LANGZHONG

Why Langzhong? I was told only 220km north east of Chengdu, Langzhong merited a stopover before the emerging local tourism industry would promote an onrush of visitors… and before the inevitable invasion of the ever expanding frontiers of modernity…

I was also told when in town I should check out The Du Family Inn. I checked it out and checked-in, so gracious were (owner / manager?) Paul, and his staff of pretty ladies. The Inn, located in the heart of the old town is the sort of place where even the key-holes conjure some mysterious attraction.

In this ancient part of town with flagstone narrow alleys and sloping tiled roofs is easy to relax. Lacking 4-wheel vehicles, the streets are clean and quiet; actually if you want to go there, take small luggage as the only way to get to-and-from the Inn besides using your own leg-power is by bicycle rickshaw.

On an exploratory walk I encountered a peculiar old lady, she scanned me up and down, she playfully placed her right hand on her own chest and then on mine loudly repeating, like a mantra, FRIENDS… FRIENDS… - Taking my hand she took me through a series of narrow passages into her home.

I was motioned to sit next to an older smiling man who I assumed was her husband. The room was long and narrow resembling a wide corridor with sofas and chairs, exquisite silk embroidery paintings covered the entire walls and the man was watching pre-Olympic sports on a wide-screen TV.

After a few minutes squeezing my hand, she led me towards the river bank, pointed to the ferry-boat approaching the jetty, and uttering the mantra - FRIENDS… FRIENDS - she waved goodbye and disappeared.

I took the ferry across the Jailing River. I hiked up a hill’s tortuous trail towards a landscape of temples and shrines. As I approached a wide open gate, I came upon a couple of snarling dogs. I am not a dog-friendly person and as I don’t expect them to be friendly with me, I turned back and walked across the bridge. I suspect I missed something there…

My room at the Du Family Inn

Back at the Du Family Inn I had an early dinner of rice, green leafy vegetables that could be described as Chinese spinach, a heap of sliced zăngféi niúròu, a local preserved beef I ate nowhere else, and some delicious vinegary pickles.

Indeed Langzhong may be the vinegar capital of China. Everything smells of vinegar, local soft drinks are made with vinegar, vinegar recipes are jealously guarded and I’ve heard there are even public vinegar-bathhouses…

At night Langzhong literally lit up, Shoe shops, dress shops, jeweler’s shops, silk shops and noodle houses busy until late gave the city an atmosphere of holiday, a particular feeling of well been and safety. For what turned out to be my last night in Langzhong I was taken on a two-minute motorcycle ride to a Shadow Puppet performance, and a stroll along the river bank…

The Bus Ride

I intended to take a direct bus back to Chengdu, but… I got sidetracked after sharing a bit of conversation and two Bing Tang with an English-speaking guest at the Ludao. That’s why I was on my way to Chengdu, but not before a stop in Langzhong.

Fortunately I purchased my bus ticket the night before; it can be a frightening experience trapped in a long line up advancing one slow step at a time towards a ticket window, not knowing how the person on the other side will respond to your foreign “Ni Hao, Langzhong please…”

If you ever get that far to begin with; Chinese folk are not shy, can actually be quite swift at bus stations, before you have time to say “Hey, don’t do that…” they take place between your alien soul and the ticket window, and you step forward but never get ahead…

Almost everywhere however, there seems to be some out-of-the-way office or secret wicket reserved for foreigners, all you have to do is find it…

It was a long ride from Xian to Guangyuan where I would change bus to Langzhong, The sleeping girl in the photo who introduced herself as the Conductor, would let me know when and where this would happen.

