The Trek to Yellow Mountain

This is a piece I wrote when I was in China in 2002, teaching English and English culture at Wuyi University.

“Hey, what are you doing this summer?”In the winter of 2001, my brother Dave, who lives in Hong Kong, called me. Dave recruits teachers for the Maryknoll China Service Project, a program that sent him to China for a year after his graduation from college. He asked me if I would want to come to China for the summer. It took me about 12 hours to say yes, and by the fourth of July I was on my way to Hong Kong to teach for four weeks in Southern China at Wuyi University. I loved the experience so much that I returned this summer, this time in June to develop materials for the Maryknoll program, and to return to Wuyi as the lead teacher for Maryknoll. There are a few experiences that stand out, most notably the stories of the Nanjing trip and the Dragon Boat Festival.

During my second trip to China, I decided to travel to Nanjing on Monday to see my friend, Patrick (his English name), and to visit the Yellow Mountain area. Yellow Mountain is beautiful- it has been hailed as an area for poets and artists- one of the most beautiful places in China. Of course, for the Chinese, that's everywhere. But, I think they were right on this one. Patrick is a doctor who is a friend of my brother’s, and he’s my age. We hit it off considerably when I visited the first year, and I daresay there was a possibility of romance at the time. However, when I returned to the states, I eventually met another gentleman named Mike who I began dating shortly before my second trip. I had emailed Patrick to let him know that, but, like many things with the Chinese, I don’t know that he received the correct sentiment. The cultural divide is vast at times, and this was probably a case of such a thing. This made my trip strained to say the least- there was a very pouty Chinese doctor who made some unwelcome awkward advances at times.

But I digress. Truly, this trip was not about Patrick and my failed love rendezvous, but more about the larger cultural divide that exists within structure, confrontation, and etiquette.

I flew to Nanjing, and spent the afternoon and evening wandering around some of the sights. Around 8:30, we happened upon a pavilion area, where people were doing tai chi and dancing to slow music, namely Kenny G. It's called "Social Dancing", where we would call it ballroom dancing. Anyway, it was incredible. Patrick really can dance, too. He and I jitterbugged and waltzed for about an hour. It was peaceful, and I truly felt part of the group. The next evening Patrick and I took a sleeper train to a small town about an hour away from the mountain. From there, we needed to take a bus or taxi to the foot of the mountain, and from there, we needed to take a bus or taxi to where the climb started.

Sound complicated? You have no idea.

The train was very comfortable. The only time I woke up was when the train stopped somewhere, and I could hear people spitting. As soon as the train started again, the sounds of the train helped me go to sleep. After 8 hours on the train, we sleepily staggered onto the platform at our destination. We were suddenly immediately surrounded by three women who wanted to sell us locks, raincoats, and maps to the mountain. Patrick said no, I assume, but they would not take no for an answer. I didn't say anything. If a foreigner loses his/her cool in any situation (and believe me, it can be easy to do this), the Chinese immediately believe that the foreigner is not being respectful. I didn't want to take that risk. So, I followed along- and we went to a little open air place with tables and ate a small breakfast, with the saleswomen attached to our elbows the whole time. When we got up from the table, they followed us to the WC (bathroom), and when we got out of the WC, they were trying to control how we got to the mountain, where we would stay, etc. Little did I know that this kind of bargaining would take place throughout the entire trip. This is the Chinese way. I might have been annoyed, but I had to continuously remind myself that these people following us, and bargaining, were really fighting to eat, and to probably feed their families. My principles of leaving someone alone after they say no do not apply when people need to eat and to live.

Patrick found a driver to take us to the town close to the mountain, and began bargaining for a fair price. My Midwest roots were uncomfortable with this. Actually, this is the way it’s done every time: loud and confrontational. It turns out that NOT bargaining would be offensive to the seller, not to mention that the price would be double without second guessing it. We ended up in a taxi that took us one hour away to the town located at the foot of the mountain. After more of what I perceived to be heated bargaining, we got into a bus that would take us to the next point. After riding for 3 minutes, we got out and got into another bus for another 3 minutes. The process occurred twice more, and I was a little nervous as Patrick became more irritated and confused. Again, lots of yelling. Finally, the last driver, who took us to the start of the climbing, told Patrick (which he relayed to me) that there were certain limits placed on certain vehicles, and the three previous drivers couldn't take us that far.

There was constant, shameless staring, and if I wasn’t being stared at, my presence there was questioned. My blonde hair was glaring. I saw two other obvious, European/American looking foreigners around, and they were being stared at too. Everyone was asking Patrick about where I was from, and why I was there. Lots and lots of staring. However, I was staring at the beautiful scenery. Pine trees were everywhere, including a kind called the “welcoming pine”- its branches stretched wide to welcome the mountain’s tourists. Rocky mountain peaks jutted into the mist and sky, and there was no way to tell how high the mountain was. There were even monkeys by the side of the road. This climb was probably one of the most strenuous things I have done in my life, but the scenery was gorgeous.

