As you well know, one of the first things a student does on entering a new country, after checking out the new stamp in their passport of course, is to find somewhere to sleep and then head for the nearest bar. I was no different. Admittedly, I was quite taken with the stamp I got in China: it was one of those rare breeds where the ink was perfect and there was no smudging or fading to be seen, a truly wonderful sight for any enthusiastic, and slightly over-excited traveller like myself.
After getting the train from Hong Kong it was a relief to see the smog-bound metropolis change into a more pastoral and relaxed scene, indicating that I had crossed the border into Guangzhou. I found myself engrossed in the changing scenery and yet it was hard to ignore the loud conversation held by the people a few seats back. A kind but slightly eccentric man was asking if the white folk behind me knew the Queen. I smiled to myself as I realised I would soon get used to the quirks of China.
After being ushered through passport control, where I was faced with a large sign informing me that it was illegal to preach religion or facilitate feudal rebellion, I was finally free to start my adventure in Southern China, with the authorities quite satisfied that I wasn’t a revolutionary.
My master plan was to take a leisurely cruise down the River Li to witness the spectacular limestone pinnacles puncturing the blue sky. This peaceful illusion was shattered however, after taking a chairlift up the Yao Mountain in Guilin. The first thing I heard was a squeal and what I can only assume to be a torrent of Chinese swear words before I saw something fly down what can only be described as an aluminium track. All common sense seemed to desert me and despite the fact I didn’t know the Chinese for broken leg, I found myself strapped into a helmet, sat on a cross between a Luge and a push bike tearing down the side of a mountain. I can’t describe the experience as poetically as I did my river cruise. Frankly, the only words springing to mind are bloody terrifying. And yet it was possibly one of the most exhilarating experiences I have ever had and if any of you ever get the chance to tear down a mountain on a contraption that would be more at home on Scrapheap Challenge, I urge you all to answer in the affirmative.
Unsurprisingly, my trip to the Reed Flute Cave seemed quite tame in comparison, getting its name from the reeds growing near the entrance, which are made into musical instruments. Expecting the usual collection of stalagmites and stalactites, and no, I have no idea which is which, I was surprised to find myself entering a subterranean world of mystery, with romantically-named formations such as Fruit Mountain being subtly lit to give the place a magical feel more likely to be home to Tinkerbell than Gollum.
As darkness fell that evening I found myself going back to the river in search of a man (and his bird, I hasten to add). The area is famous for cormorant fishing and I knew I had reached the right place when the riverbank was lit up by spectacular flaming torches and cormorants perched, waiting for the night shift to begin. We boarded a boat and sat in the river as a man punted a bamboo raft with a cormorant perched on the end. Suddenly, the bird left the boat with a graceful elegance and returned later with a fish in his mouth. The spectacle was repeated again and again and I felt the urge to tell Richard Hammond that in actual fact, forget Morrissons, fish doesn’t come any fresher than this.
With the risk of sounding corny, I like to see the real country rather than the tourist trail that many guide books encourage us to follow, and for this reason I decided to hire a bike. Ok, I’m not the best cyclist in the world and yes, I had failed to take my cycling proficiency test at school, and this is possibly the reason why I had a narrow escape with an ox and a surprised lady carrying a baby in a papoose. The bikes were only £1 for the day and I decided to cycle into the countryside, a challenge for even the best of cyclists. The bike had a suspension that shook the very bones in your body, and a steering system that had you closing your eyes and hoping you’d missed the chickens that had literally decided to cross the road to get to the other side. Children chased our bikes as we rode, shouting ‘Agila’ (ghost), and I knew we had made celebrity status as mothers brought their children out of the house to see the strange westerners who had obviously taken a wrong turn and ended up in their village.
Whilst taking a much-needed break an old lady beckoned me to follow her into her farmhouse. Whilst she was showing me the picture of Chairman Mao hanging in pride of place above her fire, her husband came in from a side room with a bowl and some chopsticks. The contents of the bowl? Fried bees. I was to assume that eating bumble bees was a local delicacy and with an image of bush tucker trials I found myself in a tricky situation. To eat or not to eat, that was the question? So, without Ant or Dec to say ‘you’re a slightly disorientated tourist, get yourself out of here,’ I ate the bees. I am slightly disappointed to report that they genuinely do taste like chicken, only a little crunchier, and I rode back to Yangshuo picking wings from between my teeth.
Other than my river cruise, the one thing I desperately wanted to do was see the renowned light show called Impressions. I sat on a terrace a mile from Yangshuo in the pitch black wondering whether I had made a big mistake because I could see my own breath and let’s face it, I’d wasted a good hour’s drinking time. Suddenly, the area was flooded with light and there were three granite peaks in front of me and a dammed section of river which was to be the stage for the evening. The water was filled with hundreds of people on bamboo rafts telling the story of the fairy singer Sanjie Lui. It was like nothing I’d ever seen before. There was song, dance and acting with the show building up to local fisherman creating a vivid series of red waves on the water only to return with flaming torches for the climax of the show. Admittedly, the script still remains a mystery to me, the language barrier made sure of that, but the truly amazing spectacle of art and nature was not to be missed and I don’t think there would have been enough Tsingtao beer in China to drown my sorrows if I had.
On arriving back in Yangshuo the town was buzzing with the local fishing festival in full swing. There was a concert in the main square and a fireworks display to bid me goodbye as I looked forward to moving on to Bangkok the following day.
Rebecca Vipond
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