Yang Zi Jie On Yang Zi Jiang (Or, Neil's Trip Up The Yangtze)

Part 4: Chungking Express

After spending a final night on the cruise ship, which was docked at port, we disembarked onto the shores of Chongqing. The flashing neon, giant skyscrapers and illuminated hillside buildings we had seen from the top deck the previous night gave way to a misty winter morning. This was my very final leg of the trip, the last three days of exploration before returning to Shanghai. The previous day, during my free travel advice session, the American couple revealed that they would spend a day in Chongqing before flying to Hangzhou. Since I had no better company, I asked if they wanted to join me. They told me that they had already booked a tour guide, but that I was more than welcome to join them instead. And they wouldn't take no for an answer. Arm duly twisted, Neil lucks out again.

The tour guide met us on the dock, surprised that these two old Americans mysteriously produced an unannounced 27-year old son during their four days on the Yangtze. We told her what we wanted to see and she hurredly started making arrangements. Still suspicious of my true origins, she pressed for some answers. After finally telling her that we met on the boat and I wanted to join them for the day, she insisted that I pay a little extra for the transportation and services. In no mood to argue with the troll, I agreed to a very small sum. With no time to haggle, it was reasonable enough. Sometimes it's just easier to go with the flow in China.

Unfortunately, our first choice for sightseeing - the Stilwell Museum, which details the history of the KMT and US General Stilwell, the commander of the American forces during fighting in the 1940s - was closed from December to March, putting a huge damper on the American history buffs present. With no time to sulk, we hit site number two, Ciqikou Ancient Town.

Gettin' Crazy With Sepia Tones!

Set along a hillside like almost everything else in this mountainous city, Ciqikou Ancient Town was the center of porcelain ("china") production in the Ming. Nothing authentic remains, save for a few old, dilapidated buildings. These days, it's a tourist trap, strikingly similar to the water towns around Shanghai. After wandering past a couple shacks selling the local foodstuffs, souvenirs and such, the offerings repeat ad nauseum until you just want to find the nearest exit and continue your day in a more meaningful manner.

Duck In A Bag!

Luckily this sentiment was shared by the two old folks, so we rushed through the town and got back in the van. The guide notified us that, according to the itinerary, it was time to see pandas at the zoo. A collective eye-roll from the American peanut gallery, myself included, at the prospect of wasting time with the little black and white Ewoks. However, without much else to do, we gave in and sped off along the elevated highways snaking around the perimeter of the city's mountains, straight into the heart of town.

Positioned right in the center of Chongqing, the zoo was a pleasant surprise. It is literally right along the street in a bustling traffic zone, like People's Square or Central Park, without much effort required to just pop in for a quick peek at the national treasures on display. In a surprising display of self-aware efficiency, the zoo wastes no time: the panda pits are mere steps from the entrance.

*Collective cry of "Wah, so cute!" from the ladies in the house*

Along with a handful of red ("lesser") pandas - those cuties that look like fluffy, red raccoons - there are seven giant pandas at Chongqing Zoo. Each one has its own open-air, walled enclosure, which was quite a relief to see, compared to the malnourished and depressed cousins I've seen at other Chinese zoos. Although the local visitors are still as retarded as their counterparts across the country, tossing human food (cookies, candy, crisps) at the pandas, I was happy to see that at least the zoo keepers have enough sense to put the animals in large, free areas. There really is nothing more depressing than seeing a shit-brown panda with shaggy, ragged fur pacing back and forth in a tiny, glass cage.

Lesser Red Panda

We arrived at the right moment: feeding time. I was shocked to learn that each of these adorable beasts consumes 20 kilograms of "arrow" bamboo at every meal. That's 44 pounds, or about 175 quarter-pound cheeseburgers from McDonald's (fries not included). The first guy, named something silly like Pi-Pi or Ti-Ti or Robert, had just started to dig in to his massive pile of shoots, leaning back against his comfy wooden throne like Jabba the Hutt. They truly are one of the cutest things to have ever evolved from the natural world, and seeing one up close was a treat.

Holy Crap, That's A Lotta Bamboo!

The panda was "first" discovered by a Frenchman in the 1800s. On an expedition through the Western mountains of China, he happened upon a farmer's house in the forest. As this legend holds, the farmer had a black and white animal hide on his wall, which the Frenchie bought and brought back home. Thus, the modern era of pandamonium began. Though there are only a handful of pandas left in the wild, the government seems to be trying its hardest to preserve the natural symbol of China. When the Sichuan earthquake struck in 2008, the loss of a handful of pandas resulted in a similar outpouring of mourning as for those human lives lost. In addition to preservation, breeding programs are also vital. However, whether pandas just have no libido or prefer other activities to mating, they just aren't doing the nasty. So Chinese breeders came up with the genius idea to show pandas the now infamous "panda porn," visual Viagra for panda males suffering from lack of mojo. Mating season typically falls in March and April, so scientists better get this season's porno ready for uninspired males. Surely panda marital aids are not far behind.

Getting Frisky With The Timber

With a few hours before the Americans had to head east, we enjoyed a lunch of the most famous Chongqing culinary goodness: hot pot. Though I was under the impression that this dish originated in the northern Mongolian parts of the country, who am I to argue? The Sichuan people arguably do it best, in all its numbingly spicy glory. For those unfortunate enough to have never dined in this fashion, a brief primer.

Hot pot - a fairly accurate translation of the Chinese "huo guo", or "fire pot" - involves a big cauldron of bubbling soup at the center of the dining table in which diners toss their raw food, cooking it on the spot and eating it as soon as it's plucked from the boiling water. Simple and healthy. Depending on which part of Asia you're in (or from), hotpot dining varies. Here in central China, the focus is on the heat, which can be so intense your entire mouth loses all sensation.

To judge a Chongqing/Sichuan hotpot, you'll need to be aware of the proper reactions your body will undergo. The key is how numb ("ma") and spicy ("la") the soup base renders your poor taste buds. This mala-ness shouldn't completely destroy your mouth, but should leave you just tingly enough to appreciate the fragrance of the hot chili and Sichuan peppercorns in the soup base. If the prospect of oral torture isn't your bag, most places have pots that are either split down the middle, in a yin-yang pattern, or that are multi-tiered, in the Mongolian style, spicy broth in one section, clear broth in another. Should you be the smart guy to suggest the latter, be prepared to be branded a cowardly pussy by your masochist friends.

Luckily for me, the Americans were brave enough to dive headfirst into the numbingly hot broth. I had been looking forward to this for quite some time, so I admit I was a little nervous they'd chicken out with the bland broth option. When we were seated, I began my tutorial.

1. Make your dipping sauce.
Now, as I mentioned before, this step differs depending on what kind of Chinese person you're eating with. Southeast Asians will dump an ungodly amount of various chili- or tomato-based goop into the bowl, ratching up the spice content to insane levels. Taiwanese combine "sha-cha" sauce, a kind of Chinese barbecue paste made with oil, chili, dried fish bits and garlic, and, in some cases, a raw egg. In Mainland China, I've seen peanut sauce, mashed garlic, scallions, random pink stuff, the list goes on. In my household, we toss whatever is available into the mix. Usually soy sauce, sesame oil, sha-cha sauce and maybe a dash of vinegar. Now I'm getting hungry...

The Americans opted for soy sauce and a little vinegar, while I stuck with the soy and sesame oil. There weren't many other options and that bubbling red broth was calling out to me.


2. Order your food.
It's all raw, of course. This was a little novel for the Americans, but I assured them that they had complete control over how thoroughly cooked their food would be. Anything unsatisfactory would be entirely their own fault. I ordered thinly sliced shavings of beef, lamb and pork. Some pig intestines for myself and a plate of duck intestines ordered at the behest of the staff, who said it was a local favorite. Leafy greens, medallions of potato and squash, glutinous rice cake, vermicelli noodles, frozen tofu and tofu skin. They left the ordering to me, thank God, so little time was wasted futzing with reasons why frozen tofu was better than silky tofu, the difference between fatty pork and regular pork, or why there were so many innards to choose from. I'm salivating at this point...

3. Cook that food!
As I was famished, the waiting time for this stuff to cook was excrutiating. However, watching my dining mates fumble around with chopsticks and self-cooking chunks of raw food provided a lot of distracting entertainment. They managed quite well and the satisfied "mmmm"s and "oooooo"s were validation enough. The mala broth was pretty damn good: not so powerful that I lost all sensation, yet just potent enough to give my tongue that familiar tingle. The spice was fragrant and rich, most enjoyable when doused with free-flowing cheap beer. And yes, those duck intestines were in fact delicious. Like chewy noodles.

