25/02/02
Dalian is big, clean, modern, and full of attitude. Gone are the wide-eyed stares of the Yellow River country bumpkins. In Dalian, the people are as modern and tall as the tall, modern buildings they inhabit; the girls, especially, are well dressed, sexy and way too occupied with themselves to stop and stare at just another bunch of scruffy foreign backpackers. They're too busy getting their hair done, or eating, or chatting, or just being cool.
The city is said to resemble the profile of a tiger, the eye of the tiger being Zhongshan Square, which is the hub and crux of the city, although not really a square, actually circular, eye-like, a huge roundabout from which a bunch of side-streets, home to hairdressers, hardware stores, ice-cream parlours, seafood restaurants, bars, nightclubs, coffee shops, banks, bus depots, hotels and fast food takeaways, branch off. We amuse ourselves in laid-back fashion during the day by walking about these busy streets, then return to them at night to eat and drink. It's all we have the energy to do now. A quiet end to a manic holiday. A winding down. It began at breakneck speed, like the fastest bus ride you've ever been on, and has ended like a pensioner's stroll in the park.
We're knackered. We need a holiday from our holiday. We're sick and tired of hotel rooms and filthy jam-packed trains, had enough of noodle shacks and blocked-up toilet drains. We don't have any clean clothes any more. I'm looking forward to getting back to Harbin, meeting up with the others, and comparing travel stories. We've certainly got a few.
One story I'm going to keep to myself was trying to cross Zhongshan Road this afternoon. The road, the main artery into Zhongshan Square, is the widest, busiest and noisiest in the city, so chock-a-block with traffic that it's virtually impossible to cross over-ground. This is where the underground markets come in. Similar to the underground market in Harbin, but on a smaller scale, dank, white-tiled passages are flanked by cheap shops on either side, forming a sweaty, smelly, noisy, colourful maze underneath the city centre roads. Perhaps only in China, when you simply want to cross a road, you have to go window shopping.
Danuka and Tam are at the hotel; I've popped out for one last bit of wandering before our we leave. I'm trying to get back to the hotel, but it's proving more difficult than I'd thought. The trouble is, I can't read the signs that hang from the ceilings of the underground passageways. I presume they're streetnames, or directions north, south, east and west; or something. Who knows? Stupidly, I follow my instincts. It's a straight road, I can't really go wrong... can I? Go down the steps, enter the noisy, colourful corridors, walk striaght, oh, left here then, umm, nice jeans, should I try... no, better not, oh, turn right here, no choice, follow your nose, ugh, no don't, where the hell am I? Aha! A ray of light. Here we go... and up... and... what the..? I'm on the same side of the road I started on.
I go back down, follow the passageways, come back out into the crisp air and traffic noise, and find myself in the same place. Twice. It takes me thirty minutes. I decide to wait for a lull in the traffic and then leg it over-ground across the road. I wait about ten minutes. There's a chance. I clamber over the barrier, jump down onto the tarmac, and suddenly my ears are screaming. A little guy in an orange vest is bolting towards me, blowing a whistle like an angry football referee. He stands beside me, not shouting, but whistling, his arms moving frantically, shooing me off the road and back onto the pavement. I climb back over the barrier and get scornful looks from two incredibly tall, skinny, gorgeous women who are walking past.
I go back down again, follow the passageways, taking different turns from the last time, or at least I think I am, but still I emerge into the early afternoon glare at the very same place where I started from! I assess my chances of running across the road, but the guy in the orange vest spots me, shakes his head, and puts his whistle to his lips. I go back down into the market, get totally lost, find a passage I know, and again emerge at the exact same point. It's been nearly an hour now! An hour to cross a road! This is ridiculous. I decide to make a break for it. I wait for another lull in the traffic, clamber back over the barrier, hear the peeps of the whistle, look up, see the little guy running towards me, look both ways, and sprint across the road. The whistler starts running after me, his whistles turning into shredded, gasping peeps as he puffs and pants behind me. Phee! Phee! Phee!
I reach the other side, climb over the barrier, look back, and see the whistler shaking his fist at me comically, then I walk away fast.
