Fuddland

Those times when I avoid work for an extended period and get to see more of China.

This category is a subcategory of China.

This category also has the following subcategories [number of entries in brackets]:

• Chengdu and the Sichuan Province (January 2007) [11]
• Daytrips [7]
• Jiuhua Shan [4]
• Manzhouli [5]
• Shenyang [3]
• Xi'an [4]

Last month I was treated by my nursery school to join them on a daytrip to Shànghǎi Wild Animal Park. Having had a pretty bad experience with the zoo back in Běnxī, I was a little apprehensive, but thought that a modern, wealthy, progressive city such as Shànghǎi might be a little more clued-in animal-welfare-wise.

Can you guess what’s coming?

To be fair, the animal enclosures were of a decent quality: good sizes, and the animals [for the most part] looked to be in fairly good condition, which is surprising once you witness the general public’s complete disregard for any and all prominent notices [of which there were many] imploring them to not feed the animals.

It was simply amazing: children and adults alike, gleefully throwing bread to the red pandas and offering cake and biscuits to the ostriches, or trying to pet birds doing the best they could to avoid the out-stretched hands whilst tied to a perch by a six-inch chain.

One mother couldn’t seem to accept the fact that alligators generally don’t do very much apart from sit on rocks for most of the day, especially when the weather is on the chilly side, so she decided to lob a plastic bottle at them so they’d get up and do an elaborate five-minute song-and-dance routine for her precious son. Sadly for her, the bottle just bounced off their tough hide and they barely even raised a scaly eyebrow. [One of the teachers decided that they were not, in fact, real alligators, but statues, although if she could have been bothered to stand still and simply look at them for a few minutes, she would have seem them blink and move everso slightly.]

But all that was left in the dust by the grand finale: a 45-minute long animal show, featuring, amongst other things:

• an elephant performing acrobatics with two girls, being encouraged to stand on its hind legs through the use of a metal spike on a stick

• three monkeys on chains scurrying up and down poles

• a chimpanzee dressed as a shoe-shiner engaging in slapstick routine with his handler [who, for some reason, was dressed as a Frenchman]

• a bear riding a bicycle, and later being made to walk upright with cymbals strapped to its front paws, whilst two other bears [also upright] took part in a wedding ceremony, attended by the elephant, monkeys, a llama, and a zebra.

Still, at least: the kids were pretty cute; I got to see white tigers for the first time; and, most importantly, there were many fine examples of Chinglish on display, my favourite of which was in the stay-in-your-vehicle stage, and said,

In case of breakdown, please dial 61180113. In case of no communication equipment, please whistle for a while, our working staff will tow out your troubled car.

Lóngtóu Shān (龙头山) — Dragon Head Hill — is a gorgeous little place. You make the gentle climb up through an orange orchard, with some other fruit trees such as the Chinese strawberry tree, locally called yángméi (杨梅), dotted around the place for good measure, which is sure to look spectacular when the oranges are almost ready for picking.

Just at the top is an old, pretty unmaintained temple. The overweight caretaker was asleep on a bench as we approached, but he got up and made a few token gestures with a broom as we looked around. Although the temple isn’t up to much, the view beyond it is fantastic: miles and miles of fish-farms and rice paddies stretch out in every direction, to the horizon and beyond. You can get a pretty good idea of just how many individual plots there are if you look on Google Maps at our approximate location and start to zoom out.

After a while, exploring the hill a little off the beaten track, we headed back to the ring-road and started walking along the side of the road, hoping to flag down another tuk-tuk, but none was to be seen. As we walked, and throughout the day, I was struck by how undeveloped the area is: this is supposed to be one of the major sight-seeing areas in the province, and yet the small villages that we passed through were pretty rundown, and as lunchtime approached our bellies were surprised at the apparent lack of restaurants.

Eventually, after thoughts of food were put on hold by the sight of a large dead dog hanging from a tree, I saw a minibus speeding up the road towards us and flagged it down, asking to be dropped off at the ferry terminal on the north side of Dōng Shān (东山). From there our plan was to catch the ferry to Xī Shān (西山). As we got to what looked to me a lot like a ferry terminal, one person outside the bus told us we had arrived, but others on the bus told us we had not. A bit confused, we stayed on the bus for a couple more minutes drive, during which time an older Chinese man piped up in English and told us that the ferry would cost us a hundred yuan. But my guidebook, which I double-checked and showed him, said it should cost only five yuan per person, and whilst you can generally expect prices to have risen slightly in the couple of years since the book was published, we couldn’t believe a 2000% increase, even here! We were starting to suspect we were being taken to a different docking area for a much more expensive ride.