After we had feasted, the sweat stains on our shirts and the bright, red cheeks were apt indication that the hotpot had done the trick. I wouldn't say it was the greatest hotpot I'd ever had, since all hotpots have their own merits. But it was an important rite of passage to enjoy one of my favorite Chinese meals in the spot where it has now become most famous.

Lunch finished and less than an hour remaining for me to enjoy genuine human contact, we rushed from the restaurant to the nearby Great Hall of the People (or People's Great Hall or People's Assembly Hall or Chongqing People's Hall...). Upon arrival, I realized this was a bit of a misnomer. As the Great Hall of the People is actually a government building, not all of us lowly plebs are allowed inside the hallowed halls. Nonetheless, the sight of this building atop a hill is still impressive. The roof vaguely resembles Beijing's Temple of Heaven or that big ass hotel on the way from Taoyuan to Taipei, but the building itself is sprawling and wide, columns and pillars lined in rows like a forest of stone.

Before the main staircase to the hall, Chongqing's People's Park spreads out in lovely fashion. Lined with the city's official tree, the banyan, the square was cluttered with locals enjoying the beautiful sunny weather and - surprise surprise - blue sky. Kites aflutter, balloons floating, kids laughing, old people chasing their newspapers blown away by the wind and random gawkers wondering why that silly foreign boy keeps jumping in front of the Great Hall of the People. It was a lovely day.

Americans In The Chonx

On that note, it must be said that if there is one downside to solo travel, it's finding a suitable photographer capable enough to take a good jumping picture. I swear, you would think taking a jump shot was rocket science. On this day, the local tour guide was my only option, as the Americans were too old to be expected to handle the complexity involved. After I asked her, she happily obliged. I'm sure this was not the strangest request she'd received by a foreign traveler. Looking at my camera, she exclaimed "Wow, Canon! I have one of these too!" Breathing a sigh of relief, I was sure she'd know what to do. Wrong. After 3 attempts and a growing crowd of dumbfounded onlookers, the scrutiny was overwhelming and I just told her nevermind. I didn't want to hurt her feelings, but inside I was seething. Another missed jump opportunity (see below). I really need to perfect the self-timed tripod method...

FAIL.

Evading the crowd of gawkers, we continued through the square to the Chongqing Three Gorges Museum just opposite the Great Hall. This complex houses a massive museum dedicated to the Chongqing area and the Three Gorges. From the outside, it looks like any other random structure built in the modern era: ugly. However once inside, it rivals the Shanghai Museum for sheer beauty and class. Bright natural light flooding in from the windows, shimmering on the creamy white marble, visitors subdued enough to create a moderate murmur without being overwhelmingly loud as most local museums tend to be. Since they had to be hasty, we rushed through each floor, absorbing the summarized version of what they had to offer.

Three Gorges Dam history. Three Gorges wildlife and geography. Three Gorges anthropological sites. Tribal artifacts collected from the area. History of these tribes. History of the area from caveman times to the modern era. World War II history. Chinese Civil War and revolutionary history. Even a morbid life-sized model of underground bomb shelters used during Japanese air raids in which hundreds of locals died from suffocation and overcrowding. And this is on the first few floors alone. Unfortunately we didn't have time to fully absorb it all - though that would have been difficult, since 99% of the displays are in Chinese only - but what I saw was enough. This is one of the most impressive museums in the country and very much worth a visit.

Part 5: The Siren's Song

Time came to part with the Americans and I admit I was a little sad. Though 5 days on a cruise with complete strangers doesn't warrant the kind of parting sorrow that accompanies a typical scene of lovers parting in an airport or parents sending their kids off to college, I would miss the conversation and familiarity of fellow liberal Americans. We bid adieu - though I would have a chance some days later to enjoy a meal with them in Shanghai - and the final, solo leg of my trip had begun.

As fate would have it, my hotel was just around the corner from the Great Hall of the People. While checking in, I took advantage of the free internet in the lobby. I had just one goal in mind: I needed a coffee. And how. Being the unfathomable genius that I am, I immediately Googled all Starbucks locations in Chongqing. I picked the one closest to the central sightseeing area of Liberation Monument and amassed all of the focused animal energy that I could muster for my quest. I was feening like a junkie for a crack rock.

Dumping my heavy backpack and a quick turd, I was ready. Like Frodo departing the Shire, I strapped on all that was needed: my journal - to catch up on a few days of writing; a book - to enjoy while sitting in a giant fluffy armchair; and my iPod - to drown out the clucking of the locals. The desire for a soothing cup of coffee burned so deep in my heart that I could have cared less about sightseeing. It would not release me from its addictive grasp. Although I do concede that Starbucks is slightly more enjoyable than a trip to Mount Doom.

Looking at my trusty Lonely Planet map (*sigh*), I deduced that it would be an easy straight shot from the hotel to Liberation Monument. From where I stood to my caffeinated destination, I figured less than an hour would be necessary. The reality was much closer to the harrowing journey undertaken by the Fellowship.

Walking up the road on this uncharacteristically sunny day in China, I could enjoy the city in my own little world. The first thing that struck me: this place is a little similar to Hong Kong. The sidewalks undulate like waves, creating a nice change of scenery from the flat topography of eastern China. The sidewalks and buildings are also charmingly old, allowed to gracefully age from the time when the city's position was integral for the entire country. Street signs, perhaps the best I've seen in China, are written in Chinese characters, pinyin AND English, making it almost impossible to get lost for lack of reading skills. The people, unassuming and quite oblivious to my presence, hardly looked at me, despite the fact that I was the only white-skinned person I saw in 3 days here (strange enough, saw more black people than white). There is also a haphazard and organic placement of the trees and shrubbery that further contribute to the city's personality. It just felt real, less deliberate and artificial than Shanghai and Beijing. There's even a Jiu Long (the Mandarin pronunciation of "Kowloon") section of town.

My thoughts must have distrated me, because before I knew it, I had reached the river. Somewhere along the short stretch, I missed my turn. On the map, the proportions didn't seem that tiny, but there you go. Lonely Planet got docked a few points in my mind. Backtracking, I finally found a road sign that pointed in the general direction of Liberation Monument, so I assumed it was not far off. Trudging uphill, downhill, behind a newspaper stall, across a street, through a bustling alleyway, over a puddle of questionable liquid, past a school, a hospital, a YMCA, a playground and a few temples. I noticed an adorable abundance of pet dogs on the streets of Chongqing, all wearing little sweaters. I must have passed at least 20 in my first hour alone.

Yes, that first hour. As it turns out, Liberation Monument was nowhere near as close as I assumed. By the time the winding road had come to a clear and definite curve in another direction, I was pretty much lost. This zigzag did not resemble the straight line that Lonely Planet had deceived me with. I knew I was at least headed in the right direction, thus I didn't worry too much about taking an overly circuitous route. But the addict's desire was getting stronger and I really needed my hit.

Fortunately, I had come upon a random distraction: the old Chongqing city wall. Hidden quietly along a very short stretch of road in the middle of downtown, this modest length of wall loomed right above the street, archways providing openings for cars to pass through the ancient stone. From street level, it looked to be a nice, peaceful retreat to enjoy a higher city vista with the tweeting birds. Climbing up a steep, rounding staircase, I felt that familiar giddiness that I enjoy so much, assuming my role as a lone explorer traveling through another undiscovered (to me) Chinese city. I love the juxtaposition of such an ageless thing trapped in time amongst such modern surroundings.

Chongqing City Wall

At the top of the staircase, I was surprised to see the entire turret packed with locals on little colorful, plastic chairs. This was the spot to be, apparently. Hanging out, playing cards, chatting the afternoon away. Perhaps my invite to this little party was lost in the mail. Happening upon this low-key block party quite abruptly, I was understandably thrust into the spotlight. With all those eyes honed in on me, I hurriedly scuffled off to a less populated spot of the wall. From that vantage point, the Chongqing skyline still towered high above us, but we still had superior height on the streets below. The hilly streets were even more pronounced and the city-dwelling trees more apparent. For all its simplicity and age, it really is an attractive city. However, before too much time was wasted here, I regained focus on the task at hand and quickly descended back to the street below.