As I write, Tam and I are in a little tearoom, near the red-light area we got drunk in a few nights ago, uphill from the hotel. We must look like two satiated old men, who've seen and done it all and shall take no more part in the world. All we want is our teapot regularly filled. In the words of Thom Yorke: No alarms, and no surprises. Please. The tearoom is a traditional affair of mild greens and browns, the walls bedecked by vases, china horses, and other such ornaments, perched on split-level monkey-puzzle shelves. Each table is home to a cut-glass bowl of soft satin red and green flowers. Comfortably cushioned wooden chairs and green and white chequered tablecloths are our only companions in here, save the polite and helpful waitresses in green aprons.
We were on perhaps our fourth or fifth pot of green tea when, a few minutes ago, there was a power cut. We sat in the semi-darkness, in the deepening dusk of our holiday, and hardly noticed. As the kind, attentive waitresses panicked around us, we sat unperturbed in the gloom. Today has the feeling of 'home-time'. The lights have gone out. Time for bed.
26/02/02
Fireworks
It was the last night of the Spring Festival, and the locals were out celebrating. So Danuka and I stayed in.
Danuka has a pathological fear of explosions, which, having lived so long in Belfast is understandable enough. When we're outside, and someone sets off firecrackers, she jumps two feet in the air then curses them in seven different languages. Dalian was a war zone of fireworks, firecrackers, homemade bombs and colourful light. I watched it for a while from our eighth floor window. Tam went home tonight. It's just Danuka and I, trying to eke out our holiday by one more day. She suggested we get some beer in.
The fireworks continued long into the night. The next morning, they were still spinning through my head, flashes of light and colour, flashes of fireworks.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
My Faith in Humanity Restored
It was three in the morning and we jumped into the first taxi we could find. We showed the driver the leaflet we'd picked up for the Dalian Youth Hostel, grudgingly agreed to a price of thirty Yuan, and were whisked off into the darkness at breakneck speed. After ten minutes on the highway, he pulled over to the side of the road for no apparent reason. We looked at each other uncertainly. The driver then took his mobile from his pocket, pointing to his watch then to the leaflet for the youth hostel. Quite sensibly, he'd decided to phone ahead to find out if the place was still open. It wasn't. Someone, probably the night watchman, answered the phone, but refused to let us in. We'd have to wait until nine o'clock in the morning.
Without another word, the driver gunned the engine and sent the car hurtling towards the bright lights of Dalian. As he drove through the city centre, he even gave us, tour guide style, a running commentary on the major sights. Not that we understood any of it. For all his good sense, the driver did, however, overestimate our wealth. The first hotel we stopped at was five-star and, on hearing the price of a room from the sleepy night-receptionist, I immediately had us walking out back to the taxi. Way above our price range! On realising this, the driver then made it his mission to get us the best deal possible on a Dalian hotel at 3.30 in the morning. We toured the city remorselessly, stopping at hotel after hotel. The driver and I would go in, knock on the reception desk to awaken the sleeping night staff, then the driver would haggle with them for a few minutes. If he thought we were being over-charged, he'd grab my arm and lead me out of the hotel swearing under his breath. There was one priceless moment when, after the driver had tapped ever louder on the desk with a pen, the drowsy little girl behind it lifted her head by degrees, hair, forehead, eyes half-shut, nose, sour mouth, pert chin, appearing in staccato segments from beneath the counter. She looked at us uncomprehendingly then asked us what we wanted. 'What do you think we want?' asked the driver, who looked at me then burst out laughing. He eventually found us a clean, affordable three-star hotel not five minutes from the city centre, which was still a little above our usual Spartan budget, but for a good morning's sleep we weren't complaining. He shook our hands with a beatific air of satisfaction, and refused to accept any more than the thirty Yuan we'd agreed upon beforehand. I glanced furtively at the meter, and saw that it was over fifty.
Our emotional journey, inner as well as outer, in that it comprised of a sea change in our outlook from cynical mistrustful backpackers to hippies with a true love of humankind, wasn't over yet. The next day, we decided to head to a place along the coast, of which our guidebook gave a good review (i.e. cheap and clean). We did like the place we were in, the Dalian Baolian, but really couldn't afford it. We asked the pretty young girls in blue blazers at reception for directions and, considering we were leaving their place to spend our money elsewhere, it really was nice of the manager to come out his office and offer to drive us there in the hotel mini-bus. We accepted gratefully. Twenty minutes later, we are standing in the lobby of this new place arguing with a woman, who ironically speaks excellent English, about their recently adopted policy of No Foreigners Allowed. The argument went something like this:
'No foreigners allowed? Why?'
