Now in Yangshuo, the land of surreal, karst-like limestone peaks rising out of nowhere and everywhere. Our digs (River Retreat) are set in idyllic rural and poor China, outside of the town, overlooking the famous Li River (which the bamboo forests obscure). We are amidst mud brick homes, with pig manure in the air, chickens scurrying about, hummingbirds darting everywhere, rice terraces and water buffaloes and the soothing sounds of birds and crickets instead of the distant din of the town across the river. Altho this being China, firecrackers and or fireworks happen almost nightly and we actually set alight a fire balloon of our own and watched it drift towards the full the moon.
We've realized that we've been on sensory overload for so long th
at each day's countless adventures are in danger of being taken for granted, and that processing this all will take us sometime. There is no same old same old. One predictability however, is the exhaustion of long travels. Another is the poorly constructed, designed and run hotels.
This current one is highly rated, Chinese owned and built. The drop dead location and view are stunted by a poorly treated
but hard working staff, and the usual shoddy design and workmanship. Despite this, the owner, Shelly, is scrambling to cash in on another build in this tourism rich area, reinforcing the notion of China haphazardly racing ahead without regard to the past or present. What Shelly needs to do is travel to better understand other
standards, to think like a consumer, to better train her staff (we’ve given daily English lessons). She’s very lucky to have Kate, the 26 yr old manager.
Standing under 5ft and never far from a school girl smile, Kate’s English is phenomenal considering her peasant farming background. The middle daughter of 3, her dad was killed in a motorcycle accident 4yrs ago. Her eldest sister works in a garment
factory making 400yuan, about $68 Cdn a month. With this she supports her child and useless husband. Kate’s youngest sister is in university while their mom lives alone working the family rice farm and she works to support all of them. She is 58, but Kate says she looks much older. Though she looks 17, she feels old as thirty approaches. Her younger boyfriend is a good man. He doesn’t smoke or drink, is a virgin like her--waiting for marriage. He drives a lorry and is paid well, but it’s feast or famine for him, much like the history of China.
The thing about Kate and most locals we encounter, no matter how friendly, courteous and helpful they are, you’re never sure whether you’re being played. We’ve come to assume we’re being grossly overcharged, that everyone plays for a piece of the pie. It’s not malicious, it’s just how the economy and society is structured.
In Yangshuo you work to support tourism, or you farm. Neither has much upward mobility. Kate will tell you she’d love to leave for Hong Kong, Shanghai or Beijing. But she knows the reality means a poor starting salary in whatever she chooses to do, and exorbitant costs of living. The mice infested hovel she currently sleeps in at the hotel would be palatial compared to city living.
Twenty years ago the doors to the economic boom were just swinging open and this town is no longer recognizable, save for the surrounding peaks. It’s minority people country but they’re swallowed by the cheap tourist stalls and roadside cafes, the banana pancakes, real coffee and in your face touts. We went to one tourist theme park called, “Sha
ngri La” (funny but that’s on our itinerary in Yunnan Province, which one is the real Shangri La?). It turned out to be a bizarre hybrid of Flintstones meets Pioneer Village, where half naked “mysterious tribes” jumped out of bushes at you, or bored looking, costumed minority tradespeople wove ties, carved wood, sang and danced. Rather embarrassing if you ask me, though the backdrop of the rice farms and water buffalo made up for it.
Nowhere else is English so widely spoken. It’s a struggle to leave. It’s jaw dropping gorgeous and no wonder many backpackers are stuck here for weeks if not months. On our first bamboo raft cruise, we were reminded of scenes from Apocalypse Now, when the gunboat meanders along the river, on constant alert for whatever the menacing and seductive jungle might spew out. They come alongside an R and R pit stop with beer, supplies and dancers jiggling their titties and derriere to Suzy Q, much to the delight of the GIs. We didn’t find dancers, but we did find beer and smoked river fish on floating bamboo restaurants and a whole lot more serenity than the American GIs. Our oarsman had a wonderful smile and we liquored him up and fed him in order to lengthen our drifting. He in turn plied us with cheap smokes.
But it’s not just backpackers. Also in the inn are a couple of French
diplomats, Christian (retired), and Christine (sabbatical) (see pix). They’ve been posted throughout the world and are replete with charm and stories. They’re here for 2 months. He’s an epicurean, and she’s a serious Tai Chi student. We have had to suffer through and smell and watch their every gourmet, hand prepped French meal—New Zealand rack of lamb, Aussie beef tenderloin, extraordinary soups. They obliterate the stereotype of French arrogance and aloofness. They are warm, friendly, outgoing and generous. As diplomats in China, they’ve hired and worked with locals who are filtered through the Commies and assumed to be their spies. In the world of diplomats, this is par for the course. The friendliest of nations spy on one another.
Christian showed off a pen which he uses to take in clandestine videos, then confessed he bought it in Guangzhou for 10yuan (1EURO) and would like to take a box home to re-sell. One time he suddenly made a U turn into an unmarked building protected by an accordion steel gate and large wooden doors. A single flourescent tube barely lit a dark dingy room, leaving us to think it was a safe house of some sort, or that it was a perfect place to hide or store weapons, drugs, money, whatever spies and diplomats do. We stepped into another room with a single barred window and heavy door. Inside were boxes of jam, capers, corn flakes, microwave popcorn, olive oil and other western foodstuff. Another dark corridor led to the deep freezer where New Zealand butter, milk and other perishables were stored. Apparently in these parts, western foodstuffs are as heavily prized as opiates, and the greatest danger facing French diplomats is an acute shortage of cheese and butter.
They bought a Chinese-built SUV. It’s extraordinarily rare to see a foreigner drive, so heads turn. Together the four of us have barrelled through the countryside, floated down the lazy river, became totally awed inside the netherworld Silver Caves (see pix), and held our noses through the market (dog meat, eels, rabbits, etc). Dog meat I’m told is not widely eaten, tho it isn’t distinguishable from other meats. And the markets….organized bedlam with everything for sale….traditional meds, sparkling produce, rows upon rows of flesh, live animals, hardware, eateries. Trish is of course about the only white meat going around, but she’s not for sale. I almost killed her the other day when she went solo on the local sardine bus with our new laptop in a tote bag---silly monkey.
Last night, Christian cooked coq au vin for us, having just bought a live hen. Vive la France!
FAVORITE MEAL: Apple Crumble, Drifters Café, a sweet piece of heaven that would rival anything back home, but here in the land of tofu and bean paste desserts, is even more extraordinary.
And of course Christian’s coq au vin
BY THE NUMBERS: 500million, number of cellphone users and people without clean water
DELICIOUS IRONY: word for bacon sounds like pagan
VERY HONOURABLE MENTION: To our mate in Edinburgh ALETTE, aka Anti-Commie Blog Killer has posted ALL our China posts.
NEXT: Road trip to Longji rice terraces avec mes amis, Christian et Christine
