Take it with a grain of salt......
Nov 1st 2002, 8:43 am
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Take it with a grain of salt......
I wrote the following for an Internat sailing board I frequent. I thought y'all might it interesting. If you take it too seriously and are offended by the occasional cultural amusement...well, that's your problem.
As I write this I am sitting in a guest house in Shangri La. Not the mythical Shangri La I assure you but the real one (more on that later) located in the Yunnan Province of the People’s Republic of China. If you would like to find this place on a map, look for Tibet (not the country of Tibet, as there is no such thing, but rather the Autonomous (more on THAT later) Region of Tibet of the aforementioned People’s Republic of China). I’m about two hoots and a holler northeast of the border. Looking to get away for a weekend? This is about as far as you can go.
I am travelling with a Chinese friend from Beijing as well as a ragtag crew we’ve picked up along the way. We have an affable Canadian Chinese who’s doing the not-quite-hippie couple month trek as well as a driver who does not seem to speak a word of English yet undoubtedly understands every word I utter. Why else would he laugh uproariously at my jokes?
We left the delightful little town of Li Jiang early this morning. Li Jiang is famed for it “old worldliness� and the travel guides will tell you it hasn’t changed in at lest 400 years. I got to tell you, it’s that kind of talk that really gets to me. You see, I will be waiting for SBC Ameritech to put in DSL at my house for the next decade. What’s wrong with them? In Li Jiang, they’ve apparently had it for 400 years because all the Internet cafes advertise it. Maybe there is something to autocratic central planning after all.
Li Jiang is variously referred to as the “City of Eternal Spring� or the “Venice of China�. Two pieces of advice: 1) if you like your springtime wet and cold you’ll do fine here (think ‘monsoon’) 2) if you plan on boating through the ‘canals’ of this oriental Venice, bring a small boat – very small – about the size of a matchbook. At least the tourist shops in Li Jiang (and there’s little else there at all) are authentic. Every trinket I laid my hands on was ‘Made in China.’
Li Jiang really is a nice place but just not as nice as the guides claim. Gee, could you say that about any other place you’ve been? I liked it and if I were going to hide out from the law for a few years...well, never mind. To truly see the good parts of the city, one phrase is essential: “No habla Ingles.� That should pretty much explain your supposed ignorance when stepping over the ‘Do Not Cross’ barriers. Once into the restricted area (more on why that may not be a good idea later), you can see the true “old town� that has been standing virtually unchanged since the earthquake flattened it in 1987. At least they rebuilt it nicely. If the coppers come looking for me, I’m not there.
Anyway, that was yesterday. Today we hired a driver to take us to Shangri La. I was told the trip would be a pleasant and scenic 5 hour drive through the mountains. That sounded cool. How many other Westerners can say they’ve been to the real Shangri La. Saddle up.
The driver showed up in a rickety old mini van that was sort of a miniature knock off of the old Volkswagen hippie-mobiles. Except for the Mercedes Benz sedans driven by the local Red Army officers, it was one of the nicer vehicles in town.
We bumped and shimmied our way out of town. Pedestrians and livestock in the road gave the driver plenty of opportunity to test his brakes and convince me they were seriously unfit. He seemed happy with them. We traveled up the side of a respectable mountain at an average speed of about 40 miles per hour. Unfortunately, we seldom went 40. Rather, we alternated between multi G force accelerations and screeching halts. The only comforting thought was that I could not see piles of buses and cars at the bottom of the ravines. Of course that could have been because they were far too steep to see down. That’s probably closer to the truth than you think.
The monsoon degraded the scenery a bit with thick fogs interspersed with slick downpours. That was fine with me as it gave me time to work my fingers into a permanent grip on the seat in front of me and practice barely remembered prayers from my youth.
I thought we would be speaking English on the trip since all three passengers spoke English fluently. Unfortunately, two of the passengers and the driver also spoke fluent Chinese. Three to three. Linguistic tie. Native language wins. I was left to try and pick up useful phrases as best I could.
Perhaps a little background on the Chinese language is in order. Mandarin consists of single syllable words and word fragments that correspond to individual written characters. Taken singly, each of these characters has a distinct meaning. When combined into two character words, the meaning can change completely. At least that’s what my Chinese friends tell me but they obviously don’t understand the language as well as I do. I always insist on knowing the meaning of each individual character. I figure that there must be historical linguistic reasons behind the combinations. By understanding the root characters I may be able to glean some crucial insight. They tell me this is impossible but I’ll let you be the judge.
Let’s take my favorite example first. You may be familiar with the term feng shui. This refers to the orientation of objects within your home, as well as your home itself, in such a way as to promote inner peace, tranquility and alignment of those oh so crucial life forces and auras. (In my case feng shui reaches an optimum when a well locked tool case is buried deep out of reach.) The whole concept is based on making your home comfortable for a dragon. Seriously. You see, the dragon is a good creature in Chinese mythology rather than the fire breathing type Disney has turned him into. If you orient your house and arrange your furniture in such a way as to make the dragon’s movement comfortable then you achieve all that inner peace stuff. Makes sense, right? After all, who wants a dragon bumping into the projection TV? You can pay a feng shui expert thousands of dollars to check out your house and make suggestions for spiritual realignments. She’ll even give you the phone number of her brother who happens to be in the renovation business and can fix your aura for just slightly more than your total assets.
Personally, I always thought this was a bunch of hooey, especially when I saw the proliferation of feng shui books in American bookstores. However, I did believe there was a perfect use for feng shui and that involved sailing. Like many of you, I have always named my boats such that the names have multiple meanings. Feng shui seemed to fit perfectly. For the New Age type wandering down the dock, I would appear to have all my auras aligned. Sailing is all about peace and tranquility. Just me and the elemental forces of nature. Everything in balance. Harmony. Poetic, huh? Of course those of you who have read about my adventures know that’s all a load of bullshit. Thus, feng shui. Now, I thought this was absolutely perfect until I asked a Mandarin speaking friend about the meaning of the individual characters feng and shui. After sitting through the inevitable 20 minute lecture about how it makes no sense to separate the characters and no meaning can be derived from the individual characters, I finally got the answer. Feng = wind. Shui = water. I think any dragon would be content on a boat named “Wind and water� but then I may just be full of feng shui.
