Southern China on Rice Wine

In Hong Kong, I had my first of six tour guide changes on my Beijing to Bali tour. Our new tour leader, Peter, was a short Chinese guy, with an athletic build, round jovial face and black hair with a Patrick Swayze wave. In his initial introduction, he came off with an air of formality and business, with a dab of Drill Sergeant, speaking of Chinese language drills and harsh living conditions ahead. Each stop on the upcoming journey seemed to have it's share of undesirable conditions. Large Spiders at one followed by no showers and outhouses at the home-stay. And every leg in between sounded just as bad... 20 hours on a train here, a day on buses there, and forced marches in between. By the end of our meeting most of us were dreading the next leg of our journey, which sounded more like travails than travel let alone tourism. It also left us wondering how our guide got a job in tourism and guest relations, but I guess he wasn't a candidate for travel sales either.

Despite the fair warning, everyone still made it to the early morning meet up in the lobby for our departure, though I'm not sure if anyone realized we'd be traveling for the next 30 hours! Our journey began with a quick taxi ride to the bus station. We were going to be traveling all day and had extra Hong Kong dollars to spend before returning to main land China, so we picked up snacks before boarding our first bus. This was the first of three, and took us out of congested concrete jungle of downtown Hong Kong and to the Hong Kong/China immigration checkpoint that seemed to mark the end of the dense urban landscape. (Since Hong Kong is a Special Administrative Region, it actually requires a separate Visa, and in order to return to China you need to have a multiple entry visa.) We unloaded, passed through avian flu screening (a quick check for fever), immigration, and on to the next bus. Somewhere along the way we switched buses yet again, then transferred to a metro, and finally arrive at the train station in the afternoon.

Train stations are always interesting when traveling in the developing world. The crowds always seem slightly too large for the departures available, and the crowd has a very transient feel. Although it may be the first leg of some passengers journey, the station always feels more like mix between transient shelter and terminal. Families are huddled together, protecting what may be all their worldly possessions. While other awaiting passengers are sprawled out on the cold concrete floors asleep, making it difficult to tell whether they have been waiting a few hours or a few days. And the crowds make it feel like something must be awry. Either trains are all late, or cancelled, or overbooked. Our group trudged in with the same travel worn lethargy and staked claim to some real estate, dropped our bags and found something quick to eat, before the next leg of the journey.

Like a slow moving glacier the train terminal crowds never seemed to swell or dwindle, but eventually our section cleaved and broke away from the crowd in a fast moving mass flowing down to recollect in front of the train ready for boarding. We boarded the sleeper cars, and filed past the partially filled compartments. The compartments have no doors and each is a snapshot as you pass. A family crowded together sharing dinner on the nightstand size table. A collection of strangers uncomfortably fumbling about the crowded sleeping space for six. And us, stumbling down the narrow passage with our over sized bags, hoping we won't end up fighting off locals that have staked claims to our compartment. Fortunately our compartments were empty and we settled in for the long haul.

We awoke the next morning to a misty landscape of green hills and river crossings as our rolling hotel chugged into the tribal regions of southern China. Our destination was Xijiang, but despite the 24 hours of travel thus far, we were not there yet. The train pulled into Kaili, where we met our local guide Louisa. She was a bundle of energy and a stark contrast to our road weary crew. We boarded a final bus, and headed into the hills. Leaving the crowded urban jungle of city lights and skyscrapers in Hong Kong, to return to the small agricultural villages and open rolling green hills, was almost startling. The contrasts between the Special Economic Zones and the poor rural interior is almost like traveling back in time, and it is hard to believe the two economic structures are able to coexist in relative close proximity in the same country. Though the country does struggle with the migration to the cities already, one has to wonder how or if the nation will find some middle ground and middle class to fill the deep but narrow chasm between the current classes.

Our bus headed further into rural China, hugging a river, up the valley, and deeper into the hills until we arrived at Xijiang. The village is home to the Miao people, pronounced Meow. Meow let me give you a little history or the Miao people and village. The village is an Autonomous Region for the Miao people who meow make up 99.5% of the population. (according to the government sign at the entrance.) Meow, I don't know what the village looked like before, but it has been a 'key protection and construction ethnic village since 1999... Xijiang Embroidery,' and meow it a picturesque village of well kept timber frame homes, shining with fresh lacquer. In addition, the main street is a cobblestone of polished river stones laid in geometric designs and the shops, open air food court, and courtyard for daily demonstrations of cultural song and dance, give the place a bit of a cultural theme park feel. You almost wonder if the residents are going about there daily lives or acting a part in a grand cultural performance... moving along meow.

