Day 36 – Melancholy in paradise; Mui Ne

 I’m walking down the strip beside the sea, when some dude in a long ponytail on a motorbike comes up and palms me a flyer. “Check it out” he says, “five dollar buckets.” I have no intention but back at my bungalow I meet three American’s lounging, waiting for their bus leaving at one AM. We’re bored so we head over to Pogos, the local Boho place. Just a few backpackers inside but you can set your own music and there’s a pool table so we stay. The American’s intend to get right sloshed for their bus ride back to Saigon. I feel it’s my duty to help them. Buckets - coke and vodka. The bartender empties half a bottle into it.

I run into a fellow Canadian, Andrew, 23 from Ottawa. He’s got a surfer’s laidback calm and no shirts to speak of. He was backpacking across southeast Asia until Vietnam got ahold of him. He’s been here for four months. DJing six nights a week for room and board. Lounging in sun chairs during the day and trying to pickup whatever girls happen by. “See that one,” he points out to me, “I’ve been hanging onto her for every day she’s been here.” We order more buckets, gin this time (free on the house) while talking about home and playing pool. We’re so bad it takes and hour to finish.

At this time the Americans are gone, the girls too. Out comes the late night music. Ponytail dude and his gothic Asian girlfriend take requests. Nine Inch Nail, Deftones, Korn and Tool. We’re drinking more too. Ponytail dude keeps feeding us Rum and pineapple cocktails. I’m swooning on the dancefloor. Andrew’s friend from another bar comes over. Baggy jeans and t-shirt, and a toque pulled right down over his eyes, he doesn’t say a word just lights up his bong. We pass it around in the middle of the dancefloor. 1, 2, 5 times I don’t know, everything is spinning by this time. 

When native tribes reach out to their gods, this must be how it feels. Lights dim, music overwhelming, multiple substances coursing through their veins, tired but not feeling it, elation taking over. ‘The Nobodies’, courtesy of family values patriarch Marilyn Manson comes on over the speakers. Slow and then it picks it up “today I’m dirty, I want to be pretty, tomorrow I know I’m just dead.” Then we’re screaming out the chorus “we’re the nobodies, want to be somebodies, will tell ya we know just who we are.” The surf keeps rolling in one wave at a time playing to its own melody. Somehow I end up back in my bungalow. Small miracles we can pray for them, but sometimes they just happen.

Day 33 – Bia hoi

One thing North America needs to import is the unstructured, coziness and friendliness of the Bia hoi. That’s short for a couple plastic stools thrown onto the sidewalk, with some battered metal tables onto which litre jugs of beer are placed. Mix with random strangers and locals along with a steady stream of hawkers, cyclos, beggars and prostitutes and nothing gets boring. 

I plopped myself down beside a guy dressed to go door-to-door for the Mormons but he  was just a English teacher, out to quaff a few down after a busy 20 hour work week. Craig, an Aussie,  was a peculiar chap. He seemed to be trying to escaping the rigidity and conformism of modern society. He railed against the regulations and endless rules of the modern state, but all with a detached shrug of his shoulders. “You see all over these streets (Saigon) no lights, no signs. People going any direction they want. It’s total chaos, but it works. It works for them. There’s so few accidents every year.” For Craig, Vietnam was a lesson for more developed countries. “Right here what we have is Chaos Theory at work. That’s completely what it is.” I’m not sure about Chaos Theory but riding through those streets on the back of a motorbike, no helmet, nothing to hang on to, potential disaster around every corner, I felt more alive than ever.

Day 32 – Pudong Airport (Shanghai)

I love irony – just not when it happens to me. In order to reach the airport on time, I thought it would make great style to take the magnetic train. It reaches speeds of 400 km/h and supposedly gets to the airport in just eight minutes. Only problem, it doesn’t even leave from anywhere near the city-centre. In order to get on this behemoth take the subway for half and hour and get off the line going towards the airport - makes sense, right? Transfer, security check, half hour wait for the damn thing to start and you’re off. 

Outcome; I get to the ticket desk one hour to takeoff. Desk lady says “we’re no longer accepting passengers, luggage has already been taken”. One fucking hour. I say, “I’ve got legs, a back and can carry my own luggage, give me the damn ticket.” Off I go. Customs – some Romanians and Chinese wielding the English language with the preciseness of a drunken newfie stall the line. My bag arrives and gets raped of anything remotely containing water. I rage telling the security guys that “I’m going to kill someone if this keeps up,” they don’t understand a word and keep on digging new things out. Twenty minutes till takeoff I run fully loaded to the end of the terminal. 

