So I've just arrived in Shenzhen, the final leg of my trip. I have to go explore now, but I thought I'd do a quick post to rave about the hotel/hostel I found here: The Hanting Hi Inn. It was the fist time I'd booked a hotel online and I was a little worried I might show up to find a roachfest or no hotel at all, and from the outside the place certainly looks dubious, but the rooms are very comfortable and clean. What the place lacks in character it makes up for in comfort and privacy. My tiny room has a spotless little ensuite bathroom, an excellent shower and western toilet (as opposed to the Chinese squat toilets which are common here, just a hole in the floor), air conditioning, a little flatscreen television on the wall in front of the bed, a desk with an adaptable electrical socket, and free wireless. The place seems quite secure, with every door and elevator locked with electronic keys. There's a cute little cafe/common area on the second floor with foosball, TVs and computers, and a canteen on the third floor that delivers freshly cooked chinese food to your room for a decent price. And apparently it's walking distance from a great pedestrian shopping/snacking street and a subway station. All for the low, low price of 118-180 RMB (20-30 CAD) per night, depending on holidays/weekends.
So I'm absolutely delighted and relieved right now, and very grateful that this little place exists. Especially after pulling an all-nighter at the Shanghai airport last night.
Chinese word of the day:
小吃
xiǎo chī
snack (noun; literally, "small eats")
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
At the mercy of the Bus Gods in Tongli
About 20 kilometres outside of Suzhou is a little canal town called Tongli, known for having some of the area’s best-preserved ancient buildings. Feeling adventurous, I armed myself with some basic directions, said a prayer to the Bus Gods, and set off alone on a day trip. I somehow managed to strike out on the first try, catching my bus on the wrong side of the street and ending up at the north train station instead of the south bus station, but this was easily corrected and only set me back an hour. I arrived at the crowded bus stop outside the station and was briefly lost in the confusion – was this just a regular bus stop, or is this what bus stations are like in China? I examined the bus schedule for clues. Seeing my pale skin and bewildered expression, about a dozen touts and hawkers descended on me, trying to sell me maps and offer me “independent” cab rides to Tongli for 100 RMB, insisting that there was no other way to get there. I shook them off, had a look around, and found that the proper bus station was just a half a block away. So that part was simple. I went in, paid 8 RMB for a ticket to Tongli, and bought some overpriced snacks from the convenience store, basking in the confidence of having secured an adventure for the day.
Arriving in Tongli – or at the bus stop called “Tongli,” that is – I again found myself wandering around looking for a destination that seemed to have gone missing. There were no canals or ancient stone buildings – just the same apartment highrises and hotpot restaurants as every other place. Eventually I realized that I still hadn’t reached my destination – I’d just reached the shuttle. And I had to figure out where to buy tickets, because they didn’t take cash.
Still pretty simple. I found the ticket office tucked off to the side of the tourist information centre and ten minutes later I was stepping off the little electric bus into an 11th-century Chinese village. I cheerfully abandoned my sense of direction and waded into the crowds of tourists, snack vendors and rickshaws. I spent the day wandering the canals and narrow alleys, snapping dramatic black-and-white photos of haphazard clay-tiled eaves and decayed concrete walls reflected onto still water. I snacked on stinky tofu skewers, green tea flavoured glutinous rice balls and red bean pastries from the street vendors as I wandered around, stopping for a while at a dingy little sidewalk restaurant to watch the tourist-laden gondolas drift by over a cup of dragon well tea. I made the rounds to most of the museums and sightseeing destinations on the ticket, including an estate with a small classic garden and the Sex Culture History Museum. My feet were sore from walking on uneven stone streets all day and it was getting late, but as I made my way back to the main gate I kept getting sidetracked by beautiful views and photo opportunities. the crowds became thinner, the little alleys off the main tourist drag became more and more irresistible in the long afternoon light. I didn't make it out until dusk, when the light became too dim for photos.
