I have to admit I had some trepidation about our travel plans before we left the States. All the air travel made sense: fly to LA, fly to Beijing, hang for a few days, fly to Guilin. It was the next part – take a cab to Yangshuo. That made me a little nervous. A cab? Really? An hour ride in a cab with three other passengers? It sounded uncomfy at best. Would a cab take us that far? And for how much? One of Chen’s last preparation emails suggested we “not bring too much” so we could fit in a cab. But wait, we were headed for two weeks in China. We had street clothes, something halfway dressy, athletic clothes, outdoor clothes, warm layers, bad weather gear, shoes, shoes, shoes, toiletries, and – oh yeah – climbing gear. Not bring too much?
So we arrived at the Guilin airport Wednesday afternoon. Each of us seemed to have selected our bag with the thought that we may have to divide up the spoils from an elephant hunt. I am, of course, additionally wearing my new Alps Mountaineering pack stripped of support members so it can be squished down to meet the constraints of “carry-on”. Chen and Melinda each have new bags: the REI Wheely Beast. Kristin actually seems to be the only one who managed a smallish checked bag. Melinda has a good eye for these things, and when we’re approaching the taxi queue she starts the conversation.
“Oh yeah, our stuff is NOT going to fit,” she pronounces.
- More onlookers will surely make it fit!
Nonsense! Chen and I are vibrantly optimistic and simply march forward. The trunks of these cabs, deceptively spacious we are certain. The cabbies are all too happy to accommodate, too. The first taxi driver in line pops the trunk and hefts Chen’s bag into the trunk. Hrm, well, it does kind of fill a lot of the cavity on its own. But there is clearly more room. My bag is hoisted into place and the back corner is wedged between the car frame and Chen’s bag. I can see where this is going. It’s a blivet. The space available is clearly too small. But three or four other drivers come over to offer their expert hands at denying physical reality. A couple more gather round to watch.
Some negotiation, and the boss leaps on the phone for some heavy figuring
Nope, not going to fit. And that is just the first two bags.
So Guilin is the capitol of Guangxi Province. It’s relatively cosmopolitan, I suppose. I mean, there is an airport and the taxi queue is 10 cars deep. These are comforting thoughts as I contemplate whether we’re staying here tonight. That is just a passing thought though. Really I know there is a bus station to which we can get a ride, even if we need multiple cabs. We’ve had this discussion with the queue boss.
But first things first. The queue boss has a plan. He calls up a driver with a slightly larger sedan and allows him to bump to the front of the line. He arrives before us and the Tetris game begins again. One bag in. Now if we take the second bag and twist, then shove – no wait, lift. Shove… WHUMP! It’s in. But no way are we fitting four bags. Can three of us manage in the back seat with two large pieces of luggage in our laps AND all of our carry-ons? The thought of us stacked in the back of a cab like the parcels crammed into the hall closet seems horribly unappealing. What else have we got?
We are somewhere between pain in the ass and amusing tourists at this point
Two! Two cabs! We’ll get two cabs with larger trunks. They can drive us to the bus station and be rid of us.
Fine. It is agreed. Melinda and I pile into the first cab with a driver who speaks absolutely no English. I have enough Mandarin under my belt to order tofu and to ask “is this Mr. Wang’s house?“. But we manage to exchange sweeping gestures and a giggle that kind of basically sums up our mutual amusement at our ill-preparedness.
Shortly we are on the highway headed toward the bus station. And what a highway it is! Embankments on either side are grass-covered hills with elaborate flower arrangement growing throughout. The road is rather new, uncracked, and smooth. Melinda and I are mostly quiet, fixing our gazes out the window at the new scenery. I am trying to keep my imagination of the bus at bay. Alternate images of a Greyhound in the States and a rickety school bus full of old women with chickens in their laps flicker through my head. I’m not sure which would be preferable.
Soon the question becomes a less interesting preoccupation. The second cab with Chen and Kristin overtakes us. In passing their driver motions to ours. We are clearly to pull over. Well… clearly not. Both drivers slow down and simply stop, side-by-side, in the middle of the highway. This is China. One can do that, apparently. Both cabbies begin shouting to each other in Mandarin. Melinda and I are along for the ride. We have no idea what is being discussed. Should we prepare to be ejected by the road?
Melinda rolls down her window and motions to Kristin who rolls hers down as well. Having the benefit of riding with Chen, she’s able to clue us in.
