back to previous page Yangshuo surprise: Guilin, China
Tanya Perdikou heads to a little heralded backwater in southern China where the subtleties of everyday life keep her curiosity afloat.
The horizon is dominated by hulking lumps of limestone, karsts the shape of camel humps, inverse turnips, shapely breasts; silhouetted against the sky thick with misty humidity. The road is dominated by Chinese drivers, horn happy, screeching past old men with tanned skin stretched over their sinewy calves as they cycle home on bicycles pulling carts piled high with sacks of rice. This is Guilin and, right now, it seems an apt coincidence that the name of this region of Southern China is hidden away in our language within the word ‘beguiling’. It is certainly that, and the natives would agree. Our Chinese guide tells us that they believe the landscape here to be the most beautiful that their country has to offer, which is no small statement considering the wealth of natural wonders in this country.
We are headed for Yangshuo. As we roll into the town, chickens flap away to avoid being flattened by the wheels of the bus, and the streets are full of life. The buildings are traditional, shuttered and hung with red lanterns. The roads are dusty and yellow and dotted with market stalls. We pass a man sitting sleepily in the shade on the pavement beside a mountain of bright red chillies.
Our Hotel is situated down a pedestrianised street, close to bars and restaurants serving both Chinese delicacies such as snake hotpot and European invaders like pizza and chips. Yangshuo is a tourist town, and not particularly off the beaten track, but, rather defiantly, this adds to its charm. The tourists here are mainly backpackers and wealthy Chinese families. There are few enough Western tourists for us to get stopped by the Chinese as we wander the streets; keen to learn about us and to practice their English. This triggers a familiar feeling of nagging shame about my own lack of effort on this front, my Mandarin skills being somewhat of a wasteland, stretching from thank you (xie xie) to hello (ngi hao) and not a lot further. Not that the people we speak to express any resentment on this matter, in contrast they are kind, friendly and generous with advice and invitations.
Yangshuo is only a small town, and the tourist district is made up of restaurants, shops and market stalls. When you are not physically capable of moving around any longer in 35 degree heat, either to shop or eat, the banks of the River Li are only a short stroll away, and offer a fantastic view. The town behind you, you gaze across the river at the water buffaloes immersing themselves to cool down, and behind them the splendour of those karsts, twisting towards the heavens, shrouded in mist.
None of this human activity manages to spoil the captivating stillness of the scene, and the banks of the river Li still call to me now, as I write.
On the following day we leave Yangshuo by bicycle, bound for ‘Moon Hill’. I do not find this bike ride particularly relaxing, in fact it is downright terrifying, as the road users in China tend to go in any random direction they please, by motorbike, truck, wagon, rickshaw or whatever else takes their fancy. But before I can say ‘Look out!’ I am sailing along a dirt track, fringed with rice paddies and again dominated by those fabulous karsts. It’s exhilarating; this is what I came to China for. The ride is bumpy but the scenery is too amazing to be distracted by some minor groin injuries. I am extremely ungainly on a bike, but at least I gave something back to the locals who, judging by their smiles and laughter, found my passage through their village with all the grace of a hippo on a unicycle highly entertaining.
The next part of our journey takes place along a river. We load our bikes onto bamboo rafts and sit in pairs on seats that are shaded by large parasols. As we get on board, a man tries to sell us a bicycle pump. This bemuses me at the time, but whilst we lazily float along we are overtaken by two Chinese men who teach us the use of the pump by spraying an abundant jet of water over us with it. Their laughter is deafening, and they proceed on their journey ambushing other hapless members of our group. Given the heat that day, I can at least say it was refreshing.
The river is part of a weird, juxtaposed world. As we pass by a small settlement of neat little brick houses a farmer in a wide brimmed hat squats by the river beside a water buffalo, presenting a rustic rural scene. But as we progress upstream we see a floating platform in the middle of the river. Upon it is a family crowded around a computer, which they have somehow managed to wire up to the mains. Finally, we reach our destination. Moon Hill is an unusual limestone karst that has formed with large round hole in its peak, hence the name. There is a path leading to the summit, and as we join it we are besieged by Chinese women. They are selling bottled water out of cool boxes strapped to their shoulders. Each one is trying to bag herself a tourist that she can make a deal with to buy her water, and hers only. Woe betides if you buy someone else’s: we see two women on the verge of a physical fight over a potential punter. Their desperation is evident and it is disheartening to see. Once our water is purchased, our vendor attaches herself to us, and insists on accompanying us on the half hour upward climb to the top of the hill. She assists us on any particularly steep parts and fans us constantly. By the time we reach the top we are parched and pay our vendor three times the price for water than we did at the bottom. We have to make her climb worth it somehow. The view from the top of the hill – which she undoubtedly regards with the cursory glance of familiarity – is value enough for us.
It has been an extraordinary, but tiring day. We cycle back to the town. The air has the damp closeness and tension of a pending thunderstorm and we pray we will reach the hotel before the rain reaches us. On cue, the heavens open the second we cross the threshold. We sit down to that evening to a traditional meal, known simply as ‘beer fish’ - a gigantic fish poached in beer. The flesh is tender and tasty - the flavour of the beer compliments it well.
In China, meals are eaten in large groups. Many small dishes are ordered and passed around the table. This works out brilliantly for us, as our guide orders a large selection of the tastiest dishes for us all to try. I devour both the simple greens cooked in soy and garlic and the scrambled egg and tomato. A word of warning to any vegetarians – don’t expect to be catered to in China. The concept of vegetarianism is unfathomable to our guide (he views it as a kind of psychiatric disorder), and many of the vegetable dishes come garnished with minced pork. For our last night in Guilin we take a twilight cruise on the Li river. Hire a small boat to ourselves we have plenty of time to appreciate the splendour of the karsts silhouetted against the evening sky. A local woman on board sells us battered yams and crabs she has freshly fished out of the river and cooked on board. We pass villagers taking a late river bath and children floating on tires who contemplate us with as much curiosity as we them. The boat moves slowly, the karsts loom, the sun sinks, and our stay in Guilin reaches its soft but satiating end.
DETAILS
The cost of the tour was £895. Included in the price was all accommodation and transport within the 26 days. Activities were not included.
Visit www.geckosadventures.co.uk for more information
Or www.statravel.com
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