Wandering forth at a quickeningly frustrated pace, I arrived at a fork in the road. Oh, how fate tests us. Down one road, getting lost for hours and killing myself for lack of coffee goodness. Down the other road, certain hope that I would finally have my fix. Using my superior internal GPS capabilities, I chose the "other road" and hoped I had chosen wisely. Searching in vain for any sign at all, whether symbolic or literal, I noticed the crowds getting denser and the advertisements getting brighter and significantly more neon. I had a good feeling about this. Until I came upon an intersection that would try its best to thwart me with not three, but five different roads to choose.

I tried one, but it didn't feel right. So I made a quick U-turn and tried the second. And like a kid chasing a wayward balloon, I absentmindedly followed the flow of the street, right here, left there, up this street, along with that crowd, until I found myself in a crowded area that was home to a random memorial commemorating one of the many Japanese aerial attacks on Chongqing in the '40s. Similar to Nanjing, but with experiences nowhere near as horrific, the sentiment toward the Japanese in this town can be politely described as "bitter." Glancing at the monument, I heard a noisy din in the distance that tugged me back to reality.

In the middle of a packed pedestrian intersection, there was a disheveled and filthy woman with no feet lying on a wheeled plank, dragging herself through the legs of the crowd. In her blistered hand was a loudspeaker replaying the same recording, looped over and over again at max volume:

"OOOOOOOOH, please generous and honorable masters, *sob-sob-whimper* help me, help me please, *sob-sob-anguished cry* Life is misery, please, I am so poor and lowly, "sob-sob-cough-choke-guttural cry* PleeeeeeEEEAAAAase!"

After about 3 or 4 seconds of feeling sorry for this woman, I started to get highly annoyed. I was not the only one. Though metropolitan Chinese are used to this kind of begging, this woman had taken it to new levels. Her bullhorn was so loud it was drowning out the car honking and, with those dramatic sobs tossed in for effect, it was beyond moving. People were wincing from the racket and crinkling their faces in annoyance. Rather than dropping a few coins into her hand, I wanted to push her little cart into oncoming traffic, allowing a passing bus to do us all a messy favor. Save my soul, but anything to stop that incessant gargle of begging.

I tried my best to distance myself from my new friend before I was arrested for murder, so I ducked into the nearest crowd and was dragged along with the flow. And wouldn't you know, the wave took me right to Liberation Monument. I had wandered in a giant circle, but I had finally reached my goal.

Liberation Monument

Liberation Monument (Jiefang Bei) was originally built to commemorate Sun Yatsen's birthday. However, after being liberated from the evil Japanese imperialist invaders, the modest obelisk was rechristened. To cement the symbolic importance of the site, three things were buried beneath it. In this time capsule, the geniuses of the time placed a contemporary Chinese dictionary, a map of China from that period and a newspaper with the headline declaring victory and liberation. Atop the monument is a classic clock made by Rolex. I secretly wondered if it was counterfeit or not. Nowadays, it is the center of a busy shopping district, much like Nanjing Pedestrian Road in Shanghai. While admiring the stately tower, I spied from the corner of my eye a most glorious sight: a smiling mermaid trapped within her little green bubble, singing her siren's song to this thirsty sailor.

I tell you, I almost started crying. Granted, my journey was not that harrowing, but damn it, I had spent over 2 hours trying to find a place that should have technically only taken 30 minutes to find, as I would discover later. I inadvertently exclaimed a "yippee!" or "wooo!" at the discovery and thanked Christ with a quick sign of the cross, much to the shock of the people around me. Almost tripping over my boots in a clumsy rush, I ran towards my emerald goddess, sucked in by the wafting aroma of her bitter, brown brew.

She's A Beauty

Savoring my victorious cup and toasty scone from a windowside sofa overlooking Liberation Monument square, I felt complete for the first time in days. The familiar scent of brewing coffee, the buzz of local chatter and pretentious background music, and the comfort of a good armchair were the first welcome indicators that I was truly back in civilization. Alternately reading my book about zombies and writing in my journal, a few young Chongqingers came and went from the chair across from me, giving me an up close view on the local fashion. Verdict: not so bad. But I was pretty sure they were gay, so the elevated fashion sense gave them an unfair advantage over the other people in the shop. Indeed, it was apparent that there was some thought process in effect when they were rustling through their closets that morning. I sighed a happy sigh; it was so relaxing.

Hours passed and the scone had already been digested. I hesitantly packed my things and emerged into the twilight air that had settled on the city. The neon lights had already exploded onto the streets, illuminating everything in a rainbow haze. I decided it would be prudent to take the bus back to the hotel, lest I risk getting lost again on my journey home. The first one I came upon just so happened to be passing my area, so I paid my 2 RMB and jumped on.

The route was almost exactly the same one I had covered on the way over, only in reverse. From a speeding bus, I was astonished to see how quickly it passed before my eyes. In less than twenty minutes, I was back at the hotel. For a moment, I scolded myself for being stupid and not taking the bus over in the first place. But I wouldn't have seen those random sights along the way and I think that coffee wouldn't have tasted as sweet had it not been acquired after much hardship. I bought dinner at a random supermarket next door - a few cups of yogurt, fresh fruit and water - that was aimed at purging my system of the previous few days of gorging (no pun intended, ho ho) and settled in for an early night of rest. The following day, I'd be paying another visit to a famous Chinese grotto. Despite the caffeine and the stinging of the fresh blisters on my feet, I immediately passed out.

Part 6: The Dazu Grottoes

Hunched over the toilet in that awkward position that all men are familiar with, I tried to aim for the bowl without snapping my morning wood in half. I entertained the idea of just peeing in the bathtub, but decided it was wrong to desecrate the hotel like that. To make matters worse for my already contorted stance, I felt a strange sensation, like I was swaying back and forth. Fearing the worst, I thought it could be an earthquake. Then I realized it was just residual physical memory from the ship: during those days on the cruise, as we rocked with the waves of the river, I had to compensate for the motion by learning to sway with the rhythm of the Yangtze. I suppose my body forgot I was now on solid ground. Chuckling at this interesting little phenomenon, I wrapped things up before I became stuck in that hunchbacked position and got ready for the long day ahead: a trip to the Dazu Grottoes.

The grottoes in Dazu county are actually a series of sites scattered within neighboring hillsides, not just one solitary group. Combining Confucian, Taoist and Buddhist imagery, the carvings were some of the most colorful and detailed I have ever seen. While nowhere near the scale as the dizzying statues at Longmen in Henan Province or Yungang in Shanxi Province, nor as isolated and mysterious as the most famous cave grottoes at Mogao in Dunhuang, the Dazu grottoes strike a unique balance that combines a few examples of impressive grandeur with plenty of breathtaking detail.

That morning, a local tour bus picked me up from the hotel. I was the only foreigner onboard. As soon as I stepped in, one of the tricky local mothers in the front seat gasped out loud and started to elbow her poor daughter. Not even a minute into the trip, I was already a target. As I sat down in the only free row - wouldn't you know, right next to this eager mom - I heard her scream-whisper to her daughter, "Go, practice your English! Why do you bother learning in the first place? For situations like this!" I thought it best to feign ignorance in the easiest way possible: the white guy doesn't speak Chinese. Staring straight ahead, I could feel the penetrating glare of that woman on the side of my head, wondering when she'd relent. I had dodged one wily (grand)mom already; I was ready to do battle with a second.

The road to Dazu seemed endless. On the map, it's a mere skip from Chongqing city, still considered part of the municipality. Thus I thought it would be fairly close by. Not quite. With such sketchy geographic logic, no wonder Chongqing takes the prize for being "biggest" city in China at 35 million souls: it's comprised of suburbs as far-reaching as Wushan, which you'll remember was a few days back down the river! My inner Shanghainese seethed at the injustice at losing out "biggest city" bragging rights to this cheating den of hobunk mountain folk.

Before we could even see the grottoes, we had to stop for lunch. Looking at my watch, three hours had elapsed since we left the downtown area. I couldn't believe it. In this span of time, you could go from Shanghai to Hangzhou and back on the bullet train. Too hungry to be perturbed for too long, I quickly ran into the restaurant, one of a billion typical establishments that exist solely to feed tour groups with basic representations of local cuisine.

