“There it is,” I whispered to my daughter, Hilary, next to
me on the plane landing in Guilin, China.
I just had to see those karst mountains and the Li River
again. To introduce this natural beauty on a special trip with Hilary - the
daughter my husband, Hank, and I had almost named Guilin a little over a year after our
visit there back in August of 1984.
Of course, things are never the way you remember and Guilin
today is not the Guilin of 1984. It’s
grown. Cranes dot the landscape next to tall empty block-style buildings by the
small airport. The city center is more
modern, yet motorbikes still reign and mere blocks away it is third world
living.
On our day trip down the Li River thirty-two years ago, Hank
and I were in a wooden “top-deck” boat puttering alone amongst the
backdrop of the sloping limestone mountains. The food was a cooked Chinese
lunch served on china with stainless flatware.
In 2016, the “boat
cruise” was a double-deck boat with assigned seating. And our boat was not alone with a
line-up of similar boats behind us like an LA freeway at rush hour. The “catered” lunch was Jasmine rice, chicken
nuggets and mushrooms, sectioned off in a Swanson TV dinner-style tin and a plastic fork.
Our transport didn’t matter, though. The peaks framing the
Li were still majestic. The shoreline was still as picturesque. And, Hilary was
taking it all in like Hank and I had all those years ago. “It’s like nothing
I’ve ever seen, Mom. So beautiful…”
“David” (his American name), our guide for the day, was a
native of Guilin who had learned English by listening to “Voice of America.”
“They speak slow,” he said of the radio program. “Easier to
learn English.”
David had helped us navigate the crowds waiting to board the
boats. “Government boats,” he’d told us, clutching his worn canvas briefcase,
adding: “They don’t wait. So stay with me like sticky rice.”
During the cruise, he’d point at a rock formation:
“Imagination time! Can you outline the seven horses in the rock?”
“Imagination time! Do you see the human face in that slope?”
David, thirty-two, had been raised on a farm and at four
learned to drive the water buffalo to plow the fields. “My father taught me not
to waste,” he told us. "My father said that a single grain of rice should not
be wasted. If it falls to the floor, you’ll come back in the next life a water
buffalo!”
David is of the new China. He’s read about “Mr. Warren
Buffet.” But he’s still a country guy. “Wow,” he said when I asked about life
in Guilin and how families live in today’s China. “That’s complicated.”
He is married and he and his wife have a small house on the
outskirts of Guilin. “More affordable.”
“She sells clothes,” he added. “Not like Chanel. I never heard of Chanel before. This, Chanel,”
he said, “she likes Chanel.”
I peered out of the van at the squalor of some of the
outlying streets. Laundry hanging on dingy windows sills. A string of
motorbikes, sporting attached elongated umbrellas as a makeshift hood, whizzed
by leaving two women on the sidewalk to deal with the dust in their wake as
they sold their red boxes of mooncakes.
“You’re not near those empty buildings by the airport we saw
driving in?”
“Oh, no. No.”
“What is it with all the tall empty buildings?”
“Government,” he said. “It’s complicated.”
“So you like living outside of town?”
“Oh, yes,” he smiled. “Location. Location. Location.”
_________________________
The entrance to the Shangri-La Hotel Guilin boasts a
“five-star rating” with cheap marble, gaudy chandeliers and a freezer case of Haagen-Dazs
ice cream in the hotel lobby lounge. Only a handful speak English and we were
the only Westerners on sight. The “signature” Chinese restaurant was just a
little too dicey to try after looking at the menu so we ended up in the U bar, a
tavern-like spot near the children’s buffet with some interesting “décor” at the entrance - a giant stuffed
Panda bear lying on the floor “passed out” cradling the local brew in his
fluffy paw.
Over a meal of vegetables and fried rice, we were
entertained by a duet of young male locals. As I maneuvered my chopsticks
through the rice, the men began the set. The one on vocals, wearing a fedora,
the type I’d seen on a souvenir stand that morning, leaned into the microphone
and out came a perfect rendition of a Cat Stevens ballad. Next, it was Chris
Martin from Coldplay…and it continued through dinner.
His voice was beautiful, melodic, and graceful.
“Where did you learn to sing like that?” I asked him as we
were leaving.
He smiled revealing teeth going every which way. ”Excuse me,” he nodded quickly, “my English…its
not so good.”
“But your music. How did you learn your music?”
“The Internet.”
“Ahh,” I nodded. “Well, you’re really good.”
He smiled wide, revealing even more wayward teeth.
As we lifted off, heading to the next city, I looked down at
those dramatic limestone peaks.
This time, it wasn’t just the beauty of the mountains that drew
me in. Not the Li River either…it was the people we met. Living in a country that is not free, they
were finding ways to express individuality, to grow beyond the confines of
their tightly controlled surroundings. And
they’re doing it all on their own.
I leaned back in my seat as the peaks disappeared from
sight, leaving me once again in awe.