You may think my aura has wandered off but I assure you there is a point to all of this. You see, my auras were considerably out of whack yesterday as I was driven along the road from Li Jiang to Shangri La until I started meditating (not allowed to pray outright as this is a godless country) and achieved some inner feng shui resulting from my deep and unique understanding of the Chinese language. For example, the phrase “blind curve� translates rather well according to my friends but the individual characters translate to “opportunity to pass�. Likewise “mountain switchback� literally translates to “acceleration zone�. “Washed out road over yawning gap of 2,000 meters� becomes “parking spot� and “active rock slide� is simply “dodge ‘em game great fun you try too�.
While I was compiling my personal dictionary, we crossed the mountain pass and headed for the famed Yangtze River which stretches thousands of miles from Yunnan to Shanghai. We were headed for a scenic spot known as the “first bend� in the Yangtze. Got there. River went around a bend. Time for the next attraction.
Beyond the first bend we headed for a narrow spot in the river name Tiger Leaping Gorge. On the way there we went through a collection of villages that truly hadn’t changed much in the past 100 years except, of course, for the addition of quite a few large satellite TV dishes. The latest football (soccer) match is obviously more important than indoor plumbing.
As we drove along the road (and there was only one road and not much of one at that) traffic began to build until the lane and a half was hopelessly snarled with bikes, motorcycles, cows, pigs, chickens and heavily burdened pedestrians. Our driver told us it was the monthly market day in a village up ahead. People from all around the river valley would walk hours and, in some cases, days to bring their vegetables and livestock to market. There were occasionally small trucks carrying the villagers but most of them walked. The vehicular traffic was limited to the few tourists like us who were travelling along the river.
I noticed that most of the people carrying vegetables were old women. In some cases very old. The vegetables were carried in large woven baskets carried on the back. From the looks of it, these loads had to weigh considerably more than 100 pounds but the women showed no signs of strain and carried on animated conversations with each other as they walked along. Girls who must have been their grandchildren or even great grandchildren walked along with smaller but still sizable baskets filled with bok choy, cabbage or tobacco.
This scene reminded me of a conversation I had with a salesman at the North Face outfitting store in Chicago. I was shopping for a simple backpack for the occasional island hike. He spent a long time telling me why it was “necessary� to have a pack with so many straps and pads and do-hickeys that it weighed more than the intended load. Of course my considerably lighter wallet would ease the load.
“There’s no way you can possibly walk for more than an hour with any kind of load without proper (and expensive) technical support. You’ll do permanent damage to yourself.�
Load or not, I’m likely to damage myself simply walking across the street so I declined his $300 day pack. Many others in the store willingly handed over the cash. In fact, I thought I saw a few of them walking down that road along the Yangtze. They were all fitted out in the latest techno trekking gear from fancy boots to microfiber clothes to must-have glareless sunglasses. They looked miserable. This was probably because they had forgotten a crucial piece of equipment. They really needed a couple of those biker rear view mirrors on their glasses so they could see the 95 year old woman with a wide load of vegetables about to pass them on the hill.
We finally arrived at the market where we found a lot of fruits and vegetables but little else. The food was so cheap that I could have bought out any stall for a couple of dollars. I realized that one night in a Beijing hotel cost about the same as an entire year’s income for the typical family in rural China. This brought out the economist in me and I started observing the market activity much more closely. Farmers were selling their produce for cash but there was very little to spend the money on. There were absolutely no consumer goods as we think of them. These people were nearly self sufficient in the villages and there was very little they needed to spend money on. In any case, the only real cash crop was tobacco as any other produce needed to be within a day’s walk of its final destination for reasons of freshness. The idea that “cash income� could be used in any way to describe the wealth of these people was absurd. On the contrary, I think some of their “wealth� came from their seeming poverty. Since they had no cash and no good way to generate it, the government pretty much left them alone. Your home grown food and the skills necessary to build and maintain your own house defined success in this area. If you weren’t successful on those terms, you simply didn’t survive.
I never did find out where the satellite dishes came from. Local party bosses would be my guess.
As we pulled out of the market town, a strange sight greeted us. A very angry water buffalo was tied to a large bush on the edge of a cliff beside the river. Apparently he was incensed that he was tied up while many of his friends and family passed by him on the way to what was sure to be a fun (well, final) day at the market. He snorted and threw his head around and pawed at the ground. Then he started to charge away from the bush until the rope would snap tight and bring him to his knees. This would cause him to start racing around in circles before attempting to break free again. I thought all of this was a bit dangerous given his position two feet away from a 500 foot sheer drop but he was determined to get to the slaughterhouse before all the fun was over.
An hour later I saw a water buffalo carcass floating down the Yangtze. I did not see it appear again downstream of the only restaurant in the area. When we stopped there for lunch later they had a special on beef. I chose chicken.
We finally arrived at the fabled Leaping Tiger Gorge. As I had already seen the fabled First Bend of the Yangtze River, I was prepared for a major disappointment here. The gorge supposedly narrowed enough for a tiger to leap across. Given that the river was a half a mile wide, I really didn’t want to meet the tiger who successfully leaped it! We got out of the van and began to walk towards the river as the monsoon crept inside my high tech waterproof breathable guaranteed to keep you dry coat. I was soaked. The locals wearing low tech wool sweaters seemed quite comfortable.
To add to my discomfort, I then recalled that many tourist attractions in China have a major difference from the U.S. – you have to walk to them. The Chinese are great walkers so my companions thought nothing of walking 90 minutes in the rain to see a narrow spot in the river. I thought plenty of things about it. Nonetheless, I pushed on and tried to stay out of the way of the octogenarians who continually passed me. There were numerous rickshaws available for hire but I noticed that they were occupied almost exclusively by Westerners. Push on, you wimp, I told myself.