She kept busy for an hour or so providing passengers with bottles of water, soda-pop, and packages of sweet and salty cookies. Later, when she was not sleeping she would flirt with the tall, good looking bus driver, or play with a couple of tiny turtles in a clear plastic container…

The highway appeared brand new; the bus smoothly cruised between mountains, coasted along the steep banks of a river, passing towns, villages, and mile after mile of beautifully cultivated fields. Almost perpendicular on mountains-sides, every bit of land available seemed to flourish with yellow-flower crops…

It started to rain, The countryside trough plump raindrops streaming down the dusty window looked like watercolour paintings…

We pulled up at a road-side eatery. Following the other passengers I took a plate and chopsticks and helped myself, buffet-style, to the best Chinese food I have ever tasted. Methinks I would go back for a second helping …

Back on the bus I perceived the handsome bus driver and the playful conductor had more interest in each other than a working partnership…

On the wet bitumen a few hundred meters ahead of us, a truck with a heavy load slid sideways obstructing the way… There was a long delay. I detected no sign of highway police nor sounds of ambulance… nor could I tell how severe the accident had been. Everyone remained silently calm, no one got off the bus, there was nothing we could do but wait…

Xian City Walls

For the admission fee of less than 6 Australian Dollars I embarked on the fantasy journey of the 18m-thick, at the base, 14km-perimeter of Xi’an’s City Walls…

There are four gates to the rectangular walls. At the South Gate entrance, climbing the last stair onto the 12m high bastion, I had the bizarre feeling of being aboard Noah’s Ark.

I read the present walls were built in 1370 by the first Ming emperor Hongwu on the foundation of the Tang imperial palace. They were constructed using rammed earth, quicklime, and glutinous rice extract.

At the South Gate there was a bicycle rental. For tired walkers or time-conscious visitors, battery-operated carts ran between sectors or entire perimeter of the Walls. I counted more people walking…

The views were spectacular. For parents and grandparents walking with children, or for the young at heart, there was a lively Chinese fairyland every step of the way...

I could have easily walked another 4 hours and taken a second gigabyte of photos had it not been for extinguishing digital-camera batteries and imminent sun set…

Hard to find lithium batteries in China, other batteries are cheap but of short duration, I soon learnt to buy them in large quantity…

The Terracotta Warriors

This post is dedicated to my friend Judy

I saw Kim and Louis for the last time as I lingered on the path towards the entrance of the Terracotta Army Pits… I have a dream and a wish of meeting them again in some strange corner of the world…

But at that moment there I was, about to fulfill for Judy her own wish… an arm and a leg to see the Terracotta Soldiers… A 2200 year-old clay army ready to serve Emperor Qin Shi Huangdi’s afterlife military endavours..

It should not have been a surprise to find the site so highly organized, but while traveling from Xian on bus 306 I imagined myself descending into a clay necropolis surrounded by farm fields… Not so… yet, though housed in museum-style constructions the pits are awesomely surreal…

Over eight thousand life-size pottery pieces! One pit contained 6000 warriors. The figures were constructed using loops of coiled clay; hands and heads were fired as separate moulds that loosely fitted into open wrist and neck sockets. Each figure sculpted with individual facial expressions and hairstyles.

Judy told me that though faded by exposure to air, originally the figures were painted in vivid colours and equipped with swords, spears, bows and arrows…

Justifiably the pits are dim and protectively fenced off, but making it difficult to admire the figures’s individuality or take a respectable photo. Up to that moment I resisted temptation to buy souvenirs, but as I exited the Pits I was approached by cheery teenagers offering cut-down replicas of boxed warriors… for Judy…

Text and Photos Coyright©2008 M.Della Marina

XIAN in 2008

I landed in Xian for a two good reasons; 1st reason: the train stopped there. From Xian by bus back to Chengdu, seemed the most direct way to steal a look at China in a short time and conservative budget.

2nd, most important reason: because my friend Judy who visits Hong-Kong every couple of years to eat Chinese food and stock up on cultured pearls said she would give an arm and a leg to see the Terracotta Warriors…

On approaching the Xian train station I felt the tempo increase, and was I ever thankful for Kim and Louis, whose first stop on their way to Beijing was also Xian.

