I had not seen a decent sunset in China since our arrival six weeks ago. So it felt weird to sit on the deck of the Jiang Shan 12 on a broken plastic chair the colour of a blue that the sky wasn't, and to look at a perfect fishball of a sun the colour of ripeness that smelt like the yolk of a well-salted duck egg.
Every minute we waited for the boat to leave the port brought us closer by a step to my next much awaited destination, Xi'an. But at the moment, I thought about spending three nights on a moving boat with absolutely hundreds of local Chinese tourists in pods of hens' night (they combined to be about a hundred years old), puffing old men, noisy aunties, unsmiling and tired staff, a gaggle of tour guides, all the rice wine and beer that one can consume in 36 hours, hours of incessant announcements of the Three Little Gorges, China's massive achievement in the form of a dam (?), to not misplace your belongings, do not leave the ship in a panic, and did we forget to mention that you also need to pay an extra RMB60 for a deck pass?
The additional gulp of air was mind clearing. I had never been on a boat as the Jiang Shan 12. Heck, the last time I had been on a boat, it was docked and it sold books. So this was going to be one impending monster of an adventure that I hope will make interesting writing material.
At 2100 hours, the boat let out a mournful boom and a potful of charcoal smoke mixed into the air punctuated with the smell of roasted drumsticks, diesel, noise and sunflower seeds splitting furiously as everyone took their position in card game tables and watch the world passed by through mouthfuls of tea of red dates, wolfberries and leaves.
We got a little cabin. Can't help but smile. The guide showed us room 4255 - a windowless box with a double decker, one faded couch that faked fabric of a bygone dynasty, but we had a television that we never switched on, and by George (!) it had a powered shower and flush! Chucking out bags we headed up to what began an uncertain night of our journey.
Then in between clutching our cup noodles, hubby saw Shivan, one of the fellow travellers along the road that we had the pleasure of meeting in Chengdu. Hooked up and met more travellers (we were beginning to feel less unique now...) and notes were compared, jokes were cracked. A pretty civil night of beer and conversations that lasted to 0100 hours. We slept like a log in winter that night.
I wondered why in any unfathomable fashion that the guide who showed us the room wished us "good luck" when he quickly slammed shut the door to our room.
Turned out at an ungodly hour of 0530 hours, we heard it.
Not even a squeak. Not even a creak. They came, and they came in full force like the clash of the Titans and 300 Spartans combined in a tiny lane. Tour guides knocking on each door at a well rehearsed tempo to wake the little weaklings that were still tucked inside each warm bed. Time to head out to the lobby, assemble and head out for the first invasion - the Ghost Town. Next the cleaners came armed with keys and a too fast, too furious determination to clean up last night's cracked shells, the odd cuttlefish that got away on the floor, empty bags of chips and cups. I sat up in the dark, listening. Hubby was still snoring away. I believed they were coming closer to Room 4255, the thud-thud of their shoes thundered away in between slams of the doors and the turns of the keys. In my panic, I did what was the most human thing to do under such short notice - I checked if I was wearing decent underpants.
A dark figure pushed open our door and before we could inform them that no cleaning was needed, it closed shut as if Aladdin had never found the code to open this cave. As if nothing had happened. All was quiet and peaceful, and I drifted back to sleep in a haze, wondering maybe it was all a bad nightmare that made for a good laugh.
After much tossing, we came up for air literally. Breakfast was a decent affair of sweet bread and juice. I thought about the dark sail last night as we passed along the river. I saw huge construction that injected a smell of stale urine and muddy water as our boat tugged past the heavy industries areas. My eyes peered into the morning light as I recalled that they were building... tall, imposing structures that were wet cement a few days ago perhaps. The pile of soil that formed tiny elongated islands near the river bank were like prehistoric alligators waiting for anyone of us that was silly enough to lean too forward beyond the flimsy railings. This morning we saw nothing, it was just fog everywhere and much later, I realised, smog. The river was a diluted mocha with the choppy texture of a turbulent mind. Throughout the long distance that our boat covered pretty much for the day, we saw a few mushroomed groups of buildings that had no signs of life. Either that or they had been forced to evacuate for the "betterment" of the nation. Most of the tourists that got down and paid for a tour at the nearby Ghost Town came back with let-down tales of a constructed fun fair of ghouls and depictment of Hades Chinese style. We got off to the tiny shacks and had some local food, dissolving the image in front of us with a sense of disbelief. You didn't have to pay to go to a Ghost Town attraction. The first day's sail was a free show of no life along a river. No fish, bird or man. It was very strange.