But we pulled up on the side of the road just a short distance from the first terminal, and I embarked on a really quite tiresome conversation with the woman running the minibus — we kept going round and round on the fact that Rose and I wanted to go to Xī Shān, and we didn’t want to take the road as it meant going all the way back to the mainland and back out again along the bridge to the island. We’ve found, on our winding trip to Jǐuhuá Shān (九华山) as well as talking to this woman, that some people can’t understand that the journey can be as much a part of the trip as the destination: we wanted to take the ferry because we thought it would be nice. At one point Rose and I realised that my guidebook probably had a typo, and it was supposed to say fifty yuan per person, which would tally with what the old chap had told us, and on second thoughts sounded pretty reasonable for a half-hour ferry ride. But now the minibus woman was fixated on the fact that we’d previously said the ferry was too expensive, and kept suggesting we take the land-based option.

Having established that the place we’d passed through earlier was indeed the ferry terminal, and still confused about why we were told at the time that it wasn’t, we just got off the bus and started to walk back along the road. But the minibus woman started following us, telling us to hurry up, which we were in no mood to do, being really quite hungry by now, as well as hot and bothered in the midday sun. Eventually she peeled off and turned back towards her bus.

Some very large restaurants loomed up on the shore just next to the ferry terminal, and the lure of air-conditioning and nourishment pulled us into the first one, which was beautifully empty of customers. Upstairs and at the back was a cool breeze, under some shade, looking out over the lake. We ordered a fish dish [caught locally, naturally] and sat back to enjoy what we came to realise was probably the most peaceful place either of us had been to since we’d come to China. The food wasn’t up to much to be honest: I’ve always found the fish-dishes in Sūzhōu (苏州) to taste distinctly of mud; the vegetable dish was uninspired, and the rice was on the dry side. But there wasn’t a soul about, save for the waitress [hovering at a respectful distance for a change] and a couple of fishermen on row-boats out on the lake, and this rare treat more than made up for the culinary disappointment.

A short time later we saw the ferry leaving, and after a moment of frowning, we understood why the minibus woman was so concerned that we should hurry, I had a quick look in my guidebook and realised that, in my head, I had managed to transform the half-hour length of the ferry ride into the notion that ferries left every half-hour, whereas in fact there were only two a day, and we’d just missed the last one. But we were so relaxed by then that we simply shrugged, finished our food, ordered a couple of beers and sat reading and admiring the view for a while longer, happy to be in each other’s company in such a peaceful place.

Just twenty miles or so west of Sūzhōu (苏州) lies Tài Hú (太湖), the third largest lake in China, easily reached from Sūzhōu on the number 502 public bus from opposite the train station [well, it’s opposite the train station at the time of writing. There’s so much construction going on around there at the moment, the bus stops are continually being moved around]. You can also take a minibus from the bus station down the road, but why pay a lot more just for a bit more comfort? It’s only four yuan for the hour-long journey if you take the 502, and you get to see a bit more of the surrounding towns as it winds its way through them, rather than taking the express route.

Read the rest of “Getting to Dong Shan”…

It took us a while to get started. The town of Jǐuhuá Shān (九华山) is not very large, but its layout rather confused Rose and me; the maps on the various signposts didn’t seem to tally with the one we had purchased, and the way to proceed up the mountain wasn’t as obvious as it could have been.

Consequently, we set off on a path that ultimately led to the main road to the summit — that is, a twisting, winding, tarmacced route around the peaks built for mini-buses and cars to ferry passengers speedily to the top. This meant we were missing all the temples and small settlements that are dotted around the mountain.

So after about an hour of following this road, vainly hoping we could find a way off it and onto the mountain path proper, getting rather frustrated by local shop owners who didn’t seem to know where they worked when shown a map, I decided the best course of action was to throw a mild temper tantrum and curse the whole of Jǐuhuá Shān for being so bloody difficult. Thankfully Rose has the patience of a notably-patient saint and an outlook on life that says, “Well, we’re here now, so let’s make the best of it,” so she shook me by the shoulders until I calmed down. We went back down the road to the town and started again, finding the correct path almost immediately.

