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We finally have the opportunity to visit the place listed in our guide book as a traveller’s mecca; Lìjiāng. Roger has to make a work trip to Yúnnán and I, having finished teaching for the semester, can join him.
Before Lìjiāng we visit Chǔxióng where Roger will meet with the local forest research centre. Consequently we are met at Kūnmíng airport by a driver and interpreter and driven 2 hours west to Chǔxióng and are immediately taken to a banquet. The flow of hospitality doesn’t cease for our entire stay. Every meal is provided, with many important guests, sightseeing opportunities are provided, our onward bus trip to Lìjiāng booked and paid for, and our hotel costs covered. The hospitality is exceedingly generous but is all rather overwhelming for an ‘independent’ Australian. I found the 24-hour time-management somewhat claustrophobic, and was equally culturally unsettled by the inability to select my own food. This, in a banquet, is normally not a problem as there are usually a couple of dishes that tempt, but after 4 meals where almost every dish is jumping with chilli I find my stomach, and my Australian soul, in rebellion. I do little for the image of Australians as gracious and appreciative guests. Fortunately Roger is able to provide the research team with a constructive report plus do some data collection for a Tasmanian colleague trying to identify the first species of eucalypt to enter Yúnnán. Through this analysis we realise we’re at 2900 metres, higher than Mt Kosciusko. However the full significance of this doesn’t emerge until later in the trip, when we are at an even greater altitude.
Lìjiāng is a prime tourist destination so we are grateful to be visiting out of the peak periods. However we are still apprehensive so book accommodation in one of the three Lìjiāng ancient villages that hardly gets mentioned in the guide books. We arrive at Dàyàn, the most well known village, which we later find is pristinely presented with immaculate restrooms (a major achievement as the worst toilets I’ve ever encountered have been on this trip) but a sterile atmosphere and a highly regulated and developed commercial infrastructure focused directly on the tourists’ hip pockets. Heading away from Dàyàn, down a broad street 8 lanes wide and ‘state of the art’ lighting snaking up to the horizon, surrounded by modern apartment developments, I start to worry. What backwater or fabricated tourist enclave have I booked us into? It is a long 15 minute drive to Shùhé. 
Over the next couple of days we discover Báishā, the most distant village, is still pretty undeveloped with just a couple of lanes packed with cafes and souvenir shops while the other streets retain a living traditional culture. Yet Shùhé, where we are staying, is halfway between the other two centres, in both distance and development. The village has evolved enough to provide services such as ATMs and a good coffee (locally grown) but still offers simple restaurants and bars frequented by locals, and a streetscape that doesn’t look like it has had the ‘history’ renovated out of it. In addition our guesthouse is extremely welcoming with friendly staff, and dogs, a very comfortable bed and clean surrounds. Shùhé was not a mistake and indeed proves to be a gem, at least for now.
The other attraction of the area is Jade Dragon Snow Mountain (Yùlóng Xuěshān) and is a prime example of the ability of Chinese to develop tourist sites that can handle the massively increasing numbers of domestic travellers. There is little concession to the independent and non-Chinese speaking visitor, and the ticket price reflected the scale of the development; 80 yuán tourist tax charged for just being in the Lìjiāng area, 200 Lìjiāng minibus hire to get out to the mountain, 80 yuán to get into the mountain reserve and another 80 yuán to access the section we wanted to see, giving a total, for the 2 of us, of 680 yuán (A$112.00), or about a week of my teaching time. However we are here and the mountain does look impressive, so we sign up to visit Yak Meadow, are loaded onto a bus and wind up the mountain with a tour group of largely Chinese Australian, who laughingly tell us we probably know more Pǔtōnghuà than them.
Alighting from the chair lift we head out across the meadow to the Tibetan looking temple just a couple of hundred meters away. The tour group, with just a 10 minute slot in their schedule, remain on the viewing platform before returning back down the mountain for lunch. It is a beautiful day with cool air, a clear blue sky, and grassland reaching out to the magnificent snow covered mountain. A perfect opportunity for a hike but I feel sick, very very sick! Was it the rice, or the fish? Yet Roger ate the same food and he is fine. So he sets out to explore the grassy rises while I sit in sight of the stunning mountain, trying to ignore the waves of nausea. They prove to be un-ignorable. Later internet research leads us to decide that our fairly speedy accent from sea level to 3500 metres, at Yak Meadow, has resulted in a case of altitude sickness!
