Exiting Xanadu
— On the Road To Daxu

The blood-infused liquor was bright crimson; sort of festive in appearance. But it was the other beverage that really had me concerned. Held in that cup was a clear solution seemingly there to disinfect the fleshy tumor-like object settled at the bottom. I was at a loss, but I would soon learn exactly what service that organ delivered to its past client—a five-foot-long viper just recently demised by decapitation, reluctantly offering up his life for our varied consumption.

Reading the above introduction to what was for the writer a somewhat unexpected culinary prelude, one could be forgiven for presuming that I am recalling some open-fire village scenario—perhaps a back-to-the-basics bizarre booze fest with pauses to savagely feast on a few just-snatched backwoods varmints. But we were a reasonably civil, somewhat educated group. And we sat in a chic private banquet room in a dazzling clean and trendy dinner house in yet another one of those Chinese cities that manages to both boom and be beautiful.

That snake-based dining came days into an otherwise not so adventurous southerly expedition. First, I would drop into a wired little town that is situated at the crux of two rivers and surrounded by those most Chinese of mountains. Then, a few days later, I would seemingly step through a time portal—into an ancient riverside village that was once the home of wealthy merchants. And is no more.

A Yank in Yang Town

The typical recommended tourist itinerary calls for heading to downtown Guilin from that city’s airport. Then, after a day or two among bright lights and busy boulevards, down to Yangshuo via a one-hour bus ride. In my case, I reversed that plan and executed a not so leisurely agenda: A 04:30 rise from bed in Beijing, a 45-minute cab ride, a 2.5-hour delay getting off the ground, a 3-hour flight and a 1.25-hour trip by car direct to Yangshuo. But I made it with plenty of daylight remaining to browse the town’s pedestrian-friendly streets.

Yangshuo is known as a place of ease for westerners. Most of the merchants speak some English or are fluent, and the menus are likewise. The first hotel at which I stayed, the Magnolia, is one of several smaller boutique-style establishments in town. Cleanly melding continental modern with traditional Chinese design elements, all wrapped around an open-space atrium, the place is at the heart of things and pleasant—very clean, and very well appointed. And they throw in wireless Internet access.

In fact, the entire area surrounding the pedestrian-only West Street, the main drag, seems to be wired and wireless. If the cafe at which you are grabbing a morning coffee does not provide a LAN line, chances are you can mooch wireless service from the place next door. And it’s fast—approaching the speed of my service in the US and (unfortunately) faster than my DSL line in Beijing.

Communication and Cuisine

At this small networked oasis in the countryside of China, sitting at a table upon which sat my laptop and a coffee, a meal or a cocktail, that ease of Internet access would allow me to keep up with business, message around the world, download stateside news programs and upload digital photos to my US-hosted website—a few times literally minutes after I snagged the images.

On that first morning in town, rising far earlier than I would have preferred, I trudged down to the riverfront a couple blocks away. Dutifully, I shot a few photos of the misty muted landscape. Then I went in search of strong coffee.

Surprisingly, I found a café open at that early hour. While unslinging my gear I ordered a blue mountain brew from the smiling waitress, then looked for a good spot to set my tripod. That turned out to be a few feet away, low on the ancient stones of the nearly deserted early-morning West Street. Resituating a few times to get that mountain peak in the background, I shot a few, then returned the four or five steps to my now-served (and good) coffee.

The sidewalk seating proved ideal, allowing me to cleanly commandeer the wireless signal from the still-closed bar across the narrow street. I popped the camera’s flash card into my laptop, uploaded the images and 10 minutes later a sister in the US was on my website. Just after her sun slipped below the Gulf of Mexico off Florida, she was looking at large images of new daylight flowing around the humpbacked mountains, across the flowing waters and down the ancient stone streets of southern China.

As for the many cafes on and around Yangshuo’s West Street, within a couple of blocks, visitors can sample the typically spicy local chow, or walk a few steps to dine on cuisines ranging from American and Italian to French and, yes, Mexican. All that I tried was good; the places were clean, the staffs friendly, and the food fresh and well-presented.

Yangshuo is supposedly known for beer fish. Sounds like something dreamed up by a Brit expat who maybe hit town in the 80’s. But I am sure I’m wrong and I’m sure the dish is great. I did not try it.

However, following up on an earlier email contact, the proprietors of the Morning Sun Hotel invited me to dinner and plate after plate of fresh raw fish sliced razor thin was delivered to the table for hot pot cooking. Fondue style, in the seasoned boiling water, bite-by-bite the fish is dunked and done in about 20 seconds. Add to the cooked slices the native fresh peppers, garlic, cilantro, oils and soy mixture—outstanding. I have enjoyed several hot pot-style dishes in Beijing, but none were based on fresh clean fish sliced transparently thin and dabbed with those particularly wonderful organic condiments.