So here is the key to finding your way up Jǐuhuá Shān: whenever you see a flight of stairs, climb it. Then climb it some more. Then turn the corner and climb the stairs you find there. Savour each and every level pathway you come across, for just a few yards beyond them are more and more stairs, all of them relentlessly going in an upward direction. To reach the very top takes a good few hours, even if you take the cable cars part of the way [which we didn’t] and is pretty hard on the thigh and calf muscles even if you’re in good shape [which Rose is but I’m not].

It’s stairs all the way, and it was stares all the way too: as I mentioned, the place was pretty busy with other visitors, we seemed to be the only foreigners there, so for the entire day we were subjected to barrages of, “Hullo!” or catching whispers about the approaching lǎowài (老外), a slightly derogatory term for a foreigner. Most of the time we replied, sometimes through gritted teeth, but for me at least, it started to get old within the first eleven seconds of being in China, so to have to put up with it all the live long day wasn’t the most fun I’ve ever had.

Thankfully the scenery more than made up for it: after almost a year of living with the flat, concrete-covered expanses of Sūzhōu (苏州), it was a real treat to see tree-covered mountains and valleys surrounding us, disappearing off into the haze. Sadly more disappointment was to be found in the people who dropped litter wherever they stood, showing as much respect for the countryside as they do for city streets. The wrappers for the hundreds upon hundreds of sticks of incense that were being lit at the numerous temples littered the floor of the temple grounds, and I saw more than a few people drain their drinks and simply chuck the empty plastic bottle into the valley below.

As you climb you come across more than a few very small settlements — nothing more than a few homes and some adjoining restaurants, offering a quick and cheap[ish] meal to restore one’s waning energy. There are also some small, very basic snack bars at many junctures on the way, providing instant noodles and bottled drinks. Of course, all of these establishments need their stocks constantly replenished, a job performed by some not-young men carrying carefully balanced, but very heavy-looking loads across their shoulders, hanging from a sturdy length of bamboo.

Eventually, sometime in the middle of the afternoon, we made it to the top. Jǐuhuá Shān is one of the four sacred mountains if Buddhism in China with a history of over 1,500 years, and the goal for the majority of the people who make it this far is to visit the temple of Tiān Tái Sì (天台寺), but we opted to walk in the opposite direction along the peaks and get away from the hordes of people and their cursed shouts of “Hullo”. We found a peaceful boulder on which to perch — but clearly we were not the first there, for a few sticks of incense were jammed into a crack, which we re-lit and sat looking out over the peaks.

The time came to head back down the mountain; we were pretty exhausted and had intended to take the cable car most of the way down, but the queue was so long that we ended up walking the whole way back down the stairs too, arriving back in the town just as it was getting dark. On the way we passed some lazy folk being transported down the mountain on bamboo-based sedan chairs carried by two men, and a troop of scavenging semi-domesticated baboons licking plastic wrappers and banana skins in search of a snack, another sad reminder that although this beautiful, historic area is officially protected and a designated national park, some people still don’t afford it the respect it deserves.

We were prepared for it to be busy: after all, we were visiting during the week-long national holiday, so virtually anywhere we might have chosen was going to be overflowing with tourists. My personal hope was, drawing from my experiences climbing Fèng Huáng Shān, the number of people around us would be inversely proportional to our height above sea level. [Translation: the higher we went, the fewer other people we’d see.]

Of course, despite being on a bus bound for Jǐuhuá Shān (九华山), and being in possession of tickets that clearly said, “Destination: Jǐuhuá Shān”, our transportation didn’t actually terminate at Jǐuhuá Shān, but instead threw us off at a place called “So You Wanna Visit Jǐuhuá Shān? Then Give Us Your Cash”: a large building in which we had to buy two entrance tickets to the township and surrounding area of Real Jǐuhuá Shān. Then it was a further minibus-ride up the winding mountain roads to the town proper, which served as a wonderful introduction to the landscape, all lush green trees and rice paddy-covered farmland.

The small town of Jǐuhuá Shān is given over entirely to hotels, restaurants and other tourist-friendly services. As predicted, it was teeming with people, although interestingly we didn’t see any other foreigners almost the entire time we were there. In the town and at many points up the mountain path are various Buddhist temples and monasteries, and it seemed that a lot of the visitors were there for religious reasons as much as anything else.