On reflection, this trip has offered new, and not necessarily flattering, insights into my character and a very ‘memorable’ trip to a mountain meadow, just confirming that travel doesn’t always bring what you expect.
Our guesthouse; www.sleepyinn.com.cn
Taking advantage of the cooler weather, we head out to Tèchéng Island, a small and largely flat island just a 20 minute ferry ride from the centre of Zhànjiāng. We’d been there before, by accident. I thought I was buying ferry tickets to cross the estuary as we wanted to explore the other side of the river. The ferry staff obviously didn’t think that was where we really wanted to go and put us on the boat to the island; a known tourist destination. It all worked out remarkably well as we met some of Roger’s colleagues and their families on the ferry, and all ate together at a small waterside restaurant we’d have never found on our own.
This time we take our bicycles and we’re joined by a Chinese friend, Jim. After some technical difficulties; a slow puncture and the need to install extra padding on my bike seat, we arrive at the wharf to find we’ve just missed one ferry and the next is in 2 hours. But this is China – there is always an alternative! Jim tackles the negotiation with a boat man and, for what he considers an outrageous fee of 40 yuán (about $6.50), we and our bikes, are soon on an ageing but serviceable speed boat.
Arriving at the jetty at the other end we discover we have to pay a landing fee, which, oddly, is the same cost of catching the ferry! At 3 yuán each (about $0.50) it is a small cost, but somewhat perturbing. We pay our way off the dock and cycle out into the fields of Tèchéng Island. Despite it being Sunday the fields are busy with people completing the harvest. Some are burning off stubble, some are spreading out Chinese medicinal roots to dry, on the road, and some are turning the soil with buffalo-drawn ploughs. Here and there are clusters of houses forming villages, and occasionally there is a ‘mansion’ under construction. Jim tells us these are probably built by families no longer resident in their home town. He talks of his own Father’s desire to have a home in their birthplace, which, though they visited infrequently, allowed them to provide a place for his grandmother to live and, possibly more importantly, gave them good fortune. Jim talks animatedly about his parents’ horror when their home was demolished and how they linked a string of bad luck to this event.
I remember Jim’s story when we are on another trip, further a field this time. I had been eager to get to Kāipíng, about 4 hours northeast of Zhànjiāng heading to Guǎngzhōu, since we arrived in Zhànjiāng a year ago. We had seen pictures of some intriguing buildings called diāolóu, or watch tower, dating from the early 20th century. These defensive towers are a mix of Chinese and Western architectural styles and have been recently placed on the UNESCO World Heritage List. After several aborted plans to visit we final find 3 free days and have identified the bus time and departure point. Waiting at the bus station, luggage, maps and phrase books in hand, we are told our bus, the one bus a day to Kāipíng, has broken down! There is a solution; take the bus to Guǎngzhōu and get dropped at the toll gate at the Kāipíng motorway exit, some 20 km from the centre of town. A trip that should have taken 4 or 5 hours takes 8! However having finally made it we have a glorious, if cool, day for our trip to the surrounding villages in our rented mini van, with a driver of course. In no time we see some towers, they are littered all around the region, some 3000 I have read, but many are decaying, ‘modernised’, or built out by other properties so are next to impossible to view. Yet a few villages have taken advantages of the heritage listing and are making tourist attractions out of their homes. While this alters the untouched charm of the towers it does provide a much needed impetus to protect and maintain them.
Walking into one tower, maintained by the Chicago branch of the family, I find the floor plan is derivative of many traditional Chinese homes; a central lobby, that originally would have been the courtyard and family altar room, which is flanked by 2 living rooms. However behind the normal position of the altar is a stair that leads up to another 4 floors. The altar has been relocated to the top floor, where there is also a lovely terrace looking over the rice fields. While the layout is Chinese, the decorations, inside and out, are heavily influenced by Western architecture. In this example, and not typical of other towers, black, classically embellished, timber panels line the walls with etched glass inserts incongruously depicting Chinese scenes. More common are floors painted to look like Victorian encaustic tiles and wall frescos that seem to have come straight from Italy. Classical columns, domes, arches and balustrades adorn the top floors and terrace. I can imagine the expatriate Chinese builder returning to his home town from America, where he struggled to make his way in the new world. The elaborate and soaring buildings of the late 19th Century American city are still vivid in his mind as he plans a tower to display and protect his wealth, and, just as Jim’s family feels, to provide him with the good fortune of a presence in his home town.