Braindead and exhausted from a full day of touring museums and losing myself in the heartbreakingly beautiful maze of canals and old architecture, I finally stumbled back to the main gate and into a shuttle back to the bus station. But when I went to buy a ticket back to Suzhou, the receptionist told me there were no buses to the Suzhou bus station. In my weakened state, it never even occurred to me that I could just get a ticket to the train station instead. She told me I could take the city bus #203 just outside, so I ran out and got on, only to be told by the bus driver that he didn't go to the Suzhou bus station, either. In fact, none of the buses did. But, as so often happens, he took pity on the poor helpless lost foreigner and offered to help me get to a place where I could transfer buses. After a long drive through some totally unfamiliar, barren farmland, he dropped me off at the Wujiang bus station and instructed another passenger, a girl about my age with Tina Turner hair, to help me get a ticket to Suzhou. Half an hour later, I arrived at the crowded station, where I was again mobbed by the cab scammers. From there I easily figured out which bus would get me back to my hostel - as chaotic as things can be here, I have to give China props on its idiot/foreigner proof bus system. All the bus stops have clearly marked names, and a billboard lists the different buses that stop there, as well as each stop on their route, with your current stop clearly marked. Some schedules even have a clock next to each route to tell you how many minutes till the next bus comes.
My bus came and I confidently elbowed my way to the front of the heaving crowd as it shoved its way through the doors, triumphant in overcoming my foreign handicap. I'd made my way to a different city and back completely blind. The Bus Gods had finally smiled on me. For the moment, at least, I felt like I'd earned the right to shove like a local.
Chinese word of the day:
迷路
mí lù
Lost
Arriving in Tongli – or at the bus stop called “Tongli,” that is – I again found myself wandering around looking for a destination that seemed to have gone missing. There were no canals or ancient stone buildings – just the same apartment highrises and hotpot restaurants as every other place. Eventually I realized that I still hadn’t reached my destination – I’d just reached the shuttle. And I had to figure out where to buy tickets, because they didn’t take cash.
Still pretty simple. I found the ticket office tucked off to the side of the tourist information centre and ten minutes later I was stepping off the little electric bus into an 11th-century Chinese village. I cheerfully abandoned my sense of direction and waded into the crowds of tourists, snack vendors and rickshaws. I spent the day wandering the canals and narrow alleys, snapping dramatic black-and-white photos of haphazard clay-tiled eaves and decayed concrete walls reflected onto still water. I snacked on stinky tofu skewers, green tea flavoured glutinous rice balls and red bean pastries from the street vendors as I wandered around, stopping for a while at a dingy little sidewalk restaurant to watch the tourist-laden gondolas drift by over a cup of dragon well tea. I made the rounds to most of the museums and sightseeing destinations on the ticket, including an estate with a small classic garden and the Sex Culture History Museum. My feet were sore from walking on uneven stone streets all day and it was getting late, but as I made my way back to the main gate I kept getting sidetracked by beautiful views and photo opportunities. the crowds became thinner, the little alleys off the main tourist drag became more and more irresistible in the long afternoon light. I didn't make it out until dusk, when the light became too dim for photos.
Braindead and exhausted from a full day of touring museums and losing myself in the heartbreakingly beautiful maze of canals and old architecture, I finally stumbled back to the main gate and into a shuttle back to the bus station. But when I went to buy a ticket back to Suzhou, the receptionist told me there were no buses to the Suzhou bus station. In my weakened state, it never even occurred to me that I could just get a ticket to the train station instead. She told me I could take the city bus #203 just outside, so I ran out and got on, only to be told by the bus driver that he didn't go to the Suzhou bus station, either. In fact, none of the buses did. But, as so often happens, he took pity on the poor helpless lost foreigner and offered to help me get to a place where I could transfer buses. After a long drive through some totally unfamiliar, barren farmland, he dropped me off at the Wujiang bus station and instructed another passenger, a girl about my age with Tina Turner hair, to help me get a ticket to Suzhou. Half an hour later, I arrived at the crowded station, where I was again mobbed by the cab scammers. From there I easily figured out which bus would get me back to my hostel - as chaotic as things can be here, I have to give China props on its idiot/foreigner proof bus system. All the bus stops have clearly marked names, and a billboard lists the different buses that stop there, as well as each stop on their route, with your current stop clearly marked. Some schedules even have a clock next to each route to tell you how many minutes till the next bus comes.
My bus came and I confidently elbowed my way to the front of the heaving crowd as it shoved its way through the doors, triumphant in overcoming my foreign handicap. I'd made my way to a different city and back completely blind. The Bus Gods had finally smiled on me. For the moment, at least, I felt like I'd earned the right to shove like a local.
Chinese word of the day:
迷路
mí lù
Lost
Monday, February 7, 2011
Bohemian rhapsody in Suzhou
After five days of touring Xuzhou and celebrating the new year with Benson, Bridget and I decided to take advantage of the opportunity to hop a train to nearby Suzhou, an ancient city famous for its classic gardens. Several of them have even been declared UNESCO world heritage sites.
