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Published: January 28th 2008
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Macaque Munching
One of the non-performing ones. Boarding the battered old ferry at
Beihai we were torn between relief and trepidation: happy to be leaving that frozen, barren town but distinctly hesitant about the impending 12-hour sea-bucket journey.
We had managed at the last minute to upgrade ourselves from the 30-to-a-room cattle-class about which we had heard so many colourful, zoological analogies and which, we now saw, offered little more than a bamboo mat and a selection of shrieking, smoking roommates.
Putting Steerage a good deck below us, we settled into our cosier 2-bunk cabin to contemplate our trip. Behind us: Beihai, chilly wasteland with a very Chinese approach to ferry ticket sales. Ahead: the tropical island of Hainan and almost two weeks of warmed-up relaxation. Outside: a rusty corridor reminiscent of the 'follow the rats' scene from
Titanic.
So doing nothing was our aim. We saw ourselves reading in the shade of palm trees - me preparing my SE Asian trip, Ailsa preparing herself for her return to Blighty, and both of us generally preparing ourselves for the future. Well, we succeeded.
Sanya had sun, sea, palms... Ailsa read
Ulysses cover to cover. But there were also resort-prices, an endless mob of crimson,
very Russian Russians (without exception pointy or fat) and absolutely nothing to do.
Escaping the aquiline, the ubiquitous skull-thumpingly loud Spice Girls tracks and the newly-wed Chinese couples in matching Hawaiian-print beach pyjamas, we headed for Monkey Island.
Monkey Island, 'the country's largest conservation centre for wild macaque monkeys,' purred the voice-over on the obligatory cable-car, 'please enjoy our local restaurant.'
The moment we stepped foot on the peninsula we realised the picnic was a bad idea. You know, they weren't stupid those island-namers; the place was
crawling with monkeys. It might be surprising in a conservation centre anywhere else in the world for tourists to be encouraged to feed the animals with special snacks or, say, for the fluoro-orange tour-guides to batter the poor primates the moment they approached an unsuspecting group member. Not China. Other entertainment on offer included a monkey theatre, monkey circus, monkey motor-racing, regular monkey flag-raising ceremonies (automatic to the sound of an approaching tour group), and a monkey swimming pool complete with miniature monkey deck-chairs. All this and much, much more thoroughly tasteless 'conservation' work all in the Chinese vein, each stop a lower level of monkey perdition than the last.
What more could you ask?
The trip was worthwhile if only for the cable-car view of a floating town in the dazzling blue of Nanwan Bay.
Our next escape, to
Tongzha (or Tongshi or Wuzhishan Town, depending on your bent) was more successful. Its quiet, tree-lined streets, echoing with the clatter of mahjong tablets being 'washed', or shuffled, made the ideal antidote to the tedious touristdom of Sanya, and the perfect place to sit by the river with a cold Anchor beer and a book.
Bizarrely, the river came alive at night, lined with neon in every colour and splooshed up in 30-foot fountains, while the town's youth gathered timidly on street corners or posed on highly-buffed motorbikes.
We spent two days wandering about, chatting to the odd local, and relishing not being chased down the pavements by taxis and jabbering pearl-sellers.
Tongzha and the monkeys seemed to be all the island had to offer (apart from hiking tours of the central mountains - tempting, but off the cards due to Ailsa's ever-bulging belly), so we settled in for a hugely uneventful few days of back in Sanya, land of pizza covered with
the marks of St Cyril.
One day we did eventually drag ourselves up the hill to Luhuitou (or 'Deer Looking Back') park, where we wrote on a red ribbon with a bell on the end for luck and tied it to a padlock to secure it. You see these banks of padlocks at most religious (read: tourist) sites in China. Newly-weds buy them, engrave their names on then lock them to a fence or a tree or some such to confirm their attachment. I don't know what they do with the keys, but whenever I see these I can't help picture a bitter divorcee puffing up the mountainside, bolt-cutters in hand, ready to set the sacred record straight.
We didn't buy a padlock.
That was it for Hainan. Now we're off in our different directions: Ailsa to Britland, tea and swollen ankles; me to South-east Asia on a bus. For which, stay tuned!
Ta-ta for now.
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