With a population of 435,000, PingYao is a tiny village by Chinese standards, and it's inner core within the ancient city wall is smaller still, with a mere 50,000 inhabitants.
We arrived after dark, at a brand-spanking-new train station. White walls, marble floors, high ceilings and that rarest of entities in China - space! Outside was still in construction, and clearly a monsoon had just passed, leaving a thick, slippery sea of mud lit only by the dimmed headlights of a few dirty taxis. We took one of these to Lao Cheng Gen guest house in the old city, where we were greeted by one of the nicest men in China...
"Lee" spoke about six words of English, but his smile, body language, kind gestures and probable psychic ability instantly elevated him to one of our 'faves'. He seemed to know when we were hungry and would appear as if from nowhere with a bag of the exact twisty Chinese bread sticks we'd been craving. We'd try very hard to pay him for the snacks, holding out cash in thanks - but he'd turn his back, insistently refusing. One day we returned from an outing carrying a bucket. He immediately offered us a second identical one. (For our laundry, it was.) Then, just as we were running out of hangers to dry our clothes, he'd pop up again with a handful. And he was always cheery.
The guest house featured an authentic central courtyard, which could be viewed from the verander outside our enormous room. With a separate living area large enough to kart wheel in should one wish to elaborately express their elation at this fact, the room was immaculately clean and neat whilst retaining a genuine Chinese feel. Tall wooden panels carved with detailed patterns stood either side of opaque, pink, glittery, tasseled curtains, enclosing the bedroom area where brightly coloured silk-covered quilts were folded on the bed. Lee repeatedly shook his forefinger at us, laughing and saying "Booking.com, Booking.com" - which we believe means we got a cracking deal through our favourite reservation website.
The location of the guest house, although a convenient seven minute stroll to the noisy hustle and bustle of the main streets, was in an alley less desirable than one might hope for. On any given day during our stay in PingYao, the selection of aroma's in its semi-pedestrianised, dusty lanes would include: hot vomit, hot urine, hot poo, hot rotting fish, hot pet carcass, sweaty armpits, cigarette smoke and drifting whiffs of a zillion spices. It is in smelly situations such as these that I appreciate my constantly blocked nasal passage and it's automatic diluting ability.... Every cloud...
PingYao is a perfectly preserved ancient city, constructed during the Ming and Qing dynasties. It is a UNESCO world heritage site and home to China's first ever bank. If you want to absorb historic Chinese culture in all it's magnificence, this unique little place is where to do it.
Despite being small enough to walk around in under an hour, there are hundreds of electric taxis, and thousands of scooters competitively whizzing at outrageous speeds in all directions, operating the loudest, high-pitched horns in existence. There's no rules about driving on the left or right, and many don't care which way their car is pointed when in motion. A chorus of "ner.coh.gee...ah! khar!" played on loops throughout the day, to indicate their passenger loaded vehicle is reversing at dangerously high velocity - weaving hastily between bicycles, people, and skinny stray pugs and scrawny little kittens that appear too mangled and diseased for even the locals to deep-fry and eat.
Undeterred by the strong possibility of death-by-eco-friendly-motorized-cart, vendors set up stalls along the narrow roads, selling everything from handmade jewellery and printed t-shirts to creepy wind-up children's toys and fly-infested fruit and veg. Every other doorway along the streets hosted caged birds - not for cooking, these are actually the shop owners pets, being 'treated' to a 'day-out' where they can 'mingle' with other caged-birds. Like we'd seen in Beijing, groups of friends, families and neighbours sit around low tables playing cards and checkers. The men roll up their t-shirts above their bellies to proudly reveal their Buddha-like chub.
Like most tourist destinations outside of the western world, when it comes to shopping, there's bargaining to be done. And not just for souvenirs. Food and drink prices must also be negotiated. We've been here long enough now to bluntly refuse to pay any more than $1 for a 595ml bottle of beer. It's only 3.6% and has very little going for it on the yum-scale.
There's an abundance of restaurants, cafés and make-shift eateries in addition to the traditional street food in PingYao. We'd peruse each of them with their bizarre (hopefully mis-translated) menu selections, find a budget friendly location offering vegetarian options and sit for a time by a window, watching the strange world go by.