As I mentioned, the river was about a half mile wide but that didn’t stop it from being wild. The Yangtze drains a huge area that is mostly mountainous (including parts of the Himalayas). This being the rainy season and late summer, the river was chock full of runoff and snow melt. It was raging. I looked at it as we walked and thought how much fun it would be to raft down the river. Massive current, blind curves and spectacular scenery combined with a total absence of rocks to make it a thrilling but reasonable safe stretch of water. Five star hotels full of overspending tourists began to cloud my thoughts as the river became wilder and wilder. As the rapids rapidly climbed the white water scale I sensed that that my resort plans had better include substantial liability insurance.
I’ve rafted a bit in mountain rivers. For short periods I was in Class IV whitewater. I’ve seen Class V up close in kayaking competitions. This was Class VI I was walking along. Truly terrifying. Then I heard the roar.
Have you ever heard a tiger roar? How about 100 tigers? Throw in a few pride of lions for good measure. Pussycats compared to what I heard. How about the always mentioned sound of a freight train tearing through the living room as the tornado rips your house apart. Gentle breezes compare to what I heard. This roaring exceeded the worst any heavy metal band ever put out. It was truly deafening. And blood chilling. I was scared to look around the bend to see what must be happening to the water to cause such a commotion. When I finally inched around and took a peek I saw a simple sign in English:
“Tiger Leaping Gorge – You Almost There Now – 2 Kilometres�
Behind the sign was an awesome display of Ma Nature’s fury. Standing waves 5 meters high. Sucking whirlpools. Exploding spray. Rock polished so smooth you could see your reflection.
You “Almost� There
The sign had said.
Twenty indescribable minutes later we reached a section of the river that a healthy – and absolutely INSANE – tiger just might try and leap. The river narrowed from a half mile to about 30 yards.
Think about it.
A half mile width of Class VI rapids narrowing to 30 yards.
As I stood there, not watching the water, but, rather, being assaulted by the view, the noise, the terror, I knew I had to write about it. I stood there for ten minutes trying to think of some way to describe it. Words failed me then and they fail me now. You have to see it. You have to feel it. Once you do, you’ll feel perfectly comfortable standing under Niagara Falls for a refreshing shower.
If you see God in such a spectacle, he must be one nasty, vicious, demented dude. I was looking at liquid Hell.
I put my resort plans on hold.
After the Long March © back, we stopped at a rural Chinese restaurant along the river. Rather than giving us a menu, the hostess invited us to tour the kitchen and make our selections directly. You do not want to know the literal translation of “Chinese restaurant kitchen�.
Now hold on just a minute. I need to examine that last statement and its implied meaning. I once accidentally wandered into a kitchen in a Chicago Chinatown restaurant and the scars will be with me for life. It was quite literally the second most disgusting place I had ever been (more on the first later). A ten year accumulation of grease covered every surface and cockroaches the size of my fist had free run of the produce section. The 89 year old cook made some feeble attempts to chase the rats away but had to keep pausing to wipe the pus off his face. The literal translation of “health code compliance� in Chicago is “support your local politician�. All in all the place reminded me a lot of a McDonald’s I used to work at. No, seriously, the place was so bad that I have not returned to Chinatown since.
On the other hand, I did actually go into the kitchen of this roadside joint yesterday. Overall, I am convinced that one should never enter the kitchen of a restaurant before dining and this one was no different in that regard but it wasn’t any worse than most places. In some ways it was much better and that has been my experience throughout China. First of all, the food here is FRESH. If you think the food at your local supermarket is fresh, think again. It may look real pretty and sanitary but it’s not fresh. Those yellow bananas were picked green two weeks ago. The peaches are shiny and perfect looking but hard as a rock because they never ripened. For the most part, American sold produce has been picked early, chemically bathed and put out for long periods of time. Fresh it is not. We won’t even talk about the meat. Even the “organic� food is old and stale compared to what I eat here.
The vegetables I ate tonight were picked by hand this morning from a field that has not seen chemical fertilizers or pesticides – EVER. Someone carried the produce on their back to the local market where it was individually selected by the cook. When deciding which dish I wanted, I was told to look at all the food and pick what looked good. It all looked good. If it had looked old or dirty or rotted I would not have chosen it and neither would anyone else. That’s quality control.
Meat is even fresher. You want chicken? Point to which one looks plump and tasty.
In China, that last squawk is your guarantee of freshness.
Now don’t let it bother you when the clucker’s feet and head pop up whole in your soup. Just because we wrap a pig in a sausage casing and then put the Ball Park logo on the package doesn’t change reality. In fact, when you chow down on that hot dog, you don’t have much discretion whereas I can separate the toes from the wings at any joint in LiJiang.
Finally, when you pick up eggs or bread or just about anything at the local supermarket in Peoria, you may have gotten used to the idea of glancing at the “best when used by� date on the package. The Chinese character for “best when used by� is “today�. I can live with that. Of course I can also live with that supreme pizza I’m going to order the minute I get home. I’m adaptable.
There’s only one way to appropriately finish this little food story. All food ultimately ends up in the same place. We don’t like to talk about this but, hey, when your body is done with that chicken, it’s time to go. This brings us to the topic of Chinese public restrooms or WC’s as they are known after the oh so proper British expression “water closet�. I don’t know what you’ve ever heard about Chinese restrooms but I can assure you of one thing: they are fresh.
If I was mean spirited I’d leave it at that and let you explore on your own. However, I believe you should have full information even if it is more than you ever wanted to know. Yes, the WC’s are fresh but not in the send of “fresh and clean�. Oh no. Remember the pit toilets in national forest campgrounds? Remember them after a hot and busy Labor Day weekend? That would rate four stars in the public washroom category in China. Let me simply translate the characters on the outside of the loo: “best when used – NEVER�. Tighten that sphincter.