'No why.'
'But what's wrong with us?'
'Nothing.'
'So why aren’t we allowed?'
'No why.'
Out of desperation, we asked the Baolian manager if he could drive us to the Dalian Youth Hostel. He could, he told us, but the youth hostel wouldn't accept us either. This didn't make sense, but sometimes it's better to relax, go with the flow, and see what happens, than start a fight. This was the right thing to do. We were taken back to the hotel where, after half an hour's tough negotiations, I'd got the price of our room down by more than half, and felt very proud of myself. Sixty Yuan per night, for a three-star hotel! The manager even threw in breakfast, offered to book us train tickets back to Harbin, and drive us personally to the station. What a guy. I inwardly high-fived the taxi driver who had, purely through a stubborn will not to see us ripped off, taken us to this lovely little hotel. For the first time on our travels, we felt like we'd got a proper bargain, instead of being ripped off because we were westerners. And we almost felt guilty.
Tam wanted to go shopping. Danuka wanted to wander along the cliffs. We negotiated the rest of our day in the middle of a street to the accompaniment of a band of singers, drummers and cymbalists, dressed in bright green, blue and red traditional clothes, celebrating the winding down of Chinese New Year the only way they knew how: noisily. Sick and tired, I plumped for the sea, leaving Tam to fend for himself. Danuka and I took a bus to Tiger Beach and walked from there all the way to the south side of the city. It took three or four hours and added new layers of tiredness to my legs, which began to stiffen up with lactic acid, but it was worth it. The coast road follows the curves and twists of the sheer, impressive cliffs, and provides a fantastic view of the Yellow Sea down below, dotted with numerous little island outcrops. The beaches are clean, white, mellow, quiet, probably because to get down to them entails a steep dangerous slide of two or three hundred feet. Small groups of pot-bellied middle-aged men were stripping off to take a bollocks-constricting swim in the cold water. A couple had annexed one beach for their marriage photo-party, the bride surreally strutting about the cold sand in full white dress and veil. The islands lay in the green effervescent sea like sleeping curled-up animals and, as the day wore on and the light faded, they seemed to shimmer and float like ghostly Laputias in the gloom.
That evening Tam and I went, as usual, for dinner and beer. It had become customary for us to sample the local beer of each new province we entered (Dalian is in Liaoning province). During the evening we encountered a filthy unwashed madman in long coat and beanie hat, who stared menacingly at us through the big restaurant window as we ate, really putting us off our shrimps, then jumped out at us as we left, making us nearly shit ourselves; a cute barmaid in a bar aptly named 'Happy Smile', who phoned up her English teacher for me to chat to, telling us as she did so that she was a really bad student (her teacher agreed); and another barmaid, drop-dead sexy rather than cute, in a warren of back-streets full of brothels, the bar a country and western pastiche with fake wooden panelling and red lampshades where the girls wore cowboy hats, the barmaid a short-skirted, gravel-voiced goddess called Sun Xin (pronounced: soon sheen), who asked us for the phone number of our hotel and promised she’d give us a ring, but didn't.
Without another word, the driver gunned the engine and sent the car hurtling towards the bright lights of Dalian. As he drove through the city centre, he even gave us, tour guide style, a running commentary on the major sights. Not that we understood any of it. For all his good sense, the driver did, however, overestimate our wealth. The first hotel we stopped at was five-star and, on hearing the price of a room from the sleepy night-receptionist, I immediately had us walking out back to the taxi. Way above our price range! On realising this, the driver then made it his mission to get us the best deal possible on a Dalian hotel at 3.30 in the morning. We toured the city remorselessly, stopping at hotel after hotel. The driver and I would go in, knock on the reception desk to awaken the sleeping night staff, then the driver would haggle with them for a few minutes. If he thought we were being over-charged, he'd grab my arm and lead me out of the hotel swearing under his breath. There was one priceless moment when, after the driver had tapped ever louder on the desk with a pen, the drowsy little girl behind it lifted her head by degrees, hair, forehead, eyes half-shut, nose, sour mouth, pert chin, appearing in staccato segments from beneath the counter. She looked at us uncomprehendingly then asked us what we wanted. 'What do you think we want?' asked the driver, who looked at me then burst out laughing. He eventually found us a clean, affordable three-star hotel not five minutes from the city centre, which was still a little above our usual Spartan budget, but for a good morning's sleep we weren't complaining. He shook our hands with a beatific air of satisfaction, and refused to accept any more than the thirty Yuan we'd agreed upon beforehand. I glanced furtively at the meter, and saw that it was over fifty.