One place we dined was run by devout Christians who happily paraded their faith throughout their business' interior decor. A life-sized, glowing, painting of Jesus alongside a similarly gargantuan family portrait, depicting 80's hairstyles and fashion, filled one wall entirely. Although totally weird to be watched over by such a collective, the eggplant was undoubtedly the best we've tasted yet. A generous, juicy and flavoursome portion that was worth every cent of that $1.20!
There were approximately eight westerners in PingYao. We know this because we caught sight of them often - as we, like they, circled the four main roads of the town while our senses were bombarded with culture. Because these sightings of "people who look like us" were so rare and obvious, we'd find ourselves starring rudely at them in amazement, or shyly saying "Hello" - just like the Chinese.
I cannot do justice to the beauty of PingYao - this gothic town of the orient - with words, so to know better the style of its dark, historic architecture you'll have to just look at the pictures...
A four hour high-speed train journey to the South and to the West, took us to Xi'An. (Pronounced she-ann.) We ought to know by now that whatever your intentions for the day, the second you step outside in the morning, China gobbles you up without warning, and spits you back out at the end of the day leaving you wondering what just happened. Likewise, we should have learned that all maps here are very deceptive - what looks like a quick, easy walk into the city centre on a hot, sunny day, can actually take six hours or more, leaving you ironically drenched and dehydrated, and ready to pass out.
One such incident occurred when we circumnavigated the wall of Xi'An on foot. (We couldn't afford the bike rental.) Just before dusk seemed the perfect time to commence this activity, enabling us aerial views of the city in varying levels of light. We knew that at night the lanterns framing the exterior of the wall were ignited and looked very pretty. We did not anticipate it taking us four and a half hours. I mean, it's completely flat, four straight lines, one simple square. But it's 14km in total, and in our naivity we took a very relaxed approach to the first wall, stopping often to survey the scenery, take photos and sit on benches here and there for contemplative chats about our surroundings...
A visual feast greeted us on every side, at every corner - and from our concealed position we were able to capture tale-telling stills of life in Xi'An. About 40 minutes into our walk, just as the sky was starting to go pink, a seven year old girl appeared in front of us, and said; "Excuse me, I'd like to practise my English, please can I talk to you?" Thinking we had all the time in the world, and utterly impressed by her confidence and language skills, of course we obliged...
"What's your name? How are you? Where are you from? Where are you going? How old are you? What's your favourite colour? How many people are there in your family?" It was quite an intense and lengthy interrogation, but I answered as best I could. Guillaume was talking to her father, also her teacher, who upon discovering Guillaume was from Quebec, began talking to him in French. He told us how he thinks it's important for Chinese children to learn English, but that the education system in China is extremely demanding and the youngsters feel pressured and stressed. He thinks learning should be more fun for the students.
The sunset that evening was stunning. A light, thin layer of smog (which we're getting used to now. Evidently it's not just present and worrisome in Beijing), was just enough to weaken the burning red rays of the perfectly circular sun, below an increasingly dark blue sky sparsely dotted with lines of stringy-cotton-wool-like white clouds. It was the most picturesque backdrop to the shadowy outlines of ornamented old Chinese guard posts, temples and gate houses that we could have imagined. But it got dark quickly, and we still had a long way to walk. We upped our pace as we became accompanied only by a number of flappy bats flying overhead on the hunt for mosquitoes and other winged insects.
Xi'An is a city of more than eight million people. Outside the walls, high-rise apartment blocks tower above the pollution, mirroring one another into the horizon. Modern buildings, gold in colour, line hectic multi-lane highways where bad drivers in big cars fight endless traffic, and confusing roundabouts are the size of the Isle of Wight. (Creative license inaccuracy/slight exaggeration.)
Our main reason for visiting Xi'An had been to see the Terracotta Warriors. An enormous archeological site uncovered in 1974 by a lowly farmer at the bottom of his well. More than 2,200 years ago this terracotta army of soldiers, chariots and horses was built, begrudgingly, in honour of China's first Emperor, Qin Shi Huang, who wished to be buried with symbolic military strength that he believed would protect him in his next life. It was destroyed after his passing, because apparently the people didn't actually like him at all. What a waste of bloody time! And somewhere in the aftermath of the massacre of statues, they became concealed in earth and mud, grass grew above and they were hidden for more than two millennia. What has been restored now in three large pits, represents only a small percentage of the entire site. Recovery and reconstruction work is ongoing.
