Guilin
We arrive back at the Guilin railway station early in the evening. It is already quite dark. Patrick tries to get in touch with LJ, who in the absence of our host, Brad, will let us into his apartment. Brad teaches English at a local school and is on his way back from the US. LJ tells Patrick that Brad is already back. His apartment is on the campus of the Guangxi Normal University. This is where Patrick studied Chinese several years ago so he still has a sense of the place. Brad himself turns out to be a tallish man with a long flowing beard that reaches down to his chest. His hair is tied in a little ponytail. I wonder how long it has taken him to grow that beard.
We dump our stuff, loll around for a bit and then decide to head over to another friend’s place. Adam teaches English as well. I am informed that that is pretty much the only thing a foreigner can do in Guilin; it impossible to get a work visa for anything else. Adam greets us at the door. He has a long goatee and a tuft of rastafari hair that reaches well below his waist. He is wearing what looks like a Stetson and sets about introducing us around. The living room is huge. One wall is entirely taken up by three computers and a TV set with huge accompanying speakers. Two girls and one guy, all Chinese, are deeply involved playing some computer game. They give us a cursory wave. On the couch are a big Englishman and a Chinese girl. Frasier is playing on TV, and they seem rapt. Adam himself, it seems, has been tinkering on his laptop and with four little Nintendo Gameboys. At this point I am confident that this is a large communal house.
We crack open cold ones as Adam distributes the Gameboys. There are four of them and they can communicate via wireless. We select the random games option and begin competing. Before long we are all vying to outdo each other. Another friend soon arrives with his girlfriend. By now I have a better sense of this place. I realize my initial impression was entirely erroneous. Adam and Pianzi, his Chinese wife, live here. Everyone else is a guest for the evening (and perhaps every evening). The Brit also teaches English, as does the latest guest to arrive, who also has a long flowing beard. So far I have met three American men in Guilin, each with a rather long beard. Remarkable.
Patrick informs me such a scene is probably rather common at Adam’s place. He only teaches about 15 hours a week, and spends the rest of his time lazing about, playing computer games, entertaining people, and generally having a ‘good time.’ I get the sense, for a white man (or woman) it is not so hard to coast here in Guilin. Most of these guys have been here several years. Adam himself is probably the most settled and making a life out of it: married, maybe contemplating kids. And yet, all this seems entirely alien to me. Given the extremely driven and focused environment I have almost always been in, I find his lifestyle intriguing and utterly unfathomable.
I discover that the Brit, whose name I must admit I have since forgotten (I want to say Chris, though), played grade cricket in England. We discuss our own little cricketing stories. Provides an interesting side bar to an already interesting evening. As the evening progresses, we get some grub and Adam sets about his hukka. I notice other things that fascinate me. While most of us foreigners can speak decent Chinese, it is not clear how comfortable the Chinese are with English. So very soon, locals and foreigners are speaking almost exclusively amongst themselves. Also, it seems it is only the women who are involved in preparing dinner. There is a division of labor here and I wonder how it has emerged.
The following morning is even colder. The plan is to hike up some Karsts just outside the city. Brad’s bathroom is what appears to me to be a quintessential Chinese bathroom. There is a squat toilet, and the showerhead is literally on top of it. Outside, there is a constant drizzle that threatens to turn into something much worse. We realize that our hope of hiking might just remain that, a hope. LJ joins us and after a lazy but delicious lunch cooked by Brad’s aiyi (maid servant) we decide we should go bowl. Of course, after Karsts, the second thing Guilin is world renowned for are its excellent bowling lanes. It is just that we must have visited one of the more run down establishments. We play four games. Brad wins two, while Patrick and I split the other two.
We proceed to spend much of afternoon and evening walking around Guilin and occasionally stopping at bars. The city, much like Yangshuo, has been heavily touristified, especially the downtown district. Certain streets are pedestrian only. I am again reminded of Europe. As dusk approaches we decide to circumnavigate a large lake downtown. The lake itself is a recent creation, the result of linking the area’s five original lakes. The recently constructed Pagoda that towers over the lake seems to me more kitsch than cultural. Towards the rear there is a bridge section, which includes models of famous bridges from all over the world including the Golden Gate Bridge, and strangely, also the Arc de Triomphe! I am left with the nagging question: is this all Chinese? And if so, to what extent is it Chinese? The five lakes being converted to one is of course evidence of the power of the state to change the landscape.