Our emotional journey, inner as well as outer, in that it comprised of a sea change in our outlook from cynical mistrustful backpackers to hippies with a true love of humankind, wasn't over yet. The next day, we decided to head to a place along the coast, of which our guidebook gave a good review (i.e. cheap and clean). We did like the place we were in, the Dalian Baolian, but really couldn't afford it. We asked the pretty young girls in blue blazers at reception for directions and, considering we were leaving their place to spend our money elsewhere, it really was nice of the manager to come out his office and offer to drive us there in the hotel mini-bus. We accepted gratefully. Twenty minutes later, we are standing in the lobby of this new place arguing with a woman, who ironically speaks excellent English, about their recently adopted policy of No Foreigners Allowed. The argument went something like this:
'No foreigners allowed? Why?'
'No why.'
'But what's wrong with us?'
'Nothing.'
'So why aren’t we allowed?'
'No why.'
Out of desperation, we asked the Baolian manager if he could drive us to the Dalian Youth Hostel. He could, he told us, but the youth hostel wouldn't accept us either. This didn't make sense, but sometimes it's better to relax, go with the flow, and see what happens, than start a fight. This was the right thing to do. We were taken back to the hotel where, after half an hour's tough negotiations, I'd got the price of our room down by more than half, and felt very proud of myself. Sixty Yuan per night, for a three-star hotel! The manager even threw in breakfast, offered to book us train tickets back to Harbin, and drive us personally to the station. What a guy. I inwardly high-fived the taxi driver who had, purely through a stubborn will not to see us ripped off, taken us to this lovely little hotel. For the first time on our travels, we felt like we'd got a proper bargain, instead of being ripped off because we were westerners. And we almost felt guilty.
Tam wanted to go shopping. Danuka wanted to wander along the cliffs. We negotiated the rest of our day in the middle of a street to the accompaniment of a band of singers, drummers and cymbalists, dressed in bright green, blue and red traditional clothes, celebrating the winding down of Chinese New Year the only way they knew how: noisily. Sick and tired, I plumped for the sea, leaving Tam to fend for himself. Danuka and I took a bus to Tiger Beach and walked from there all the way to the south side of the city. It took three or four hours and added new layers of tiredness to my legs, which began to stiffen up with lactic acid, but it was worth it. The coast road follows the curves and twists of the sheer, impressive cliffs, and provides a fantastic view of the Yellow Sea down below, dotted with numerous little island outcrops. The beaches are clean, white, mellow, quiet, probably because to get down to them entails a steep dangerous slide of two or three hundred feet. Small groups of pot-bellied middle-aged men were stripping off to take a bollocks-constricting swim in the cold water. A couple had annexed one beach for their marriage photo-party, the bride surreally strutting about the cold sand in full white dress and veil. The islands lay in the green effervescent sea like sleeping curled-up animals and, as the day wore on and the light faded, they seemed to shimmer and float like ghostly Laputias in the gloom.
That evening Tam and I went, as usual, for dinner and beer. It had become customary for us to sample the local beer of each new province we entered (Dalian is in Liaoning province). During the evening we encountered a filthy unwashed madman in long coat and beanie hat, who stared menacingly at us through the big restaurant window as we ate, really putting us off our shrimps, then jumped out at us as we left, making us nearly shit ourselves; a cute barmaid in a bar aptly named 'Happy Smile', who phoned up her English teacher for me to chat to, telling us as she did so that she was a really bad student (her teacher agreed); and another barmaid, drop-dead sexy rather than cute, in a warren of back-streets full of brothels, the bar a country and western pastiche with fake wooden panelling and red lampshades where the girls wore cowboy hats, the barmaid a short-skirted, gravel-voiced goddess called Sun Xin (pronounced: soon sheen), who asked us for the phone number of our hotel and promised she’d give us a ring, but didn't.
