pet monkey on a chain played in an open shop-front and animals, including owls, were for sale as food in the market. Knitters abounded. Using wooden or bamboo needles, they clacked away everywhere. I gave in and joined them, buying some wool and a set of needles made of bamboo. I may be a mechanical illiterate, but I am a champion knitter – and I have silver cups and show ribbons to prove it.
I noticed that the people of this district had darker skin and smiled more often than those of the north. And some of the old people were the smallest folk I had ever seen apart from pygmy Papua New Guinea Highlanders. Many were only the size of a ten-year-old. A few old people looked very poor and occasionally I saw an old soul in a patched pyjama suit wandering the streets. But I only saw one beggar; a leg-less young man who inched his way up the road on his hands and his stumps, pushing a money tin before him.
The main street also had many cafés, all of them with outdoor tables and seats to take advantage of the lovely weather. The prices at the cafés were all the same, very cheap. Whenever I sat down at a table someone would join me. At one café, the owner and the cook came to have a bowl of noodles with me and eventually they convinced me that I should go to visit a friend who was said to have some antiques. The café owner and I hopped into the side-car of a motor-cycle taxi and sped off down to the riverside wharf. But here I was disappointed to find only a row of stalls that sold mostly tourist rubbish, reproductions and fake antiques. No real antiques are for sale to the uninitiated in China. It is illegal to sell anything older than 150 years and that does not get you out of the Ching dynasty. The sellers wanted a fortune for anything even remotely old.
The stalls had sprung up on the river bank because this was where boats from up-market Guilin, eighty kilometres away up the River Li, off-loaded the hordes of package tourists who had made the trip down river to view the famous local scenery. The tourists were then returned to Guilin in the comfort of air-conditioned buses. For this privilege they paid 500 yuan. We lesser mortals, who chose to stay in down-market Yanshu, did the same trip in the opposite direction. Except that we went both ways by boat and took much longer, we saw the same sights for forty yuan.
Through Khai, the hostel manager, I arranged to go on this river trip one morning. After the usual hour’s wait, I was marched to the wharf by a guide/keeper and plonked into a narrow wooden boat with an outboard motor, a driver-cum-captain and six other travellers. Then we waited some more while extra trade was drummed up along the wharf. Finally, with a complement of eight passengers and the bikes of those who wanted to ride back from one of the villages tied on the rear of the boat, we chugged off up the river.
Our guide spoke no English, which was a real help, but she had the happiest face I had seen in China. We sat two across in the boat on wooden chairs that looked like kindergarten escapees –microscopic pygmy seats for two-year-olds that were somehow reasonably comfortable.
Despite the clouds of pollution that hung around, it was a superb morning. The river was wide and, except in places where there was an eddy, its clear green water flowed placidly. In many spots the river-bank was lined by huge, but delicate, feathery bamboos. Small fish were jumping and, looking down, I saw that the water was shallow enough to see the stones on the river bottom– and the odd plastic container or bag that reposed among them.
The river and its edges were astir with life and activity. People fished from boats or the bank using big nets or small hand-held scoops. Sampans and houseboats went about their business, but the most common water transport were simple raft boats that were made by tying six thick bamboo poles with turned-up ends together. Boatmen did not sit on these flimsy-looking craft, they stood up and
I noticed that the people of this district had darker skin and smiled more often than those of the north. And some of the old people were the smallest folk I had ever seen apart from pygmy Papua New Guinea Highlanders. Many were only the size of a ten-year-old. A few old people looked very poor and occasionally I saw an old soul in a patched pyjama suit wandering the streets. But I only saw one beggar; a leg-less young man who inched his way up the road on his hands and his stumps, pushing a money tin before him.
The main street also had many cafés, all of them with outdoor tables and seats to take advantage of the lovely weather. The prices at the cafés were all the same, very cheap. Whenever I sat down at a table someone would join me. At one café, the owner and the cook came to have a bowl of noodles with me and eventually they convinced me that I should go to visit a friend who was said to have some antiques. The café owner and I hopped into the side-car of a motor-cycle taxi and sped off down to the riverside wharf. But here I was disappointed to find only a row of stalls that sold mostly tourist rubbish, reproductions and fake antiques. No real antiques are for sale to the uninitiated in China. It is illegal to sell anything older than 150 years and that does not get you out of the Ching dynasty. The sellers wanted a fortune for anything even remotely old.
The stalls had sprung up on the river bank because this was where boats from up-market Guilin, eighty kilometres away up the River Li, off-loaded the hordes of package tourists who had made the trip down river to view the famous local scenery. The tourists were then returned to Guilin in the comfort of air-conditioned buses. For this privilege they paid 500 yuan. We lesser mortals, who chose to stay in down-market Yanshu, did the same trip in the opposite direction. Except that we went both ways by boat and took much longer, we saw the same sights for forty yuan.
Through Khai, the hostel manager, I arranged to go on this river trip one morning. After the usual hour’s wait, I was marched to the wharf by a guide/keeper and plonked into a narrow wooden boat with an outboard motor, a driver-cum-captain and six other travellers. Then we waited some more while extra trade was drummed up along the wharf. Finally, with a complement of eight passengers and the bikes of those who wanted to ride back from one of the villages tied on the rear of the boat, we chugged off up the river.
Our guide spoke no English, which was a real help, but she had the happiest face I had seen in China. We sat two across in the boat on wooden chairs that looked like kindergarten escapees –microscopic pygmy seats for two-year-olds that were somehow reasonably comfortable.
Despite the clouds of pollution that hung around, it was a superb morning. The river was wide and, except in places where there was an eddy, its clear green water flowed placidly. In many spots the river-bank was lined by huge, but delicate, feathery bamboos. Small fish were jumping and, looking down, I saw that the water was shallow enough to see the stones on the river bottom– and the odd plastic container or bag that reposed among them.
The river and its edges were astir with life and activity. People fished from boats or the bank using big nets or small hand-held scoops. Sampans and houseboats went about their business, but the most common water transport were simple raft boats that were made by tying six thick bamboo poles with turned-up ends together. Boatmen did not sit on these flimsy-looking craft, they stood up and
Similar Books