We pick a Sichuanese restaurant for dinner. The food is nothing exceptional but we are at least no longer hungry. We hit up a German bar which we'd visited earlier and I enjoy some great German wheat beer. Other friends of Brad soon join us, and before long plans are afoot to head to a club! The club turns out to be not much of a club in the conventional sense. There is no dance floor (just as well for me), only tables, and some live karaoke by some rather talented singers. It soon transpires that one of our local friends knows the manager so we end up getting A LOT of free booze. And we are even graced by the presence for a few minutes of one of the karaoke stars.
Partying and drinking late into the night (or should I say morning), we finally stumble out of the club and decide that the time is right for some of Guilin's famed Mifen (rice noodles). So at 3am, our friend Lena leads us to a restaurant that is still open. Patrick and Brad start playing drinking games, and before they can finish their second game a woman from an adjoining table joins us. One game turns to two, two to three, and before long, she is batting her eyelids at Brad. She claims to be nongcun, but prostitute seems more likely. Her ‘pimp’ comes along and angrily asks us to leave. Patrick, completely sloshed by now, declares that we will leave on tomorrow’s train, so what’s the rush? It is left to Lena and I to try and move things along so we can leave the restaurant.
It was a fun evening, particularly because I got a flavor of life outside Beijing, though the entire day was rather unexpected. In all fairness if I had to choose, I'd still probably take the Karsts, but what can you do.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Guilin and Yangshuo (or There and Back Again?)-Part II
Moon Hill
Our room is still freezing cold. I check my cell phone. It lights up to indicate it is nine in the morning. I laze around in bed. Across the room, Patrick slowly comes to life. Neither of us is too keen to leave the comfort of our warm blankets and step on what we know is an absolutely frigid tiled floor. We lazily discuss plans for the day. Breakfast, rent bikes, cycle through the countryside, hike up some Karsts; basically wing it. Sounds good. With nothing but execution left, we drag ourselves out of our beds. We exercise the right to not shower, wash up, pack our bags and head downstairs to check out.
Leaving our bags at the reception, with my computer strapped neatly and firmly to my back, we walk onto the lane. We decide to hit up the restaurant from last night. I keep an eye out for our new friend but she is nowhere to be seen. Patrick orders an American breakfast. I order an English one. Differences include coffee versus tea, and I get baked beans on my toast. As we eat, I discover my Motorola V66 has finally given up on me. It powers on, but the screen stays blank. This is a bother, but I figure I will worry about it later.
The bikes we rent cost us 10 kuai each, though there is a 200 kuai deposit as well. Made by Giant, they are yellow, and look in decent shape. We go for a short spin, rotate through the gears to make sure they work, and test the brakes. Satisfied, we look at a map and hit the road. We pedal through the streets of Yangshuo and out into the countryside. By now the sun is out, and it is beginning to look like a great day, not that cold after all. Slowly Karsts begin to dominate the horizon, and soon the highway is threading its way through clusters of them. We pass many signs for hotels and caves. We are tempted, but we have decided to check out Moon hill, a large natural arch formation, and remain true to our destination. The countryside is very pretty, and the road is relatively flat. I am enjoying myself.
After riding for the better part of an hour, we arrive at Moon Hill. There are many old women by the entrance looking to sell water, beer, coke, whatever they can. They are surprised at our standard Chinese. We joke with them, bargain over two bottles of water, and purchase our entrance tickets.