No travelogue would be complete without a description of the native population. In general, and that’s always a dangerous way to start, I have found the Chinese people as diverse as any other group I’ve known. In the major cities, politeness and friendliness seem about on par with folks in Chicago. In crowds, people can be quite pushy and rude. In one on one situations I have found them to be usually polite, friendly and respectful. Just like Chicago. In the countryside, people are certainly more curious when they see my shining white face and large, I mean muscular, physique. Kids tend to stare and point and then want to play just as they do at home. Once in awhile, I get that cold, antagonistic stare but that only happens when I am walking with a pretty woman. Sometimes it’s from the pretty woman but usually it’s from an envious man – just like in Chicago.
I’ll tell you who is standoffish in the hinterlands: Westerners. If I come across a European or American while wandering the back streets of some unpronounceable town, they almost always look away. I think this is because my presence intrudes upon their self centered view of the world. After all, they are on an adventure where no white man has gone before. Having me show up kind of ruins the fantasy.
Bugs. Insects. I’m not sure why this idea just struck me but my mind does not work in normal ways or so I’ve been told. I was struck yesterday by the apparent absence of insects. With all that fresh food lying about you might expect swarming flies. None. I’m not sure why but I think it has something to do with flies being attracted to the smell of rotting food. No rotting food, no flies. Maybe I’m full of feng shui but that’s my theory. Of course, in the better restaurants in the Guangdong province you can always order insects right off the menu. Here’s a culinary tip: locusts are crunchy. First hand knowledge.
After lunch, we crossed the Yangtze River to continue our quest to Shangri La. The only road through the area was unsafely hewn from the sheer side of a mountain that ended ubruptly in the river. While it had been entertaining, while eating lunch, to look across the river and watch cars trying to dodge boulders the thrill was considerably reduced when we became one of those cars. Massive boulders tumbled down the side of the mountain with disturbing irregularity as we skidded on the stone road surface. As I was now somewhat used to death defying traffic habits, I casually glanced at the river side of the road to see how many earlier travelers had made their peace with Buddha that morning. No cars, buses or motorcycles on the side of the ride. That would normally be a good sign but in this case it meant nothing as there was NO side of the road. The river gnawed rather actively at what should have been the shoulder but was now closer to the ribs of the road. Obviously, any vehicle clipped by a boulder would immediately disappear into the raging torrent and disappear from the scene. I guess there’s more than one way to keep the roads clear.
If you have spent any time with native Chinese, you have undoubtedly heard the phrase “we have five thousand years of glorious history.� Personally, I’ve always thought this was a load of feng shui given that the so-called continuous “Chinese� history really encompasses many ethnic groups fighting and gaining control for awhile only to lose it soon after to another invading horde. The concept of a unified nation of Chinese as we know them today is really a relatively new concept. It certainly doesn’t go back 5,000 years. Of course, if you’ve only had access to one history book, as has been the case for many of Chinese who were educated during the Cultural Revolution, you might just believe the 5,000 year myth. Heck, we still dutifully recite “with liberty and justice for all� without placing an asterisk after “all� to note that the alternative early American definition was limited to white, land owning men.
I must admit that my view of Chinese history changed dramatically as we herked and jerked our way along the road to Shangri La. Obviously, this road has been under construction for at least 5,000 years.
Don’t expect the construction to finish anytime soon.
Fortunately, many of the methods and tools used by the road workers benefit from years of careful testing. Approximately 5,000 years. After all, why should you use new fangled technologies like internal combustion when good old muscle power is plentiful. Picks, shovels and levers pretty much make up the tool kits of the average highway gang. Of course, there is a great deal of dynamite lying around as well. Good thing too as some of the mountains are pure marble. Of course, the dynamite occasionally goes off prematurely to add excitement to the job but that seldom happens more than a couple times a week. The Chinese may have invented gunpowder but they haven’t quite got around to learning how to handle it safely. To be fair, the road crews are relatively safe. Relative to miners.
Musings on the blessed lack of OSHA standards to muck up this long standing project made me wonder about the employee recruiting process. The benefits available to road workers appeared plentiful. They get to work outdoors in the monsoon so there is little need for the expense of showers (or plumbing of any type). A company exercise program is followed religiously by all employees. This involves repeatedly lifting large rocks and occasionally sprinting out of the way of landslides. Housing is provided free of charge. It consists of a frayed tarp held down by rocks – mud is the usual choice in floor covering. You get to hang with your buddies since 20 or more of your friends live under the small tarp with you. If you have a family, they live with you too. And with your friends.
While you might not be clamoring for an employment application yet, these workers obviously enjoy their work. At least I assume they do since they keep at it 12 hours a day, seven days a week. Of course they weren’t whistling while they worked but that is only because many Chinese have a problem with the mechanics of whistling. Otherwise, I’m sure the hills would have been filled with sound of music.
After observing these professionals for several hours, I noticed that the men did not look like the local farmers I had seen on the road. Whereas the farmers had unmistakably east asian features, the road workers appeared to be Han Chinese (the ethnic group Westerners typically think of when referring to Chinese). I asked the driver if the workers were from the local area or came from other regions for the healthy living and good weather.
After several translations, he turned, took his hands of the wheel (leaving his foot on the accelerator!) and raised his hands in the universal sign of “handcuffs.�
“Prisoners?’ I asked.
He nodded vigorously at the translation then hunched his shoulder and looked furtively around as if some authority might pop out form behind a boulder at any minute to arrest us. I thought it was pantomime. Turns out it was true fear.
“What types of crimes get you sent here?� I asked.
“Just about anything,� my guide translated. “Petty theft, assault, corruption. You name it.�
I resolved then and there to always behave myself in China and keep my hands in plain view when browsing goods at the market.
The Tibetan driver then turned around, looked me straight in the eye and, in perfect English, said, �Political crimes.�
I resolved to stop asking questions as well.
More to follow…………
As I write this I am sitting in a guest house in Shangri La. Not the mythical Shangri La I assure you but the real one (more on that later) located in the Yunnan Province of the People’s Republic of China. If you would like to find this place on a map, look for Tibet (not the country of Tibet, as there is no such thing, but rather the Autonomous (more on THAT later) Region of Tibet of the aforementioned People’s Republic of China). I’m about two hoots and a holler northeast of the border. Looking to get away for a weekend? This is about as far as you can go.