Having arrived quite late in the day, we set aside the mountain ascension for the next day and decided to simply find a hotel, then have a bite to eat and a few beers. I’d read in my guidebook that it was possible to stay in the monastery, but disappointingly when we went in and asked, we were told that we couldn’t stay there because we weren’t [and aren’t] Chinese. It was the same problem I was faced with in Dīng Shān (丁山): forcing foreigners into the more expensive establishments under the assumption that we’re all significantly wealthier than locals.

Sensing our dejection with his well-honed emotional skills, one of the monks conjured a mobile phone from somewhere deep within his robes and made a few enquiries at other hotels on our behalf, but the one he led us to was on the pricey side. The monk just sort of wandered off without saying anything more, so we decided to take matters into our own hands and check out the other hotels in town. But just as we were about to start negotiating with a woman who’d approached us with an offer, our monk friend came running over, looking rather annoyed that we’d just walked away while he was — it transpired — still trying to help us. He called over a different woman who was hovering nearby and we agreed to check out her place, which turned out to be fine and about as good a price as we could hope to pay given the peak season. It was up some stairs and away from the town centre, providing nice respite from the bustle and noise of the crowds.

We picked a busy-looking restaurant and found that by merely hesitating slightly over whether to order a particular dish or not, the waiter offered to give it to us for a much reduced price. That’s the kind of non-aggressive haggling I like! A few local beers later [which, as with many Chinese beers, were so weak as to have no discernible effect — at least, that’s what I told my besht mate the traffic warden as I returned her hat], it was time to turn in and get a good night’s sleep ahead of the next day’s climb.

We only stayed in the capital of the province of Ānhuī (安徽) for one night, so I can’t really comment in great detail on what it has to offer, but it was immediately apparent that the city was a lot less affluent than Sūzhōu (苏州). As opposed to the beggars that are rife throughout Sūzhōu, in Héféi (合肥) we saw homelessness in the sense of people sleeping rough, at bus stops and in shop doorways. I can’t think of a time when I’ve seen anyone actually sleeping on the street in Sūzhōu. Perhaps there’s a shelter somewhere that I’m not aware of.

[Aside: the previous statement notwithstanding, people nap anywhere and everywhere in China. They think nothing of lying down and catching forty winks on a public bench, on the ground outside the restaurant where they work, or using their hardhat as a pillow on a construction site.]

Read the rest of “Jiuhua Shan [Part II — Hefei City]”…

A few weeks ago I travelled with my faithful companion Rose to Ānhuī (安徽), the province just west of my home province of Jiāngsū (江苏), to visit a range of mountains known as Jǐuhuá Shān (九华山): Nine Glorious Peaks.

Our route from Sūzhōu (苏州) was not the most direct: first we went a couple of hours north of Sūzhōu to spend the night in Tàizhōu (泰州), the hometown of one of Rose’s colleagues — a woman in her early twenties — and were treated to an insight into Chinese family life and culture. We arrived late morning and were presented with quite a lavish lunch — amongst the many and varied dishes, I remember a combination of tofu and crab’s lung being quite tasty, although Rose seemed to think that you’re not supposed to eat the lungs of crabs. [We didn’t suffer any ill-effects, so at the very least perhaps they’re okay in small quantities.]

The conversation was pleasant enough but quite simple, and once Rose’s and my Chinese skills had pretty much been exhausted, talk consisted of various members of the family pointing at a dish, saying, “(吃)” [“chī”, meaning “eat”], us smiling politely and chopsticking a token amount into our mouths.

Tàizhōu itself is spectacularly unspectacular, with no real claims to fame beyond being the hometown of a few renowned masters of the Peking Opera. I thought at one point my hosts told me that Hu Jintao, the current president of China, is also from Tàizhōu, but this appears to be false so I probably misunderstood what they were trying to tell me.

Dinner was taken at a lush public bathhouse, and proved to be mildly farcical in that we changed into cute little short pyjama sets [cream for the boys, pink for the girls], went to the restaurant upstairs for a buffet dinner, then came back down to the changing rooms, stripped off the jammies and went to enjoy the [separate, unisex] sauna, steam room and pool. Why we had to change out of our own clothes in order to dine is something I’m still trying to figure out.