We climb. The sky is blue; the air is fresh with the smell of nature, trees, the earth, and the only noise is the quiet rustling of leaves. After six months in Beijing, it is liberating. The reverie is occasionally shattered by blasts in the distance, probably detonations at mines in the vicinity. Industrial China is never very far away. We walk through canopies of green, pass an old woman making shoes out of reed, and arrive at a fork in the path. A moment’s indecision later we decide to explore the one that is evidently less trodden. It ends in a 6-foot high rocky outcrop that overlooks the highway below. We clamber up and admire the view. In the distance are Karsts, an open mine, a tiny village, fields, and also what appear to be military communications towers. The weather is pleasant and we are in no rush. I think about Sung dynasty literati coming here almost 1000 years ago and composing poetry over cups of tea. Ah, the lovely languid lives of the literati.
We return to the main trail. The climb soon gets steep and I huff and puff along. The base of the arch has a large relatively flat area. The views again are great, especially the one through the arch itself. The rock on the underside of the arch has stalactite like features, and is also riddled with holes. Rather distinctive. The lady selling drinks here informs us that there is path leading all the way to the top of the arch. We head off. This climb is a little trickier since it is a real trail, unlike the earlier part of the climb where steps had been cut in the rock or actually been built. As a result it is a lot more fun.
We reach the peak of Moon Hill. A tiny area but it affords absolutely breathtaking views. We loll around, find nice crags to sit on, and just take in the views. There are dozens of Karsts visible in the distance. Most have only been scaled in the past few years. We find a few bolts and screws in the rock near us; Moon Hill has been scaled too. During our time on the peak a British couple and a Chinese woman join us. But evidently they are not as moved by the view as we are, and depart shortly. We stay up there for a while.
On our way back down we decide to check out one of the caves en route. We leave the old women selling knick-knacks at the entrance behind and head towards town. Almost immediately we are confronted by the entrance to a model socialist village. Intrigued we peddle through, but besides some nice views of Moon Hill, we are not sure what is so model or socialist about the village. Particularly since it seems to be full of hotels. The cave we are interested in turns out to be an exhibition on butterflies, or so it seems from what we can tell. The entrance is 45 kuai. It serves as a sufficient deterrent.
We cycle back into town and get some grub. Patrick, staying on his Mexican theme, orders burritos. I get some spaghetti, which turns out to be surprisingly good. After our meal we return our bikes, pick up our bags from the hotel, and head to the bus station. After haggling with the conductor, which includes enquiring if the ticket price is the same for foreigners and for local Chinese, we get on board. The Mummy has just begun on the onboard TV. It keeps me reasonably interested as our bus makes its way back towards Guilin.
Our room is still freezing cold. I check my cell phone. It lights up to indicate it is nine in the morning. I laze around in bed. Across the room, Patrick slowly comes to life. Neither of us is too keen to leave the comfort of our warm blankets and step on what we know is an absolutely frigid tiled floor. We lazily discuss plans for the day. Breakfast, rent bikes, cycle through the countryside, hike up some Karsts; basically wing it. Sounds good. With nothing but execution left, we drag ourselves out of our beds. We exercise the right to not shower, wash up, pack our bags and head downstairs to check out.
Leaving our bags at the reception, with my computer strapped neatly and firmly to my back, we walk onto the lane. We decide to hit up the restaurant from last night. I keep an eye out for our new friend but she is nowhere to be seen. Patrick orders an American breakfast. I order an English one. Differences include coffee versus tea, and I get baked beans on my toast. As we eat, I discover my Motorola V66 has finally given up on me. It powers on, but the screen stays blank. This is a bother, but I figure I will worry about it later.
The bikes we rent cost us 10 kuai each, though there is a 200 kuai deposit as well. Made by Giant, they are yellow, and look in decent shape. We go for a short spin, rotate through the gears to make sure they work, and test the brakes. Satisfied, we look at a map and hit the road. We pedal through the streets of Yangshuo and out into the countryside. By now the sun is out, and it is beginning to look like a great day, not that cold after all. Slowly Karsts begin to dominate the horizon, and soon the highway is threading its way through clusters of them. We pass many signs for hotels and caves. We are tempted, but we have decided to check out Moon hill, a large natural arch formation, and remain true to our destination. The countryside is very pretty, and the road is relatively flat. I am enjoying myself.