I am travelling with a Chinese friend from Beijing as well as a ragtag crew we’ve picked up along the way. We have an affable Canadian Chinese who’s doing the not-quite-hippie couple month trek as well as a driver who does not seem to speak a word of English yet undoubtedly understands every word I utter. Why else would he laugh uproariously at my jokes?
We left the delightful little town of Li Jiang early this morning. Li Jiang is famed for it “old worldliness� and the travel guides will tell you it hasn’t changed in at lest 400 years. I got to tell you, it’s that kind of talk that really gets to me. You see, I will be waiting for SBC Ameritech to put in DSL at my house for the next decade. What’s wrong with them? In Li Jiang, they’ve apparently had it for 400 years because all the Internet cafes advertise it. Maybe there is something to autocratic central planning after all.
Li Jiang is variously referred to as the “City of Eternal Spring� or the “Venice of China�. Two pieces of advice: 1) if you like your springtime wet and cold you’ll do fine here (think ‘monsoon’) 2) if you plan on boating through the ‘canals’ of this oriental Venice, bring a small boat – very small – about the size of a matchbook. At least the tourist shops in Li Jiang (and there’s little else there at all) are authentic. Every trinket I laid my hands on was ‘Made in China.’
Li Jiang really is a nice place but just not as nice as the guides claim. Gee, could you say that about any other place you’ve been? I liked it and if I were going to hide out from the law for a few years...well, never mind. To truly see the good parts of the city, one phrase is essential: “No habla Ingles.� That should pretty much explain your supposed ignorance when stepping over the ‘Do Not Cross’ barriers. Once into the restricted area (more on why that may not be a good idea later), you can see the true “old town� that has been standing virtually unchanged since the earthquake flattened it in 1987. At least they rebuilt it nicely. If the coppers come looking for me, I’m not there.
Anyway, that was yesterday. Today we hired a driver to take us to Shangri La. I was told the trip would be a pleasant and scenic 5 hour drive through the mountains. That sounded cool. How many other Westerners can say they’ve been to the real Shangri La. Saddle up.
The driver showed up in a rickety old mini van that was sort of a miniature knock off of the old Volkswagen hippie-mobiles. Except for the Mercedes Benz sedans driven by the local Red Army officers, it was one of the nicer vehicles in town.
We bumped and shimmied our way out of town. Pedestrians and livestock in the road gave the driver plenty of opportunity to test his brakes and convince me they were seriously unfit. He seemed happy with them. We traveled up the side of a respectable mountain at an average speed of about 40 miles per hour. Unfortunately, we seldom went 40. Rather, we alternated between multi G force accelerations and screeching halts. The only comforting thought was that I could not see piles of buses and cars at the bottom of the ravines. Of course that could have been because they were far too steep to see down. That’s probably closer to the truth than you think.
The monsoon degraded the scenery a bit with thick fogs interspersed with slick downpours. That was fine with me as it gave me time to work my fingers into a permanent grip on the seat in front of me and practice barely remembered prayers from my youth.
I thought we would be speaking English on the trip since all three passengers spoke English fluently. Unfortunately, two of the passengers and the driver also spoke fluent Chinese. Three to three. Linguistic tie. Native language wins. I was left to try and pick up useful phrases as best I could.
Perhaps a little background on the Chinese language is in order. Mandarin consists of single syllable words and word fragments that correspond to individual written characters. Taken singly, each of these characters has a distinct meaning. When combined into two character words, the meaning can change completely. At least that’s what my Chinese friends tell me but they obviously don’t understand the language as well as I do. I always insist on knowing the meaning of each individual character. I figure that there must be historical linguistic reasons behind the combinations. By understanding the root characters I may be able to glean some crucial insight. They tell me this is impossible but I’ll let you be the judge.
Let’s take my favorite example first. You may be familiar with the term feng shui. This refers to the orientation of objects within your home, as well as your home itself, in such a way as to promote inner peace, tranquility and alignment of those oh so crucial life forces and auras. (In my case feng shui reaches an optimum when a well locked tool case is buried deep out of reach.) The whole concept is based on making your home comfortable for a dragon. Seriously. You see, the dragon is a good creature in Chinese mythology rather than the fire breathing type Disney has turned him into. If you orient your house and arrange your furniture in such a way as to make the dragon’s movement comfortable then you achieve all that inner peace stuff. Makes sense, right? After all, who wants a dragon bumping into the projection TV? You can pay a feng shui expert thousands of dollars to check out your house and make suggestions for spiritual realignments. She’ll even give you the phone number of her brother who happens to be in the renovation business and can fix your aura for just slightly more than your total assets.
Personally, I always thought this was a bunch of hooey, especially when I saw the proliferation of feng shui books in American bookstores. However, I did believe there was a perfect use for feng shui and that involved sailing. Like many of you, I have always named my boats such that the names have multiple meanings. Feng shui seemed to fit perfectly. For the New Age type wandering down the dock, I would appear to have all my auras aligned. Sailing is all about peace and tranquility. Just me and the elemental forces of nature. Everything in balance. Harmony. Poetic, huh? Of course those of you who have read about my adventures know that’s all a load of bullshit. Thus, feng shui. Now, I thought this was absolutely perfect until I asked a Mandarin speaking friend about the meaning of the individual characters feng and shui. After sitting through the inevitable 20 minute lecture about how it makes no sense to separate the characters and no meaning can be derived from the individual characters, I finally got the answer. Feng = wind. Shui = water. I think any dragon would be content on a boat named “Wind and water� but then I may just be full of feng shui.