Tracking the Trails

While it’s relaxing just to lounge around the narrow stone boulevards of Yangshuo (and many do), the countryside is there, dragging you away from food, beverage, entertainment and laptop.

The first morning I did what many do; hired a guide for mountain biking. But those peaks that are at all scalable are the domain of rock climbers and none would accommodate a cyclist. Otherwise, surprisingly, most of the trails around the countryside are primarily flat and can be easily managed by the leisure-level cyclist.

My bilingual guide, “Daphne,” was a young and fit local—and married, so I left her in the dust. After explaining that I was out for a little exercise and she need not try to maintain my pace—that I would wait at forks in the trail—I took off. For about four hours, those trails led us through villages, across terraced rice paddies, over rivers and, of course, between those graceful bosom-like hills.

My racing around, however, later backfired when I reentered town ahead of Daphne and managed to get lost. About 15 minutes of aimless peddling around town finally brought me back to the hotel. That was when my mobile rang. The guide was circuiting the streets attempting to locate me. I nonchalantly explained that I was at the hotel. A few minutes later Daphne arrived and I was able to declare to the hotel staff that my guide got lost—before confessing that actually I blew by the required right turn coming back into town.

The next day I went in search of a good-sized rentable motorcycle, but instead ended up with a junior-sized bright yellow electric scooter. Being a 200-pound man of more than six feet in height, I presumed I looked pretty ridiculous on the thing. This was confirmed, somewhat, when a couple hours later I barged up a dirt trail and into a bamboo raft checkpoint along the Yalong River. I bumped the little scooter onto the scene to the laughter of at least one pointing Chinese gentleman in a business suit.

"Yeah, pretty small, isn't it," I agreed. Then I throttled the little thing, ripped across the foot bridge and up into the trails—while the laugher and his business-suit-clad associates boarded their assigned bamboo boat for a nice float on the placid river.

It was not far from there that I found some of the most remarkable scenery at the upper reaches of the Yalong. The water was clear, the trees were full green and the surrounding mountains, of course, were impressive. And it was silent.

But just another couple kilometers down the trail, for some inhabitants all was not scenic and tranquil.

I arrived at the gate of an ancient-looking village seemingly propped up by the mountain it hugged. Bowing slightly each time I tossed out another ni hao (hello), I paid my respects to the villagers and their oxen as they filed through the gate, the latter residents heading out to graze and water on the surrounding fields. After they passed I walked into the tiny stone community.

Halfway in the silence obliterated with a horrible non-human shrieking. Inside a darkened hut just ahead, I presumed pigs were having a portion of their anatomy removed or were being slaughtered in total. As I neared, just outside the hut of horrors, I took note of two adult hogs dozing in their pen, oblivious to the hideous howls of their brothers.

The Beleaguered Bike

The next day I rented a higher-grade mountain bike from Yangshuo-based Bike Asia and headed out through the mountains south of town.

For a while all went well.

After a few kilometers on the paved road, I successfully found the off-road trail. About 10 kilometers later I had passed through many forested villages, by several mountains and around some scenic riverfront turns. The slumbering trailside dogs I rudely disturbed were too lethargic to attack and I only had to outrun a couple of enthusiastic little girls.

Then I got pretty lost.

Three hours of steady riding had passed. I had transited maybe 15 villages, responded to about a hundred “hellos,” as called out by impoverished but smiling residents, and I was saddle sore—very saddle sore. I was out of water, the tourist map on hand was not cutting it, and I was looking for a route back to a paved road. I instinctively took a fork in the trail, and that turned out to be a right turn. I hit pavement about 20 minutes later and 30 minutes after that, heading in the general direction of Yangshuo, I came across a roadside metropolis.

I spotted an ice box, wheeled over to that dusty little establishment and created something of a stir in the neighborhood. Trying to stay inconspicuous, I settled onto a bench, indulged in a beer, lit a small cigar and watched the world go by. A few residents passed with their oxen on a leash.

I pulled the digital camera from my backpack, but did not stand and begin gawking around the street. I stayed seated, kept the camera low on the bench, and swiveled up the LCD viewfinder. A few people dropped by to say (of course) “hello,” and the grandmother who ran the store could not seem to stop laughing. But, overall, I managed to subtly sink in and get a few decent photos.

Then, after recording those semi-intrusive observations, as I neared the last swallow of my beer, I cast a grim stare at my rented mountain bike. And I said to myself, “How the hell can I catch a cab out of here?”