A ruling has gone out, apparently, that only new decorations are allowed for National Day on, this, the 60th anniversary of the founding of the People’s Republic of China. So the streets are lined with pristine flags and brand new dragon lanterns (lóngdēng), while billboards, hot of the press and with the nationally regulated ’60 years’ graphic design, are posted. Everything must look its best so parks are supplemented with additional potted plants and trees, and sub-standard bamboo flag poles are replaced with military-straight stainless steel ones.
At the University my students enthusiastically anticipate one of the most important holidays of the year, made all the more exciting as Mid-Autumn Festival coincides with National Day adding an extra day’s break. However I’m thrown into confusion when I’m told by my students, on Wednesday, that I’ll be teaching them that Sunday! All across China workplaces swap workdays with the weekend to maximise the days available to return to their homes, often many hours or days away. The holiday of 4 days is turned into a break of 8; quite a good system with only the drawback of an 8 day workweek on our return, and the fact we’re only given the details a day or two before so can’t make any plans!
However we have the compensation of a grand banquet to attend. Every year Zhànjiāng’s local government hosts a National Day dinner to show appreciation for the services provided by foreigners. Embossed red invitations are sent out and I am firmly instructed, several times, to dress formally. Arriving at the best hotel in town we find the forecourt crammed with both cars and a full military brass band. Inside we are courteously ushered to our table, but find that, this year, table after table of eminent locals, and even a Rear Admiral, relegates us, the usual VIP guests, to 
the back of the ballroom. We don’t mind, though I get a little nervous as the brass band assembles at the rear of the room, right next to us. Expecting to be blown out of my seat I find the opening rendition of the Chinese National anthem remarkable pleasurable. The evening continues with speeches, a translation thoughtfully provided on large screens at the front of the hall, though, less thoughtfully, not clearly visible. The ubiquitous male and female MC marshals the rest of the evening’s entertainment, most intriguing of which are dancers with headdresses fashioned from the very long tail feathers of what must be some nearly extinct bird. We watch, with some amusement, the official party touring each table to toast the occasion; the enthusiasm of the group visibly waning as it progresses down the room. By the time we are toasting it is a quick gānbēi and then they are smartly on to the next and final table. Suddenly the bulk of the attendees have departed and our recalcitrant group of foreign teachers are doggedly digging into the platters and platters of leftover food and rounding up small glass jugs of rejected red wine. For us it was a great opportunity to meet a few of the 80 odd foreigners we are told work in Zhànjiāng
Having experienced a grand dinner just before National Day, we decide a suitable way to celebrate on the day is with morning tea (zǎochá), though we had not anticipated that most restaurants would be booked out days ahead. Determined to join in we head out early to try and secure a table, and hit the jackpot with a private room, and a television. By the time my university colleagues arrive we have the TV tunned to the National Day Parade in Beijing, tea on the table and the first of the dumplings ordered. After some rather pointless footage of the TV crews in Beijing and a military communications plane laboriously getting airborne (filling in air-time before live broadcasts is similar all over the world) the march, in all its contrived and sometimes scary magnificence, commences. The ultra-precise marching, the immaculate tank paintwork, the un-manned drones, and the short, medium and intercontinental nuclear-capable missiles start to unsettle me, but this is eased by floods of civilian marchers and festive floats (huāchē) commemorating past achievements and all the regions including each of the provinces, the special economic zones, the ‘outlier’ of Taiwan and even Overseas Chinese and, for the first time, ‘foreign friends’.