Finding that Suzhou has an ample supply of funky, cheap, centrally-located youth hostels to choose from, we easily convinced ourselves that the stressful second-language phone call to book ahead wasn't necessary. Well, it was. After dragging our suitcases down ten blocks of thousand-year-old hand-cut paving stones to our hostel of choice, the Mingtown, we were told that all their beds were booked up. The receptionist took pity on us and obligingly called around until she found us another hostel to stay at - the Suzhou Watertown Youth Hostel. We hailed the first cab we found and were there before we'd even ticked up one yuan on the flag fare. Although not as impressive as the Mingtown, which is in a richly furnished traditional courtyard house overlooking a canal on the most charming thousand-year-old street in the city, the Watertown is also a traditional house (in an ancient alley rather than an ancient canal street) and is walking distance from nearly everything worth seeing.
Still, we really had our hearts set on experiencing the different flavour of the Mingtown, so we went back and booked the next two free beds they had for tomorrow night, our last night in Suzhou. It's a bit of a hassle to pack up and move again, but it's also kind of cool to be getting a taste of a few different places and localizing ourselves to a couple of different bases while we're here.
There are many things in life where you get more for less, and hostel life is one of those things. For a fraction of the price of a hotel, a hostel can provide you with accommodation in an authentic, traditional house, complete with charming decor and gardens, antique furniture, a multilingual book and DVD library, wireless and broadband, a kitchen, a cafe, travel information, and a great base for meeting people. Hostels rock.
Chinese word of the day:
箱子
xiāng zi
Suitcase
Finding that Suzhou has an ample supply of funky, cheap, centrally-located youth hostels to choose from, we easily convinced ourselves that the stressful second-language phone call to book ahead wasn't necessary. Well, it was. After dragging our suitcases down ten blocks of thousand-year-old hand-cut paving stones to our hostel of choice, the Mingtown, we were told that all their beds were booked up. The receptionist took pity on us and obligingly called around until she found us another hostel to stay at - the Suzhou Watertown Youth Hostel. We hailed the first cab we found and were there before we'd even ticked up one yuan on the flag fare. Although not as impressive as the Mingtown, which is in a richly furnished traditional courtyard house overlooking a canal on the most charming thousand-year-old street in the city, the Watertown is also a traditional house (in an ancient alley rather than an ancient canal street) and is walking distance from nearly everything worth seeing.
Still, we really had our hearts set on experiencing the different flavour of the Mingtown, so we went back and booked the next two free beds they had for tomorrow night, our last night in Suzhou. It's a bit of a hassle to pack up and move again, but it's also kind of cool to be getting a taste of a few different places and localizing ourselves to a couple of different bases while we're here.
There are many things in life where you get more for less, and hostel life is one of those things. For a fraction of the price of a hotel, a hostel can provide you with accommodation in an authentic, traditional house, complete with charming decor and gardens, antique furniture, a multilingual book and DVD library, wireless and broadband, a kitchen, a cafe, travel information, and a great base for meeting people. Hostels rock.
Chinese word of the day:
箱子
xiāng zi
Suitcase
A note
Lately I've been writing my posts as they come to me, instead of in order of occurrence, but I'm dating them so that they're posted in order. So it may not look like I'm posting much, but check back a bit - new posts may be popping up under earlier dates. I just wrote two new posts for January.
Also, it looks like the Great Firewall has figured out some new way to keep me off Facebook, so I may not be posting new photos or blog updates for a while. At least I can still access Blogger!
Also, it looks like the Great Firewall has figured out some new way to keep me off Facebook, so I may not be posting new photos or blog updates for a while. At least I can still access Blogger!
Friday, February 4, 2011
New Year's Eve
I woke up at the crack of dawn this morning to the sound of China exploding. It was still dark out, and people across the country were already up and launching a full-scale firecracker assault on the last few hours of the old year, chasing out the year of the tiger and welcoming in the year of the rabbit. Firecrackers blasted on all sides of our apartment, ricocheting and echoing off the concrete, at times alarmingly close. It never stopped. All day, Xuzhou hummed steadily with the constant rumble of faraway firecrackers, punctuated by sudden ear-splitting blasts from just next door or around the corner. It sounded like a war zone. Enough firecrackers and fireworks have been detonated here today to collapse several large buildings.
I dozed as long as I could through the noise, dreaming fitfully of earthquakes and guerrilla warfare, until Benson’s parents came in and told us we had to get up and get ready to go out. We threw on some clothes and slurped down a bowl of Benson’s mom’s freshly made, super tasty dumplings (filled with chives, egg, sweet potato noodles and ginger) and then the six of us squeezed into Benson’s cousin’s car to go meet up with the rest of the family at his uncle’s house in the countryside.