The food wasn't bad. Lots of hot pepper, plenty of spice. My favorite dish was the fen-zhen rou, a soft steamed fatty pork covered in little bits of bean and flour. It wasn't the first time enjoying this dish, but it felt more authentic to enjoy it in its place of origin. As I wolfed down the strips of pork, the family sitting across from me started to chatter. "Just talk to him, you speak English," the mother said to her son. "Don't be shy." They seemed harmless enough, so I spoke up and told them I could speak Chinese. Once they realized they didn't have to speak to me in slow-motion, retard Mandarin ("NIIII HAAAAO MAAAA?"), we exchanged particulars. They were from Beijing, apparent from their godawful accent and incessant use of "xiao huo zi" (almost literally "little dude", but more like "young man") when addressing me. Their son, one of the most flaming Chinese boys I'd ever seen, worked in Beijing and was quite friendly. It's always nice to meet amiable locals, so lunch passed by quicker than expected. As long as this mom didn't try to push her son onto my lap, I'd be alright. I don't take free lapdances until after the second date. Back aboard the bus, I noticed that the other mom had made her daughter switch seats, placing the young innocent right next to me. Parted by just the center aisle, yet separated by so much more.

Careening over the hillsides and into a significantly developed tourist area, we finally arrived. Hiking through the sprawling parking lot and past a horde of tourist shops blocking our way, we boarded tram carts and were carted towards the grottoes. The place was packed and I just wanted to detach from the dense crowd as quickly as possible. Expressing my desires with the tour guide, she told me to be back at the bus in a couple hours. Off I went towards sweet freedom.

The most striking aspect of the Dazu grottoes is the locale. Draped around a tiny valley, the grottoes are carved directly into the hillside, surrounded by a forest of lush green trees and underbrush. Compared to Longmen and Yungang, which are both out in the open, dry and exposed to harsh sunlight, Dazu felt almost secret, like we had accidently stumbled upon a long-lost civilization of Buddhas frozen in stone.

Looking Over To The Other Side Of The Grotto

The carvings themself were the most colorful I'd ever seen in China. Bright blues, robust reds, smoky browns and radiant yellows. Up close, the amount of detail put into these relatively tiny carvings were equally stunning. Some face carvings were so smooth, you'd think those wily monks had their own ancient stash of SK-II.

Rainbow Carvings

The scenes depicted in stone illustrated various stories from Buddhist and Taoist legend, with an awesome variety of deities and characters not seen in other primarily Buddha-centric grottoes. Their expressions were also a welcome change from the standard serenity plastered over Buddha's mug: jubilant laughter, evil sneers, playful smiles and horrific grins were in abundance, like ancient comics etched into rock. I was having a blast staring into the face of each figure, flabbergasted at their perfection and personality.

Chubbs!

My favorite face: look at that detail!

Laughter and Smiles

As always, my serenity must be disrupted at some point by a local tourist. While trying to make sense of a series of scripture, a woman behind me complained that she couldn't read the carved script because it was done in traditional characters. I summoned my reserve of patience, stifling a "no shit, you dumbass."Rolling my eyes and sighing out loud, I wondered at which point in her life she would learn that this was what Chinese characters are supposed to look like. Maybe if the grottoes were carved after the 1950s she would have been able to make sense of the chickenscratch and, instead of hundreds of Buddhas, we'd be appreciating a horde of Maos. Idiot.

Purple Puff: I love it! Such a disaster~

This creature takes the crown: looks like she's wearing a hairy purple jellyfish on her skull

Making my way around the valley, I was itching for a jump shot, but through a mixture of shyness and frustration, I couldn't bother asking a perfect stranger to take a picture of a mentally unstable laowai hopping about. Instead, I sat along the walkway and absorbed the largest carving at the end of the grotto, a massive scene depicting paradise, punishments in the netherworld, a fleet of Buddhas and a whole mess of other things that I didn't have the concentration to focus on. There was just too much detail crammed onto this relatively modest space. Once I had enough, I waved goodbye to all the gods and trekked back to the bus.

Better Off Jumping

Once the rest of the group arrived, we boarded our vessel to return to Chongqing city. Without fail, the first voice I heard as I stepped into the bus was that old mama. "Go sit next to the laowai pengyou ("foreigner friend")! Talk to him, he looks your age!" I wouldn't crack, no matter how cute the daughter was (note: she was not). I continued to play coy and popped my earphones in to drown out the mother's continued babble.

It had been a while since being on a typical local tour. I'd sworn them off many years ago, only joining if it was absolutely necessary. So it didn't surprise me when we pulled into a suspicious looking lot and were told to unload. Usually on Chinese tours, you'll be forced to visit one of these roadside stores that specialize in some manner of crap that you'll never need, whether it's overpriced jewelry, domestic pots and pans or the famous local craftware that is too bulky to get on the plane. Think American TV infomercials, "for only 19.95!!!" My most infuriating experience was in Beijing in 2002, where we were forced to visit a pearl market for about 3 hours, while we had only been given 2 hours to see the Great Wall. The bastards. This time, it wasn't so bad. The presentation was funny: a surprisingly entertaining dude who was trying his best to sell us revolutionary knives at ridiculously low prices. "Watch this knife cut paper! Watch me cut through this metal pipe! Watch as I destroy this tomato without even lifting a finger!" I thought that no fool would be gullible enough to take the bait, but I should know never to underestimate a local tourist.

Eventually, the suckers who bought one, two or even five (5!!!) sets of knives boarded the bus and we began the long trip home. I passed out quickly, sure that the determined mother would no doubt try to convince her daughter to just mount me already and wrench the passport from my man purse.

Back in the city, the bus driver was kind enough to drop me off right near Liberation Monument. You know I only had one thing on my mind. And so I returned to the warm fins of the Starbucks mermaid for my penultimate meal in Chongqing. Why not? I just wanted to enjoy myself and bask in the surroundings just one more time. Afterwards, I had to decide what was for dinner. Sichuan cuisine be damned, I craved familiarity. I settled on what would become a new tradition for the last night on all future solo travels: McDonald's. *avoids shoe thrown at my head* Takeout bag in hand, I boarded my old friend, the bus, and returned to my hotel. I scarfed down that delicious burger and washed the fries down with my ice cold Coke while watching Red Cliff. Disgusted with myself yet thoroughly satisfied by that greasy meal, I relaxed for the remainder of the evening in total squalor, enjoying one final night of not picking up after myself or caring about whether I spilled crumbs on the floor. The Rolling Stones have got nothing on me.

Drawing the blinds to the sight of another grey China morning, I couldn't believe the trip was coming to a close. From the river-veined coast to the flat and lifeless interior, creeping upriver through gorges and cliffs and hiking around an ancient city covered with apartment buildings and skyscrapers clinging to the hillsides for dear life, it was as substantial a journey as one could have in such a short time span. Before departing Shanghai, eight days seemed daunting. Though now that it was over, I felt it had gone by quite quickly. I crammed my things into my pack and suited up for the final leg: the adventure to the airport.

Every city in China has its own special airport memory buried deep in my heart. Surprisingly, they are mostly positive. Having grown up with something as disheveled and disorderly as Boston's Logan Airport, let's face it: anything is better. Overall, getting in and out of Chongqing is pretty convenient. From my hotel, as luck would once again bless me, it was only a five minute walk down the street to the city airport shuttle station. Much cheaper than a taxi that could have potentially swindled me out of a few RMB, the airport bus only cost 20 RMB, about $3 US. Within an hour, I was dropped off at the airport with plenty of time to spare. If there's anything that gets me off more than punctuality, it's being outrageously early.

I had an hour before check-in started, so I grabbed lunch at Dicos, a surprisingly ubiquitous fast food chain in second-tier Chinese cities. Like a Chinese version of ghetto American rest stop joint, Roy Rogers, they serve basic, nutritious goodies that all junk food junkies crave: burgers, fried chicken, French fries, and soda. I don't remember ever actually trying the food here, so I was excited to be doing something new and novel.

While waiting in line for my turn to order, the local Chongqingers around me were gabbing on and on about what to order, giving me a good opportunity to absorb just how different their accents are. Sichuan folk speaking Mandarin sound a bit like foreigners learning Chinese: their tones are all over the place, as if they don't matter. You recognize that they are speaking Mandarin, but with the tones so violently off-kilter, most conversation requires a double-take. A husky child next to me, quite obviously a frequent Dicos diner, pushed his way to the front, blurting out a string of Sichuan-Mandarin that I just barely caught:

"JIEjie, you'mei'you SHUtiao?"