As we began to climb, I was told that it would be three hours to get to the top. The climb was really hard- it actually took me four hours. The unforgiving stairs reached straight up, not the gradual leisurely climb I expected attached to the “easier route”. All of the supplies for the mountain hotels and guest areas are carried up the mountain, not transported by truck or cable car. So, if there is a building being built, the supplies are carried up by men. In our case, there was a building being torn down, so there were men coming down the mountain carrying large pieces of siding. There was a guy carrying two heavy bags of cement on a pole across his shoulders who lapped me, the blond lumbering cow.

Patrick’s passive aggression grew very obvious- he kept thinking there was something wrong with me. Why was I having so much trouble? In fact, Deng Xiaoping (the Premier after Chairman Mao) climbed this mountain when he was 80. So, I was to think about Deng Xiaoping whenever I got tired.

Yeah right.

At the end of the four hours, we arrive at what Patrick says is the top, and I am exhausted. I cannot breathe, and my legs are killing me. Plus, I didn't shower that day. I am looking forward to hitting the hotel, taking a shower, and relaxing, and then looking around. I ask Patrick where the hotel is, and how far away it is. He asks around, and says that we should hurry to get an available room, and we should start right now. It's 15 miles away, he tells me.

I am about ready to wipe that passive aggression right out of his system.

So, we continue to CLIMB. My legs are jelly, and my knees are wobbly. I don't feel like I am going to pass out anymore, my legs just feel like they are going to collapse. Another 2 hours go by. I'm crabby, but I’m minutely grateful we didn’t opt for a tour. The tours are inexpensive, but strenuous. Everything is included, and packed into the day, which usually begins at 7 and ends at 6 with dinner. Everywhere, groups of about 10-20 people, wandered around wearing huge red or yellow baseball hats with the tour group logo on it. At the front there is a guide pointing out places of interest to the tourists. The guide is donning the same hat, carrying a medium sized flag with the same color and logo, and a very very loud megaphone. Whenever the guide stops and explains something, the cameras come out. Pictures are taken with the Chinese people standing, unsmiling, in front of the place of interest. People think it's weird that I just take pictures of the scenery. We have been following a tour group on a path, and Patrick decides that we are going to join them. Besides, the guide has agreed to get us a room with two twin beds for the night in a nice hotel for 500 Yuan. This is about $30 US. 24 hour hot water. I am saved.

After Patrick has spoken to the tour guide about the room, he asks about the location of the hotel. He tells me it'll be another 3 hours before we get there, and that we have a lot of scenery to see. This means more and more peaks, more rock formations, more mist, and more trees. It's beautiful, but it's all looking the same to me. We go up one peak, take pictures, and then go down, and do it again. And again. I swear, I am so tired I can barely stand. I even sit out on a few peaks because I can't climb anymore. We arrived at the hotel around 6:30, and eat a very small, and I am told, overpriced meal and I fell asleep at 8pm. Patrick wants to join the tour for the next day, which starts at 7 am. I think he’s nuts, but I am completely dependent on him, so the alarm is set. My mind goes to black as I try to convince my legs to jumpstart their nerves.

Patrick and I awake at 6:15 to the phone ringing. "Why don't you answer it?" he wants to know. "Because they will speak Chinese," I reply. He figures it out in his sleepy stupor, and answers the phone. It's the tour guide, and Patrick sleepily relays the message. "They are starting early, so maybe we should get up and meet them in 5 minutes." In my fog, I ask him how he slept and how he’s feeling. He didn't sleep well, and his legs hurt a lot. I suggested that we forget the tour, and that we sleep late, and then go to the cable car. He agrees, and adds that we could visit a valley he knows of, and then back to the rail station. He falls back asleep instantly. I'll bet Deng Xiaoping's legs didn't hurt when he climbed the mountain.

We wake up around 11, rested, and hungry, and eat some of the food we had packed from Nanjing. After we check out, we ask about the route to the cable car. The hotel lady tells us it's a 2 hour hike. Fantastic. But, we are rested, it's a cool morning, and I am determined to have a better attitude. It's a nice hike, although my legs are bugging me- this time, my knees. There are a lot of steep ups and downs. We see the highest peak, and it's nice. The Chinese around me are struggling a little too, so I don't feel so odd. We finally come to the cable car. It's a really beautiful 20 minute ride, and it's quiet, lightly raining, and peaceful. On the other side, people are coming up and once they see me they stare. Even so, it's a nice 20 minute respite.

