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March 23rd 2012

Published: March 23rd 2012

--Badminton Escapades--

I am sitting next to an Australian English teacher as he discusses the cultural plight suffered in the last half-century of China's history. Next to us is a young girl with bright eyes and dreadlocks; she is from Belarus and is studying to be a linguist at a local university. We three are among eight or nine others waiting and preparing for an annual home-cooked feast of salad, mashed potatoes and lasagna, made courtesy of Signore Fabrizio.
I don't know exactly how many Italian hippies are roosting in the slums of various Chinese cities, but I've found at least one of them. What a pity I would get sick later that evening and most of his delicious meal would end up half-way down the concrete pit that is a traditional Chinese toilet.

"After the Australian army, teaching kids was like therapy--especially the Kindergardeners. I love 'em," said our Australian friend. It's nice knowing I can actually relate to this.
"Where have you taught?" I asked.
"Nanjing, Beijing, Chengdu...but you know I wish I had come to Yunnan sooner. Culture in most of those other places was pretty much dead. But it's different here. You see it in refreshing fits and starts.
My friend had accumulated some pessimism after eight years of living and teaching in China--still, I couldn't help but agree. Yunnan province sits nestled in Southwestern China: below Tibet, above Laos and Vietnam and East of Burma. It dominates China when it comes to geographic and ethnic variety, being home to over half of China's 56 distinct ethnic groups. It was this fact more than anything that drew me from my pleasant Hong Kong post to Kunming City--Yunnan's capital--and eventually on to Dali--where our Italian dinner persisted into the wee hours of the morning.
A word about said dinner: if you are going to get sick on the road, try to avoid a hovel of hippies. They're nice enough, but any serious sickness will likely be given the cool and casual treatment of Ginseng tea, loud music, "a smoke" and, well, not much else!

•

I arrived in Kunming on a Friday in late February and the weekend festivities and perfect spring weather proved a lovely reception. I put myself in a hostel and roamed the bright and busy streets. As a tourist I found myself lucky on two accounts: the first, it was opening day for a new exhibit at Yunnan's provincial museum; I was treated to a slice of contemporary Realism from an up and coming Chinese artist. The second instance--and this to me was the finest attraction in Kunming--was Cuhui Lake (pronounced Tsu-hui). Traditional stone pathways stretch to the center of the lake; walk across, and it's like floating on the laurels of some forgone age. Other places I've visited in China completely mishandle the delicate interplay between architecture and nature; here I believe the designers understood it perfectly. On a Saturday like the one I visited it on, the crisscrossing highways harbor hungry tourists, happy couples, flocks of duck and swan, lazy pagodas and an assortment of foods for people to feed themselves--or, just as popular, the birds. It was a weekly or perhaps bi-monthly market day there at the lake and most of the featured beans, nuts, fruits, mushrooms and tofu I didn't know the English for, much less the Chinese names. I'm not even sure most of them had English names.
Walking out onto the pathway, the sights were like something you'd see on the cover of some travel guide. I arrived at the public arena proudly fixed in the middle of the lake, and once again enjoyed my luck. A Spring festival? A special gathering? An even that happens every weather-permitting weekend? I'm not sure, but the scene nonetheless treated me to a vast sprawl of costumed dancers and musicians--groups of them gathered into hotspots of liveliness and merriment. Yunnan's touted diversity showed its true colors, literally. Bai, Naxi, Dai, Yi--these were all minority cultures I had read about previously, but it was something else entirely to watch them display their heritage first-hand. What pride! What consummation! How could I add or detract from peoples who had been refining and cultivating their customs for centuries? It was humbling, to say the least, to be reminded of my place as a modest spectator. You can check out the pictures at ( http://www.flickr.com/photos/68469976@N07/page20/ ) but I'm afraid the dance, the traditional instruments, the fever pitch of expression: these remain shadowy abstractions until you see it for yourself.
Eager to move on to Dali (my chosen springboard for more hiking), I had only intended to stay in Kunming for one weekend. A visit to a local badminton club sufficiently changed my mind. 10 minutes from my hostel sat a charming gym with indoor vines blanketing an entire wall, 5 professional courts and a tea table for regular players. I walked in Sunday afternoon and found a coach playing with his pupil--they were the only people there. After the day's explorations, I found myself utterly unprepared for serious play, wearing street clothes, carrying a backup racket and no shuttlecocks.
As is usually the case with these kinds of cold visits, the fact that I am a foreigner who looks willing to embarrass himself earns me enough social capital to get a game. The coach finished his lesson, and agreed to play. How enriching that moment when two players, their collective years of experience, their utterly distinct careers of play, their national, cultural, linguistic, and social differences are bridged by the universal language of sport, by the simple swing of the racket. After only a few minutes, this coach and I were instant comrades.
Our rallying led to an actual match and our match led to a third set--he won the first game, myself the second. He ended up winning overall, but this preliminary exchange wasn't really about the finite victor. Displaying my experience despite my unconventional garb and background: this meant I had my foot in the door. The all-important invitation--a schedule of the " regulars' " playtime--was offered. From that point on the Kunming 1-3-5 badminton club threw its doors wide open to me.