Our host met us in the parking lot on the edge of the village and led us up the hillside on narrow walks, stairs and small canal bridges until we arrived at the guesthouse with a balcony overlooking the rest of the village and valley below. After a collective sigh of relief, having finally arrived, we dropped our bags and reconvened to return to the village center for some lunch at a town square that doubled as a food court set up like a county fair, packed with small kitchens on wheel, tent canopies and picnic benches. After lunch Louisa led us on a short tour of the village. She was bouncing down the road, mumbling lines to 'Apple Bottom Jeans by T-Pain. 'Boots with the fur The whole club was lookin at her. She hit the flo, Next thing you know. Shorty got low low low low low low low low ...' And we were all feeling lazy from lunch, and doing our best to keep up.

We wondered up main street and stopped for group photos on a covered bridge of ornate woodwork. Despite our digital age where one picture could have been e-mailed to everyone, we decided to hang 13 digital camera's off of Louisa's arms and neck, and pose for 13 separate group photo's, so everyone would have their own version of the event. After photos, we followed the rice fields out of town, as farmers worked the fields with old bulls pulling tills through the mud.

After our hike we returned to the town center to watch a performance of local dances in traditional tribal attire. Each dance had it's own unique set of brightly colored dresses and impressive silver head dresses necklaces or breastplates. During the last dance number, the men played flutes that looked like saxophones, made of bamboo and they courted the ladies. The only menacing cloud in the sky broke and rain poured down on the open square making the stone reflect the dancing crew like a polished marble floor.

Fortunately the rains ended on que at the end of the performance, and we returned to our guesthouse to relax before dinner. Dinner was followed by our introduction to the local rice wine. The women of the house came out all dressed in matching traditional blouses of bright pink with a diagonal sash of an embroidered floral design and their hair was pulled up and decorated with matching pink flower. They sang a song that went something like, 'Welcome to our village, we are glad you came, we don't have much to offer, but we do have rice wine, so drink up.' At the end they would tip up a small bowl/shot glass to someones lips and then sing the song again and tip up the glass for the next guest. Or in some cases, they refilled and fed another round to the same guest, much to the amusement of the rest of the crowd.

This brings us to the breaking of the towns rule number twelve: 'Tourists cannot get drunk, fight, gamble, or be involved in superstitious or pornographic activities in the tourist areas.' Meow, I don't know how many times we sang, second verse same as the first, but we polished off the pot of rice wine and then stumbled down the hill into town to discover an underground karaoke bar. The karaoke tunes were not the traditional songs of daylight hours in the town square, and the participants were not in traditional garb... I'm not sure if they were locals, or tourists like us, but we were the only non-Chinese in the crowd. The joint was an eclectic mix of wooden benches with stage coach style wheel as decorative ends, tucked in a room painted up in a Tuscan style paint job complimented with fake grape vines tangled in a wooden screen that covered the ceiling.

I was the first in the group to take the stage and belted out at least one song before someone informed me the mic was not turned on. Not having the mic on was probably best for everyone, and my stage presence was still entertaining the crowd. A few tipsy fans even came up to toast me during my ballad. Or, they could have been trying to take the mic away, but the way I remember it they were all smiles and 'Ghan Bays!' (cheers). The evening progressed or digressed, based on perspective, and we ended the night shot-gunning beers with the locals before the lights went out.

Louisa had joined us at at the karaoke bar, and still the next morning she was her usual bundle of bubbly energy, ready to charge up hill out of the valley, on our trek to the village of Maliao. For the rest of us, suffering the side effects of rice wine, this felt more like a forced march. In addition, there had been some confusion about breakfast, and we ended up marching out of town on empty stomachs. The hike took us over two large hills and we stopped in the central valley in a small village of about 20 homes and one small convenient store to buy something for breakfast. The store had barren shelves and little selection, especially for finicky western diners like ourselves. However, after a short conversation amongst the locals and our guides we found ourselves in the second floor living room of one of the locals. They graciously prepared boiled eggs and instant coffee for our group and we shared the coffee in an over sized tin mug squatting on child sized seats. The whole scene felt a bit comical and got us out of our early morning funk and back on the road for the hike up the last hill into our home stay village of Maliao.