Our second day brought us to the highlight of the trip. We sailed and got off from our boat only to get into another one that eventually took us to a smaller boat so that we could sail through the Lesser Three Gorges. It was a charming tiny alley filled with turquoise liquid. Other than that, the vendors made everything too cheesy and take-a-key-chain-home kind of way. That night we all joined the mayhem in the dining room. You just made up what you think the guys in the kitchen can cook up in the storm of the diners, all banging and shouting through the tables for food, drinks and a cigarette. All very exciting and messy, kind of like a first kiss!
The next morning, I took a quiet moment to think about the warring states, the attempts in the past by one emperor after another, the temples honouring the heroes of a classic, The Romance of The Three Kingdoms, and the intense-but-at-our-expense party of the residents of Jiang Shan 12. Maybe I should get Guy Ritchie to direct this...
There were a few more stops for more hikes, photographs, and just up and down the boat while bigger ships boomed past us. I looked down at my pants and they were pebbled with smog from the smoke. I decided to get down to the KTV lounge. Stuff the knitting, if you can't beat them, then you might as well join them.
An afternoon degenerated into a huge blown out evening, kind of like when Moses again came down from Sinai. Only this time, it was bigger than Ben Hur. As my feet meandered towards the blue and pink neon lights, I heard the tenth rendition of "My heart will go on" that would have sunk the Titanic a hundred times over. I didn't suppose there was an Irish party at the bottom deck that I could go. There were old pairs of uncles and aunties doing the fox trot amidst songs that had some scantily cladded dancers on the television while a group of policemen from Guangzhou treated us to drinks and it was pretty much it - I meant the latter. They (and almost everyone on the boat) assumed me to be the English-Chinese translators to build a bridge that helped a guy to decipher his German-made camera had come with a battery that was a dud, that the police force of China was delighted to meet the boys (hubby and the other foreigners) and that they will "drink the night away" and that the waitress behind the counter wanted me to ask what's Shivan's name (they bowled over laughing as they thought it meant "eat" in Mandarin... translation wasn't easy I guess?) plus in my feverish mode of mood, I thought I had never been to a wilder party that consisted of people that grew and functioned in such a controlled state (and the fact that most of them were old enough to be my grandparents) - it was a boiling cauldron of hands rolling the mahjong dice into the wee hours of the night, cigarette smoke, rain of splatter and spit, winning hands smashing down decks of cards followed by the penultimate crash of the losers. It was the party to end all boat parties and since we were all going our own ways the day after, what had you got to lose?
Nothing. And that was how we got up in the morning. I heard nothing. No cleaners came to open our door. Then I got up. Something wasn't right. My stomach turned like it was waiting, like a pregnant cloud before a heavy storm. Then we heard it. A thud that grew into a rumble, then the guides (those darn girls!) bellowed simultaneously as if they had practiced this forever - "Pack your bags! We leave in an hour's time! We won't return!" - such morbid farewell. We got up and stretched. I reached out to my towel and began thinking if I had stuffed my socks into my backpack.
After the goodbyes and handshakes, we funneled ourselves with the rest of the passengers for one last time. It was one for the road, an auntie's badly fitted bra poked my back, I felt it (them?) like some warm chicken pao. We held our breaths when the queue stopped by the men's toilet, I just pretended that I didn't have eyes (and a nose?) for about a few minutes and then the human wave swept me forward. As quickly as the first night when our boat took into the darkness like a giant black snake swallowing our little speck of sail, we were spat out onto a spinach green platform that had a long, cement stairway up to where our buses were supposed to wait for us to ferry us away.
That's when the drama began. After three nights, it seemed our hostel in Chongqing "forgot" to mention to us that we were to take the bus and head to Yichang for our pick-up at that harbour. So after all those stampede drama and body bumping bonding exercise, we were told to "wait right there" while I tried to clarify through our phone in between calming down the other officers around me, all shouting and forcasting the looming mistake that we were to make by not getting on the bus right now. What was I supposed to do? After six weeks, it was high time for some explosive action. Circled by other guides all talking at the same time, I confirmed (and reconfirmed) if this was the exact port to wait and an affirmative answer came back. Tell me, what would Black Hawk do if India Base said affirmative?
