Guilin, China

It was a long trip from Kelowna to Vancouver to Hong Kong to Guilin, more because of the time spent in the Vancouver and Hong Kong airports than anything else. I always think I can take any wait as long as I am where I have to be, but this trip has called my bluff. Travelling from Guilin, China to Nanning to Guangzhou and on to Hanoi was equally taxing. Planes get you to distant places faster than any other form of transport today, but you pay in money, time and wear and tear on the nerves and shoe leather.  The distances between flight gates and the baggage, passport, visa and body checks are innumerable and nerve wracking. Travelling is a lot like camping; you spend much of the time just figuring out how to survive getting to and being in each new location. It keeps the mind alive, but in every place I get to the thing that fascinates me the most is just wandering around and trying to discover what locals do in the way of work and pleasure. It makes me think about how to get the most out of life at home. 

When I finally arrived in Guilin airport, my luck changed.  An Irish woman, Margarite, was taking the same taxi and staying in the same hostel as I was.  She was spending 3 days in Guilin after studying Chinese in Shanghai for a month.  She's been studying for about one month a year for 3 years, so can at least make her wishes understood in most cases, and she's a woman who knows her mind and speaks it.  I benefitted from this but was happy to have the last 2 days on my own to wander around.  

Our first day trip was to the Longji rice terraces. After about a 2 hour bus ride, we opted to walk unguided among the villages. A young English girl, Kate, who was staying at our hostel came with us.  We took off with an inaccurate tourist map and Kate's phone, equipped with Google Translate, an amazing app that translates text when you hold your smart phone up to it.  Like the translate apps that Jay used to use, it sometimes comes up with laughable stuff, but as we were not asking it to deal with complete sentences, it was quite helpful.  We got lost a bit and Margarite finally got exhausted, but we made it to most of the sites and villages and had some great views of the Dragon's  Backbone terraces that have been producing rice for over a thousand years.  It was not prime season, but the terraces of newly harvested stubble still swirled beneath us in almost endless ripples, dotted with black patches where a small portion of each terrace had been burned to use the ash to enrich the fields.  The parts of China and Vietnam that I saw on this trip were all carefully and fairly organically cultivated and rich with rice, vegetables and fruit.  The fields and hills on the roadside as we drove to Longji were densely planted with what we later discovered were gourds, hanging from low latticed staging that extended in miles of lace-like leaves.  We couldn't see the gourds beneath and only saw for sure that that is what it was when we got to Longji and saw more.

Our next tour was by boat along the Li River.  It was a beautiful ride.  The carst topography was as I had imagined, jagged peaks appearing out of the mist in shapes that each person personifies.  Some of the famously named ones eluded me but were none the less impressive.  Kate, Margarite and I were joined by a big blowhard of a Brit. who went on about his businesses and wealth and was interesting and gave me a few laughs.  I learned an English expression from him, 'Des. Res.'  It means desirable residence.  I told him that a 'Res' in Canada was a completely different thing and that there weren't many desirable ones.  He would point out a house in the distance and describe it as a Des. Res., and we would laugh as we got close and its cracks became clear.  He had the last laugh because he left us in a bar in Yangshou without paying for his beer.  Yangshou is not as it is described in the guides; it's a noisy tourist trap.  Kate went back to Guilin and Margarite and I went for a good meal and then took a taxi to a hostel in the countryside near Yangshou where we had a quiet night's sleep and a good walk through the village and along a stream in the morning.

I enjoyed my last days in Guilin, walking by the river in the early morning and in the evening and to the Solitary Beauty Peak, Elephant's Trunk hill, etc during the days. The Guilin Central Hostel is the best one I've ever stayed in, and I've liked all the hostels so far.  The manager was a wonderful, funny, competent young women who went out of her way to help us and everyone who stayed there.  She spoke English very well which of course eliminated communication barriers, but something about her and all the young people I met on this holiday made me aware of the fact that in spite of our different cultures, we are all just trying to stay alive on the same planet.  She'd be as unused to the cold in Canada and the fact that we stay in our houses in the evenings as I was to the heat and humidity of SW China and the crowds on the streets in the evening listening to music, eating street food and shopping for an endless variety of fruits, fish and stuff, but we certainly share a common humanity.  I'm in favour of a Trans Pacific Partnership. I'd rather deal with the likes of her than Trump any day.   

Early morning swimmers on the riverbank in Guilin, China. The water appears to be polluted, but the locals must build up an immunity because they often whoop as they enter and walk out and dry off briskly. Some of them tie home made buoys to their backs. Most of them do the breast stroke and are older. It reminds me of a picture I saw of Mao swimming across a river on his 70th birthday to show how vigorous he was.  

Workers laying rebar early one morning  in Yangzhou, just up the Li River from Guilin. 

A man chanting and looking out over Guilin from a hill in West Lake Park. It looks very romantic, but like most men in China, he horked up and loudly spat out a few gobs of phlegm as he walked along, with me not far behind him. 