After riding for the better part of an hour, we arrive at Moon Hill. There are many old women by the entrance looking to sell water, beer, coke, whatever they can. They are surprised at our standard Chinese. We joke with them, bargain over two bottles of water, and purchase our entrance tickets.
We climb. The sky is blue; the air is fresh with the smell of nature, trees, the earth, and the only noise is the quiet rustling of leaves. After six months in Beijing, it is liberating. The reverie is occasionally shattered by blasts in the distance, probably detonations at mines in the vicinity. Industrial China is never very far away. We walk through canopies of green, pass an old woman making shoes out of reed, and arrive at a fork in the path. A moment’s indecision later we decide to explore the one that is evidently less trodden. It ends in a 6-foot high rocky outcrop that overlooks the highway below. We clamber up and admire the view. In the distance are Karsts, an open mine, a tiny village, fields, and also what appear to be military communications towers. The weather is pleasant and we are in no rush. I think about Sung dynasty literati coming here almost 1000 years ago and composing poetry over cups of tea. Ah, the lovely languid lives of the literati.
We return to the main trail. The climb soon gets steep and I huff and puff along. The base of the arch has a large relatively flat area. The views again are great, especially the one through the arch itself. The rock on the underside of the arch has stalactite like features, and is also riddled with holes. Rather distinctive. The lady selling drinks here informs us that there is path leading all the way to the top of the arch. We head off. This climb is a little trickier since it is a real trail, unlike the earlier part of the climb where steps had been cut in the rock or actually been built. As a result it is a lot more fun.
We reach the peak of Moon Hill. A tiny area but it affords absolutely breathtaking views. We loll around, find nice crags to sit on, and just take in the views. There are dozens of Karsts visible in the distance. Most have only been scaled in the past few years. We find a few bolts and screws in the rock near us; Moon Hill has been scaled too. During our time on the peak a British couple and a Chinese woman join us. But evidently they are not as moved by the view as we are, and depart shortly. We stay up there for a while.
On our way back down we decide to check out one of the caves en route. We leave the old women selling knick-knacks at the entrance behind and head towards town. Almost immediately we are confronted by the entrance to a model socialist village. Intrigued we peddle through, but besides some nice views of Moon Hill, we are not sure what is so model or socialist about the village. Particularly since it seems to be full of hotels. The cave we are interested in turns out to be an exhibition on butterflies, or so it seems from what we can tell. The entrance is 45 kuai. It serves as a sufficient deterrent.
We cycle back into town and get some grub. Patrick, staying on his Mexican theme, orders burritos. I get some spaghetti, which turns out to be surprisingly good. After our meal we return our bikes, pick up our bags from the hotel, and head to the bus station. After haggling with the conductor, which includes enquiring if the ticket price is the same for foreigners and for local Chinese, we get on board. The Mummy has just begun on the onboard TV. It keeps me reasonably interested as our bus makes its way back towards Guilin.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Guilin and Yangshuo (or There and Back Again?)-Part I
Getting to Yangshuo
Last Friday we ended our second 8-week module. And that means one week off. Having considered it as one of many options, options that included hitting up Thailand or Hainan, I finally decide to join Patrick on a little trip to Guilin and Yangshuo in southern China. Patrick spent 6 months in Guilin several years ago, so it’s a bit of a nostalgic trip for him.
After celebrating somewhat late into the night on Friday, we buy soft sleeper tickets (mostly because hard sleepers were sold out) and hop on the 4:16 T5 train.
The soft sleeper is the highest of China’s four-class railway system. There are four berths to a cabin, and the cabin has a sliding door and affords a fair amount of privacy. Unfortunately, buying tickets 3 hours before departure means Patrick and I are in different, though thankfully adjoining, cabins. The interior is quite plush. Each cabin has a large square window so the view is excellent, even if you are not sitting by the window. My companions are a youngish man, and two older men in their sixties. None are Beijingren. Conversation is not at a premium but we are also not the most garrulous of quartets. Over the course of the 22 hours we manage to discuss the price of tickets, Beijing traffic, how other parts of China don’t have as much construction, development in general, India’s IT industry, China and India (particularly their development and population), Guilin as a tourist destination, the weather, and so on. More often than not I am reminded how limited my vocabulary still is.