Now, my Mandarin is hardly perfect, but this sounded as dismal as first-year Mandarin class at UMass. If he had an unkempt beard, filthy hair and a pair of Birks on, I'd swear he was a long-lost classmate. Asking the Dicos chick ("jie jie", big sister) whether they had any fries, standard Mandarin would have been more like "Jie3jie2, you2mei3you2 shu3tiao2." [For those of you with no idea what I'm talking about, please skip ahead to the next paragraph and let me continue my rant about the subtle linguistic differences; I find it fascinating.] So anyway, as I stood there, it took a second to process, but once I did, I let out a loud "HAH!" at the silliness of it all. This national language - supposed to be "standardized" amongst all members of our harmonious society - not only exists in Chongqing in this truly butchered state, but is also the standard. The only people that speak "proper" Mandarin are the chuckleheads on CCTV. Whenever I am confronted with this reality, I find it oddly heartwarming: no matter how hard the government tries, they'll never be able to kill all of the local accents or dialects in the attempt to homogenize the language. When I speak more properly than a born-and-bred Chinese national, you know there's something stinky afoot. Back to the Dicos queue...

Still reeling from my McOrgy the previous evening, I opted for the healthy route: a fried chicken sandwich and soggy fries, all digested in a soup of lukewarm cola. It successfully filled me up, but the risk of some sort of anal explosion that night loomed over my head for the next few hours.

With some time left until check-in, I remained at Dicos, observing the folks around me and giving my shoulders a much needed rest from my backpack. High above me on a huge wall advertisement, I noticed multiple rings the size of hula hoops in an assortment of rainbow colors. Squinting at the accompanying printed propaganda slogans, I realized they were condoms. This was a billboard for AIDS awareness. Loving the fact that I was in Dicos surrounded by kids and old people, with an audience of giant condoms watching us eat, I quietly applauded the local government for the effort. Whether it actually helps or not is unknown, though current stats name AIDS as the #1 killer in China at the moment (Lord pray the Pope doesn't make a trip to the motherland anytime soon...). It was the first time I had seen an ad of this nature in such a public place, so hopefully it's the start of a widespread campaign aimed at educating the masses about the dangers of unprotected sex. Just when I think I'm starting to understand China, I'm surprised yet again.

As soon as I could, I checked in, cleared customs and began the long wait for my plane. There was a coffee shop at my gate, so I enjoyed a quick cup of Illy and finished World War Z, a book about the global war effort against a plague that has turned almost everyone into a ravenous, brain-craving zombie. Highly entertaining reading, but even more appropriate because, according to the "historical account" in the book, the plague begins along the Yangtze - in Fengdu ghost city, no less - spreading to the rest of the world due to insufficient health regulations and quarantine checks in China. Ha! I was pretty certain that I didn't contract anything on my travels up the river and airport security hadn't carted me off to confinement just yet. Still, I couldn't trust those around me. I cautiously looked around to make sure there were no suspicious looking passengers who might infect me with their evil undead germs. A fat guy playing his PSP was sweating, but that seemed natural for his size. The abundance of vacant eyes and dead stares was also an inaccurate indicator, as this is the standard state of many locals' faces. Everything was fairly quiet, so I decided that my brains were safe for now. Sure of my security, I boarded the plane and returned home to Shanghai.

Until Next Time~

Yang Zi Jie On Yang Zi Jiang (Or, Neil's Trip Up The Yangtze)

Part 3: Ghost Town

On the final day of our cruise, we docked ship and stepped onto the misty shores to ascend the hill to Fengdu, the city of ghosts. *Cue spooky laughter and ominous "Thriller" music* To no one's surprise, this was not what you'd expect from a haunted hilltop. Rather, it was a series of small temples, curious structures and other traditional Chinese architecture that were dedicated to life, death and the gods that judge us. No ghouls to be seen, no demons lurking, nothing very spooky to warrant the adult diaper that I had strapped on, just in case. Yet I was not disappointed; it was good to be on solid ground.

From the base of the hill, we peered through the morning fog, brightly painted temples poking through the vapor. It was still early morning, so a relative degree of calm still permeated the air. Hiking up the steep steps to be judged by the Prince of Hell (or, more accurately but not as dramatic, "the Underworld"), the only ominous feelings creeping over my skin was the profusion of sweat seeping from my pores. Days on a luxury liner left me a little tubby along the edges and this sudden burst of exercise was a bold reminder that I was indeed a land mammal with functioning legs.

At the top, we approached the first checkpoint on the path to the Prince of the Underworld: the Three Bridges of Life, Love and Wealth. Crossing in precisely 9 steps is supposed to bless you with whatever you have chosen. Couples were advised to do Love, hand-in-hand, just to make things certain. That left us single sad sacks with a choice of Life or Wealth. You know which way I went: money doesn't matter much if you're dead.

1st Checkpoint: The Three Bridges

Descending Into Hell?

As the other foreigners were slack-jawed in awe and frantically snapping away on their digital SLRs, my elation had significantly deflated. I had anticipated this stop perhaps a wee bit much. Looking around, there was nary a novel sight around. For all sakes and purposes, it was just a bunch of temples. Nicely preserved, but more of the same same. Originally, there were 72 structures, but after the Cultural Revolution, only 15 buildings remained. The main temple, over 1600 years old (the Prince of the Underworld's "palace"), was spared during the revolution by some quick-thinking monks who told the Red Guards that they would invoke the wrath of the Prince if they dared to touch his home. Centuries of superstition trumped Mao's madness in this instance, saving a beautiful structure from a demise that countless other less fortunate relics in China fell victim to.

At Fengdu, there is a mix of Taoist and Buddhist imagery, like a big melting pot of traditional religious superstitions. The Buddhist temple entrances had three doors, which had to be used correctly, lest you feel the wrath of the big guy. For common folk, the left door is the exit, the right door is the entrance. For monks or nuns, the large central door is your entry point. I made sure to go the proper route, fearing magical Buddhist castration if I dared use the middle. If you've lived in Asia for any significant span of time, you are already familiar with the phenomenon of being "templed out." I, dear friends, have been templed out since 2006. Nevertheless, to be fair, Fengdu is one of the more interesting temple complexes in China. Why? It's depictions of Hell, of course.

Further up the hill, you will come to the second checkpoint, an unassuming doorway in the classical Chinese style. Atop the lintel, there will be a small painted sign that says "Di Yu Zhi Men," which roughly translates as "Gate to Hell" (or again, less dramatically, "Gate to the Underworld"). I admit I got a little excited at the prospects. The last hell-temple I visited in 2007 was a Taoist beauty in Beijing, filled with the most gory and grotesque dioramas of demonic torture of sinful souls I'd ever seen outside of Dante's Inferno. This was nowhere near as intense, but had its own qualities. Here, men need to enter the gate left-foot first, lest you get your nads gnawed off by hungry horse-head demons. Or something equally as grim, I'm not certain.


Flanking the pathway to the Prince of the Underworld's living quarters, life-sized stone statues of various demons and hellspawn greet you on the way to judgment. My favorite was 酒鬼 ("Jiu Gui") or, the Liquor Demon, because his name is a literal translation of the term for "alcoholic." Indeed. A couple siren demonesses tickled my own personal netherworld with their toplessness and lasciviously curled tongues, a clear indicator of how easy males can be lured to their untimely demise by a pair of sexy...eyes.

Good Ol' Jiu Gui!

Come To Papa!

Yes!

JUMP! Fengdu Demon Lane

A final noteworthy demon: one seemingly hell bent on corporal punishment of naughty children. The statue itself said it all: a bare-butt brat slung over the knees of a ferocious demon whose arm was locked in position to strike that soft, shiny asscheek. As I positioned myself to take a picture of this hilarious scene, a real-life human brat jumped into my shot, giving me the stink eye as if to say "this is MY shot, suckah." Stifling a sneer, I waited until she scampered off to her useless parents and made a quick prayer to the demon to exact some sweet revenge for me later on. I hope that kid had the most terrifying, pee-inducing nightmares that evening. That'll teach her to ruin my shot.

Curse You, Demon Brat With Dead Chinese Eyes!

At the gate to the Prince of the Underworld's temple, we faced the third and final checkpoint: the sinister stone circle. Bwa-ha-ha-ha... In a small stone box before the gate, there was a smoothly polished rock, worn down from years of tourist mayhem. Round and slick as a tiny bowling ball, the trick was to balance on one foot for some arbitrary amount of time, thus gaining favor from the Prince and entrance to his realm. It was not that difficult, though the locals seemed to have a rough time with the concept. I passed with flying colors, then made my way inside.