As I looked up, the last bus driver yelled out something indecipherable and kicked up a blast of dust, and then the voice at the other end of the line went "oh, yeah, you are at Yichang Port, right?"
" ... "
The next few moments were a blur of my mind reminding me that losing my cool was no way to get things fixed and the tearing need which was almost animal that just wanted to bellow at someone who didn't understand English that it wasn't my problem that they went "oops" and that it did matter that I couldn't explain time and again the same problem without having anyone fixing it when they stuffed up. It was insane and I was kind of taking a big thrill in it because it was something I had expected in long travels that the shit does hit the fan and it would fly out in all directions and covered you in every possible crevice that will take ages to clean, and then you would lose some years of longevity and then you settle down and try to fix someone's responsiblity. One particular tour guide who we had nicknamed "Stalin" stepped in and in pure dictatorship, grinded the other fellow who screwed up in the other side, and while another officer tried to jump into the confusion and get us to get into his car for RMB160 (Duh! I am pissed off but not drunk!) and a bus will now miraculusly appear in 30 minutes.
The officer who found that he couldn't get us to pay him the money decided we may make good waiting buddies. So he handed out some Hubei tobacco. I looked at that rolled up stick like a flimsy line thrown overboard to me as I floated in a sea of sharks. Call it stress reliever. Call an emergency sit-out. Some workers walked past and asked us to join for basketball.
6-4 and we were called to head up to our bus. We decided to take one photograph before we leave and one of the old guys stood next to me tentatively. I asked to cross our arms like how those Premier League guys do it at those soccer matches, and he snaked his arm across my shoulder and next I felt this palm danggling way beyond. In between yelling to hubby to quicken up the click, my crossed arms crossed higher up my clavicel. What a joke and what a jackass! You got to love that audacity, keeps you on your toes!
And we changed two buses in between five hours and two toilet breaks. Wuchang, the city of the 1911 uprising and Chairman Mao's villa (why it is beyond me) was one sprawling city that came with its share of smog, honks and grumpy people. This city was so quaintly laid out yet ridiculously packed that you had to come here. Friendly young students helped us to change into another trip of two buses, and we got through the first one, backpacks and yoga mats in total.
This was a sardine can and I was trying to not laugh. An aunty decided to use that time to adjust her fake LV and on my left, a hair clip made out of fake wig fluffed around my ear. I looked up at my arms clinging onto the monkey bar for support and I imagined that I was an undiscovered gymnastic talent that China will come swooping down to sponsor me to represent the Motherland!
A jolt woke me up from such foolish wandering and the bus stopped. The guys in the front wanted to pour out of the bus while two passengers from the rear were grumbling their way out. I was swaying with arms free and I wasn't even losing an inch of balance. The purr of the engine resumed and a big gust of air spurted out as our bus moved out of the stop. Everyone moved to the beat of the evening's traffic like a group of synchronised peak hour travellers vying for the gold medal in the Olympics of city mad rush hour survival race.
Screw the second bus. We decided to take a cab which probably worked out to be roughly the same rate. I wasn't sure I would not burst out laughing at how pissed off the other travellers were at us with our backpacks, squeezing into a tight bus, smiling and wishing everyone "ni hao, ni hao!".
First cabbie told me that he couldn' read my slip. There it was, in my hands the only piece of paper that the hostel wrote what was some directions to the cabbie to take us to them. He kept mumbling without eye contact - "I couldn't see, you read it" - how in the world do I say art gallery in Mandarin?!
Yet again, we moved to another cabbie and in between the undeciphered phrase for "near the art gallery" and number 386 Zhongshan Road, we got dumped on the zebra crossing. We walked towards the YHA symbol, lit up in the dark as a symbol of respite. An old man, looked down at us from the stairs with his thick-rimmed glasses like the ones my grandpa had, crumpled his evening papers and pointed to the other way.
Brilliant. We checked into the possible only hostel I think, and we got a really rustic room - banging handle and a busted bulb in all. I went into the bathroom for a shower before dinner.
The final coup - a squatter toilet. I love this city.
