How Did I Get Here?

Wed-Thurs, May 30-31 2007

I left Dali under a cloud of controversy. During my stay at the “Friends Guesthouse”, I had been setting two cats free. I found them chained up to their ‘cat houses’ with a chain so short they could hardly reach the plate of fly encrusted food outside. They were in a mangy, miserable state, although being a special breed: white with blue eyes. The only thing left for them to do was let out bowel-churning meows, which, if it was recorded would have a parental advisory slapped on it for its pure terror content.
Chaining up cats is WRONG, you can’t justify it in any way. So, I set them free…repeatedly. On my last day, I was glad to see that they were contently roaming around, sniffing and playing with each other. Either someone must’ve gotten the message, or the cats got wise to being caught.
Just before leaving, I started chatting to an Argentinian couple who had been travelling for the last 13 months. When I told them about the cats, their eyes widened in surprise: “Oh, so it was you!” Apparently the owner had stormed up to them and angrily questioned the guests whether they had set the cats free. “Havent you seen the message board?” they pointed to a blackboard at reception with the following message:
“Who take guesthouse cats from Angora always again free!
I am very Angry!!!
The cats go outside, may be eat the medication for mice (mouse) must be to death!
The cats live is better than death!!!
Now you are in P.R.C.”

Yeah, I really needed to be reminded that I am now in the P.R.C (People’s Republic of China). I was beginning to think that I am in the P.R.C.C. (People’s Republic of Cruelty to Cats)…

Animal rights aside, I had a minibus to catch to Lijang. I was the last one on, and squeezed into my usual place amongst the human chimneys, industriously puffing away under the “NO SMK” sign. Misfortune was on my side again and I had to endure sitting next to a man with an extra appendage grafted onto his ear: his cell phone. His non-stop monologue was delivered in hoarse outbursts and no matter how loud I turned up my ipod, I could not drown it out.

The scenery was changing as we were approaching ‘Tibetan Country’. Rolling hills gave way to jagged mountain peaks, piercing the sky and capped with snow. I noticed that one or two were brandishing a gaping wound where a quarry had attached itself to satiate it’s parasitic greed for stone.

The bus arrived in Lijang 3.5 hours later and I made my way to the old town. Completely disoriented by the tangle of cobbled alleyways, I stopped at a wooden board with a map of the old town. After a few minutes and none the wiser, I was about to set off in any random direction, when I heard a friendly – and more importantly, English! – voice behind me: “Can I help you?” I turned round and was greeted by a jovial looking bloke in a floppy hat. John must’ve been familiar with the look of desperation, because he immediately offered to take me to “the best place to stay in Lijang”. My errant guardian angel was an Irishman, who has opened…you guessed it…an Irish pub, with his Naxi girlfriend. (Naxi is the ethnic minority in Lijang).
One day I’m going to build a shrine to all the Irish who have miraculously appeared in my hour of need, and to those who have set up a pub where you least expect it…and most need it. All my respect and lifelong gratitude.
John led the way through the belly of the Old Town, its labyrinthine alleys twisting like intestines and constipated by Chinese tourists. Everywhere you look there are gushing canals, quaint stone bridges, and red lanterns hanging from the slate roofs of the stone and wooden shophouses.
Finally, we arrived at our destination: Mama’s Naxi Guesthouse. I immediately liked the feel of the place. Mama greeted me with what sounded like a war cry and slapped the room keys in my hand. She had the unbounded warmth of a maternal figure, but otherwise resembled a sergeant at a bootcamp. In her black trousers and t-shirt, and boyish haircut , she held sway over her troop of all-female staff with volcanic zeal.

At 6 o’clock I went down for a communal dinner where all the guests enjoy traditional Naxi cooking and exchange travel tips. Dish after laden dish was brought to the table and consumed with the etiquette of animals.
Fed and informed I went for a stroll. I picked up a tourist map and in it I found another classic quote, which I can add to my growing collection: “Lijang is characteristic of petty bourgeoisie and is a mental habitat for the peaceful souls and modern people fed up with the industrial civilization.”
Well, looking around the consuming crowds of well-heeled Chinese tourists, the Marxist description might not be wide off the mark…
As all roads lead to an Irish pub, I ended up outside “The Sexy Tractor”, John’s quirkily named pub. The plan was to say hello and have a quick drink before heading back for an early night. Ofcourse, going for a quick drink at an Irish pub is like going for a quick snack at an Italian family. Tantamount to insulting their culture…
With the best intentions of sobriety, I stepped through the door. It looked reasuringly quiet. Only 2 guys were sitting at the bar and John dutifully filling up their drinks as well as his own. The metal head from Australia, replete with Sepultura T-shirt, beanie and tats turned out to a married accountant with a high-flying job in Hong Kong. Ricardo, a Spaniard, speaking fluent English, provided the eye candy and regaled us with some spicy observations: “People from Barcelona are conservative c***s “, he remarked matter of factly. “I visited my friend and his Catalonian girlfriend, and, can you believe it, she told me to watch my language! Like she’s f*****g 80 years old or something! In Madrid this is the way we speak, no big deal. Like I can say: Mamma, shut the f**k up!, and it’s just for fun, you know, like a joke…”
Where I come from, and I daresay in most countries, the mums are obviously devoid of fun and humour, because I don’t think they’ll appreciate Ricco’s endearing jokes…
I was just about to leave when Muhatma Gandhi’s apparition drifted in. Shaved head, attractive skull, John Lennon specs and loose, cheese-cloth clothing. In a soft voice and heavy accent, he introduced himself as Kim. Kim was from Seoul, a city he felt was not big enough to embrace his creative spirit. His ardent dream was to settle in Dali or Lijang and revive the Woodstock Festival. While he was reminiscing about the lost hippie spirit, I noticed he was rolling joints with alarming speed…
Ricardo’s eyes lit up.
From then on, my early night was well and truly up in smoke…