In the enormous area outside the train stations, two walls came into view: the ancient 14km-long rectangular wall that bounds the city center, and a second more intimidating wall of people; man, women, young, old, walking, standing or sitting on the ground, everybody talking at the same time…

Newly arrived passengers seemed quickly targeted by a variety of men offering assorted services; I was still trying to sort out the scene when with his uncanny aplomb, Louis chose an eagerly pleasant young man named Peter to guide us to the Ludao Youth Hostel.

I liked the Ludao. Train and bus stations were only 5 minutes away. Along with a pleasant restaurant-bar, internet, luggage storage, book exchange, tours-plane-train-bus tickets, Chinese massage or free information by English speaking staff, it offered everything a traveler needs.

I liked Xi-an. Even in the twenty first century, through steady street traffic and soaring city noise, Xi-an exuded ancient history, it echoed Marco Polo’s China…

Yet apart from the Terracotta Warrior I did not feel particularly interested in historic or religious sites. I wanted to walk the streets… stand on a corner merely watching people get on and off the bus… or trees…

Or take 5...

Text and Photos Coyright©2008 M.Della Marina

A Protest in the Sixth Year of Ch'ien Fu

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The hills and rivers of the lowland country
You have made your battle-ground.
How do you suppose the people who live there
Will procure 'firewood and hay' ?
Do not let me hear you talking together
About titles and promotions;
For a single General's promotion
Is made out of ten thousand corpses.

TS"AO SUNG
Translated from the Chinese by Arthur Waley

Lhasa to Xian

On the 36 hour spectacular train ride from Lhasa to Xian there was plenty of time for reflection. The brand new pressurized-train for high altitude and railway built by the Chinese Government was excellent. … The toilets were clean, sheets and blankets provided. The Tibetan Plateau’s panoramas made me regret the economy of my mini digital camera.

Chinese train accommodations are not labeled - First Class, Second Class or Economy. Instead the choice is for Soft Bed, Hard Bed, Soft or Hard Seat. Prices vary accordingly. Upper or lower berth for Soft Bed, upper, lower, or middle berths for Hard Bed, soft or hard seat…

The dining car was busy, the food ok, considering the size of the kitchen and the high demand… Beverage selection ranged from bottled water to a bottle of Scotch Whisky…

Getting to the Lhasa train station however, had not been easy for four of us. We had no ride, buses were not running. Impossible to CALL a taxi or even book one in advance; our exhausted travel agent’s advice was to go out on the main avenue and flag one down.

In the outskirts of Lhasa 3 days after the riot, one needed a load of good karma to get a taxi ride at 5:30am. Even our multiple sets of arms madly gesticulating failed to attract the attention of taxi drivers, either they were traveling on the opposite direction, or chose to avoid tourists engaged in some western-style hullabaloo…

The train station was not far, but too far to walk, especially difficult over the bridge lined with military check points. I don’t know about my companions but I was sure to miss the train while challenged to explain (after locating an English speaking officer) why I was afoot in Tibet without the peculiar TTB Permit...

Clock ticking… we crossed the road and as if by magic a taxi stopped for us. Under the faint street-light I recognized the driver, even as I write I remember his smile and the face of other taxi drivers who mysteriously appeared in the nick of time…

On the bridge we were stopped at a military check point, everyone including the driver was asked out of the cab. There was nothing seditious to be found about us or on us, even Louis, suspiciously bald as a Buddhist monk, passed inspection… Nothing subversive in the front or back seat of the cab, nothing in the boot, not even luggage…

After some dialogue between the military and taxi driver we were off, towards the station and to the train waiting to be boarded…

Text and Photos Coyright©2008 M.Della Marina

The Riot in Lhasa

“I think my day at the lake was the highlight of my trip! “ Wrote Lois. And my friend Garry said: “It seems you were very lucky. You escaped a riot in Tibet and an earthquake in Sichuan.”