What's most amazing is the unique look of each life-size warrior. This was not cookie-cutter doll making - these things were moulded and detailed individually and there's literally thousands of them. It did make us muse over what other secrets our lands and oceans may be concealing from our long and complex, still debated, history.
The Chinese love a bit of ping-pong, as we witnesses thrice from atop the wall. Endless rows of table-tennis enthusiasts could be seen battling it out in topless tournaments (just men. Women were partaking in fully clothed "gentle-aerobics" to some sort of Chinese 'house' music.)
We too got to play with some ping-pong balls. In a game organized by Warriors Youth Hostel, where we were staying, in teams we had to pick the balls up with chop sticks, passing them carefully from plate to plate. I was not very good at this, and my team came last. But still, I was given a free can of coke as a consolation prize and we met some interesting solo travellers, including Brandon from France, Klaus from Finland and Chris from Australia who was devoid of any social skills and managed to insult everyone present with a series of unfunny "jokes". Amy (that's her English name. Her Chinese name is Shang Ya Hui) was eager to chat. She works at the hostel and has never been outside of China. She told us how much she enjoys gaming, and excitedly took Guillaumes advice to download the Clash of the Clans app.
The day before we left Xi'An, we spent some time in the hostel bar, chillaxing before our next big move. Klaus joined us. A bilingual 23 year old from Nakilla, he is now learning Chinese as a third language while studying Political Science in Beijing for one year, currently on a summer break. Ultimately he hopes to be a diplomat for Finland. Reminiscent, a tad, of Russell Crowe's character in A Beautiful Mind, he spoke passionately about his theories on social interaction and dominance assertion within groups. He said he simply had to tell us of an interesting phenomena that perplexed him... That the night prior, I had stumped what he believed was a sure science... I think it was probably a compliment (although the subject was a little intense for Guillaume and I), he said I immediately succeeded at dominating when I arrived to the group, but that I did it without "competing." (If only all things in life were this easy.) His ideas were certainly interesting and we concluded he's a clever chap.
After debating various social hypothesis and political phenomena, we diverted him onto his love life and learned he had recently been a bit heartbroken by a graphic design student from his university town. One of those "sensible" and amicable partings owed to differing ambition. Guillaume and I liked Klaus right away. He was a smiley, intriguing character who we plan to keep in touch with. He also let me use his iPads VPN to post a couple of quick tweets from beyond China's impenetrable firewall.
The train journey from Guilin to Xi'An took 26 hours. We had booked a "hard seat", which we'd heard "is not as painful as it sounds" - which was an absolute lie. For the entire duration of the trip, the carriages were lit by what can only be described as industrial flood lights, beaming their blinding brightness on everyone all through the night. If that wasn't enough to keep you awake in your uncomfortable upright chair, a playlist of loud Chinese party music plays on repeat from the speakers, sometimes with nonsensical and graphic English lyrics about a "sexy penis." The train was filled mainly with families, which meant lots of screaming, crying, playing, running children. One little boy threw bits of chewed, sticky pomegranate at us from behind our seats, and later dangled various objects over each of our faces, including soggy tissues and dirty wet socks.
Our seats weren't quite the cheapest available tickets for this train. For less money you can chose to stand. The aisles were packed with strangers squished up against one another. Some sat on little stools they'd brought with them, and for those who had forgotten, there was a man traversing the train selling some. Despite the impossible lack of space, sellers paced back and forth through the crowded aisles every 20 minutes or less, offering hot meals, fruit, books, "designer" watches, games and the worlds tiniest brass screwdrivers for one yuan. They'd yell constantly as they parted the masses -pushing passengers aside into the laps of others. Some would perform dramatic demonstrations of their product, forcing people to "try it."
The furthest we walked on that train was to the end of the carriage where free hot water is dispensed for your previously purchased pot noodles. We'd seen this done on other trains and came prepared with our cheap dinner/breakfast/lunch/dinner. But neither of us braved the toilet. Not once in 26 hours. Because the air-con was intermittent at best, what little water we drank we sweat right out again, and so our bladders held out for the journey. I'm certain that must be the longest ever that I haven't gone for a wee.
Lack of sleep and surreal surroundings were on the verge of generating hallucinations, but we reached our destination just in time. Vowing to never take a train for that long again, we had made it to Guilin...