You may think my aura has wandered off but I assure you there is a point to all of this. You see, my auras were considerably out of whack yesterday as I was driven along the road from Li Jiang to Shangri La until I started meditating (not allowed to pray outright as this is a godless country) and achieved some inner feng shui resulting from my deep and unique understanding of the Chinese language. For example, the phrase “blind curve� translates rather well according to my friends but the individual characters translate to “opportunity to pass�. Likewise “mountain switchback� literally translates to “acceleration zone�. “Washed out road over yawning gap of 2,000 meters� becomes “parking spot� and “active rock slide� is simply “dodge ‘em game great fun you try too�.
While I was compiling my personal dictionary, we crossed the mountain pass and headed for the famed Yangtze River which stretches thousands of miles from Yunnan to Shanghai. We were headed for a scenic spot known as the “first bend� in the Yangtze. Got there. River went around a bend. Time for the next attraction.
Beyond the first bend we headed for a narrow spot in the river name Tiger Leaping Gorge. On the way there we went through a collection of villages that truly hadn’t changed much in the past 100 years except, of course, for the addition of quite a few large satellite TV dishes. The latest football (soccer) match is obviously more important than indoor plumbing.
As we drove along the road (and there was only one road and not much of one at that) traffic began to build until the lane and a half was hopelessly snarled with bikes, motorcycles, cows, pigs, chickens and heavily burdened pedestrians. Our driver told us it was the monthly market day in a village up ahead. People from all around the river valley would walk hours and, in some cases, days to bring their vegetables and livestock to market. There were occasionally small trucks carrying the villagers but most of them walked. The vehicular traffic was limited to the few tourists like us who were travelling along the river.
I noticed that most of the people carrying vegetables were old women. In some cases very old. The vegetables were carried in large woven baskets carried on the back. From the looks of it, these loads had to weigh considerably more than 100 pounds but the women showed no signs of strain and carried on animated conversations with each other as they walked along. Girls who must have been their grandchildren or even great grandchildren walked along with smaller but still sizable baskets filled with bok choy, cabbage or tobacco.
This scene reminded me of a conversation I had with a salesman at the North Face outfitting store in Chicago. I was shopping for a simple backpack for the occasional island hike. He spent a long time telling me why it was “necessary� to have a pack with so many straps and pads and do-hickeys that it weighed more than the intended load. Of course my considerably lighter wallet would ease the load.
“There’s no way you can possibly walk for more than an hour with any kind of load without proper (and expensive) technical support. You’ll do permanent damage to yourself.�
Load or not, I’m likely to damage myself simply walking across the street so I declined his $300 day pack. Many others in the store willingly handed over the cash. In fact, I thought I saw a few of them walking down that road along the Yangtze. They were all fitted out in the latest techno trekking gear from fancy boots to microfiber clothes to must-have glareless sunglasses. They looked miserable. This was probably because they had forgotten a crucial piece of equipment. They really needed a couple of those biker rear view mirrors on their glasses so they could see the 95 year old woman with a wide load of vegetables about to pass them on the hill.
We finally arrived at the market where we found a lot of fruits and vegetables but little else. The food was so cheap that I could have bought out any stall for a couple of dollars. I realized that one night in a Beijing hotel cost about the same as an entire year’s income for the typical family in rural China. This brought out the economist in me and I started observing the market activity much more closely. Farmers were selling their produce for cash but there was very little to spend the money on. There were absolutely no consumer goods as we think of them. These people were nearly self sufficient in the villages and there was very little they needed to spend money on. In any case, the only real cash crop was tobacco as any other produce needed to be within a day’s walk of its final destination for reasons of freshness. The idea that “cash income� could be used in any way to describe the wealth of these people was absurd. On the contrary, I think some of their “wealth� came from their seeming poverty. Since they had no cash and no good way to generate it, the government pretty much left them alone. Your home grown food and the skills necessary to build and maintain your own house defined success in this area. If you weren’t successful on those terms, you simply didn’t survive.
I never did find out where the satellite dishes came from. Local party bosses would be my guess.
As we pulled out of the market town, a strange sight greeted us. A very angry water buffalo was tied to a large bush on the edge of a cliff beside the river. Apparently he was incensed that he was tied up while many of his friends and family passed by him on the way to what was sure to be a fun (well, final) day at the market. He snorted and threw his head around and pawed at the ground. Then he started to charge away from the bush until the rope would snap tight and bring him to his knees. This would cause him to start racing around in circles before attempting to break free again. I thought all of this was a bit dangerous given his position two feet away from a 500 foot sheer drop but he was determined to get to the slaughterhouse before all the fun was over.
An hour later I saw a water buffalo carcass floating down the Yangtze. I did not see it appear again downstream of the only restaurant in the area. When we stopped there for lunch later they had a special on beef. I chose chicken.
We finally arrived at the fabled Leaping Tiger Gorge. As I had already seen the fabled First Bend of the Yangtze River, I was prepared for a major disappointment here. The gorge supposedly narrowed enough for a tiger to leap across. Given that the river was a half a mile wide, I really didn’t want to meet the tiger who successfully leaped it! We got out of the van and began to walk towards the river as the monsoon crept inside my high tech waterproof breathable guaranteed to keep you dry coat. I was soaked. The locals wearing low tech wool sweaters seemed quite comfortable.
To add to my discomfort, I then recalled that many tourist attractions in China have a major difference from the U.S. – you have to walk to them. The Chinese are great walkers so my companions thought nothing of walking 90 minutes in the rain to see a narrow spot in the river. I thought plenty of things about it. Nonetheless, I pushed on and tried to stay out of the way of the octogenarians who continually passed me. There were numerous rickshaws available for hire but I noticed that they were occupied almost exclusively by Westerners. Push on, you wimp, I told myself.
As I mentioned, the river was about a half mile wide but that didn’t stop it from being wild. The Yangtze drains a huge area that is mostly mountainous (including parts of the Himalayas). This being the rainy season and late summer, the river was chock full of runoff and snow melt. It was raging. I looked at it as we walked and thought how much fun it would be to raft down the river. Massive current, blind curves and spectacular scenery combined with a total absence of rocks to make it a thrilling but reasonable safe stretch of water. Five star hotels full of overspending tourists began to cloud my thoughts as the river became wilder and wilder. As the rapids rapidly climbed the white water scale I sensed that that my resort plans had better include substantial liability insurance.