It was quite simply a dark, shadowy, cavernous affair. Nothing too special, save for the miniature demon-torture dioramas that I saw in superior form in Beijing. Though it wasn't what I expected, I felt a little relieved that I didn't have to rush around in the allotted time to take pictures of every single thing in sight. I just hung back and observed the other faces, gasping at the violent models and making silent prayers for their own sinful souls.

Pagoda at Fengdu

Random Graffiti of Poop?

Back aboard the ship, the final, bittersweet hours of the cruise began. We were treated to a quick visit to the captain's quarters, which was not as exciting as it sounds. In the pilothouse, three silent individuals stood stiff as stone before the controls, no sound, no movement. A radar screen blipped off to the side. Sonar measured the depth of the Yangtze, denoting the shallow areas we needed to avoid. Muffled garble seeped from the communications speakers. I was falling asleep from all the white noise. Aware that the pilots had to pay attention to steering the ship, we asked very quick questions. My suspicions were confirmed very quickly: this is a boring job.

Zzzzzzzz.......

Crank It To 11!

Each pilot takes a 4 hour shift, then an 8 hour rest, then a 4 hour shift, then...you get the idea. Expressionless and without a hint of excitement, they remained still as statues. The most exciting point of the tour came when a small little dinghy crossed our ship's path. Grabbing the intercom, he announced that the boat better get out of the way, lest they "wanted to die." Even on the water, Chinese drivers are fierce and reckless.

I Found This Taped To The Door To The Upper Deck On The Final Day. I Was Flattered.

Before dinner, I spent a good amount of time giving my free travel guide services away to the Aussies and Americans who would be visiting the Shanghai area after disembarking from the cruise. In a weird way, I was sad to part with these people who I had just met a few days prior. Though they would become just another group of blips on my own life's radar, they had made my already luxurious cruise even more comfortable. I carefully packed up my room and organized my rations for the remaining days of my trip of solitude in Chongqing. Looking out from my cabin balcony, I was reluctant to part with all of the nature. From sweeping riverscapes to soaring mountains, the ubiquitous sound of lapping waves and the silence of the gorges, I was a little unsure whether I wanted to return to the city. Just the night before, I had experienced one of the most religiously moving instances of my life: a pitch black sky littered with so many bright, white stars it made my eyes dizzy with awe. So far away from modern civilization, I understood the attraction to solo travel and adventures to desolate places. Despite the man-made destruction and drama that has cast a dark shroud over the area, it still remains absolutely gorgeous.

Building Bridges on the Yangtze:

At dinner, the captain made an appearance to thank us and wish us well. The banquet spread was even more impressive than previous nights, and everyone was in jovial spirits. They even surprised us with birthday cakes to celebrate those who were lucky enough to be born on the dates we were cruising down the Yangtze. Then quite suddenly, from the giant windows of the banquet hall, glaring neon lights appeared. After 4 days of isolation along the lonely Yangtze, we had finally arrived at Chongqing, the wartime capital of the former Nationalist government and river hub of central Chinese transport and industry. Taking pause to consider it all, I confess that - nature-loving thoughts be damned - it was actually pretty nice to be back in a big city.

Campbell, Our Trusty River Guide

Coming up, the final chapter: Chungking In 2 Days...

Yang Zi Jie On Yang Zi Jiang (Or, Neil's Trip Up The Yangtze)

Part 2: Gorge-ous
(Sorry, Couldn't Resist!)

The Three Gorges are hailed as one of the most beautiful scenic stretches in all of China. This, of course, was before they had to go and muck things up with a mega-dam. Now that the water has risen to absurd heights, the iconic scenery has been radically altered forever. All melodrama aside, it is still quite a sight, as the gorges provide a constant reminder of just how tiny we are on our silly little cruise ships.

Formed long, long, long ago (starting roughly 20 million years ago when the Himalayas were a submerged part of an ocean linked to the Mediterranean Sea), the Three Gorges are the geological product of erosion at the hands of the Yangtze River (or, "Yangzi", for all you pinyin loyalists), which roughly a third of China's population relies on for its resources. Originating in the high Tibetan plateau (about 2.5 miles above sea level), the icy mountain freshwater of the Yangtze begins its 3,900 mile journey downstream through Chongqing, then Hubei, onto the Eastern plains and out past Shanghai into the East China Sea. By comparison, the distance from coast-to-coast in the United States is only about 3,000 miles. It is the third longest river in the world, after the Nile and Amazon, barely beating the mighty Mississippi by a mere 70 miles. Coincidentally, the ancient Chinese and the Native Americans both referred to their respective waterways simply as "big river." Creativity in naming was likely not the strong point of ancient peoples, as they had bigger issues to worry about, like hunting and gathering.

When I was a young schoolboy, I often found myself stumped whenever we got that rare chance to touch upon China in geography or history class, which was usually at the very end of the year when there was absolutely nothing else about America, Europe, Africa, Antarctica, our teacher's summer plans, or the cleaning of the closets and cupboards that we could study. I couldn't understand why the textbooks referred to the river as "Yangtze" when, growing up, I always heard it referred to as Chang Jiang ("long river") by my parents. For anyone else still bitter about those bumbled pop quiz questions that you just couldn't argue your way around with the stupid, culturally-ignorant teacher, here's the reason why: in the Sui Dynasty, the tributary of the river near Shanghai was called the Yangzi. When the foreign devils began their exploration on how to best exploit the country after the Opium War spread China's legs for the influx, they took this as the name of the entire river. And the name stuck. So, it is technically correct to call it either Yangzi Jiang or Chang Jiang, as I tried so desperately to explain to numerous idiots from 3rd to 8th grade.

The length of river covered on our cruise between Yichang and Chongqing is only 660 km (about 400 miles), which is about the same as a round-trip from Boston to New York. But without all the pesky deer that like to lurk in plain sight on the middle of the highway; all the deer on this stretch are hidden high in the hills where they can't fuck up your day. Bear, rabbits, boar and monkeys also roam the area, although populations have been seriously depleted by a number of mostly man-made causes (see: the dam). Monkeys were once so populous in the gorges that their cries haunted ancient poets and boatmen. Now, with barely any left to bring the ruckus, the government has actually installed speakers in some areas to spew out monkey howls to appease tourists confused by the gap between reality and romance. Even the lowly rats got the shit end of the stick. 600 tons (600!) of poison were brought in to kill the rats as villagers disassembled their villages, in order to prevent the same rats from bringing their filth uphill.

The aquatic residents of the area have had even worse luck. Giant sturgeon - 1,000 lb prehistoric monsters literally dammed out of their spawning areas upriver - have seen their numbers drastically drop since construction of the dam was complete. The finless porpoise and Yangtze alligators are also quickly disappearing without enough to eat. Most depressing of all: the Baiji River Dolphin, which recently was pretty much confirmed to be extinct (but maybe not?). Al Gore needs to make a trip to China very soon.

The only fauna I spied from my cabin balcony were the rare camouflaged chicken and a handful of sheep grazing along the hillsides, teetering precariously close to the edges. Seeing the clumsy fuzzballs take a nosedive into the rapids would have provided a bucketfull of laughs for me, but I was thwarted by the continued peace and tranquility.

Decadently Peaceful

On Day 4, in the early hours of the morning, we passed into the first of the three gorges: Xiling Gorge. Known affectionately as the "Gateway To Hell", this historically dangerous leg of the river was the bane of ancient boatmen and villagers alike, due to the pre-dam ferocity of the rapids, the outrageous wind funnel created at the mouth and ass of the gorge, the frequent mudslides, hidden rocks below the water and whirlpools. Now that the river has been tamed by the dam, the most apparent natural rabble-rouser was the wind.

I rose before sunrise and sat reclined on an armchair in the ship's main ballroom, hot coffee in hand and the day's headlines streaming before me on CNN. The night's silence still hung in the air and the only sounds I could hear were the lapping of waves against the side of the boat and the dull hiss of the brewing grounds. It was one of the most unforgettably peaceful moments I've ever had. As other dedicated travelers crept out of bed to take in the pre-breakfast scenery, dawn began its slow routine of filling the sky with light. Through the mist, we saw Xiling in the distance. I'm sure the first impression of the gorge before the dam must have been phenomenal, the sight of this massive mountain of stone sliced in two by the rushing waters. Even today, with the disappearance of about 100 meters worth of gorge, it is humbling.