Gone to G-Town

The day after my misguided solo tour by bike, I departed Yangshuo in route to Guilin on one of the luxury buses that run about every 30 minutes. That term, “luxury bus,” turned out not to be ironic. Very clean, comfortable seats, TV, sound system and attractive in-route flight attendant. (Though, unless you are partial to amped-up Chinese music videos, I would recommend ear plugs or a personal headset attached to your own entertainment.) Just more than an hour later, we rolled into Guilin.

The night before in Yangshuo, while on the outdoor patio of the Morning Sun Hotel, I was visiting with the hotel’s proprietors, sampling a few of the locally-made beers, Li Qi, when I mentioned my intent to head up to Guilin the next day. The manager, Mark, immediately produced a PDA and a few minutes later he had booked me a room through a Guilin-based travel agent friend.

I appreciated his effort. In Guilin I was checked into the top floor of the Hotel Universal, overlooking the Liberation Bridge crossing the Li River. The travel agent, Xiong Wei (“Nancy”), met me in the hotel lobby to settle up business, then volunteered to show me around a bit.

A midsized city, most of Guilin is new, beautified and alive with energy. Much of that latter element is generated by what seems to be a majority population of fashionable and educated young people. This is reflected in most of the town’s business districts. Commercial storefronts project: modern, young, sophisticated and stylish. And the entire city seems very much involved in collectively maintaining their civic and personal pride-of-appearance.

Part of this is evident in the urban center’s rather dramatic exterior lighting. Expectantly, the Sun and Moon pagodas reflect this aesthetic, glowing silver and copper across their shared lakefront realm. The riverfront, too, is fantastically lit up. The multi-hued effects stop far short of gaudy and it all works. Day and night, the downtown looks great.

Otherwise, in the course of a very short stroll, one can traverse immaculate riverfront promenades, broad urban commercial corridors, intimate neighborhood hutongs (alleys), and the grounds of a former Ming Dynasty palace, now the dignified domain of Guangxi Normal University.

Dare to Dine

During our walking tour, Nancy asked if I would like to join her and her office associates for dinner. Seemed like a good idea, and not much later the taxi dropped us at the Asia Pacific Restaurant, a place that specializes in fresh food—really fresh.

In the restaurant lobby, the site of caged pheasants and many varieties of live sea critters swimming in their tanks was tolerable – by one possessing perhaps overly prudish Western culinary sensibilities (though typically I don’t like to hear my meal protest in advance). On the other hand, as to the fate of the rather cute rodent-like creature… I did not want to think about it.

And then there are the snakes.

Snatched at the head and rudely removed from the company of his caged buddies—it’s a quick and permanent trip to dark city. A snip of the shears and through the newly opened spout where formerly there was a head the blood is drained into a glass. Why a glass, I wondered.

We were escorted to a second-floor private room already occupied by Nancy’s boss, Mr. Tan, and three of her staff. That included a very-cheerful 22-year-old German guy serving his off-shore internship with the Guilin-based travel agency. He was doing what interns are destined to do: working his ass off for experience and about zero cash. Meanwhile, he was getting in some no-expense travel to spots around southern China.

All at the table spoke good English, but none knew the word for the bizarre thing that would soon show up in my pre-dinner cocktail. But let me back up.

Upon entering many restaurants in China, near the reception counter one may notice one or two large glass decanting containers. Inside is what residents call wine. But in the US the potency would qualify the liquid as booze—strong booze. Often within are soaking herbs and, in some cases, turtles or, yes, snakes. I stay away from the reptile-infused stuff, but I do like to have a single sample of the plant-flavored varieties—just to get a feel for things in varying restaurants in various regions.

That was the same fictional explanation I gave my host, Mr. Tan, when I asked about the availability of such a sippable blend in this place. A few minutes later, two highly disreputable-looking beverages arrived at the table. One, crimson in color, was a mix of the fortified wine and fresh blood—as drained from a just then dispatched viper. That was unappealing enough. But the other potion really got my attention. The still clear cocktail seemed to hold a fresh (of course) organ of some sort. This was when the translation issue came up, with neither the German intern nor the English-speaking Chinese at the table being able to tell me what this thing was.

A digital translator was produced, Nancy punched it a few times and read: “Gel… gal… begins with something like gall…?

“Gallbladder,” I completed.

“Oh, yeah, that’s it,” the German said.

Mr. Tan used a toothpick to pierce the departed snake’s recently occupied organ and soon the clear liquid in the glass was made yellow.

“Hmmm,” I said to myself as I eyeballed that two-ounce solution. “Now how am I going to get out of this?” I didn’t.

