it was all but untouristed in the way that Chengyang was five years ago or Yangshuo was sometime in the Ming dynasty. Conversely, upon arrival I found that Zhaoxing is actually a thriving tourist metropolis for the Chinese which is yet to be commonly explored by westerners. Therefore, the town has a plethora of hotels and restaurants (anyone who visits must eat at A Mei Restaurant on the main street, trust me) with western menus (the Chinese tourists love a good pizza for some reason). The town is populated by the Dong, just as Chengyang is, however, in Zhaoxing all of the families have coalesced into a single area instead of spreading across separate villages as happens elsewhere. Therefore, all of the families have drumtowers in the town - the drumtower is the central meeting area for Dong villages and is used
for all kinds of purposes. The town is very small, perhaps 300m in length, and almost all buildings are traditional wood constructions. Wind and rain bridges are to be found at random, drumtowers appear out of nowhere, local people in local dress seem to wander around as if someone has staged a performance such that no moment exists where the stage is empty.
On our second afternoon in town Felix and I ran into Micah (our American friend from Chengyang) sitting at a very long table full of food. When I say long I mean long, and there were two of them placed parallel to one another. Some 100 people were seated there minutes later to enjoy a traditional Dong feast. The reason: a delegation of tourism officials were sussing out what had been done in Zhaoxing, and thankfully for us, Micah had met the governor of the region earlier that afternoon. The result: an invitation for a free dinner and a specially arranged minority entertainment performance.
The dinner was good, it was nice to try some local flavours, but what really made the deal was this: at some random point a whole contingent of traditionally dressed locals
(their clothes were a dark and shiny brown material with lots of embroidery and silver work) appeared and placed themselves behind the diners. Then, after singing an appropriately bawdy song they started pouring glasses of alcohol down everyone's throat from behind. The drink was Mei Jiu, a sweet rice wine specific to the region, and dare I say that it would pass as lighter fluid. The Dong girls thought that the three westerners were "handsome" (read: prime target for a joke) so we got the lion's share of drinks, I think around about 10 shots or so found me.
After the dinner things quietened down for a while before the show and I headed back to the hotel for a quick bit of refreshment only to realise that funny noises were coming from upstairs. Quietly advancing I investigated the goings on and found that thirty or so Dong women were standing in the staircase practising a song for the show. There I stood, luckier than ever, listening to a private performance of one of the most obscure folk songs imaginable. An odd mix of discord and perfect harmony, warbling and tuneful singing, along with simplistic dance and seductive whispers
filled my ears.
At the show I was shocked to find that perhaps three of four hundred people had arrived to witness what must be a rare gathering of performers. Line after line of Dong performers showed off their remarkable talents (more remarkable considering how much time they have to spend in their fields just to eek out a living) for the please of all present. Then someone asked the three of us if we would give a short performance of western songs. Given the Mei Jiu our answer was perhaps a little too hasty and before we knew it Felix, Micah and I were standing in front of microphones, surrounded by Chinese dignitaries, locals and media, singing "Yellow Submarine" and "I Will Survive". Between the three of us we knew a grand total of six lines between the two songs and our tonality was lacking finesse to say the least. Then things took a turn for the worse, if such a thing is possible: they asked me to speak to the audience in Chinese. The less said the better, I'll summarise by noting that everyone had a good laugh either at me or with me. To rectify the
problem and recapture our audience we jumped into a third tune, one we took to completion as it only had one line to repeat. Actually, Micah didn't even know that much but he pretended quite well. For anyone Danish reading, the song which was almost certainly shown on Guizhou television the following night was "Kommer Der Ikke Snart Noget Fisse Til Mig".
As if things could get any better than that, the television crew took note of my obvious comic ability in the Chinese language and interviewed me which I though was a blast and may have resulted in several split sides after it was aired across the nation two nights ago. Also, after the performance the local people retired to their separate drumtowers to sing the night away and eat funky foods while we watched and admired. Talk about a lucky day to be in town.
The Land of Midget Children
It is a well known fact that the primary function of guidebooks is to add much needed ballast to a backpack (what's the point of travelling the world if you can't get a workout at the same time?), a fact which is mostly true
because of the "Guidebook Delay Effect". In essence, the minute a location is described in Lonely Planet is the minute that it changes into something completely different, thus defeating the purpose. Visiting a place listed in the holy bible of lazy travellers (I.e. me) is an exercise in seeing how many changes can come about after two years or more of mass tourism. For this reason it is necessary to try and beat the book to a location, to visit a place before it's set up for travellers and homogenised into oblivion, something which is difficult to do in a country where the average level of conversation rests comfortably between "hello" and "I love you" (quotes courtesy Felix and his direct but effective pick-up strategies). Luckily, a friend tipped us off about a the Miao village of Basha which is to be found seven kilometers outside of the southern Guizhou town of Congjiang.