We arrived at a maze of simple concrete one- and two-storey homes and picked our way through the alleys, stopping a few times to greet old friends and neighbours who were out for walks or sitting out in their doorways. Arriving at a pair large metal double doors decorated with the ubiquitous red and gold paper character (?) on it, we stepped through and into a traditional Chinese courtyard home. We were greeted in the courtyard by Benson’s grandmother and several uncles and aunts, along with a hardy little Pekingese and a very agitated husky. A doorway on the right led to the kitchen, where a couple of the aunts were already preparing an elaborate lunch, and on the left a sun-drenched porch lay before the front door to the main house. We went inside, made introductions with the rest of the family and sat around for a bit chatting and eating sunflower seeds. Not long after, everyone got up and started getting ready to leave. We gathered, from their heavily Xuzhou-accented explanation, that we were going on a walk somewhere. Benson’s mother carried a few dumplings from breakfast in a plastic bag, and his father was carrying another bag that bulged with little slips of yellow paper.
We followed a narrow path out of the concrete village and into the dusty, brush-covered hills of the countryside. The sound of firecrackers never faded, echoing off the hills in the distance. After a few minutes, I noticed a cemetery ahead, and realized the family was going to pay respects to their ancestors. We bypassed a long stretch of neatly arranged headstones and wandered through a series of unmarked mounds of earth, the ground littered with white paper flowers, alcohol bottles, unsmoked cigarettes, dumplings and the scorched bits of red paper left by firecrackers, stopping eventually at one of the mounds. We all gathered around as Benson’s mother made a large pile of yellow paper, which represents money, and lit it on fire, sending it to the ancestors who’ve moved on to the afterlife. Everyone took turns kowtowing three times to the mound, and then they carefully stamped out the fire, moved on to another mound just behind us and repeated the ceremony. Leaving a couple of dumplings at each mound, we turned around and walked back.
Back at the house, we filled every piece of furniture in the living room and crowded around a little coffee table crowded with plates of fish, meat and veggies. We again found ourselves lacking a corkscrew for the wine, and I again was obliged to demonstrate my expertise at improvisational wine-bottle-opening. This time I used a chopstick. But it was all in vain, as the wine turned out to be completely undrinkable. Chinese wine, at prices as low as two or three dollars a bottle, seems to be such a great bargain until you actually drink it. Once in a while you find something that might be suitable for sangria or mulling, but most of them I wouldn’t drink if I were paid.
Anyway, after lunch we all sat around a while longer and then headed back to Benson’s house, where we rested up and prepared to conquer a huge New Year’s dinner of more fish, meat and veggies, washed down with bowls of Tsingtao. Benson’s mom was the only one brave enough to get into the baijiu (白酒, bái jiǔ, the excessively strong and unappetizing national booze). Then we all sat down on Benson’s parents’ bed to watch the annual New Year’s program on TV while firecrackers and fireworks continued to roar like gunfire around us until late into the night.
Chinese lesson of the day:
新年快乐
xīn nián kuài lè
Happy New Year!
I dozed as long as I could through the noise, dreaming fitfully of earthquakes and guerrilla warfare, until Benson’s parents came in and told us we had to get up and get ready to go out. We threw on some clothes and slurped down a bowl of Benson’s mom’s freshly made, super tasty dumplings (filled with chives, egg, sweet potato noodles and ginger) and then the six of us squeezed into Benson’s cousin’s car to go meet up with the rest of the family at his uncle’s house in the countryside.
We arrived at a maze of simple concrete one- and two-storey homes and picked our way through the alleys, stopping a few times to greet old friends and neighbours who were out for walks or sitting out in their doorways. Arriving at a pair large metal double doors decorated with the ubiquitous red and gold paper character (?) on it, we stepped through and into a traditional Chinese courtyard home. We were greeted in the courtyard by Benson’s grandmother and several uncles and aunts, along with a hardy little Pekingese and a very agitated husky. A doorway on the right led to the kitchen, where a couple of the aunts were already preparing an elaborate lunch, and on the left a sun-drenched porch lay before the front door to the main house. We went inside, made introductions with the rest of the family and sat around for a bit chatting and eating sunflower seeds. Not long after, everyone got up and started getting ready to leave. We gathered, from their heavily Xuzhou-accented explanation, that we were going on a walk somewhere. Benson’s mother carried a few dumplings from breakfast in a plastic bag, and his father was carrying another bag that bulged with little slips of yellow paper.