The Ferry from Yantai
Travelling during the Spring Festival was really beginning to take its toll. The trains were routinely packed, and it was getting more and more difficult to find any tickets that weren't standing room only. We were regularly covering huge distances and usually at night, which disrupted our sleep patterns, which then in turn left our immune systems low. We were all getting sick, and really didn't need the two-hour wait in Qingdao train station’s ticket hall, where we did, however, manage to bag three hard seat tickets north to Yantai, from where we hoped to take a night boat to Dalian.
I was in pretty cheerful mood. I'd come to like Qingdao, with its narrow streets, yellow-brick houses, steep hills and interesting little DVD and clothes shops. My holiday budget had disappeared in a cool little shop called 'Old Skool Skatewear'. We never saw much of Yantai, going straight from the train to the ferry ticket office to book our boat. It was 8 pm as we lined up to catch the bus that the ferry company had laid on to take train passengers to the terminal. Just as we reached the front of the line, the driver shook his head, indicating the bus was full (a first in my experience in China). We were then infuriated to see him allow four or five more Chinese on.
We were pointed towards a second bus, which sat stationary and driverless. When the driver finally turned up, having finished his mah-jong or noodles, the queue had disintegrated into a scrum. Battle ensued around the opening doors of the bus, elbows, knees, fists, feet and rucksacks the weapons. One guy grabbed Danuka rudely and flung her out of the way. Then we attacked. Tam elbowed him in the stomach, I grabbed his shoulders and yanked him back, and Tash scraped her heel down his shin and stamped on his foot. Down he went, with a pained cry. Serves him right. After a ten minute drive, with five minutes to spare, we ran from the bus onto the ferry’s gangplank, and were, for some reason, ushered through to a room with plastic bucket seats nailed to the floor, where a movie on a big screen was playing at such volume that the distortion sounded like a wounded animal. We had to scream at each other as if we were on top of a mountain in a blizzard, before realising we were all saying the same thing: let's get out of here.
The boat was full to the gunnels. It was like cardboard city out on deck, where every inch of space had been marked out as 'ours' by huge families, ranging from wailing babies to grandparents, sheets, duvets, and other assorted bedding spread across the decks, defining colourful territory like a political map of small neighbouring countries. As we walked down corridors, we stepped over drunks, vomit, fighting children, an array of limbs, heads, bags and suitcases, men and women cooking, talking, drinking and playing cards. We finally found the ship's captain and, after Danuka had fluttered her prodigious eyelashes at him, were taken to a four-bunk cabin with a tiny black-and-white television that stubbornly refused to find a reception. No matter, we had beer and a bed. It was only when we had to stray out into the cramped corridors to visit the toilet, were we reminded of the uncomfortable boat people packed together all around us, our cabin a quiet island amongst raging seas.
I was in pretty cheerful mood. I'd come to like Qingdao, with its narrow streets, yellow-brick houses, steep hills and interesting little DVD and clothes shops. My holiday budget had disappeared in a cool little shop called 'Old Skool Skatewear'. We never saw much of Yantai, going straight from the train to the ferry ticket office to book our boat. It was 8 pm as we lined up to catch the bus that the ferry company had laid on to take train passengers to the terminal. Just as we reached the front of the line, the driver shook his head, indicating the bus was full (a first in my experience in China). We were then infuriated to see him allow four or five more Chinese on.
We were pointed towards a second bus, which sat stationary and driverless. When the driver finally turned up, having finished his mah-jong or noodles, the queue had disintegrated into a scrum. Battle ensued around the opening doors of the bus, elbows, knees, fists, feet and rucksacks the weapons. One guy grabbed Danuka rudely and flung her out of the way. Then we attacked. Tam elbowed him in the stomach, I grabbed his shoulders and yanked him back, and Tash scraped her heel down his shin and stamped on his foot. Down he went, with a pained cry. Serves him right. After a ten minute drive, with five minutes to spare, we ran from the bus onto the ferry’s gangplank, and were, for some reason, ushered through to a room with plastic bucket seats nailed to the floor, where a movie on a big screen was playing at such volume that the distortion sounded like a wounded animal. We had to scream at each other as if we were on top of a mountain in a blizzard, before realising we were all saying the same thing: let's get out of here.