I, like Kim and Louis, and many others walked the safe trail between the riot and the earthquake. That however, does not make me happy, or feel lucky, nor diminishes in any way a yearning to keep going, especially to return to Lhasa, to China, , to Chengdu…

Perhaps for many people in Lhasa the March 14 riot was not a big surprise. I had paid little attention to warnings of unrest in the city. Our savvy Tibetan travel agent said demonstrations were common during the month of March, anniversary of the 1959 Tibetan revolt against Chinese occupation, but even she, organizer of our next-day-expedition to Namtso Lake, could not predict smoke signals would turn to fire…

Back from the lake in the late afternoon, unaware of the turmoil that had taken place, we were heading towards our Lhasa hotel rooms planning a shower and an evening at Ganglamedo bar-café, when suddenly the outbreak’s severity transported us from an idyllic memory on the shores of a frozen prehistoric lake, into the science-fiction surrealism of a 1960’s episode of STAR TRECK.

East of Marpo Hiill, Beijing Dong Lu appeared alien and totally deserted. Every door was shut; the metal shutters of the shops pulled down or twisted as if by brutal force, big black smoke rose out of a building and fire still burned just ahead of us

Further on, the road appeared strewn with corpses and debris… Over the cellular phone our Tibetan guide received explicit orders to quickly drive away… “Go back…Go back… Where to? Don’t know… Out… Out… Out of the city center… Yes there was a riot… Chinese military have taken over… More military are on the way…” Go… Go...”

As we approached the intersection it became evident that what in the distance appeared like corpses were in reality the mutilated manikins of a vandalized dress shop… By the time I thought of taking a photo the driver was speeding away from the scene… I’ll never graduate as field photographer…

We were taken to a hotel outside the city center, with instructions to leave the hotel only to eat in a nearby eatery, make phone calls and small purchases in a nearby everything-shop.

A constant flow of military trucks sped towards Lhasa and in the following days, while they searched for those responsible for the destructive unrest, no one entered or exited the city.

Foreign travelers in the city were trapped in their hotels while The TTB (Tibet Tourist Bureau) and the Chinese military, engaged in complex negotiation aiming to reunite the luggage left in inaccessible city hotel rooms with their owners stranded outside. With only partly successful results…

Though I never felt threatened in the days that followed, ready or not, with or without luggage, the message coming through loud and clear was that we should leave Tibet.

The hotel room we had been taken to was clean, comfortable and cheap, the food in the nearby eatery, excellent. Our concerned travel agent kept constant contact with us. The night before departure appearing exhausted she arrived with a mini-bus-load of miss-matched traveler’s luggage,

I found mine, though apart from my new sleeping bag, a blank diary and a train ticket to Xian, I had nothing that could not be replaced with twenty dollars… Not so for all travelers however, some regained only parts of their belongings and others left Tibet with no luggage at all…

In this neighborhood no one spoke English. Perhaps unaccustomed to foreign travelers were polite but distant. The man at the Hotel’s reception merely pointed at the hotel’s posted rates: - LOW SEASON - Single Occupancy with Private Toilet and Shower - 80 Yuan.- :- Payable Each Day in Advance -- We paid. He wrote receipts and gave us keys pointing to the staircase leading to the rooms.

After the next morning’s “Tashi De Le” (how are you,) I might have been shrouded in a cloak of invisibility. I saw women in the courtyard hanging bed-sheets out to dry, I saw women cooking, carrying the food to the reception’s coffee table, I saw the entire family gather around to eat, at intervals they played cards. But for as many times as I paced past them, no one gave any indication they saw me… I concluded it was how they avoided questions they could not answer, and how to practice privacy in a public space…

I will never climb Mt. Everest, perhaps never get near First Base Camp, but as Lhasa and Lake Namtso are in Tibet, I can say that for a few days I was on the Roof of the World. Any destination after leaving the Roof of the World can only be described as going…down hill…

Back to Lhasa on the road from Namtso Lake

Text and Photos Coyright©2008 M.Della Marina