Once down, we go into a tourist shop, and it starts to pour. So, we hang out, and get to a bus that is going to take us to the valley Patrick talked about. We see a driver who was one of the four who handed us off from the day before, and he agrees to take us to the 9 Dragon Waterfalls, and the valley. We say ok, leave the bags in the van, and the guy drops us off at the entrance to the waterfalls, where we get something to eat. I share with Patrick that I am physically undone- that I cannot take much more. He nods, staring at his soup. Clearly, he has about had it with me. After dinner, we buy tickets to the waterfalls, and begin climbing again. My legs can't stop shaking. After about 1/2 an hour, we reach a little pagoda, and I ask Patrick how much further it is- and he honestly doesn't know. It could be three more hours? Maybe? Patrick says he's not really interested in this, and that he thought I would be, but it's raining and it doesn't seem like a good idea. We both decide that we are sick of this, and that we can't climb anymore (maybe Deng didn't like this place). Plus, it's pouring, which aided in the decision to quit. We go back and wait for the guy to show up with our bags, and once he shows up, we head back to the town at the foot of the mountain.

Now we need transportation to the train station, an hour away. More arguing. Patrick says that there is no transportation. More arguing. Now, one of the guys is willing to drive us, for 60 Yuan. Not acceptable. So, more bargaining, and it's down to 50 Yuan. We get in the van. The guy sitting next to the driver and Patrick try to teach me Chinese. It's a good ride.

We get to the train station, and there are some women there to meet us with umbrellas. They just wanted us to get to the station dry. Not selling anything, just being kind. I was touched. We go to sit down and wait for 3 1/2 hours for our train. We were also told that there were no bunks available, so we would just have to wait and get on the train and see if there were any openings. I go to buy some playing cards, where I meet this young girl who spoke limited English, but her “Hello, can I help you?" was flawless. I sat down on my bag and started to play solitaire. Suddenly, there is a crowd of Chinese people standing and surrounding me, watching me curiously. Someone asks Patrick if I am a fortune teller. I am laughing, probably for the first time this trip. I ask Patrick to take a picture.

Then the young girl who calls herself Fanny shows up. She wants to practice her English, so she sits down. I teach her how to play gin. The crowd increases. They are sitting behind her, advising her, and behind me, and I ask their opinions on what to throw away, by pointing. They don’t understand, but they sometimes point to a card and shrug, lending what help they could, Fanny plays a few games of gin and slapjack with me, and teaches me a few of her own. Three hours fly by. The Chinese people come and go, sometimes in crowds, sometimes in pairs, always watching and interested in what I am doing.

In the meantime, Patrick has secured a bunk on the train which was offered by Fanny's mother. Our train arrives, and Fanny escorts us onto the train and makes sure we are settled. Patrick cuts a deal with another passenger to secure a bunk for himself. I give Fanny a hug, and thank her for making the stay in the station wonderful. Spending time with her was truly one of the best memories of the trip; time with her reminds me of why I am here in the first place.

The train takes off, and I am ready for sleep, but there are two Cantonese guys who decide that they are going to spend everyone’s night singing. They are at it until about 3 am, when they finally get to sleep. Not to worry-they began again when the train started to wake up, around 6.

Patrick and I get off the train and go to his place to crash for a few hours, and then walk around Nanjing a bit more. I ask if we can eat something a little different for dinner, since we've been eating a lot of pork and greens. We ended up at a place near a university where we order things that look like mini lobsters. I eat about 10 tails of these little guys- they are spicy and unusual, and I enjoy the flavor.

We went to sleep early that night, and made a mad dash for a 6:30 bus to take me to the airport that morning. I landed in Hong Kong around 11 am, and get back to the Maryknoll house around 12:30, just in time for lunch. At lunch, one of the priests asks me where I've been, and I tell him. His first experience teaching was in Nanjing. I ask him about the lobster things- what they are called in English, because Patrick didn't know. They are called "Shanghai Hairy Crabs", and "Dawn, you can get hepatitis from those, you know."

No, I didn't know. The ONE TIME I screwed up and ate something I shouldn't have. Crap(b).

Luckily, I survived. Interestingly enough, I ended up later in a Hong Kong hospital for what appeared to be appendicitis, and almost went through an operation. The illness turned out to be salmonella.

There are a lot of things that the Chinese do that are unexplainable to Westerners- the taxi debacles, the bargaining, and sometimes making things more complicated than they need to be. But when I was in the Nanjing pavilion, waltzing and watching the dancers, I couldn't help but wonder why things like this aren't common in the U.S. It's really quite amazing, when you think about it, that a culture of crowds and noise can take time out daily to celebrate in such a simple, peaceful and beautiful way.