•

A massive jug of clear liquid appears out of nowhere. Before dinner is served, it seems some formalities are due. I ask the lady sitting next to me what it is all about. She tells me.
Wow, I think to myself, that is a lot of alcohol.
"Would you like some rice wine?" The men around the table are keen on getting me into some friendly drinking. The womens' motherly instinct kicks in and they caution against it.
"Um, yi dian dian" I reply--only a little.
They pour me half a shot; I try it and it's strong. They ask me how it is and laugh at my reply.
"Ha, well we make it ourselves," says one.
Clearly, this was a pretty established club I had stumbled in on.

The 1-3-5 club played Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and after each session of three or four hour long play they would invite me to dinner, offer me drink and make sure I didn't pay for any of it. I asked them if they were the biggest club in Kunming and they said no, but they were probably the friendliest. I readily agreed.
All that week they arranged that I play every combination and permutation of singles and doubles games imaginable. They were continually astounded by my age, as it was clear my skill put me among the top three best players in the club. I practiced my Mandarin; they practiced their English; I drank tea at their tea table; they interviewed me about life and badminton in America. I had the express pleasure of learning that once you're in a group like this, you're in it--treated like family. And not for the first time on this trip I was visited by a strange ambiguity: am I welcomed as a fellow adult or specially looked after as youth? I detected hints of both; perhaps, even, I received the best of both.
I had a hard time leaving--they made sure of it. The idea of staying another week was consistently thrusted on me, and I had to insist--to myself as much as to them--that badminton was only a part of this trip. I promised to pay them one last visit on my way back to Hong Kong and America, and they were kind enough to give me the phone number for a club at my next destination of travel. Bidding them farewell in Kunming, I was soon greeted by a similar degree of hospitality and friendliness--not to mention fantastic play--in Dali.

--Dali to Lijiang--

The flu I came down with at Fabrizio's ended up claiming a week of my health in Dali, delaying my hiking venture even more. Fortunately, I was not alone. A word of advice to all of you prospective travelers: if you end up staying in a hostel, especially for any extended period of time, try to befriend the staff.
In my case, I was particularly lucky. I was cooking with my stove in the courtyard of Dali's Lily Pad hostel when girl named Eleanor approached me. She was 21 years old, and had a hard time believing I was only 18. Conversation about my travels and infamous stove was pleasant as she spoke decent English. It wasn't before long that she invited me to go hiking with her and some of the staff up the mountain that flanked our hostel and cradled Dali City in a massive valley. I was only too happy to agree.
A seven hour hike ensued the next day. While we never summited, I can now say this trip has seen me through both beaches of sand and forests of snow. From that point on a steady friendship developed with Eleanor. It was through her, in fact, that I met Fabrizio. We had biked down to one of the main attractions in Dali, Erhai Lake ('Erhai' literally means 'ear sea,' which makes sense considering its magnificent size and shape), and she simply needed to use the bathroom. Fabrizio's house was close by; we visited, and lo and behold!--an annual feast was being prepared.
I drew closer and closer to the culture of the hostel staff. I delighted in helping wash my own clothes (as opposed to just paying for laundry), as well as eating, washing dishes and playing games with the young Chinese students working there. And when I was sick, Eleanor, bless her heart, was both my close friend and a kind of nurse.