The boat was full to the gunnels. It was like cardboard city out on deck, where every inch of space had been marked out as 'ours' by huge families, ranging from wailing babies to grandparents, sheets, duvets, and other assorted bedding spread across the decks, defining colourful territory like a political map of small neighbouring countries. As we walked down corridors, we stepped over drunks, vomit, fighting children, an array of limbs, heads, bags and suitcases, men and women cooking, talking, drinking and playing cards. We finally found the ship's captain and, after Danuka had fluttered her prodigious eyelashes at him, were taken to a four-bunk cabin with a tiny black-and-white television that stubbornly refused to find a reception. No matter, we had beer and a bed. It was only when we had to stray out into the cramped corridors to visit the toilet, were we reminded of the uncomfortable boat people packed together all around us, our cabin a quiet island amongst raging seas.
Lao Shan
We took a mini-bus tour to the mountain range of which Lao Shan is the most famous and prominent peak. The next time, if there ever is one, I'd take a regular bus as, after the usual frustrating stops at souvenir shops (one of which was a dried fish emporium which stank putridly), and being hassled constantly by a skinny, bespectacled nerd of a guide with a yellow flag, who clapped his hands continuously crying 'Lai lai lai lai lai!', with a disproportionate sense of his own self-worth, we were left with only one and a half hours on the mountain itself, which isn't nearly enough.
In fact, the mountain range covers an impressive 400 square kilometres, and lies just over one hour (if you're not on a tour bus) from Qingdao, along the coast road of the narrow, stunning peninsula on which the city sits. Lao Shan, in ancient China, was believed to be the home of the Immortals. Apparently there used to be 72 temples dotted around the mountains here, but nearly all of them were razed to the ground during the Cultural Revolution. I formed an image in my mind of a bunch of uneducated teenage Red Guards running amok in the mountains, hell-bent on mindless destruction in honour of Mao, grabbing and smashing artefacts and treasures more ancient and important than they could ever imagine. I looked at my novelty Mao watch, and decided to smash it at the first opportunity.
We climbed rough stone steps which seemed to go on for so long we wouldn't have been surprised if we'd ended up in the clouds, bumping into a few of those old Immortal guys. The mountains are stunning, gnarled, knobbly, their bent, aged peaks seeming to nod and watch as you climb, as if the mountains are old men with a million secrets, and a knowledge you will never know. The summits are set off to spectacular effect by deep gorges, bamboo groves, trickling rivers and a hundred foot-high waterfall that drops into a deep pool over smoothed ivory-white sandstone. On either side of the paths up lie massive yellow boulders, perched precariously, as if at one touch of a finger you could start an avalanche of ten-tonne rocks. At the top of the first climb lies an old temple, perhaps left standing by the Red Guards in the knowledge that they would some day be able to charge an entrance fee to it from Capitalist Roaders and Foreign Devils.
We climbed on for another mile or so, the steps petering out to become a wild dirt path, then began to run out of time. We stopped at a huge boulder, flat as a tabletop, which we used as a viewpoint to take in the mountains and sea below. The sea had taken an azure sparkle that merged seamlessly in a pale, blurred, china-white horizon with the cloudless sunny sky. There were no other tourists here, no souvenir stalls. I didn't need any more Taoist trinkets or fake-gold smiling Buddha's. This was my temple: nature at its most awesome. I reflected that this was the first time since I'd arrived in China I'd been up a mountain with a view of the sea. The scene unfurled over me like a soft white sheet on a clean bed: warm sunshine, mountains, sea and peace, acres of space and fresh air between me and the dirty, over-populated, manic bustle of developing China.
In fact, the mountain range covers an impressive 400 square kilometres, and lies just over one hour (if you're not on a tour bus) from Qingdao, along the coast road of the narrow, stunning peninsula on which the city sits. Lao Shan, in ancient China, was believed to be the home of the Immortals. Apparently there used to be 72 temples dotted around the mountains here, but nearly all of them were razed to the ground during the Cultural Revolution. I formed an image in my mind of a bunch of uneducated teenage Red Guards running amok in the mountains, hell-bent on mindless destruction in honour of Mao, grabbing and smashing artefacts and treasures more ancient and important than they could ever imagine. I looked at my novelty Mao watch, and decided to smash it at the first opportunity.