Maliao felt more like a hill station town, with the homes almost built into the mountainside, and with the overcast skies and valley heavy with moisture, it felt like the village climbed into the clouds. Our host was the village king/mayor and though this stay was one of the stops Peter had warned us about, our host had recently remodeled, and now had some nice showers and plumbing in the 'out-house.' In addition the ladies in the group were staying in some decent rooms on the second level overlooking the valley. However, the guys were escorted down to what I can only describe as an unfinished basement/ storage area, with a single light bulb dangling from a wire in the center of the ceiling... the beds seemed nicely made and were almost out of place amongst the rest of the pots pans and other piled clutter. Our other option was to sleep in the living room floor and benches on the second level, and we opted for that.

We were starving but the family had a large dinner planned and the lady of the house was already wrapped up in the preparations. They did however set us up with some noodles to tide us over, which we ate while watching 'Charlie Wilson's War.' Kind of random and out of place but we rolled with it. We then took another short hike around the village, to take our mind off our appetites, and to allow our hosts to prepare the living/dining room for our feast. When we returned the living room had been transformed and now had a long dining table in the center and a separate head table at the end forming a 'T.' The table had all settings in place and the center was crowded with a tempting spread of Chinese cuisine, but our grumbling stomachs were left to stew on their own juices for what felt like ages as we awaited our host and about five generations of his family who joined us for dinner at the head table.

The meal was delicious and the dishes just kept coming, but it seemed like we could not fill the void created by the day of hiking. As we ate we were also fed shots of the local rice wine, which was served warm and had a pleasant flavor of nuts and oak. As dinner wrapped up the wine continued to flow and soon the group was growing rowdy and the international language of slurred speech had us convinced we all understood each other.
The rounds continued, songs were sung, toasts were made and the crowd grew merrier. At some point the conversation drifted into the hosts rice fields that needed tending early the next morning. In hindsight, I suppose they may have been trying to drop clues that we really ought to call it a night, but in our jolly state we took it as an invitation. And, we found it extraordinarily appealing. Though we could hardly keep our eyes open, we were fully prepared to commit to a six A.M. wake up to wade into the rice fields and plant some rice. More drinks were had to seal the deal. And the rest of the night had to be pieced together using photos and videos, a few of which could possibly be used for blackmail.

One of the girls broke into a strip tease as she was preparing for bed. What the show lacked in both balance and grace, she made up for with a streaming commentary about how good the she was doing... As an encore, she followed the show up with a two hour purging session that probably reviewed our meals as far back as yesterday's breakfast.

Another one of the guys wondered off, which was actually typical in his case. However, we never figured out where he went, and we can only assume he set out to get an early start on the rice farming, because he was found the next morning, asleep on a narrow wooden bench still dressed from the day before, and covered in mud.

I reportedly spent the evening trying to charm Louisa, and woke up next to Ollie on the floor with no recollection of how we got there, where the tables had gone, or how they were replaced with bedding. I couldn't help but notice that a layer of plastic had been laid down as well, I can only suspect our hosts had little confidence in our ability to hold down our rice wine.

Ollie woke up wondering where his baseball cap was and found it on our host son's head as we were leaving town. He had apparently given it to him as a gift, possibly to seal the deal on the rice farming. However, seeing as none of us made it out the the fields at six in the morning, to include the host and his family, the hat was returned, and we did the walk of shame out of town and onto our bus bound for Guiying.

As I reflected back on our rice wine debacle, I wondered if Confucious, might have some wise words of warning about the spirits. I did a quick Google search, and apparently his advice is drink up, because he now has his own line of "Confucian-style Liquor, a quality high-grade specific style of Confucius Family different from all traditional-style Chinese liquor...with its elegant noble quality, this product shall be the real treasures of Chinese liquor." Who knew? Possibly more fitting I found the Chinese proverb: "Talk doesn't cook rice." True, and rice wine promises don't plant it either.