Later we join a Chinese family in their celebratory lunch; cooked by ‘Grandma’ and similar to the Spring Festival lunch we have had at the same house, it emerges from the kitchen in a seeming endless stream. After the eating and a fair amount of toasting, we gathered around the TV to drink tea and to continue to snack as we watched the march, again. A young friend of the family, just starting his crucial final year of school, declares how proud he is to be Chinese, how magnificent the Parade is and how great are China’s achievements; his enthusiasm endearing and his English excellent.
Finally we closed the day watching an impressive fireworks display down on the river estuary. Families complete with Grandparents and toddlers, teenagers, young couples and groups of lads all mingle on the boardwalk chatting, buying drinks, or lanterns, windmills and other cheap trinkets, and enjoying the warm evening. After the fireworks everyone turns back into the city; the pavements clogged with pedestrians, the streets thick with bikes, motorbikes and cars weaving in and out of each other, their horns all sounding at once. It is hard to imagine what these peoples’ lives will be like in 10 years time, let alone another 60 years.
Before Lìjiāng we visit Chǔxióng where Roger will meet with the local forest research centre. Consequently we are met at Kūnmíng airport by a driver and interpreter and driven 2 hours west to Chǔxióng and are immediately taken to a banquet. The flow of hospitality doesn’t cease for our entire stay. Every meal is provided, with many important guests, sightseeing opportunities are provided, our onward bus trip to Lìjiāng booked and paid for, and our hotel costs covered. The hospitality is exceedingly generous but is all rather overwhelming for an ‘independent’ Australian. I found the 24-hour time-management somewhat claustrophobic, and was equally culturally unsettled by the inability to select my own food. This, in a banquet, is normally not a problem as there are usually a couple of dishes that tempt, but after 4 meals where almost every dish is jumping with chilli I find my stomach, and my Australian soul, in rebellion. I do little for the image of Australians as gracious and appreciative guests. Fortunately Roger is able to provide the research team with a constructive report plus do some data collection for a Tasmanian colleague trying to identify the first species of eucalypt to enter Yúnnán. Through this analysis we realise we’re at 2900 metres, higher than Mt Kosciusko. However the full significance of this doesn’t emerge until later in the trip, when we are at an even greater altitude.
Lìjiāng is a prime tourist destination so we are grateful to be visiting out of the peak periods. However we are still apprehensive so book accommodation in one of the three Lìjiāng ancient villages that hardly gets mentioned in the guide books. We arrive at Dàyàn, the most well known village, which we later find is pristinely presented with immaculate restrooms (a major achievement as the worst toilets I’ve ever encountered have been on this trip) but a sterile atmosphere and a highly regulated and developed commercial infrastructure focused directly on the tourists’ hip pockets. Heading away from Dàyàn, down a broad street 8 lanes wide and ‘state of the art’ lighting snaking up to the horizon, surrounded by modern apartment developments, I start to worry. What backwater or fabricated tourist enclave have I booked us into? It is a long 15 minute drive to Shùhé. 
Over the next couple of days we discover Báishā, the most distant village, is still pretty undeveloped with just a couple of lanes packed with cafes and souvenir shops while the other streets retain a living traditional culture. Yet Shùhé, where we are staying, is halfway between the other two centres, in both distance and development. The village has evolved enough to provide services such as ATMs and a good coffee (locally grown) but still offers simple restaurants and bars frequented by locals, and a streetscape that doesn’t look like it has had the ‘history’ renovated out of it. In addition our guesthouse is extremely welcoming with friendly staff, and dogs, a very comfortable bed and clean surrounds. Shùhé was not a mistake and indeed proves to be a gem, at least for now. 
Alighting from the chair lift we head out across the meadow to the Tibetan looking temple just a couple of hundred meters away. The tour group, with just a 10 minute slot in their schedule, remain on the viewing platform before returning back down the mountain for lunch. It is a beautiful day with cool air, a clear blue sky, and grassland reaching out to the magnificent snow covered mountain. A perfect opportunity for a hike but I feel sick, very very sick! Was it the rice, or the fish? Yet Roger ate the same food and he is fine. So he sets out to explore the grassy rises while I sit in sight of the stunning mountain, trying to ignore the waves of nausea. They prove to be un-ignorable. Later internet research leads us to decide that our fairly speedy accent from sea level to 3500 metres, at Yak Meadow, has resulted in a case of altitude sickness! 