We climbed rough stone steps which seemed to go on for so long we wouldn't have been surprised if we'd ended up in the clouds, bumping into a few of those old Immortal guys. The mountains are stunning, gnarled, knobbly, their bent, aged peaks seeming to nod and watch as you climb, as if the mountains are old men with a million secrets, and a knowledge you will never know. The summits are set off to spectacular effect by deep gorges, bamboo groves, trickling rivers and a hundred foot-high waterfall that drops into a deep pool over smoothed ivory-white sandstone. On either side of the paths up lie massive yellow boulders, perched precariously, as if at one touch of a finger you could start an avalanche of ten-tonne rocks. At the top of the first climb lies an old temple, perhaps left standing by the Red Guards in the knowledge that they would some day be able to charge an entrance fee to it from Capitalist Roaders and Foreign Devils.
We climbed on for another mile or so, the steps petering out to become a wild dirt path, then began to run out of time. We stopped at a huge boulder, flat as a tabletop, which we used as a viewpoint to take in the mountains and sea below. The sea had taken an azure sparkle that merged seamlessly in a pale, blurred, china-white horizon with the cloudless sunny sky. There were no other tourists here, no souvenir stalls. I didn't need any more Taoist trinkets or fake-gold smiling Buddha's. This was my temple: nature at its most awesome. I reflected that this was the first time since I'd arrived in China I'd been up a mountain with a view of the sea. The scene unfurled over me like a soft white sheet on a clean bed: warm sunshine, mountains, sea and peace, acres of space and fresh air between me and the dirty, over-populated, manic bustle of developing China.
Qingdao
Undone by insomnia, travel fatigue, dehydration, and a nasty chest, sinus and urinary infection-combo, I stared out at the sea as if looking at the shifting surface of another planet. It had been so long since I'd seen the sea I'd forgotten how alien it can look. Mist enshrouded it; seaweed skirted it; white gulls cried and swooped down into it; colours of briny-brown, mustard yellow, jade green, electric blue. I crunched down a pebble shell beach, took off shoes and socks, and stood in the shallows like a holidaying pensioner, the cold water pulling at my ankles and caressing my toes, then coughed up some of my own alien yellow substance and added it to the water.
The old district of Qingdao is a pretty jumble of various tasty influences, seemingly thrown together and stirred brusquely without recipe. There's a pier (Zhang Qiao), with a long wooden promenade like many English seaside resorts, except, unlike in Brighton or Weston Supermare, there's a pagoda at the end of it selling Chinese tourist junk (you can see it on the Tsingtao beer label). Rugged mountains in the background, sandstone and knobbly, provide the city with a horseshoe-shaped shelter, rather resembling Nice or Cannes on the Cote d'Azur. Battleships and submarines lie like cold dead fish on the surface of the water, which reminded me of The Hoe, in Plymouth. Add to that the fact that the Germans occupied the city for many years, giving it not just its famous Tsingtao beer, but also its old-town architecture - brash castles where the Governors once lived, surrounded by narrow streets of yellow sandstone houses with red roofs - before then being handed over to the Japanese after the Treaty of Versailles, then you can appreciate my confusion. Where, exactly, was I? I was still in China, I knew, because there were thousands of Chinese people all around me, many of whom still, reassuringly, came up to me, garbled 'Hahlaow!' then walked off laughing; but in many ways Qingdao did not resemble the China I knew, loved, and hated.
Was that a good or a bad thing?
A Strange Dream
That evening Danuka gave me some strange brown powder, along with bright green and yellow pills that looked like M&M's, alleging them to be full of calcium, vitamins and Chinese herbal remedies. I sank into a spluttering, stuttering sleep, having the strangest dreams, of which this is an example:
Tam and I are eating in a typically noisy Chinese restaurant. We're the only foreigners there. I'm tucking into one of my favourite dishes, beef noodles in chilli sauce. It's impossible to eat this dish without slurping it, making a nasty noise your mother would have told you off about as a child. On trains, at roadside stalls, or in restaurants all over China, however, it's a common noise:
'Sssssshhhhhhlllllleeeeeeooooooooo-puh!'