Arriving in Basha it was clear that the tourism boom had not yet arrived: the ticket office was unmanned, the taxi didn't know where anything was, the hotels were not entirely sure how to handle us (when we asked for directions to a restaurant the boss
took us into his kitchen and started asking us whether we wanted egg-plant or tomato), and best of all, the local people did nothing but stare in bewilderment at the six-foot plus tall men walking among them.
Basha is set on a ridge with terraced valleys either side and five separate villages dot the hillside, each town representing a specific family. Descending into one village we were shocked to find almost no signs of life, noises occasionally peeped from a house, usually playing children or an overly zealous dog, but no faces were to be seen. Every so often a noise would come from the ridge-line which we presumed to be a folk-dance being undertaken for tourists, and it seemed clear that the remaining locals were out working the fields.
Eventually an old woman appeared within a barn, she had a humped back from long years of back-breaking labour and the signs of age showed plainly upon her. She wore full traditional dress: a group of technicolour triangles around her skirt, a skillfully embroidered smock covering her torso, darkly died indigo cloth for the most part with bright pink and green highlights. A thick silver choker surrounded her
neck, small leggings adorned her calves and a dark bandanna covered her head. Unlike the minority groups that I had seen elsewhere, where the working people dressed in standard Chinese clothes and only the tourist touts or folk-dancers dressed traditionally, the Miao of Basha still wear their traditions on their everyday sleeves. As we passed her the lady didn't even stir, we were of about as much interest to her as the flies about her ankles.
Further through the village some inquisitive children poked their heads out of a house to see us but instead of chasing us or saying hello (even in Chinese) as we are accustomed to they simply stood in the doorway in awestruck bewilderment. A look not of fear but of oddity, like that you make when you see an overly abstract painting that makes no sense, was all that their faces showed us. Yet further along the road we passed another adult, this time a young mother, no more than 22 years old and yet herding four children, walking up the hill. As we determined later, the girl was of average height for the Miao at four foot six and she looked surprisingly elegant
in her Miao garb despite the conditions in the villages. Her children passed us in a deliberate single file, each one craning their head to see the huge oddities standing before them. I said hello in Chinese but they didn't understand, as I came to know later most of the local girls and children can't speak Mandarin Chinese.
Still yet to see a mature man, we walked to the bottom of the valley where the rice terraces are to be found in the hope that some workers would be about. Again surprising us, the area was almost totally devoid of people. Occasionally (ok, twice) we saw a man working, accompanied by his son, but other than that we only saw children. Girls and boys that can't have been older than eight were carrying bundles of grass, rice or wood up and down hills. Knives adorned their sides, one girl carried a sickle for cutting rice, and for all intents and purposes it appeared as though the town was run entirely by children, and midget children at that.
Never fear, for the mystery was quick to be resolved for that night all of the adults appeared. And more importantly,
they appeared directly in front of our hotel's veranda. The Basha region is gearing up for tourism, ready to be the next Longji or Zhaoxing, but as yet the hordes of Chinese tourist buses have not started running. To be ready for the tourists the villagers need to put on a minority dance show, it's all but expected in China, and all of the adults had been practicing their moves for the whole day. Then, late in the afternoon they all gathered in the main square to polish their routines. Felix and I got to sit there and see the show that is next to hit the world, the precursor to a tourist boom, we got to see Basha before it was LPed. The dancers had come straight off their fields, this wasn't a dress rehearsal and no such rehearsal would be required: everyone was wearing traditional clothes, various colours and states of disrepair, differing ornaments coloured the women's hair and authentic was given a whole new level of meaning.
In the morning, after a sunrise worth noting and an Alsatian which faithfully followed us around for two hours and then guarded our hotel for another despite having no
relationship to us, the villagers gathered again in the square. Most of the women were carrying produce down to Congjiang (7km away) and the men appeared to be travelling somewhere. All of the men were dressed in their finest black clothes, their top-knot style hair arranged perfectly, and 200 year old rifles were slung over their soldiers. Furthermore, the men weren't afraid to show off their rifle skills by shooting across the valley. We travelled down the hill to Congjiang, surrounded the whole time by authentic and amazing people. In town we were practically famous, no one could believe how tall we were and I was all too aware of just how short the Miao people are.
So, don't go to Basha. By the time you get there it'll be different, much different, and I don't want you to ruin it. Go to the next village over instead.
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Chris
non-member comment
tl;dr
can you add an abstract next time