Puuuurty

I didn't want to miss out on the fantastic photo-ops, so I ran back to my cabin, threw on my jacket and made my way to the upper deck. There's good reason why this is still called the Gateway To Hell. As soon as I hit the open air, a gust of wind nearly toppled me over, making quick work of me just as it had done to all the plastic chairs that lay about the deck like pitiful dominoes. Other guests soon felt the wrath of the winds, and as I gripped the railings, positioned in a half-squat for balance, I had myself a quiet chuckle as I watched each successive shipmate get tossed around like a ragdoll as they emerged from the lower levels. It is always satisfying to watch someone lose a hat to Mother Nature.

He Was Blown Over Seconds Later

My Handsome Looks Were Blown Away With The Wind

In the morning haze, the gorges gave off a slightly purplish glow against the powder blue sky. The water shimmered under the rays of the emerging sun. Wind gusts aside, it was glorious.



As my hands and balls slowly began to lose feeling in the frigid cold, I returned to the cozy warmth of the ship's central heating. After a relaxing breakfast with the Aussies and Americans, it was time for poetry class!

For centuries, the Yangtze River has been a source of both wonder and pain for the Chinese people. Though it is the life-giving vein that powers China's Southern half, it also has a nasty penchant for flooding and wiping out humans. *Cue "Circle of Life"* To artists and other creative types, the river has also provided plenty of inspirational fodder. On this bright morning, our river guide, Campbell, treated us to a quick lecture on his favorite pieces of ancient Chinese poetry inspired by the Yangtze.

From 298 BC until 1949, over 2,300 recorded poems have been written about the river and the Three Gorges. The most famous ancient poets that favored this subject were Li Bai (or, Li Po, 701-762 AD) and Du Fu, a third of whose repertoire was comprised of Three Gorge/Yangtze subject matter. Remember the aforementioned fake monkey-speakers that were installed to quell any potential poetry-loving tourist revolts? Well, you can blame Li Bai for that. His 759 AD poem 早发白帝城 ("Early Departure from White Emperor Town," if my classical Chinese remains true...), was written about Qutang Gorge, which was supposedly filled with the nightly haunting howls of monkey screams that caused Li Bai to shit his pants and find solace in his favorite travel mate: a wine bottle.

His most well-known poem, 静夜思 ("Thoughts of a Quiet Night"), memorized and recited by poor Chinese kids across the globe, recounts the hopeless solitude and homesick yearnings that many lonely travelers feel, especially on the Yangtze:

"Before the bed, bright moonlight,
frost on the ground.
I raise my head to gaze upon the moon,
then, missing my hometown, I lower my head."

Reading the poem for the first time in years, I couldn't help but feel a slight heaviness in my heart. Though I was having a decent time, I didn't realize how much I would have delighted in a travel companion or the warmth of my relatives. How fitting that these ancient words of loneliness and homesickness should be presented to me on my own solo excursion during the time of year when I should have been celebrating the New Year with my family. On the very same river that had originally inspired the great poet. Miserable Li Bai and myself would have had much to discuss over a bottle or two of wine, but I'd have been better off seeking solace in other company: common belief says that the poor lush tried to touch the moon's reflection in the river and drowned to death in a drunken stupor.

For the duration of our quick lesson, the themes of haunting darkness, solitude, yearning for home and other generally uncomfortable motifs were piled on. Aside from a surprising bit of enlightened beauty from the Chairman himself (he famously swam across the river in 1956), Yangtze poetry is overwhelmingly depressing. The Americans were not impressed and griped about it for the remainder of the trip, exhibiting clear evidence that the beauty of Chinese poetry really gets lost in translation. The French dame was enthralled, engaging me in an afternoon chat about the subject matter, mostly because we were somewhat kindred spirits in our pursuit of travel opportunities and the baffled confusion we feel when surrounded by people without any urges to see the world.

After class, in the peace and quiet of my cabin, the works we had just seen inspired a flurry of melodramatic journal writing. The final poem, one of Campbell's favorites, really moved me. Appropriately translated as "When I Get Depressed"...

"I get silent and I stare at nothing all day long,
Or I lie down and read the ancient masters who move me
to even greater depths of melancholy,
and then, refreshed, and knowing I am not alone,
I get up and join the world again."

My classical Chinese professor would probably have a heart attack trying to grade Campbell's self-translation, but the meaning was clear for me. I put my journal down and went for a much-needed cup of coffee.

After my little fit of personal enlightenment via poetry, it was back to the business of travel. Over the course of the morning, we had passed through the entirety of Xiling Gorge and were about to enter the second, Wu Gorge. Our ship docked in Wushan town and we swiftly disembarked, boarding a smaller tourist ferry. Praise Jesus it was low season, because I can imagine this place getting packed to the gills with local red-hatted tourist groups polluting the amazing scenery (and river) with their numbers, like termites burrowing their way through the pillars of an ancient cathedral. Our ferry was spacious by comparison, with a wide upper deck ideal for quiet contemplation and picture snapping.


In Chinese, Wu Gorge ("Wushan") roughly translates to "Witch Mountain" or "Magic Mountain," depending on which tour guide happens to be confusing you with their personal interpretation of nomenclature. I can tell you that there was no magical mischief going on that particular day, but an old hermit warlock could have conducted a quick sacrifice to the heavens for good weather: for the first (and only) time on our cruise, the sun came out in full force, flooding the gorge with an abundance of contrasting shadows that added to the depth and grandeur of the vista. In the afternoon light, it would be our closest peek at the beauty of the gorges. Sailing up a narrow tributary, the Daning River, we began our excursion into the Lesser Three Gorges.

Neil. Not Jumping.

Aboard the ferry, the foreigners huddled together in the top deck seating room. We were all excited at the afternoon ahead. The Brits, God save them, did not display much enthusiasm, but giving them the benefit of the doubt, I'm sure they were eager to see it all. The woman, our dear friend Rose, inexplicably spent what would be the entire tour sitting alone, next to the fat Singaporean kids playing on their PSPs, without joining her fiancee, her face cemented in an indifferent scowl that cried out "uptight bitch" (I later found out she was actually sick - bad, judgmental Neil!). The Frenchies, on the other hand, had already secured their place on the outdoor terrace, glued to the rails like kids at a zoo leaning precariously into the tiger pit. I plopped down with the Americans, explaining some basic Chinese history and cultural matters, while the Australians camped in the seats behind us. With the warm sun heating the room, it was sure to be a cozy trip. And then, tap-tap-tap, the ferry guide turned on her microphone and put an end to any dreams of a relaxing cruise.

"GOOD AFTERNOON EVERYONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! WELCOME TO THE LESSER THREE GORGES PORTION OF THE YANGTZE RIVER THREE GORGES SCENIC AREA OF THE GLORIOUS PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC OF CHINA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! HAPPY NEW YEAR OF THE OX!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I WISH YOU ALL A PROSPEROUS, HEALTHY, HAPPY, LOVING, SUPER, STUPENDOUS, AWESOME YEAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! BLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

You get the point. She was almost screaming into the mic at a volume that literally made my head ache. The American woman had her hands over her ears and was crouched over in the airplane-crash "Brace, Brace!" position. As we frantically grabbed our pressure points to reduce brain swelling (as taught on the cruise ship by the ship's doctor), it became overwhelming. I entertained a fleeting thought of tossing her into the river to rid us of her noise, but for the sake of the few Chinese-speaking travelers on the boat, I had to stifle my selfish desires and let her do her job. Instead, I bucked up and went to the outdoor deck for the remainder of the tour, where there were thankfully no speakers to harm us with her din. It was the right choice.

JUMP! Little Three Gorges

Outside, the only sounds were lapping waves, the muted rumble of the ferry's engine, and the quiet chatter of the other souls braving the wind, all reverbing off the gorge walls. In this narrow stretch, the mountains seemed higher, jutting straight out of the water and towering above us. From this distance, we could actually see the relocated hillside villages, even getting close enough to wave at some local residents as we passed by. Likewise, the proximity also illustrated the natural impact of the rising water even better.

Along the way, the river was peppered with little bumps of land peeking through the surface of the water like they were gasping for air. These were actually hilltops before the dam. As in, these were the tops of mountains before the water rose 100 meters. We'd been inundated with this info since day 1, but seeing it in person was still shocking. Long ago, water levels in some bends of the river were only 1 to 2 meters deep. Now, a giant water sign demarcating the maximum water level announces to all a mind-boggling 175 meters.