Check in and find my luggage is ending up with everyone else’s. Sweat-drenched, red-faced and huffing I sit down just before the plane takes off, next to a hawk-nosed women, missing her broom, quaffing glass after glass of cheap Chinese wine. Flight made.

Day 28 – Yangtze River; Crusin' Chinese style

I opted for the Chinese cruise instead of the international one. It makes for more interesting traveling. The tour agency gave me a sheet of paper with some phrases in Mandarin on it. Nobody on the boat speaks English so this should be a bit of a trial. I’ve packed my bags with granola bars, dried fruit and the processed meat sticks the Chinese love to snack on. The canteen sells limited meals of greasy noodles and other unpalatable, nameless dishes. 

Inside the ship the floor buckles and groans as I duck to fit through the low passageways. The sights are interesting but unremarkable generally covered in the dense fog usually reserved for Chinese cities. More interesting are my fellow passengers. Up on the sun deck they huddle in little groups under the awning avoiding the sun playing cards and constantly eating. There is a fight for the plastic seats anytime we leave and get back on the boat. 

Near dusk as everyone eats dinner things start to heat up a bit. Riotous singing emanates from the Karaoke room below decks. A lone man missing a shirt drunkenly belts out tunes for his fellow travelers. Up top the men bring out clear liquor, passing around shots of the fiery substance. As it gets darker and people start to retire below deck they start to sing folk songs. Two older men with their feet up on the rails lead. As one forgets the words the other fills in and continues. I stare out at the darkness and the lights from a nearby town twinkling down the river. A little girl has taken her parents camera and keeps trying to take my picture, flashing the camera in my face. She tries to act stealthily but the obviousness of her intention is quite funny. The river continues to pass on in the darkness.

Day 24 – Lhasa to Chongqing Express

The platform is virtually deserted as I run to the train. I’m late but still have to rush through three sets of soldiers providing security. The big green locomotive has already started as I hop aboard. First class for the two day journey to Chongqing. Riding second class on Chinese trains is a little much. Six to a compartment and 3 narrow bunks on either side. The Chinese make no distinction for gender placing male and female together. First class only has 4 bunks and actual carpeting. Not the cheap, spit drenched linoleum of the other areas.

This time only one bunk is filled. He’s a Malaysian in his 50’s from Sabah. Mr. Wong pores over his little book of Chinese railways. He’s been traveling by train in China for a month and on his way back home by way of Thailand. He doesn’t work anymore, just travels. Underneath his bed is one modest sized backpack with a change or two of clothes and some ramen noodles. His wife has called him home to visit his daughter studying in England. We exchange routes. Wong keeps trying to get me to go by train to Hanoi through Yunnan province. It sounds exciting but means a day or two more on the train and I’ve had about enough of Chinese trains as I can bear. I’m surviving on mandarin oranges and ramen, sucking back oxygen and hoping I don’t have to use the piss covered toilet.

Sitting on my bunk because of nowhere else to sit, it induces a feeling of not knowing where I am. Especially with the unchanging Tibetan plateau that stretches on unbroken, brown punctuated by patches of shiny white snow. I haven’t seen any green for almost two weeks and it would nice just to see a tree or two.

Day 20 – Everest Base Camp

 The pounding headache had become a permanent fixture. I am doubled up, clutching my stomach, staring at the floor as we climb the final pass towards Mount Everest. The Himalayas snow covered peaks emerge in the distance from the dusty brown hills on either side. Around and around we go, slowly descending. The tourist van has to slow to a crawl to take the corners. The gravel road lends a constant jittering that goes through my entire body. I drink water and piss it out. Drink and piss. This is supposed to help. No idea if it does, it still feels as if everything is pressing down.

At the end of the dry river gully, buildings form. Clutching the side is Ronbruk Monastery. Elevation is  at 5000 meters. This is the highest monastery in the world. In the same frame sits Everest. The sky is a deep blue. Wisps of clouds swirl around its peak. The mountain thrusts itself up from gully floor. The top is dark and barren. Snow covers below. Walking up a little hill to get a better view utterly exhausts me, but I don’t feel it. The wind whips around. I hide behind prayer flags for shelter and pop out to take pictures like I am firing arrows at the holy mountain.