Kim suggested we go to a club in the new town he had heard about. But not before Ricardo viciously berated a girl sitting with her boyfriend on the opposite side of the bar. “What! Are you drinking a f*****g coke in an Irish pub!? Don’t you know it’s not allowed?” His reprimand had the desired effect. She whimpered an excuse, and meekly slunk back behind her boyfriend.

With Kim leading the way, the three of us set off in search of the club. After more than 20 minutes of walking, this little nocturnal excursion was in fact beginning to feel like the quest for the Holy Grail. Ricardo and I were like 2 nagging kids, constantly pestering Kim: “So, are we nearly there yet?”, How far still to go?”, “Kim, I really need to pee…”
After another few deserted blocks, I thought Kim was planning to drag us off to the mythical Shangri-la. But just as Ricardo’s bladder was about to burst, we stopped outside what looked like a block of flats belching out the beats. We thought it quite strange that there was a club in an apartment block, but shrugged it off as just another Chinese oddity. Before going into the club proper, we scrambled upstairs where the toilets were. A red carpet covered the landing, flanked by a row of doors interupting the psychedelic wallpaper. It could’ve been the hotel in “The Shining”, except for one thing: lifesize posters of sexily clad girls in various poses of submission.
The proverbial coin dropped…
We took a peek inside the half empty club, the patrons obviously having moved on to the next level of entertainment.
Thankfully a taxi rolled past and I just made the 1am curfew of the guesthouse.

The next day I ventured off to the nearby Naxi town of Baisha, nestling at the foot of the looming Jade Dragon Snow Mountain. Baisha was plucked from dusty obscurity by Bruce Chatwin, the travel writer, who wrote an article on a local resident, Dr Shi-Xiu Ho. Since then, people from all over the world have flocked to the “Jade Dragon Snow Mountain Chinese Herbal Medicine Clinic” in search of a remedy for their ailments. Dr Ho only uses herbs which he grows himself or picks in the nearby mountain.
It’s not difficult to find Dr Ho’s clinic. Displayed outside are a myriad of newspaper clippings in various languages, with blown-up headings screaming the praises of Dr Ho: “The Doctor and his Kingdom of Plants”, “Dr Ho, The Most Admired Man” and so on.
As I stepped inside, I was met by the living legend himself, clad in a long white coat. With his quintessential wispy beard and vulturine features he fitted the stereotype of a Taoist sage. Copies of Bruce Chatwin’s book hung from the ceiling like sacred relics. The doctor immediately thrust a barrage of personal testimonials and letters in my hand. Amongst the entries was one by John Cleese: “Interesting bloke, crap tea”.
Actually, the tea wasn’t too bad. It was served by his wife, a calm, regal woman wearing the traditional Naxi navy blue dress, apron and T-shaped cape.
Not knowing why Dr Ho was so eager to convince me of his credentials, I was relieved when a group of Dutch women walked in. He immediately stepped into 4th gear and vented his self-publicising energy onto them.
Judging from all the letters of praise and thanks, I’m sure the doctor has done a great deal of good in curing chronic ailments, but personally I’m more impressed by a restrained and modest approach.

I walked down the dusty main street of Baisha and was lured into a local eatery by the patient smile of the patron.
I ordered a pot of ‘buttered tea’ and a ‘Baba”, not having any idea what to expect. The buttered tea turned out to be tea without the tea. It certainly tasted of lard, like drinking a fry up breakfast. I took a few sips from the bowl and poured the rest back in the pot. I found out later that buttered tea was made by pouring boiling water into a bamboo tube, together with yak butter, raw eggs, walnut powder and salt, and then shaking it vigorously before pouring it into the shapely earthenware pot. Not for the dainty palate…
The Baba was much better: a thick, flaky bread with honey in the middle (also savoury versions) and then grilled over coals.

In the little square old men with berets started playing their traditional Naxi instruments, letting forth a mournful wailing twang. Inside another ramshackle wooden structure, men slammed down cards while dogs with swaying tiets sniffed at their feet.

Like the languid flies baking in the sun, I felt I was being immersed in a world where time had lost its purpose.

Tags: Baisha, China and South East Asia, Dr Ho, Naxi, Yunnan

This entry was posted on Friday, June 8th, 2007 at 7:32 am and is filed under China and South East Asia. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.