By the middle of March I had recovered most of my strength. The weather was fantastic; I had a sleeping bag, a tent, a stove, a stock of food, a Chinese road map, and an itinerary for hiking to Lijiang, the next major city north of Dali. I had played my fill of badminton, and the Lily Pad was kind enough to hold both my badminton shoes and two rackets until I returned some 3-4 weeks later. This was an expedition I had been preparing for and planning for some time: I had resolve.
I also had a companion.
Eleanor, who at first only wished to see me off, now aimed to join me for the projected two week hike. She was studying the philosophy of law in college and had the adventurist passion necessary for this kind of trip. She had taken a liking to me and it seemed as though she hadn't done anything quite this before in her life. I could hardly say no! A better friend I couldn't expect to find, and I'd heartily welcome the companionship of a native Mandarin speaker.
She threw a mess of things together. I gave her the tent and food to carry. We set off the morning of March 16 for the mountains north of Erhai lake.

•

If you haven't already done so, I'll recommend taking a look at Google Maps. You can look at all of Yunnan province first. You might notice Kunming, Dali, then Erhai lake. You might also notice the national highway running from Dali to Lijiang; indeed, if we had been interested in the normal tourist circuit, Eleanor and I would have ended up taking this road on a bus. The route we actually ended up traveling was in fact between the national freeway and Cheng Lake, which sits to the southeast of Lijiang. If you can find Jinsha river, you'll have an idea of exactly where we were walking.

We began climbing a mountain road above Shuanglangcun, one of the last towns touching the northern end of the lake. I immediately took a liking to the road itself: a cobbled, one car path, humble and never busy. Eleanor readily grasped my self-appointed rule for this kind of travel: that we would not pay for transportation of any kind, that we would accept rides from strangers if they were kind enough to offer them for free. Essentially, I taught her both the word and idea of hitchhiking.
Indeed, while we enjoyed walking the road, it wasn't before long that a small truck acknowledged our out-thrust thumbs and pulled over. We were introduced to two young men, both in their early twenties, with funky hairdo's and extra cab space. As we learned, they were both married with young children, and trafficked fresh garlic to and from local farms for a living. Riding with them, we very quickly summited the mountain and began the steady descent into a valley of villages and peasantry....
Cresting that mountain was seminal, in retrospect. From that point on, I probably belonged to a handful of foreigners who ever had set foot in such remote settings. Dali, despite its lovely surroundings and relatively small size, still sported a heavy amount of commercialism and empty attractions. A foreigner was not an uncommon sight. This valley, in contrast, was not attempting to be anything, not trying to align itself to the expectations of affluent guests; rather, it appeared occupied entirely with the everyday cycles and challenges of farmer life. In my eyes, that mountain symbolized the difference between tourism and travel, and marked the point at which one terminated and the other stirred to life.
At that moment, in the truck with the garlic drivers, neither Eleanor nor I had an exact idea of where we would spend the night: this was the status quo for most of the trip, and underscored the inherent danger and allure of our travel. Mentioning this to the drivers, they cautioned against finding a place out in the open, as there were vagrants and drunks who occasionally caused trouble. Strangely enough, when the drivers stopped briefly to inquire after a nearby farm, we were visited by one such outcast.
I won't make too much of a point about it, but a man approached our truck in a strange and derisive manner and simply didn't seem right. Both Eleanor and I noted his glassy, perturbing eyes and learned only afterward that he was a local beggar with mental issues. He went away without incident, but the warning left an ominous impression on us for some time afterward.

Eventually, the garlic drivers found a willing client, which meant we would continue on foot. We thanked them and hiked the cobbled road for another hour or two until stumbling on two women and a man loading fallen timber into a truck. It was late afternoon and we still had a few hours until the next town. We decided to stop, help them load wood in exchange for a free lift, and enjoyed another truck ride until reaching the town of Pingdecun.
The beauty and security of this small town attracted us--we would spend the night just outside a farmer's house on a small bed of hay. We asked the owner of the house of this was acceptable; she happily agreed, on the condition that we didn't light any kind of fire over the dry grass. Abiding by her request, we asked to cook dinner in their yard, and she, once more, happily agreed.