A mid-highway discussion reveals Chen has continued negotiations with good result
“They’re going to drive us all the way to Yangshuo,” she calls out. Chen leans over her and adds, “It’ll be 250 Yuan per cab”. Ah! No more bus. Good deal. We all nod and smile. Finally I can relax and just enjoy the ride. I don’t know what the exchange between drivers involves. Clearly our fellow is not completely pleased. But soon we are back on the road, so it is no big concern. He makes some animate phone calls. “Late for dinner, hon,” I imagine him saying.
We turn off the nice smooth highway onto something a little more bumpy and worn. We’re out of the greater Guilin area and are surrounded by farmland. Then out of the mist in the distance arise first one, then two, then entire rows of lumpy hills jutting from the ground. Moments ago the region looked flat. That we are now surrounded by spooky spires and hoodoos and sharply rising mountains seems unreal. The sticky humid southern China climate has draped the area in a blanket of fog as if purposely trying to make the slow reveal. I’m giddy.
Karst hills arise from the mist on the drive from Guilin to Yangshuo
Around in every direction are limestone cliff faces peeking out from intensely green foliage. There is no need to wonder why this area developed as a climbing mecca. Between the hills are patches of settlement. Two, three, or maybe ten houses at a time. The construction is all similar: two or three stories. The top story always seems to jut out a little over the bottom. Perhaps only half have glass in the windows or doors in the entryways. A sign that this is new construction? That the environment does not dictate weather proof dwellings? Are windows just expensive luxuries?
We drive for an hour. Then we turn off on an even less maintained road, travel a kilometer or two, and pass through a toll gate. On the other side we stop and Chen and Kristin’s car pulls alongside. Another Mandarin exchange and our driver seems a bit perturbed. We must be there, I think, and so we need to figure out how to get to the hotel.
I pull out my iPhone. I’ve shut off cell service because the cost is prohibitive when traveling internationally. The data plan is even worse. But I imagine my last email exchange with folks back home regarding itinerary and pet care is still cached on the device. The hotel information is in there.
Right on cue, Chen comes to Melinda’s door, which she opens. He says they need the phone number for the hotel. Proud nerd that I am, I produce my phone with the Rock n’ Grill Cafe Resort information pulled up. Chen gestures to just show it to the driver. The driver puzzles at the screen – probably can’t read all the English, but there is clearly a phone number. He dials on his phone, has a brief conversation, and again we are off.
A quick confab to determine what we can tell the cabbie to help him find the hotel
Now we are passing through an increasingly congested urban area. Alternating sides of the street are side-by-side shops. The streets begin to fill with bicycles, scooters, vans, pedestrians. This is more than I expected. Yangshuo is spread out and winds through several valleys around these limestone hills. And the place is bustling. Traffic circles shuttle vehicles along in a haphazard dance largely free from actual rules about right of way or lane demarcations. Above our heads stretch banners of pastel colored triangle flags fluttering in the breeze.
Finally the road narrows and we are clearly in the heart of the commercial district. Every building displays a sign in Mandarin and English advertising the grocery, pharmacy, luggage store, bar, travel agency, hotel, or restaurant within. The visual clutter is overwhelming and exciting. We turn down a side street and the scene calms a bit. We are in a plaza of limestone pavers and the driver has slowed considerably, scanning out the window as we pass each building.
We round the corner and are about to leave the plaza when I notice that the corner building we are passing has a red neon light running around the building. “RnG Cafe” appears in repeated kinks in the neon every 10 feet. The driver is about to move on and I scramble for the little bit of Mandarin I’ve managed to learn.
“Nà shì,” I exclaim, leaning forward between the seats and gesturing in the rear view mirror that its over our left shoulder now. The driver jumps. I don’t think he expected any Mandarin from the lost, confused tourist. Granted, all I managed was something like “that is,” or “that yes.” But it got the message across.
The four of us pile out of the cabs and stretch and exchange road-weary smiles. We’re here! We’ve made it to the Rock n’ Grill! This is home for the rest of the trip. And so much awaits us.
We pay each cabbie 300 Yuan, 50 more than agreed upon. Inside, we check in and receive magnetized shims which fit slots in the room doorknobs – fancy keys. We hustle up the steps, find our rooms, find our showers. It’s not more than 30 minutes before we’ve reconvened on the patio. We are fresh and smiling. Beer is on its way.
The Rock n' Grill - a climber hotel; home for the next week and a half
The Bitter Buffalo 