I’ve rafted a bit in mountain rivers. For short periods I was in Class IV whitewater. I’ve seen Class V up close in kayaking competitions. This was Class VI I was walking along. Truly terrifying. Then I heard the roar.
Have you ever heard a tiger roar? How about 100 tigers? Throw in a few pride of lions for good measure. Pussycats compared to what I heard. How about the always mentioned sound of a freight train tearing through the living room as the tornado rips your house apart. Gentle breezes compare to what I heard. This roaring exceeded the worst any heavy metal band ever put out. It was truly deafening. And blood chilling. I was scared to look around the bend to see what must be happening to the water to cause such a commotion. When I finally inched around and took a peek I saw a simple sign in English:
“Tiger Leaping Gorge – You Almost There Now – 2 Kilometres�
Behind the sign was an awesome display of Ma Nature’s fury. Standing waves 5 meters high. Sucking whirlpools. Exploding spray. Rock polished so smooth you could see your reflection.
You “Almost� There
The sign had said.
Twenty indescribable minutes later we reached a section of the river that a healthy – and absolutely INSANE – tiger just might try and leap. The river narrowed from a half mile to about 30 yards.
Think about it.
A half mile width of Class VI rapids narrowing to 30 yards.
As I stood there, not watching the water, but, rather, being assaulted by the view, the noise, the terror, I knew I had to write about it. I stood there for ten minutes trying to think of some way to describe it. Words failed me then and they fail me now. You have to see it. You have to feel it. Once you do, you’ll feel perfectly comfortable standing under Niagara Falls for a refreshing shower.
If you see God in such a spectacle, he must be one nasty, vicious, demented dude. I was looking at liquid Hell.
I put my resort plans on hold.
After the Long March © back, we stopped at a rural Chinese restaurant along the river. Rather than giving us a menu, the hostess invited us to tour the kitchen and make our selections directly. You do not want to know the literal translation of “Chinese restaurant kitchen�.
Now hold on just a minute. I need to examine that last statement and its implied meaning. I once accidentally wandered into a kitchen in a Chicago Chinatown restaurant and the scars will be with me for life. It was quite literally the second most disgusting place I had ever been (more on the first later). A ten year accumulation of grease covered every surface and cockroaches the size of my fist had free run of the produce section. The 89 year old cook made some feeble attempts to chase the rats away but had to keep pausing to wipe the pus off his face. The literal translation of “health code compliance� in Chicago is “support your local politician�. All in all the place reminded me a lot of a McDonald’s I used to work at. No, seriously, the place was so bad that I have not returned to Chinatown since.
On the other hand, I did actually go into the kitchen of this roadside joint yesterday. Overall, I am convinced that one should never enter the kitchen of a restaurant before dining and this one was no different in that regard but it wasn’t any worse than most places. In some ways it was much better and that has been my experience throughout China. First of all, the food here is FRESH. If you think the food at your local supermarket is fresh, think again. It may look real pretty and sanitary but it’s not fresh. Those yellow bananas were picked green two weeks ago. The peaches are shiny and perfect looking but hard as a rock because they never ripened. For the most part, American sold produce has been picked early, chemically bathed and put out for long periods of time. Fresh it is not. We won’t even talk about the meat. Even the “organic� food is old and stale compared to what I eat here.
The vegetables I ate tonight were picked by hand this morning from a field that has not seen chemical fertilizers or pesticides – EVER. Someone carried the produce on their back to the local market where it was individually selected by the cook. When deciding which dish I wanted, I was told to look at all the food and pick what looked good. It all looked good. If it had looked old or dirty or rotted I would not have chosen it and neither would anyone else. That’s quality control.
Meat is even fresher. You want chicken? Point to which one looks plump and tasty.
In China, that last squawk is your guarantee of freshness.
Now don’t let it bother you when the clucker’s feet and head pop up whole in your soup. Just because we wrap a pig in a sausage casing and then put the Ball Park logo on the package doesn’t change reality. In fact, when you chow down on that hot dog, you don’t have much discretion whereas I can separate the toes from the wings at any joint in LiJiang.
Finally, when you pick up eggs or bread or just about anything at the local supermarket in Peoria, you may have gotten used to the idea of glancing at the “best when used by� date on the package. The Chinese character for “best when used by� is “today�. I can live with that. Of course I can also live with that supreme pizza I’m going to order the minute I get home. I’m adaptable.
There’s only one way to appropriately finish this little food story. All food ultimately ends up in the same place. We don’t like to talk about this but, hey, when your body is done with that chicken, it’s time to go. This brings us to the topic of Chinese public restrooms or WC’s as they are known after the oh so proper British expression “water closet�. I don’t know what you’ve ever heard about Chinese restrooms but I can assure you of one thing: they are fresh.
If I was mean spirited I’d leave it at that and let you explore on your own. However, I believe you should have full information even if it is more than you ever wanted to know. Yes, the WC’s are fresh but not in the send of “fresh and clean�. Oh no. Remember the pit toilets in national forest campgrounds? Remember them after a hot and busy Labor Day weekend? That would rate four stars in the public washroom category in China. Let me simply translate the characters on the outside of the loo: “best when used – NEVER�. Tighten that sphincter.
No travelogue would be complete without a description of the native population. In general, and that’s always a dangerous way to start, I have found the Chinese people as diverse as any other group I’ve known. In the major cities, politeness and friendliness seem about on par with folks in Chicago. In crowds, people can be quite pushy and rude. In one on one situations I have found them to be usually polite, friendly and respectful. Just like Chicago. In the countryside, people are certainly more curious when they see my shining white face and large, I mean muscular, physique. Kids tend to stare and point and then want to play just as they do at home. Once in awhile, I get that cold, antagonistic stare but that only happens when I am walking with a pretty woman. Sometimes it’s from the pretty woman but usually it’s from an envious man – just like in Chicago.