•

This was the residence we happened to stumble on: there were the two young twins, each five or six years old; the mother of the two twins, and her husband; a much younger couple living with the family to learn the farming trade; the grandmother and the grandfather; finally the 92 year old great grandmother.
We cooked eggs in their yard for dinner, but it wasn't long before the family invited us into their living room to share some snacks and tea. Eleanor was kind enough to translate the questions they had for myself, the American, and the questions I in turn had for them. The family had lived on this farm for more than 100 years. Later, the mother of the family mentioned to Eleanor in private that they were in fact struggling from a lack of labor, that harvesting the recent garlic crops was a serious challenge considering the family's circumstances. It wasn't long then, that Eleanor came to me with the idea of staying to help them harvest for one or two days. Once more, I could hardly disagree.
The next day, the family treated us to breakfast, lunch and dinner, and we suspected that the meals were a little more extravagant than usual considering the guests. Eleanor and I walked with the mother and young couple out to the sprawling fields. We worked all day pulling garlic plants and readying them to be sold at market. In this situation, the fact that I was a foreigner overruled the fact that Eleanor was a girl; they insisted that I not work too hard (noticably more so than to Eleanor), that I take frequent rests, that this kind of work was essentially unfit for a foreigner. My ego felt a pang of annoyance, but I could understand their expectations. By five o'clock in the afternoon, we loaded the days harvest into bags that the men would motorcycle down to the market. Predicted revenues for four people working all day (not to mention the huge amount of labor to plant and grow the garlic in the first place): 300 RMB, about 50 dollars. Together, Eleanor and I figured we "earned" about 5 USD each.
We had ask the two husbands to buy some fruit for us at the market, and that night we shared delicious pineapple with the family for dessert. By 9:00 Eleanor and I were exhausted, ready for bed and deeply touched to learn that both the women would go out that evening for a night shift on the fields--while we slept.
The following morning we had to continue hiking to keep with our projected schedule. We said goodbye to all those we could (the woman were still asleep) and left them a hefty and well-meaning tip for the fruit, 50 RMB.

What ensued was a day of hiking. We were treated to rides from at least three or four different people, and had a fantastic time trekking ground wherein each hour, each minute held something new for the senses. Great expanses of mountains, forests, deserts, crops, secluded villages and snaking ravines opened before us. Occasionally a more industrial town or construction site interrupted the general ambiance of the venture. But most of the time, the road bore small trucks, tractors, ox drawn carts, small motorcycles, goat herders; the people were local peasants who had lived and worked in this area for ages; the land existed in harmony with its inhabitants. This was China's countryside, and here more than perhaps anywhere in this trip, I had the sense of being an actual explorer.
Our third night we camped on harvested fields and awoke to a few men feeding their horses on the grasslands.

•

I asked Eleanor to be sure that this was a temple, and, affirming that it was, we unhesitatingly walked in. We had been hiking for less than an hour since packing up our things on the field. It was a small Buddhist temple and four women in traditional robes were going through morning prayers. Seeing that some travelers had arrived the abbess--we could call her Shi Xiong--took off her robes (thus signifying she was not a full monk) and came to greet us.
If on the first day of hiking that vagrant's eyes had hinted at a more deranged nature, this woman's eyes, if I may be allowed to say so, were alight with generosity and compassion. Her extreme enthusiasm at our arrival, her insistence to treat us to tea and breakfast and her immediate offer to have us stay the night--everything about her practically radiated loving kindness.
Our conversation with her that morning over breakfast was pure delight. She declared our unprecipitated visit a case of yuanfen (closest translation is destiny), and must have blessed with the name of Amituofo (a famous boditsattiva in Buddhism) a hundred times. She was very intelligent, though not educated, and spoke of societal ills meaningfully, without preaching. By the end of our discussion, Eleanor and I both felt as if we had found another grandmother.
Our feeling of homeliness and warmth was only exacerbated by the gifts she bestowed on us: necklaces, bracelets, tea, flowers and--to me this was the most meaningful--a Chinese name. Earlier in this trip I earned the name Teacher C; now, when people ask me of if I have a Zhongwen mingzi, I'll respond with the name 凯文, that is, Kai Wen. Eleanor immediately declared it perfect for me, as the words normally communicate ideas of culture, learnedness, and victory. Actually, Wen means "culture" and Kai sometimes means "return"; thus, its connotations reflect how I will return to America bringing the culture of China with me. This was all excitedly explained to me over breakfast. Telling others my name since that moment has unfailingly elicited thumbs-up and explanations of how it is a good name. I bless that kind old nun in the name of Buddha.
That day Eleanor and I relaxed at the temple, hand-washed our clothes and discussed the next day's potential travel. As it turned out, a whole throng of local Buddhists would be meeting at the temple the next day for a pilgrimage to a much larger monastery to the north. They would have no problem letting us accompany them on the bus for free. Considering this monastery was simply farther down the road we were already planning to travel, Eleanor and I were honored to go with them. We woke up at 5:30 in the morning, shared a special brew of tea with rice, and put ourselves on the mini-bus, bidding goodbye to Shi Xiong.