Fatigues and drinks

 Day 16 – Lhasa

In its past isolation Lhasa developed mythical qualities that lent an aura of exoticism and spirituality for those entering the city for the first time. Unfortunately that time is long past. Fifty years of Chinese occupation have created, ‘surprise’, a Chinese city. The first thing you notice on leaving the train station is the gates closing up behind you by a unit of soldiers. The way behind is barred. Convoys of military trucks line the road into the city. Red flags overhead. The first thing I hear from a Tibetan’s mouth is, “this is not mainland China. Rules here are different.” Sliding through the city I notice soldiers in glass boxes at every major intersection. First morning in Lhasa I took an early morning stroll behind the hostel in the heavily Tibetan ‘Barkhor’ district. Across the street soldiers chant as they march back and forth. In the narrow winding streets schoolchildren hurry to class and adults begin to open up their stores. It’s very quiet. Around every corner groups of soldiers watch the early morning action. At this time of the day they outnumber everyone else. Their eyes follow me until I turn the corner whereupon a new set of eyes takes their place. This is the Tibetan reality. The military presence cannot be ignored. It clouds every action and movement within Lhasa.

Day 18 – Lhasa

After a heavy day of looking like a clueless tourist, I went in search of food and drink. Walking along Beijing Dong Lu (quaint name for the Lhasa’s main street), I heard loud laughter and hectoring abuses coming from a balcony above. I went up to investigate. Druze Restaurant is a classy joint with groups of well-heeled Westerners daintily picking at their food. Through the double doors out onto the balcony was a different scene. Empty bottles of Jack Daniel sit on the table. Cups are scattered. Hanging over the edge are two middle-aged and two younger males yelling in thick Aussie accents at the clueless and frightened Tibetans below.

I order some drinks and talk to the youngest one Harry, 19. He says the other young guy is his best mate and the really drunk old guy making faces and sputtering noises is his dad. The guy with long greasy locks and a Hitler stash is a friend of his father who’s hosting them in China. I become the ‘Canadian’ and am asked if I want to roast some marshmallows over a fire. I reply I wouldn’t mind except some people might object to starting a fire on the balcony. The Aussies are celebrating being able to drink after being unable to do so for a couple days due to elevation sickness. Harry tells me of his night before, hiring a taxi driver to help them pick up prostitutes and how after arguing over the price they booted the driver and drove the taxi themselves.

The father finally has some success with his hectoring. A Tibetan has given up his 50cc bike, which he takes for a spin down the main drag, weaving in and out of traffic, kicking his legs out to side for effect.

Harry comes back from an unsuccessful bathroom search in which he accidentally went into the kitchen. The kitchen he says has week-old pots stacked up and cockroaches crawling on the floor. He promptly asks me if I want to help him trash the place for keeping such dirty facilities. I politely decline. “It’s the Aussie thing to do,” he says. “Were crazy, yesterday my mate accidentally hit a soldier and I had to keep giving him smokes to keep him calm.”

Mule train

Day 13 Hua Shan

Travel is often characterized as delays followed by mad rushes. Even in this day of modern transportation it still holds true. Witness my day trying to get to the holy mountain Hua Shan about 170 km outside of Xian. Take a city bus from the hostel to the train station in the morning rush. What should have taken ten minutes morphs into 30. Find the public tourist bus among a parking lot of others. A sticker the size of my fist distinguishes it. Wait for 40 min for it to fill up. Hour and a half bus ride to the town nearest the mountain. Take a taxi to the visitor’s center. Rush onto an overpriced bus for 10 min to get to the trailhead. Wait in line for two hours for the cable car that eventually deposits you 1500m up after a five min ride. Take two hours to hike behind a pack of people so dense it’s impossible to pass them up the trail. Occasionally some stop to take pictures or to take a breather, so you briefly rush past them only to get stuck behind another group.

I’m beginning to develop a mature hatred for tour groups. In their matching baseball caps and guide leading them with a little flag they look like school children. They stick together in packs making lineups a hassle and frequently block off entrances and exits. Fuck them. 

While Hua Shan is one of the most beautiful mountains I have ever seen with it’s sheer, white rock thrusting out of the ground like bony limbs and vibrant greenery clinging to the sides, the human element is another story. What is supposed to be one of the five holiest mountains in China has turned into an amusement park. The cable car has permitted anyone with half-a-brain to make the climb. You see elderly fresh out of the nursing home, women in dress shoes, kids being carried up by their parents and lots of people climbing in their jeans. Souvenir shops and snack bars proliferate. You can get your name carved on a medallion to show you climbed the mountain or stop for lunch halfway. Dozens of photographers hawk their abilities promising instant photos you can carry down with you. Knickknacks, souvenirs plastic shit that break a couple miles down the road, this is now what the mountain is covered with.

Maybe I being unfair, places of beauty are there to be shared by all. But somehow the mass consumer tourism manages to diminish everything it touches.

The carnival atmosphere is actually welcome at the ancient temple at the bottom; fireworks crackle continuously, incense drifts in huge clouds, priests give out fortunes. In the streets outside, every little souvenir imaginable is being sold but there is much more than that. I see old man playing Chinese chess, one-man-band, beggars missing arms and legs and one with a grotesque growth on the side of the head, a midget and countless day-trippers swarming around. The chaos here seems right at home.