The viper libations will be difficult for me to describe here— Both were milder tasting than, for instance, a shot of your basic tequila. I suppose if you imagine having the taste of a raw piece of beef and a double-strong sake simultaneously in your mouth—that might vaguely describe the blood-infused stuff. As for the gallbladder-spiked cocktail… well... if you’re ever in Guilin…

The snake himself? He was pretty tasty. The hot–braised meat was mild, very lean, chewy but not tough. The skin, stripped, chopped and cooked dry, is eaten separate from the meat like chips. For those of you who have eaten that even more bizarre American snack, pork rinds—very similar, but my particular snake’s hide was lighter, crisper and milder.

Path to the Past

During that evening’s serpentine supper Nancy went to her mobile phone to arrange a guide for the next day. In the morning I met Zuo Hong Ping (“Effie”) in the hotel lobby and we quickly boarded a taxi for which she competently negotiated.

In excellent and very pleasant-sounding English, Effie began to share some of her encyclopedic knowledge of culture, geography, population counts, ethnic compositions, economic data and the other sort of information which I typically neither retain nor write about.

I asked her one question: “Do any of the western-types you show around ever bug you?” Her answer was, as expected, diplomatic. And 25 minutes after departing Guilin’s very modern downtown we seemed to step into another dimension.

Full up with wealthy merchants, about 500 years ago Daxu was still a prosperous trading post on the Li River. Not any more. Many of the structures in the village are indeed a half-millennium-old – and older – and they look it. The narrow main road remains as it was then, just decayed and now only traversed by manually-powered carts, the occasional motor scooter and an old single-cylinder three-wheel truck that shuttles for the linear town.

The young people have left for life in Guilin’s new apartment buildings, schools, Internet bars, nightclubs and gleaming shopping districts. But the grandparents remain, still doing what their own parents, grandparents and great grandparents did before them. Some trade in any way they can and some have turned to modest farming, though this was never a farming town.

One could become saddened by the stagnant flow of life in a decayed village, or one could take note of other aspects and choose to be fascinated.

A Wine in Time

For five generations of Han descent, the Lu family has operated their Daxu winery operation in the same location, producing grades of varying potency. River water is purified and the wine is fermented and cooked within the same vessels and in the same manner employed for generations. Some clients drop by to pick up their personal stock, and much is transported to customers and restaurants in Guilin.

The winery produces its booze in four grades of quality. The three backroom brew masters work nonstop, and Haiyan and her father, now heading up the family operation, keep busy at the retail counter.

There is a medieval quality to the manufacturing process—like perhaps that man-sized boiling vat within the dungeon-like floor could be applied to another use. But I tried a taste of the higher grade stuff and it wasn’t bad.

At the end of the day the strained refuse, by then a gruel-like mixture with about a 3 percent alcohol content, is given over to the village pigs. I’m just guessing—but it could be that the hogs look forward to closing time.

Not far away is a very different commercial operation. The building occupied by Daxu Cha Fang, a tea house and antique emporium, is in good shape. The interior is solid and very clean. The backdoor opens to the sun, the fields and the river. The antique goods displayed are for sale and many are indeed beautiful.

The Buddha carving, molded from a single stump, is polished to a high luster. The starting price was about right, but I did not enter negotiations. The thing weighs a ton.

The proprietor, Han Chunzhi, of Manchu decent, was once a Guilin-based tour guide. She points to a photo on the wall. There she is, about 30 years younger, posing for the photograph, standing next to a seated Richard Nixon.

Chunzhi has retired. Now she peacefully minds this clean and quiet shop by the river in this place of the past, this place at the end of the road, Daxu.

Subtle Suggestions

In Yangshuo—
I can recommend two hotels in Yangshuo. The Magnolia, an upscale boutique-style establishment with pleasant and good-sized rooms set out around a sunny atrium, with added bonus of wireless Internet access for packers of laptops. Also the Morning Sun, perhaps slightly less expensive than the Magnolia and very nice. The English-speaking manager at the Morning Sun is “Mark,” and the owner is “Frances,” both good-natured and very helpful guys. The staff people of both hotels are friendly, attentive, helpful, and equipped with English skills ranging from fair to excellent.

Bikes are available for rent all over town. A better grade of bike, drawn from a fleet of pretty well-tuned Specialized Hardrocks, can be had at Yangshuo-based Bike Asia, an outfit that does tours all over China.

If you need a guide for a leisurely ride, drop by the Magnolia Hotel and ask to be put in touch with Daphne. For more challenging spins, see Jamie at Bike Asia.

In Guilin—
For accommodations and transit, Xiong Wei (Nancy Xiong) and the staff of China Comfort Travel operate nationwide. They're friendly, professional and know their business. For local tours, they can connect you with Zuo Hong Ping (“Effie”), a highly knowledgeable, professional and very cheerful guide.