The sleeping arrangements were quite awkward: Rose, her colleague and the mother shared the main bedroom [with the mother insisting on sleeping on the floor]. The father was sent to sleep at a friend’s place [in case he caught a glimpse of Rose’s bare elbow, or something], and I was given the daughter’s bedroom. A child of the one-child-policy era, the room was adorned with portraits of her, glammed-up to the eyeballs and post-processed beyond recognition.

Lunch the next day was along the same lines as the day before, save for the beverages. In an effort to make us feel even more special, and to make a change from the beer that we [the men] drank with yesterday’s lunch, the father decided that a triple brandy was an appropriate lunchtime beverage for a strapping lad such as myself. Rose, being a more delicate — but still Western — female, got away with a standard, shot-sized helping. I managed to finish mine and had a warm fuzzy feeling for my troubles, but it was a shot too far for the dad and he was clearly more than tipsy at the end of the meal, making it even harder than usual to make out what he was saying.

My still cheeks a-glow, and laden with a generous parting gift of fruit, buns and soft drinks, we set off on the next leg of our trip: a train to Héféi (合肥), the capital of Ānhuī.

An hour’s bus ride out of Sūzhōu (苏州) is the small historic water town of Lùzhí (甪直). Just over a square kilometre in size, and dating back 1,400 years, it’s famed for its surviving small bridges and a Buddhist temple containing treasured sculptures of arhats — the term for those who have attained enlightenment.

A single ¥60 ticket gains you entry to eight local sites of interest — as well as the temple there are a few museums displaying farming tools and detailing the lives of some of the town’s famous inhabitants, as well as some historic houses — all within walking distance of each other, and it makes for a nice little daytrip. Lùzhí is rather less touristy than Tóng Lǐ (同里), but then it is also less well maintained — although that didn’t seem to bother the good few local artists from setting up their easels along the canalsides.

One of the more interesting sights was housed within the Buddhist temple: three thousand-year-old ginkgo trees, which I have since learnt is a species of tree with no close living relatives — an example of a living fossil [think crocodiles, horseshoe crabs and coelacanths]. But I was most intrigued by this sign off to one side in the arhat room:

Anyone got any theories as to the meaning of “119”?

Update: Disappointingly, it appears that 119 is the emergency number for the fire service. I was hoping for some kind of mystical significance, but I suppose this is still quite useful information that I really should have known before now. And what kind of sign is that anyway? Surely, “In case of fire, dial 119” would be a little more effective than a cute but cryptic couplet?

One of the most fascinating things about the Terracotta Army is that, in their Chinese name Bīng Mǎ Yǒng (兵马俑), according to my dictionary the last character (俑) translates as “earthen figures buried with the dead in ancient times” — isn’t it lucky they came up with that one, just in case they should ever need it?

Getting to the site, about an hour’s drive from Xī’ān (西安), is very simple even if you don’t want to go on an organised tour [which I didn’t, both to save money and to have no time constraints] — you catch the green 306 bus from the car park on the east side of the train station and get off at the very last stop. The ten-minute walk up to the main site is disconcerting; it feels as though you’re walking through a modern housing development [and not a very populated one, most of the buildings appear to be empty], with pointless Chinese rock music blaring out of speakers [disguised as fake rocks] and hordes of peddlers repeatedly offering you miniature warriors until you punch them on the nose to make them go away. [Believe me, saying, “No thank you!” has no effect whatsoever.]

Once you’re through the museum gates life is a little more peaceful, although for some reason those souvenir sellers are also allowed in to harass the visitors as they wander around. I think most people head straight for Pit 1, the main hangar housing the largest restored collection of figures, but we veered off to the right and went for Pits 2 and 3 first, saving the “best” ‘til last. These two smaller pits contain many broken, partially-uncovered figures, horses and chariots, and work is still going on to unearth the remaining artifacts, the majority of which are still completely buried. It was nice to be able to see the statues without obstructive glass or netting, but how long this will be the case I’m not sure, seeing as there was a half-drunk bottle of Pepsi and a tourist map accidentally [I hope!] dropped into Pit 3.