I’ll tell you who is standoffish in the hinterlands: Westerners. If I come across a European or American while wandering the back streets of some unpronounceable town, they almost always look away. I think this is because my presence intrudes upon their self centered view of the world. After all, they are on an adventure where no white man has gone before. Having me show up kind of ruins the fantasy.
Bugs. Insects. I’m not sure why this idea just struck me but my mind does not work in normal ways or so I’ve been told. I was struck yesterday by the apparent absence of insects. With all that fresh food lying about you might expect swarming flies. None. I’m not sure why but I think it has something to do with flies being attracted to the smell of rotting food. No rotting food, no flies. Maybe I’m full of feng shui but that’s my theory. Of course, in the better restaurants in the Guangdong province you can always order insects right off the menu. Here’s a culinary tip: locusts are crunchy. First hand knowledge.
After lunch, we crossed the Yangtze River to continue our quest to Shangri La. The only road through the area was unsafely hewn from the sheer side of a mountain that ended ubruptly in the river. While it had been entertaining, while eating lunch, to look across the river and watch cars trying to dodge boulders the thrill was considerably reduced when we became one of those cars. Massive boulders tumbled down the side of the mountain with disturbing irregularity as we skidded on the stone road surface. As I was now somewhat used to death defying traffic habits, I casually glanced at the river side of the road to see how many earlier travelers had made their peace with Buddha that morning. No cars, buses or motorcycles on the side of the ride. That would normally be a good sign but in this case it meant nothing as there was NO side of the road. The river gnawed rather actively at what should have been the shoulder but was now closer to the ribs of the road. Obviously, any vehicle clipped by a boulder would immediately disappear into the raging torrent and disappear from the scene. I guess there’s more than one way to keep the roads clear.
If you have spent any time with native Chinese, you have undoubtedly heard the phrase “we have five thousand years of glorious history.� Personally, I’ve always thought this was a load of feng shui given that the so-called continuous “Chinese� history really encompasses many ethnic groups fighting and gaining control for awhile only to lose it soon after to another invading horde. The concept of a unified nation of Chinese as we know them today is really a relatively new concept. It certainly doesn’t go back 5,000 years. Of course, if you’ve only had access to one history book, as has been the case for many of Chinese who were educated during the Cultural Revolution, you might just believe the 5,000 year myth. Heck, we still dutifully recite “with liberty and justice for all� without placing an asterisk after “all� to note that the alternative early American definition was limited to white, land owning men.
I must admit that my view of Chinese history changed dramatically as we herked and jerked our way along the road to Shangri La. Obviously, this road has been under construction for at least 5,000 years.
Don’t expect the construction to finish anytime soon.
Fortunately, many of the methods and tools used by the road workers benefit from years of careful testing. Approximately 5,000 years. After all, why should you use new fangled technologies like internal combustion when good old muscle power is plentiful. Picks, shovels and levers pretty much make up the tool kits of the average highway gang. Of course, there is a great deal of dynamite lying around as well. Good thing too as some of the mountains are pure marble. Of course, the dynamite occasionally goes off prematurely to add excitement to the job but that seldom happens more than a couple times a week. The Chinese may have invented gunpowder but they haven’t quite got around to learning how to handle it safely. To be fair, the road crews are relatively safe. Relative to miners.
Musings on the blessed lack of OSHA standards to muck up this long standing project made me wonder about the employee recruiting process. The benefits available to road workers appeared plentiful. They get to work outdoors in the monsoon so there is little need for the expense of showers (or plumbing of any type). A company exercise program is followed religiously by all employees. This involves repeatedly lifting large rocks and occasionally sprinting out of the way of landslides. Housing is provided free of charge. It consists of a frayed tarp held down by rocks – mud is the usual choice in floor covering. You get to hang with your buddies since 20 or more of your friends live under the small tarp with you. If you have a family, they live with you too. And with your friends.
While you might not be clamoring for an employment application yet, these workers obviously enjoy their work. At least I assume they do since they keep at it 12 hours a day, seven days a week. Of course they weren’t whistling while they worked but that is only because many Chinese have a problem with the mechanics of whistling. Otherwise, I’m sure the hills would have been filled with sound of music.
After observing these professionals for several hours, I noticed that the men did not look like the local farmers I had seen on the road. Whereas the farmers had unmistakably east asian features, the road workers appeared to be Han Chinese (the ethnic group Westerners typically think of when referring to Chinese). I asked the driver if the workers were from the local area or came from other regions for the healthy living and good weather.
After several translations, he turned, took his hands of the wheel (leaving his foot on the accelerator!) and raised his hands in the universal sign of “handcuffs.�
“Prisoners?’ I asked.
He nodded vigorously at the translation then hunched his shoulder and looked furtively around as if some authority might pop out form behind a boulder at any minute to arrest us. I thought it was pantomime. Turns out it was true fear.
“What types of crimes get you sent here?� I asked.
“Just about anything,� my guide translated. “Petty theft, assault, corruption. You name it.�
I resolved then and there to always behave myself in China and keep my hands in plain view when browsing goods at the market.
The Tibetan driver then turned around, looked me straight in the eye and, in perfect English, said, �Political crimes.�
I resolved to stop asking questions as well.
More to follow…………
Nov 1st 2002, 8:38 pm
#2
Joined: Apr 2002
Posts: 35,082
What a great way to start my day! tparrent, you are my kind of writer 
Nov 4th 2002, 4:58 pm
#3
BE Enthusiast
Joined: Apr 2001
Posts: 397
I too like your style of writing...whens the next installment?
Nov 4th 2002, 5:30 pm
#4
Petey's Playmate
Joined: Apr 2002
Location: Minnesota
Posts: 677
Sorry but that's just way to much for me to read. LOL
Nov 4th 2002, 9:28 pm
#5
Forum Regular
Thread Starter
Joined: Oct 2002
Posts: 123
Originally posted by K
I too like your style of writing...whens the next installment?
I too like your style of writing...whens the next installment?
http://www.trailersailor.com/forums/trailersailor/index.cgi?read=214628
Hope you enjoy it!