So I'm slurping and sucking my noodles, making a bit of a mess. However, every time I suck and slurp, every Chinese person in the restaurant starts tutting at me in a disapproving manner, shaking their heads and making faces at each other. This is making me really self-conscious. I try to eat my noodles silently, picking up a few strands at a time with my chopsticks then biting into them, but I still make a noise. I can't help it! And to cap it all, every Chinese in the place continues to spit and gob, clear their nasal passages with a howk onto the floor, and sook and slurp away until their hearts' content. Surely, if this is acceptable, then my slurping of noodles should not be criticized?
Worse is to come as Tam goes to the toilet. Now, toilets in China are nothing to write home about, not unless you're an Environmental Health officer on a busman's holiday, anyway. They are of the squat design, stink to high heaven, usually have filthy floors covered in human waste, paper and water, and brown disgusting stools stuck to the porcelain which the cleaner, if there is one at all, will need dynamite to shift. When Tam returns a few minutes later, the whole restaurant goes up in arms, complaining about the smell. They refuse to finish their meals, or even pay for them, threatening to walk out if something is not done about the horrible stench left by the foreigner. They accuse us of having no manners at all - we slurp our noodles rudely and leave a terrible smell in the toilets - all the time clearing their noses, spitting onto the linoleum and shouting at the top of their voices.
The old district of Qingdao is a pretty jumble of various tasty influences, seemingly thrown together and stirred brusquely without recipe. There's a pier (Zhang Qiao), with a long wooden promenade like many English seaside resorts, except, unlike in Brighton or Weston Supermare, there's a pagoda at the end of it selling Chinese tourist junk (you can see it on the Tsingtao beer label). Rugged mountains in the background, sandstone and knobbly, provide the city with a horseshoe-shaped shelter, rather resembling Nice or Cannes on the Cote d'Azur. Battleships and submarines lie like cold dead fish on the surface of the water, which reminded me of The Hoe, in Plymouth. Add to that the fact that the Germans occupied the city for many years, giving it not just its famous Tsingtao beer, but also its old-town architecture - brash castles where the Governors once lived, surrounded by narrow streets of yellow sandstone houses with red roofs - before then being handed over to the Japanese after the Treaty of Versailles, then you can appreciate my confusion. Where, exactly, was I? I was still in China, I knew, because there were thousands of Chinese people all around me, many of whom still, reassuringly, came up to me, garbled 'Hahlaow!' then walked off laughing; but in many ways Qingdao did not resemble the China I knew, loved, and hated.
Was that a good or a bad thing?
A Strange Dream
That evening Danuka gave me some strange brown powder, along with bright green and yellow pills that looked like M&M's, alleging them to be full of calcium, vitamins and Chinese herbal remedies. I sank into a spluttering, stuttering sleep, having the strangest dreams, of which this is an example:
Tam and I are eating in a typically noisy Chinese restaurant. We're the only foreigners there. I'm tucking into one of my favourite dishes, beef noodles in chilli sauce. It's impossible to eat this dish without slurping it, making a nasty noise your mother would have told you off about as a child. On trains, at roadside stalls, or in restaurants all over China, however, it's a common noise:
'Sssssshhhhhhlllllleeeeeeooooooooo-puh!'
So I'm slurping and sucking my noodles, making a bit of a mess. However, every time I suck and slurp, every Chinese person in the restaurant starts tutting at me in a disapproving manner, shaking their heads and making faces at each other. This is making me really self-conscious. I try to eat my noodles silently, picking up a few strands at a time with my chopsticks then biting into them, but I still make a noise. I can't help it! And to cap it all, every Chinese in the place continues to spit and gob, clear their nasal passages with a howk onto the floor, and sook and slurp away until their hearts' content. Surely, if this is acceptable, then my slurping of noodles should not be criticized?
Worse is to come as Tam goes to the toilet. Now, toilets in China are nothing to write home about, not unless you're an Environmental Health officer on a busman's holiday, anyway. They are of the squat design, stink to high heaven, usually have filthy floors covered in human waste, paper and water, and brown disgusting stools stuck to the porcelain which the cleaner, if there is one at all, will need dynamite to shift. When Tam returns a few minutes later, the whole restaurant goes up in arms, complaining about the smell. They refuse to finish their meals, or even pay for them, threatening to walk out if something is not done about the horrible stench left by the foreigner. They accuse us of having no manners at all - we slurp our noodles rudely and leave a terrible smell in the toilets - all the time clearing their noses, spitting onto the linoleum and shouting at the top of their voices.
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