Though the scenery was impressive, my main concern on this leg of the tour was the famed hanging coffins of the Ba tribe. The Ba people, one of the earliest groups to inhabit the area and shorthand namesake of nearby Chongqing, laid their dead to rest in the most awesome fashion. Using wooden coffins containing said deceased family member, the Ba would somehow find a way to swing the box down the cliff face - which at that time was over 300 meters from the ground - lodging it in a convenient nook for all eternity. They believed that the ridiculous height placement would aid the dead on their trip to heaven. This was over 2,000 years ago during the Warring States Period, a little before the time of Christ, as proven by carbon dating of bronze artifacts found within one coffin. Scientists still haven't figured out how they did it, as no tangible evidence remains.

The Center Thingy

Thus it was, at the end of the upstream leg, we rounded the bend and saw our fist coffin. Without much imagination or childish awe, you would be forgiven if disappointment was your first reaction. First, the water level is not nearly as low as it was when the Ba risked their lives to complete these ancient feats. Nor is there much left of the coffins. In most cases, it is simply a pile of long, dark hardwood planks. Nevertheless, it did the trick. This type of mysterious anthro-archeological stuff really gets me off.

It's that dark little bit in the middle. OooOOoOOhh~

As we neared the end of the scenic area, the ferry made a U-turn and we headed back to our ship. Since I had spent the past 2 hours taking pictures of almost every inch of the scenery, I could relax and take in the exact same sights we had just passed. I had a long talk with one of the Frenchies, the large older woman, about our experiences in Asia, love of Japanese/Chinese opera, and general attitude about exploration and travel. She was a dream to converse with, as many of our feelings and odd sense of humor were the same. Fear not, there will be no little Neils running around Paris in a couple months; there were no uncomfortable sparks between us, just genuine appreciation to have found another like-minded soul in the most random of places on a river in central China.

Back inside, I returned to my seat near the American couple. The sun had warmed the cushion to a suitably toasty degree and I relaxed in the rays of the setting sun. The cacophony from the speakers had apparently been silenced at some time prior to me return, so the time was ripe to enjoy each other's company. The Brits were also smart enough to return to the warm confines of the indoor area, so I took my cue and offered them some of the dried mangoes I had been enjoying. Nothing can break down the defense of a fat British bird better than the sight of dehydrated fruit, it seems. Once I had conquered her, Alaister and Rose were not far behind.

Ice broken, I learned that they were coworkers at a university in nearby Suzhou. Had the single woman been a little more svelte, perhaps we could have started a torrid affair aboard our cruise ship. Alas, she was quite gross and I settled with exchanging a few pleasantries. Alaister was much more animated, though poor Rose remained an ice queen. She also looked about 10 years older than the young chap, so I really don't know how that love connection came to fruition. She was no Victoria Beckham, so it remains a mystery.

We chatted about the Olympics (both Beijing and London) and the World Expo (and when it stopped being called the World's Fair), our experiences in China, and where I got those damn delicious mangoes. I felt a sick sense of satisfaction from the whole deal, drawing out a few polite laughs and dry jokes from the stuffy lot. A room filled with British, Americans, Frenchies and Australians might not sound like a pleasant gathering, but on this little excursion, it was fine by me.


Back aboard the boat, it was time to relax for the remainder of the afternoon and evening. The next, and final, full day aboard the Victoria Star would include an excursion to my personal anticipatory highlight of the trip: the foreboding ghost city of Fengdu, a place all Chinese souls must go after death to be judged. Think of it as a traditional Chinese version of Purgatory. With over 20 hours to go until descending into the netherworld, we enjoyed the penultimate day with some high-stakes excitement: mahjong.

Now, as most proper Chinese know how to play mahjong, tutorials are unnecessary. However, this being a foreigner-centric cruise package, a quick class on the basics of the game was arranged by our river guide, Campbell. We'd been gearing up for the class since receiving the day's itinerary the night before. While my basic knowledge of the game is truly that, basic, it was more of a novel experience for the other English-speaking members of the group. Too ashamed to admit it, I just wanted a brief refresher.

Buckled down in pairs before a glorious automatic mahjong table - the kind that shuffles and arranges the tiles for you - the Aussie couple, American couple, my large Frenchie girlfriend and the Brits tried their very best to grasp the rules. After the first second, it was apparent that hearts, spades, clubs and diamonds are clearly the way to go. Sure enough, counting bamboo sticks and circles was fairly straightforward, but expecting a group of foreigners to immediately learn and recognize the characters for the numbers 1 through 10 was like teaching a one-day rocket science course to a turtle. I sat back, enjoying a cup of wine and a nice chuckle, trying my best to be constructive and mediate when heated arguments began over why bamboo and circles can't combine or what the purpose of the Four Winds was all about.

As they fumbled with the tiles, a group of observers began to form at the door. When Chinese hear the click-clack of shuffling mahjong tiles, it's like sharks smelling blood. You could see the dollar signs in their eyes, an innocent flock of ignorant foreign money just waiting to be ravaged by superior Chinese skills. When they realized just how abysmal these beginners were, many got bored and left. When there's no fun in the hunt, what's the point? One lagged behind. A little old lady, mumbling to herself in Cantonese, strategic "aiya"s and pained "eeeeeehhhhh"s spurting forth whenever a tactless move was made. At one point, I giggled at something she said in Cantonese and, recognizing my skillz, she took her cue to strike up a conversation.

Hobbling over, she started talking to me about how to get in on the game. I told her that they were learning, best not to interrupt with her prowess. She laughed, patted my cheek and called me a "handsome boy." I missed the familiarity of my family's tongue, so I tried my best to talk to her with my piss-poor broken Cantonese. It was tough, especially for the poor old bat, because God knows what I was saying. I sure didn't. She asked me what I did for a living (danger), how much money I made each month (danger!) and whether I had a girlfriend or not (DANGER!). Before I could answer the last one, she whipped out her iPhone and started sliding and tapping away, shuffling through pictures of her son's recent wedding and unveiling a picture of her single daughter, making sure to tell me just how much money each child was earning. Holding the phone to my face, I mustered a very lackluster "wow, so pretty" to this beast before my eyes. The old lady was beaming at me, waiting to catch the sparks in my eyes, making it even more difficult to bear lying to such a sweet old thing. It was obvious why her daughter was still unmarried... The Aussies were chuckling behind her back, telling me to go for it, ever the comedians.

The Aussies

Before I was forced into an arranged marriage with this woman's family, she asked my age. 27. "Oh, too young! My daughter is almost 32! Too bad..." Bullet dodged, I took a swig of my wine and thanked my lucky stars for five-year age differences. We talked a little longer and then she announced that she had to take her leave and find her husband. I wished her well and got my head back into the game, just in time to see the Brits seize victory.

The Yanks

Later in the lounge, my old friend shuffled over to ask me if I wanted to play mahjong with her and her pals. For big money. I told her I was a crap player and offered up the Aussie couple, who had won the second round of play earlier that day. She scoffed and said that they might as well give her their money before wasting time in a game. She had her sights locked on me. Apparently she hadn't given up on my son-in-law prospects just yet. I stood firm, though, not wanting to endure any more daughter-talk, especially while losing money. I tried to push the Aussies on her again, but to no avail. Sighing again, she asked me where they were from. I told her "Au Zhou" (which means Australia in Mandarin).

"Oh, 'au zhou', I've been there before. Germany, Italy, France!"

I assure you, she wasn't retarded. She was confusing "au zhou" with "ou zhou," which, as you guessed, is Europe. And so it went, back and forth, "au", "ou", "au", "ou", until finally I got so frustrated I drew a crude map in my notebook and tapped my pen so hard onto that continent Down Under than I broke through the paper. She still looked puzzled, so the Aussie dad chuckled and told me to just draw a kangaroo. Har har har. But lo and behold, as soon as she heard "kangaroo," she yelled out "dai shu!", the Chinese for kangaroo (literally "bag mouse," as in, "giant mouse with a bag on it").

"Ohhhhh, 'AU zhou' (duh, as if I were the idiot here). Yeah, I've been there too! We make a point to leave HK and travel every year!"

And then, tip-toeing close to my ear, she whispered, "My husband has a LOT of money!"

For a split second, I entertained the idea of committing to a betrothal with a sea monster for the sake of her parents' riches, but good sense got the best of me and I smiled at her as she hobbled off to find her rich hubby. No amount of money is worth that ungodly fate.

Up next: Chinese Purgatory...