Left for dead

 Day 9 Pingyao, Shanxi Province

Spent the day traveling with an ageing hippie couple from San Francisco. They’re a sight by themselves; 70 and 71 years old, long grey hair and long grey beard for the chap and they like to do the same things as all the young backpackers, such as staying in a cheap hostels and eating wherever it’s convenient.

We rented a taxi today and went up into the northern hills about 40 km outside of Pingyao. The area is dry and dusty with few trees or tall buildings. Everything is low to the ground. The road eventually narrows into a small track barely wide enough for the car, as it winds its way along the side of the hills. Deep and sudden gorges permeate the land. Everything is a dull tan and dry as a bone. No green shoots poke up from the ground. The hills rise in steps from the terracing. The land looks as if it has been inhabited for thousands of years. Every foot shows evidence of man’s habitation.

In the distance walls and then houses emerge out of the ground. The same tawny tan colour. They’re oddly shaped. As we get closer it’s possible to see how the land and houses are one. Holes are drilled into the side of the hills leading to caves. Sometimes mud brick continues above forming a second storey. Many of the caves are abandoned. Debris lines the floor and the mud straw plaster is peeling from the walls. A few are still inhabited. Amongst a cluster of houses 10 or so elderly Chinese squat, staring at us the strange visitors. Their deeply browned faces hold many lines. Not one is under fifty. This is what passes for village in these parts. All the young have left for the cities. Only the old and disabled live in these cave houses anymore. 

Our driver takes us into one ladies house. In it are two rooms. One for storage with all her root vegetables and the other for living. An old coal fired iron stove dominates the middle, heating a fire underneath the raised bed. The only modern contraptions are a TV and humidifier. There’s no running water, gas or sewage. Tools are basic and everything is done by hand. The old lady says she’s in her 80’s and now lives alone. See can’t see well and say’s see needs glasses.

We walk to the next nearby village. Up a hill, the feet of hundreds of sheep have turned the dusty sides into sand. We enter a courtyard that’s seen better days. The driver calls out but nobody responds. He opens one of the cave doors and I follow closely behind. All I see first is an old mottled foot; they lead to an ancient Chinese man resting on his bed. He doesn’t notice us and appears dead. The driver is backing out quickly and pushes me back out of the cave. There are two other doors but we don’t try them. We quickly head back to the car as the driver tells us this village is not one for exploring. It’s the last refuge for the sick and dying. Too frail to move to the city to seek help and no young people around to care for them, they just wait for their final breath.

Complications

 Day 3 Beijing

Once you get past all the scams and hucksters trying to milk you for every last dollar, China is a pretty cool place. In the Forbidden City a random young man with passable English randomly came up and started talking to me. He said he was and art student from the country on a school trip in Beijing to display some of their artwork. He asked if I wanted to see some of it I declined. He then asked what I was going to do in Beijing. I mentioned going to see the Great Wall. By coincidence his school had rented a minibus and was going there tomorrow. What great luck for me that I could join for only 160 Yuan. I quickly made my exit.

Day 4 Beijing

Possibly the most weirdest human impulse is to preserve the bodies of great leaders in death. The Egyptians did it. The Soviet Union famously preserved Lenin for a time. Today China is the one, if only country that continues this dastardly ritual.

At the south end of Tiananmen Square lies a squat square building done up in socialist style with forbidding columns, extended windows and a flat enfolding roof. After storing all my stuff in locker I passed through the security detail running a metal detector over anyone entering the square. I was so eager to get in line to see Mao because the Mausoleum was closing in less than 30 min, that I bumped the supervising policemen. He turned towards me slowly moving nothing as though he were on a pedestal. I looked at him and he stared back behind his wraparound sunglasses and oversized police cap. I gave a slight bow not knowing any Chinese and he turned slowly back. Nothing more than a gnat I was.

Beyond, a line snakes around the side of the building, inexorably moving forward like a slow-moving river. Piles of lighters form alongside as the men get rid of their last forbidden items. Past another security checkpoint people finally enter the building. A statue of the Great Leader dominates the first anteroom. Piles of flowers almost conceal it. Officials keep the crowd from stopping, pushing them forward into the next room where Mao’s body sits. Lying in a glass container all I see at first is a body draped in a flag. Coming around the side a head starts to take shape. It’s huge and the only flesh exposed. The flesh is pinkish with a reddish undercolour. It seems completely alien and unreal. Plastic in a way. But it’s only seconds and we're out the door, into the bright sunshine and past the inevitable souvenir stands selling bric-a-brac with Mao’s (younger) face on them.