The main pit is enormous, and it was a relief to actually be impressed by the scale of things — even moreso when you consider that, having recovered around 1,000 statues, there are supposed to be another 7,000 or so to go. Towards the back of the hangar — we entered through the exit, continuing our maverick, shoot-from-the-hip approach — is a reconstruction area, where you can see dozens of partially-restored figures and a big pile of broken pottery, together with a couple of computers and other gadgets which help with the jigsaw puzzle. The remaining two-thirds of the building is dedicated to the main show, and after the relatively dim previous pits, it was a surprise to see so much sunlight allowed to flood the room. The more you look, the more you come to realise that it really was quite an achievement for the people of the time. It’s hard to imagine even today people working with such patience and dedication to produce this volume of individually-crafted figures [and let’s emphasise this: each and every figure has a different face!].

Not everyone was so in awe of the millennia-old sight before their eyes: as I stood overlooking the main site, I turned and realised that the Chinese man next to me was not, in fact, taking photos of his cultural heritage, but decided that it was much more important to snap pictures of the foreigner. I quickly ducked out of view and gave him a look that said, “Oi, ninny, no!”, although this might not have translated very well as he immediately tried to take a photo of my Australian friend instead.

[Aside: back in Sūzhōu (苏州), I was walking down the street the other day, a few feet behind a Western man with his two young children when suddenly two Chinese men pulled up on their bicycles. One produced a camera and motioned [repeatedly saying, “Very cute, very cute!”] for the dad to pick up his sons and pose with them for a photo. Somewhat dazed by the speed at which it was all happening, the dad complied. I have no idea what they wanted these photos for. It was all a little creepy.]

Those of us of a certain age and nationality will fondly remember the classic Japanese kung-fu television treat that was Monkey Magic — the story of a Buddhist monk, Tripitaka, and his three mystical protectors, Monkey, Pigsy and Sandy, on a quest from China to India and back, seeking sacred Buddhist texts and battling all manner of demons in a variety of camp costumes.

The story is based on an ancient Chinese legend, Journey to the West, in which the monk is called Xuán Zàng (玄奘), which begins and ends in what is modern-day Xī’ān (西安). On his return to the temple of Dàcí’ēn Sì (大慈恩寺) [Temple of Grace], Xuán Zàng requested the construction of the stone pagoda Dàyàn Tǎ (大雁塔) [Big Goose Pagoda] within its walls to house and protect the precious scripts as he translated them into 1,355 volumes [as well as negotiating the rights to the television series, sticker albums, action figures and so on].

The Temple is currently undergoing a face-lift and, sadly, looks as though is was all constructed in the last twenty minutes instead of portraying its 1,500-year-long history, although the pagoda itself has largely been left alone and looks sufficiently weather-beaten for you to believe the legends surrounding it, and even today, still emits enough mystical energy for a few moments of levitation…

The Muslim Quarter, in the north-west of downtown Xi’an, is the place to go if you want to buy some nice-looking souvenirs, antiques and trinkets — from local crafts such as intricately-cut patterns in paper and jewellery, to novelty items such as…

Read the rest of “The Muslim Quarter and the museums”…

Xi’an and the surrounding area is positively brimming over with sites of historical importance, and it’s well worth spending a good few days visiting the city of you want to be sure to make the most of the places of…

Read the rest of “Xi’an city walls”…

Phew, I’ve scarcely finished writing about my last trip, but I’m about to head off on a semi-impromptu visit to Xi’an, home of the Terracotta Army and other historically important sights. As a special bonus I’ll get to hang out…

Read the rest of “No rest for the David”…

One of the lesser-known gems in Chengdu is Wang’s Tiny Museum of Mao Memorabilia. The name says it all: down a side street that I had to ask three people how to find despite having the address and a map,…

Read the rest of “Wang’s Tiny Museum of Mao Memorabilia”…

Right next door to the hostel I was staying at in Chengdu was the Buddhist temple of Wenshu Yuan; it is a Chan temple, Chan being the Chinese for what is more popularly known as Zen Buddhism. Although initial…

Read the rest of “Wenshu Yuan”…

Foolishly, I’d mentioned earlier to one of the other passengers on the bus how good the driver was: up in the mountains of Jiuzhaigou park the winding roads were still covered in snow, yet he managed to keep a steady…

Read the rest of “Round the bend”…

Aside from the dominant Han Chinese nationality, there are 55 other officially-recognised minorities in modern China; the province of Sichuan is home to four of them, and the village of Taoping has been occupied by the Qiangzu people for around…