Opening day for a brand new shrine at a temple that had existed for over a thousand years: this was the occasion for the pilgrimage, and Eleanor and I only discovered it to be so upon arrival. There must have been one or two hundred monks, half monks and laymen Buddhists worshipping, celebrating and performing at this temple over the course of our visit. Upon learning who we were, they happily invited us to relax, enjoy the festivities and eat with them. Indeed, for two full days Eleanor and I ended up abstaining from meat (Buddhists are traditionally vegetarian) and dining upon delicious tofu, vegetables and, of course, rice.
We tried to leave that afternoon, feeling we had stayed an appropriate length of time and being anxious to get back on the road. But they practically forbade it, insisting that we stay the night, showing us the sleeping quarters and offering us bedding materials. We were just blown away. We received utterly unhesitating compassion simply by being there. Naturally, we were again happy to donate 50 RMB, which appears a trifling amount in the States, but meant such a great deal in this rural backcountry.
That night, Eleanor and I fell asleep to the sound of their group chanting, and awoke early in the morning, before sunrise, to it as well.

They let us leave that morning but not without offering us another bus ride north. We politely declined, though accepted their gifts of oranges, apples and water for the rode. We departed. That was the sixth day. Little did we know we would end up in Lijiang by sunset that evening.
At that time we were walking along the Jinsha river and continued to be exposed to a array of humbling sights and scenes. We took particular notice of the selection of crops that gradually shifted as we climbed the Tibetan Plateau. We witnessed everything from garlic to sugar cane, and even had the opportunity to interview a primitive processing center for the delectable plant. They gave us both raw sugar cane and some of their finished blocks of sugar, and Eleanor and I were as happy as children at the candy store.
We walked straight up the river for more than ten kilometers until we were picked up by the police. I kid you not. A small police unit had received a phone call that we foreigners were on our way to the biggest town since Dali, Zhongjiang, and came to pick us up. There was a latent air of seriousness that impelled them to take our names and information, but more than anything, each party was delighted to meet the other. They had the uncommon pleasure of getting to know some foreigners and we got a free ride to Zhongjiang. They dropped us off at a hotel, gave us some directions and we took pictures of each other before parting. Eleanor and I declared it yet another strange but welcomed instance of luck.
We replenished our supplies in Zhongjiang, but did not care to spend the night there. We still had some 80 kilometers before reaching Lijiang and continued hiking into the afternoon.

We made it to the outskirts of the town, but strangely, things appeared to be becoming more commercial and industrialized, not less so. In fact, we stumbled upon massive complex that was evidently one of Yunnan's major electricity plants. Beyond it, we had been told, was a sparsely populated area that continued almost all the way to Lijiang. Neither the plant nor this piece of information would deter us; we would forage on past the plant having prepared enough food and supplies for the 80 kilometer hike.
But our dealings with the police were not over. We approached the middle of the complex expecting a through road for non-government parties. We were mistaken. As we approached a guard station a car pulled up in front of us, followed by another, and we were told politely to wait patiently by the unloading police. They were actually very polite. Eventually, a man whom we could tell was more or less in charge of things introduced himself and began explaining how the continuation of our hike would be impossible. The area was dangerous, deserted and the only hint of civilization would be periodic construction sites. He took our names. He asked for my camera and proceeded--with my appreciated cooperation--to delete any of the pictures I had taken of the plant and the surrounding area. He, eager, to compensate for our terminated journey offered us a free ride to Heqing, a city West of our location, south of Lijiang, located on the major national highway. From there it would be half an hour bus to Lijiang.
We, with extraordinarily mixed feelings, agreed. We climbed into a car, and reflected in the following hour and a half ride how we felt as if we were in some kind of movie. This run-in with the police was suspicious, but fortunately, in no way detrimental to our travel. It seemed simply part of the adventure. In Heqing, we, with only a small modicum of regret, broke our rule, bought bus tickets, and arrived at a Lijiang hostel that evening.

•

Eleanor is looking over my shoulder as I write these very words, and we two are happy to declare: our travels are not over. Above Lijiang is Yunnan's fabled Shangrila, and this, we think, is our next destination. Two nights in a hostel are too much! and we miss our nifty little tent.

I miss all of you, and I wish the best. I hope you look forward to the next blog, as I'm quite sure it will be the last.

Chris Stasse
Lijiang, China

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