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...