Over in the next cabin Patrick has a few PLA officers sitting with him. They smoke like chimneys, and he spends a lot of his time out in the hallway, on one of the pull down chairs, reading “Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance.”
I sleep a lot. Must be really tired from the semester, finishing grad school apps, and all that has been preying on my mind, whether I like to admit it or not. I also put in an hour on my translation for Caijing. Manage to translate the first paragraph or so. It is slow going.
Lying on my upper bunk I wade into Pamuk’s Snow. I have been laboring over it. Partly because it is rather dense at times, but also because I haven’t had the time to really sit down with it. Less than halfway through things really come to a head, and I am drawn in. I find many of the themes that Pamuk juggles also embodied in much of modern Indian literature. Struggles with modernity, the east versus the west, secularism versus religious fundamentalism, inequitable development, the chasm that separates the frontier from the heart of a country, and so on. I wonder what themes predominate in modern Chinese fiction. I am curious, is there as much of a contested understanding or approach to the west, and to notions of secularism and modernity?
We arrive in Guilin mid-afternoon. Outside the station are a slew of buses. Shouts of “Yangshuo, Yangshuo” ring the air. We are herded into a half full minibus. I refuse to put my rucksack in the hold: it has my computer and I am not letting it out of sight. We stop everywhere, as the driver and conductor search out potential passengers, attempting to fill every vacant seat. I eye my big rucksack swaying in the seat next to me. Soon enough it is the last ‘vacant’ seat. But not for long. We pick up one final passenger, and I have to nestle my rucksack on my lap. Having my computer along is an increasing source of tension. We will be trekking around Yangshou and I am not too happy about leaving it at the hotel.
As Yanghou approaches, Karsts start to dominate the landscape. They are interesting structures. Little pillars or out-thrusts of rock, rather un-mountain like. I later find out, from that most unimpeachable of sources that is Wikipedia, that “Karst topography is a three-dimensional landscape shaped by the dissolution of a soluble layer or layers of bedrock, usually carbonate rock such as limestone or dolomite.” Enlightening. Further down I find a slightly easier passage to relate to: “Mature Karst landscapes, where more bedrock has been removed than remains, may result in karst towers or haystack/eggbox landscapes. Beneath the surface, complex underground drainage systems (such as karst aquifers) and extensive caves and cavern systems may form.” This rather aptly describes the terrain we are in. I marvel at the landscape outside my window. My real chance to appreciate them will come tomorrow though.
We arrive in Yangshuo around seven in the evening and walk around. Yangshuo takes me by surprise. I was expecting a little provincial hill-station. It is all that, but also heavily commercialized. The bus-stop exit channels us into a long alley with shops and hotels on either side. Patrick has no recollection of these structures so they must be fairly new. We are harassed as we walk along, but most locals are surprised and impressed at our relatively standard Beijing Putonghua. The accent here is at times hard to decipher. We earn respect wherever we go, though somewhat undeservedly I feel.
After asking at a local tourist agency, we finally locate the Karst Hotel. A double costs us the princely sum of 25 kuai each. It is good to travel during off-season! The room is decent, has attached bath, with running hot water. Sold! We dump our stuff, take quick showers, and step out in search of food. The little alleys, impressively clean, full of restaurants and cafes, advertising mostly European and American fare, render a distinctly European small town feel to this Chinese city. Oddly the Chinese fare on the menu is more expensive than staple ‘western’ items like fish and chips, spaghetti, and even steak and chips. Patrick digs into some fajitas as I order the fish and chips. While Yangshuo doesn’t reflect Guangxi’s poverty, the five tiny pieces that claim to be fish can easily lay claim to an impoverished background. Washing this rather unsatisfactorily meal (Patrick isn’t too impressed with his fajitas either) down with the local Liqun beer, we continue our stroll.