We followed a narrow path out of the concrete village and into the dusty, brush-covered hills of the countryside. The sound of firecrackers never faded, echoing off the hills in the distance. After a few minutes, I noticed a cemetery ahead, and realized the family was going to pay respects to their ancestors. We bypassed a long stretch of neatly arranged headstones and wandered through a series of unmarked mounds of earth, the ground littered with white paper flowers, alcohol bottles, unsmoked cigarettes, dumplings and the scorched bits of red paper left by firecrackers, stopping eventually at one of the mounds. We all gathered around as Benson’s mother made a large pile of yellow paper, which represents money, and lit it on fire, sending it to the ancestors who’ve moved on to the afterlife. Everyone took turns kowtowing three times to the mound, and then they carefully stamped out the fire, moved on to another mound just behind us and repeated the ceremony. Leaving a couple of dumplings at each mound, we turned around and walked back.
Back at the house, we filled every piece of furniture in the living room and crowded around a little coffee table crowded with plates of fish, meat and veggies. We again found ourselves lacking a corkscrew for the wine, and I again was obliged to demonstrate my expertise at improvisational wine-bottle-opening. This time I used a chopstick. But it was all in vain, as the wine turned out to be completely undrinkable. Chinese wine, at prices as low as two or three dollars a bottle, seems to be such a great bargain until you actually drink it. Once in a while you find something that might be suitable for sangria or mulling, but most of them I wouldn’t drink if I were paid.
Anyway, after lunch we all sat around a while longer and then headed back to Benson’s house, where we rested up and prepared to conquer a huge New Year’s dinner of more fish, meat and veggies, washed down with bowls of Tsingtao. Benson’s mom was the only one brave enough to get into the baijiu (白酒, bái jiǔ, the excessively strong and unappetizing national booze). Then we all sat down on Benson’s parents’ bed to watch the annual New Year’s program on TV while firecrackers and fireworks continued to roar like gunfire around us until late into the night.
Chinese lesson of the day:
新年快乐
xīn nián kuài lè
Happy New Year!
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Xuzhou
My friend Benson invited me to spend Chinese New Year with him and his family, so after 11 days touring the highlights (and braving the public transit system) of Beijing I bade farewell to my friends there and hopped a plane to Xuzhou to meet him. I was somehow lucky enough to get here without encountering the crowds that notoriously fill airports and train stations every Spring Festival – kind of a shame, really, as it would have made for great blogging.
Xuzhou is quite different from the overwhelming metropolitan (and at times shamelessly touristy) experience of Beijing. Blue-collar and totally off the tourist map (save for one attraction, a recently unearthed 2000-year-old emperor’s tomb, which doesn’t seem to draw any foreigners), Xuzhou is refreshingly laid-back and real, and a good place to experience my first Chinese New Year in China. Oh, and it’s also got the craziest driving I’ve ever seen. I thought Chongqing was lawless. Pedestrians in Xuzhou wander casually through six-lane highways, where drivers frequently pull sudden u-turns without signalling, and motorcyclists, scooters and mopeds are apparently allowed to drive against traffic. Overpasses, underpasses and crosswalks simply do not exist. Sidewalks, narrow alleys and bustling outdoor markets are also fair game for drivers here; I almost got hit by a car driving down the sidewalk yesterday. Let’s hope I survive the next three days here.
Chinese lesson of the day:
冒险
mào xiǎn
Adventure (noun); to take risks (verb)
Xuzhou is quite different from the overwhelming metropolitan (and at times shamelessly touristy) experience of Beijing. Blue-collar and totally off the tourist map (save for one attraction, a recently unearthed 2000-year-old emperor’s tomb, which doesn’t seem to draw any foreigners), Xuzhou is refreshingly laid-back and real, and a good place to experience my first Chinese New Year in China. Oh, and it’s also got the craziest driving I’ve ever seen. I thought Chongqing was lawless. Pedestrians in Xuzhou wander casually through six-lane highways, where drivers frequently pull sudden u-turns without signalling, and motorcyclists, scooters and mopeds are apparently allowed to drive against traffic. Overpasses, underpasses and crosswalks simply do not exist. Sidewalks, narrow alleys and bustling outdoor markets are also fair game for drivers here; I almost got hit by a car driving down the sidewalk yesterday. Let’s hope I survive the next three days here.
Chinese lesson of the day:
冒险
mào xiǎn
Adventure (noun); to take risks (verb)
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