Elephant Trunk Rock in Guilin

On the Li River going to Yangzhou

Livelier News from the Vernon Arts Scene

In the last few weeks I have got to know Misia, a young Polish artist chosen as one of the artists in residence who will visit Vernon throughout the year and stay in the Caetani House, the family home of Sveva Caetani a local artist.  She is working on a project that incorporates aspects of our local environment and life into her art. 

She is a contagiously enthusiastic person who joined the Vernon Outdoors Club in her quest to get to know the area.  I have been on a few hikes and rambles with her and also walked with her a couple of times up to the Black Rock, my favourite neighbourhood site.  I knew she would appreciate not only the view of the three lakes that you get from there but also the ever-changing graffiti on the walls of the abandoned water reservoir. It was while walking around the top of the wall with her that I saw for the first time the words, "July 20th, 1909" written into the concrete at one point.  I had never walked all the way around before.  Many old locals think that the graffiti is just the scrawl made by druggies who go up there to get high, and it sometimes is crude and vulgar.  But often it is well done.  I can't always read it but you can see that it is thoughtfully executed.  I had seen on Misia's website that when she was on a similar residency in Italy she was fascinated by things other than the beauty of nature, so I thought she would enjoy seeing the graffiti.  She did.  She will work it into her project somehow and in the process make a brief reference to me because she associates me with words.  Unfortunately, I will be in China when she makes her presentation, but we will keep in touch and she will send me the link to her work.

As we were walking one day it occurred to me that she would like to see the Ballets Jazz de Montreal. I had just bought a ticket to their performance here.  She said that she had thought of going but tickets were too expensive, so I gave her $20.00 dollars that I had in my pocket to lower the price for her.  Last night I picked her up at the Caetani and we went together.  I have seen them before and liked their work, but last night's show was exceptional.  It was brilliant and energetic and went from indigenous, Rodrigo Pederneiras' "Rouge", to intimate,Benjamin Millepied's "Closer" to the frenetic pace of daily life today, Andonis Foniadakis' "Kosmos".  We stayed for the discussion with the artistic director, Louis Robitaille after the show.  I don't normally do this because I feel so ill at ease in such sessions where people ask their questions that sometimes make me feel embarrassed for some reason.  But I stayed for her sake and learned what I often do, that it's usually a good idea to put myself in situations that I too easily avoid. We both left the Art Centre energized. We didn't talk much but she said something that cracked me up. She mentioned how good Louis's English was, which is true but went on to add that he hardly had any accent, which is not.  His accent was extremely and attractively French.  In fact I think that that is half the reason why I listened so attentively to him and ignored the questions he was asked.

The last flowers in Polson Park.  I took this picture while on a bike ride with Mo and John yesterday.  The next time I'm on a bike I will be in Vietnam.

October 1

The days are getting shorter, and we rest in the sunny spots instead of the shade when we are biking or hiking.Those are the main signs of fall that I have felt so far.  The poplars are yellowing, but the larch are still green; there are very few trees with fiery leaves in the Okanagan.  I'm going to see The Cowboy Junkies tonight at the Arts Centre.  Patrice asked weeks ago if I wanted to join her.  I'm glad I said yes because it's been a good day, but it's rainy and cool now and the music might liven me up.

Jay and the gang are moving to their new place today.  They are renting a house with a yard, a garage a good view and a 70 year old man in the basement apartment.  I haven't seen it yet, nor have they come by today, so I guess they will move the stuff that's here later.  I have invited them for dinner Sunday. 

 I went for a really good fall bike ride with some friends on Wednesday.  We were on the roads back of Lumby and stopped on the way back at a farm where we bought so many vegetables that my panniers were more loaded than they have ever been.  I bought two huge cabbages.  This morning I used much of the green one to make cabbage rolls for tomorrow.  I googled a good way to separate the leaves.  You remove the core and place the whole cabbage in the microwave for 5-6 minutes.  It's not dead easy; I still had to work on them under running water, but it's the best method I've ever used.  I then baked the rolls and hope that they taste as good tomorrow as they smelled today.

It's now Sunday.  The Cowboy Junkies did NOT liven me up. I've heard their songs on the CBC, but never before listened to their music for an extended period of time. I did last night, and it is decidedly NOT lively.  The singer, Margo Timmins admitted part way through the second set that they had only ever produced one happy song.  They are three siblings by the name of Timmins and two others, all from Toronto.  Even though an entire concert of their music is too intensely emotional and raucous for my liking, I was drawn in last night by their commitment to it.  They have a big fan base in Vernon; the Arts Centre was packed. It was the celebration of the 15th Anniversary of the Vernon Arts Centre.  Patrice and I laughed as we were leaving.  It made me think of the line, "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to."  I guess they wanted to. 

The cabbages

The happy gang after eating the cabbage rolls