Over dinner I have decided to buy a backpack so that I can lug my laptop around with me the next day. Not the ideal solution, but far better than leaving it at the reception tomorrow. I need the peace of mind. I find something suitable, and haggle the price down from 120 to 55 kuai. I could probably have got it for 30, but I am yet to master this art.
We find a café next to the Karst, which has free internet. We settle in for some beer and French fries. The waitresses are friendly; speak better English than their counterparts in Beijing. One of them, a pretty girl, after establishing I am Indian tells me I look like ‘that Indian’ guy from ‘that American movie.’ A couple of minutes and we are finally able to deduce the movie is Van Wilder and I am being likened to Kal Penn. I am not sure I like this. I get the sense this is lone brown man in yellow land syndrome. A variation on the “all you XXX look alike!” (Replace XXX by whatever skin color catches your fancy.) We hang out at the café late into the night, and as we leave are encouraged to return for breakfast by the same girl who made the Kal Penn comparison. She really is quite cute. I say maybe we will.
After leaving the café we continue our stroll around town. It is quite dark now, and the karsts are hardly visible. Other tourists too are rare. The river right now is more like a stream, though fairly fast moving. I am pinged by Lauren who informs me that Caijing is now looking for a fulltime translator. So that puts paid to that. Suddenly the laptop feels heavier than its already weighty seven pounds. It also gets progressively colder, and we take the executive decision to head back to the hotel.
The temperature continues to drop and our room is freezing. The 25 kuai rate does not include the AC. But once under the covers, things are not too bad. We doze off to the TV screening some premier league game.
Last Friday we ended our second 8-week module. And that means one week off. Having considered it as one of many options, options that included hitting up Thailand or Hainan, I finally decide to join Patrick on a little trip to Guilin and Yangshuo in southern China. Patrick spent 6 months in Guilin several years ago, so it’s a bit of a nostalgic trip for him.
After celebrating somewhat late into the night on Friday, we buy soft sleeper tickets (mostly because hard sleepers were sold out) and hop on the 4:16 T5 train.
The soft sleeper is the highest of China’s four-class railway system. There are four berths to a cabin, and the cabin has a sliding door and affords a fair amount of privacy. Unfortunately, buying tickets 3 hours before departure means Patrick and I are in different, though thankfully adjoining, cabins. The interior is quite plush. Each cabin has a large square window so the view is excellent, even if you are not sitting by the window. My companions are a youngish man, and two older men in their sixties. None are Beijingren. Conversation is not at a premium but we are also not the most garrulous of quartets. Over the course of the 22 hours we manage to discuss the price of tickets, Beijing traffic, how other parts of China don’t have as much construction, development in general, India’s IT industry, China and India (particularly their development and population), Guilin as a tourist destination, the weather, and so on. More often than not I am reminded how limited my vocabulary still is.
Over in the next cabin Patrick has a few PLA officers sitting with him. They smoke like chimneys, and he spends a lot of his time out in the hallway, on one of the pull down chairs, reading “Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance.”
I sleep a lot. Must be really tired from the semester, finishing grad school apps, and all that has been preying on my mind, whether I like to admit it or not. I also put in an hour on my translation for Caijing. Manage to translate the first paragraph or so. It is slow going.
Lying on my upper bunk I wade into Pamuk’s Snow. I have been laboring over it. Partly because it is rather dense at times, but also because I haven’t had the time to really sit down with it. Less than halfway through things really come to a head, and I am drawn in. I find many of the themes that Pamuk juggles also embodied in much of modern Indian literature. Struggles with modernity, the east versus the west, secularism versus religious fundamentalism, inequitable development, the chasm that separates the frontier from the heart of a country, and so on. I wonder what themes predominate in modern Chinese fiction. I am curious, is there as much of a contested understanding or approach to the west, and to notions of secularism and modernity?