Read the rest of “Taoping”…

In typical in-at-the-deep-end style, I’ve been rather busy for my first couple of weeks with my new language centre, teaching children every morning and afternoon, and adults a couple of evenings a week — but thankfully it all comes to a dead…

Read the rest of “Candids”…

In the mountains of northern Sichuan is the 720 square kilometre reserve of Jiuzhaigou. The name means “Valley of the Nine Villages”, after the nine high-fenced Tibetan settlements that originally populated the area. The 1000-or-so permanent residents of the…

Read the rest of “Jiuzhaigou National Park”…

I made a few videos at the Panda Breeding Research Centre in Chengdu, the first of which shows two three-year-old giant pandas play-fighting in the cold morning air. [View the “Young pandas play-fighting” video on YouTube]…

Read the rest of “Panda-ing”…

After spending a few days there at either end of my trip, I really warmed to Chengdu. The guidebooks and information I had read about the city all mentioned the laid-back approach that its citizens have to life, and it…

Read the rest of “Chengdu”…

Signs dotted around one of the restored, protected areas in Chengdu describe the following “Rules Pertaining to Civilized Tour”: In order to build a civilized and harmonious tour environment and to improve the moral standards of both tourists and…

Read the rest of “Citizenship”…

Am back. I made it through Nanjing all the way to Chengdu without any problems, and did a whirlwind tour of the city and the north of the province of Sichuan, which were both excellent although rather cold. Right now…

Read the rest of “Chengdid”…

Let me outta here! Sorry about that, just had to yell to some extent. I’m over it now. I’d like to go to Chengdu. I’ve heard and read that it’s lovely, and I’ve been planning a two-week holiday there ever…

Read the rest of “Chengdon’t”…

Just outside Ding Shan is a series of caves open to the public, the largest of which is Zhanggong Dong, set in a small park with the usual offerings of ponds, rocks and winding pathways. The caves would be a…

Read the rest of “Zhanggong Dong”…

Allow me to quote from The Rough Guide to China: This obscure town has been producing pottery since the beginning of recorded history. Primitive unglazed pots have been found here which date back … some three thousand years. Ceramic lampposts…

Read the rest of “Ding Shan”…

A day-trip to the mountain of Feng Huang Shan [鳳凰山 — Phoenix Mountain] proved one of my most enjoyable experiences since I came out here. It’s a two-hour train ride from Benxi and, at this time of year, is relatively tourist-free but…

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Our initial attempt to visit the border with Russia ended in partial failure: we were indeed taken to a border crossing by a taxi driver, but it was the purely functional one for immigration and import/export purposes — entirely uninteresting, tourist-wise. However,…

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Having befriended a quite crazy local cab driver willing to take us far and wide, we went to Dalai Hu — about an hour’s drive south of Manzhouli — and were surprised to discover that, despite the recent warm weather, the lake was still…

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Visiting the city of Manzhouli was a strange experience. Sitting right on the border with Russia and being the main thoroughfare for both people and goods between the two countries in this region, the streets and restaurants are overrun with…

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The journey to Manzhouli ended up being a twenty-hour train ride from Shenyang, and initially it looked as though we were going to be standing all the way there. As we squeezed our way onto one of the carriages, the…

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Off I go to Manzhouli. Photos and details upon my return!…

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Since we have a whole seven days off work, starting tomorrow night, Alan and I thought it might be fun to get out of the city for a while and head north, up to Manzhouli — the city where I was originally…

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The main event of the day was a visit to the Imperial Palace of the Qing Dynasty. The following is taken from the information sign on display at the main entrance: The Imperial Palace in Shenyang was the founding base…

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After grabbing a quick snack of baozi [steamed dumplings], our first stop was the enormous statue of Mao Zedong, situated in the centre of a huge roundabout since 1969. With his arm raised in gentle salute, he almost looks as…

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I used up one of my valuable days off this week to take a day-trip to Shenyang, the capital of the Liaoning Province. Catching an early-morning train meant I was able to gawk at the many dozens of people practising…

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The China Eastern Airlines flight from London to Shanghai was surprisingly empty; not only did I have two seats to myself, but if I’d wanted to, I could have moved into the middle of the ‘plane and stretched out across…

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Just wanted to say that I’ve made it as far as Shanghai without problems, and am currently killing time with the help of a free wif-fi connection before my connecting flight to Shenyang. Ain’t technology great?…

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