We arrive in Guilin mid-afternoon. Outside the station are a slew of buses. Shouts of “Yangshuo, Yangshuo” ring the air. We are herded into a half full minibus. I refuse to put my rucksack in the hold: it has my computer and I am not letting it out of sight. We stop everywhere, as the driver and conductor search out potential passengers, attempting to fill every vacant seat. I eye my big rucksack swaying in the seat next to me. Soon enough it is the last ‘vacant’ seat. But not for long. We pick up one final passenger, and I have to nestle my rucksack on my lap. Having my computer along is an increasing source of tension. We will be trekking around Yangshou and I am not too happy about leaving it at the hotel.
As Yanghou approaches, Karsts start to dominate the landscape. They are interesting structures. Little pillars or out-thrusts of rock, rather un-mountain like. I later find out, from that most unimpeachable of sources that is Wikipedia, that “Karst topography is a three-dimensional landscape shaped by the dissolution of a soluble layer or layers of bedrock, usually carbonate rock such as limestone or dolomite.” Enlightening. Further down I find a slightly easier passage to relate to: “Mature Karst landscapes, where more bedrock has been removed than remains, may result in karst towers or haystack/eggbox landscapes. Beneath the surface, complex underground drainage systems (such as karst aquifers) and extensive caves and cavern systems may form.” This rather aptly describes the terrain we are in. I marvel at the landscape outside my window. My real chance to appreciate them will come tomorrow though.
We arrive in Yangshuo around seven in the evening and walk around. Yangshuo takes me by surprise. I was expecting a little provincial hill-station. It is all that, but also heavily commercialized. The bus-stop exit channels us into a long alley with shops and hotels on either side. Patrick has no recollection of these structures so they must be fairly new. We are harassed as we walk along, but most locals are surprised and impressed at our relatively standard Beijing Putonghua. The accent here is at times hard to decipher. We earn respect wherever we go, though somewhat undeservedly I feel.
After asking at a local tourist agency, we finally locate the Karst Hotel. A double costs us the princely sum of 25 kuai each. It is good to travel during off-season! The room is decent, has attached bath, with running hot water. Sold! We dump our stuff, take quick showers, and step out in search of food. The little alleys, impressively clean, full of restaurants and cafes, advertising mostly European and American fare, render a distinctly European small town feel to this Chinese city. Oddly the Chinese fare on the menu is more expensive than staple ‘western’ items like fish and chips, spaghetti, and even steak and chips. Patrick digs into some fajitas as I order the fish and chips. While Yangshuo doesn’t reflect Guangxi’s poverty, the five tiny pieces that claim to be fish can easily lay claim to an impoverished background. Washing this rather unsatisfactorily meal (Patrick isn’t too impressed with his fajitas either) down with the local Liqun beer, we continue our stroll.
Over dinner I have decided to buy a backpack so that I can lug my laptop around with me the next day. Not the ideal solution, but far better than leaving it at the reception tomorrow. I need the peace of mind. I find something suitable, and haggle the price down from 120 to 55 kuai. I could probably have got it for 30, but I am yet to master this art.
We find a café next to the Karst, which has free internet. We settle in for some beer and French fries. The waitresses are friendly; speak better English than their counterparts in Beijing. One of them, a pretty girl, after establishing I am Indian tells me I look like ‘that Indian’ guy from ‘that American movie.’ A couple of minutes and we are finally able to deduce the movie is Van Wilder and I am being likened to Kal Penn. I am not sure I like this. I get the sense this is lone brown man in yellow land syndrome. A variation on the “all you XXX look alike!” (Replace XXX by whatever skin color catches your fancy.) We hang out at the café late into the night, and as we leave are encouraged to return for breakfast by the same girl who made the Kal Penn comparison. She really is quite cute. I say maybe we will.
After leaving the café we continue our stroll around town. It is quite dark now, and the karsts are hardly visible. Other tourists too are rare. The river right now is more like a stream, though fairly fast moving. I am pinged by Lauren who informs me that Caijing is now looking for a fulltime translator. So that puts paid to that. Suddenly the laptop feels heavier than its already weighty seven pounds. It also gets progressively colder, and we take the executive decision to head back to the hotel.
The temperature continues to drop and our room is freezing. The 25 kuai rate does not include the AC. But once under the covers, things are not too bad. We doze off to the TV screening some premier league game.
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