A Journey to Moon Hill

Currently I find myself located in Yangshuo City, Guangxi Province. If you’re scrambling to find it on the map, don’t bother, though it is situated near Guilin, which is a bit easier to locate. The landscape here is surreal and I think best surmised by the Lonely Planet guide as they refer to the innumerable camel-hump hills as “Dr. Suessish.” These peaks vary in size and shape and the city of Yangshuo is encircled by them like a spiked dog collar. It’s difficult to draw comparisons or find an adequete metaphor to relay the visual effect of the surroundings. Many of the hills resemble the cartoonish strructures of the Spanish architect Antonio Gaudi whose work is strewn about the city of Barcelona including his world reknowned Cathedral Sagrada de Familia. Many of the other peaks are in close correlation with the arches in southern Utah or the buttes of the western desert states.
I arrived in this visually breathtaking region after a 15 hour overnight train ride from Guangzhou and a two hour train ride from Hong Kong. Once I was safely settled in my guesthouse I walked next door to the cafe to have a cup of coffee. The owner of the shop spoke superb English and he promised to show me the cities authenticities. I told him I would do some wandering of my own but return in the afternoon to join him for a tour. I headed down the main drag and stopped into a barbershop to shave my head and beard, bought a pair of sunglasses, and continued my jaunt down the lane. I came upon the Li River, which snakes through the maze of misty bluffs and is famous for its cruises from Guilin.
In the early afternoon I returned to the cafe and told my new friend “Jacko” that I would be honored to have his guidance. Firstly he took me to a quiet tea shop on the banks of the river where old men slowly sipped tea, smoked tobacco pipes, and played cards. We sat on the floor of a private room and ordered fruit tea, good for the stomach Jacko informed. The waitress brought the tea in a glass container filled with tea bags and fruit slices. For the next hour we sat calmly shelling sunflower seeds, drinking the tea out of ramekin size cups, and listening to the mysteriously mournful Chinese music played from the speaker above our heads.
After teatime Jacko took me to a Chinese massage house for another hour of relaxation. I was curious to compare the Chinese with the Thai massage that I grew so fond of during my stay on the island of Ko Samet. In the end, though the Thai massage is considered to be the finest and most disciplined form, I must admit I found the Chinese version to be more to my liking. The Thai massage is centered moreso on the lower body as well as muscle stretching, which though invigorating, can also be quite painful. The Chinese massage focuses on the head, neck and back, more atune to my taste.
Jacko drove me back to my hotel on his motorbike. I took an evening shower before dinner then settled myself into a couch in the common room of the guesthouse to read a book. A stocky, bespectacled, chubby faced Chinese man sat across from me and from his demeanor it was obvious he itched to say something to me. Finally he said “You like make friend?” Sure, why not. His English was visibly limited but his intentions were noble so I felt almost obligated to invite him out to dinner with me. Down the main boulevard we ventured and sat down at the cleverly named restaurant of “Minnie Maos.” We ordered stuffed hot peppers, beer-battered Li River fish, and two bottles of Chinese beer. It became apparent as our meal wore on that my Chinese friend had either never met a westerner or knew few. He lavishly bestowed gifts upon me; a designer pen, a pack of unopened cigarettes, and a metal plaque the size of a baseball card with Chairman Mao’s mug on it. At this time I could only think of John Lennon’s words “If you go carrying pictures of Chairman Mao, you’re not gonna make it with anyone anyhow” (Revolution).
It was about this time that I noticed the beautiful young waitress who was working the other tables. I asked my friend to call her over and he did so. I wanted him to translate but as it turned out she spoke better English than my new friend. We began talking about miscellaneous subjects and I could feel my friend slowly growing perturbed because he could no longer decifer what we were discussing. Eventually Rong (the waitress) and I agreed to go for a bike ride the following morning out to Moon Hill near her residence.
We set out in the early morning fog, down a rocky dirt path surrounded by the dizzying sight of the dreamlike bluffs. In front of us rice paddies stretched and workers threshed the dry stalks. We passed old hunchbacked men with straw hats leading water buffaloes to graze. We wisped through tiny villages where the men stared at us and old ladies balanced scales of vegetables on shoulders. After about two hours of winding our way through the bizzare and fantastic countryside we made it to a main road and spied a sign that told of the Buddha caves. We stopped to investigate.
The sign, in English, said that these caves had just recently been discovered and subsequently opened to the public for exploration. I had the sneaking suspicion that the sign had been there for about ten years. Nontheless the two of us decided to enter the depths of the cavern and have a look around. The opening was quite large but soon we found ourselves crawling through the muddy passageways down towards the underground river that we could hear softly rambling below us. I must admit that at this point I was clastrophobic and wondered if I was going to make it all the way. My breathing became heavy and sweat dripped from my brow. I took a gulp of my water and shook myself from my slight fear. I also reassured myself by thinking that if for some reason I did get stuck down here at least I was with a beautiful woman. She put me to shame in the hole, quickly rappelling down ropes and monkeying down ladders to the river below. I gingerly scaled the muddy rocks and prayed I wouldn’t slip or spill, which I have been known to do on more than one occassion. Finally we were both down at the base, where we removed our shoes and headed a quarter mile down the underground river. I envisioned myself as the mad professor in Jules Verne’s “A Journey to the Center of the Earth.” Eventually we climbed back out of the cave, my courage of course growing stronger as I reached the end, realizing I never really had anything to fear.
At this point, back in the light of day, we agreed it was time for lunch. Rong and I cycled another ten minutes to her family’s farm where she began to prepare the noontime meal. As I sat in the dirt floored living room sipping tea I watched her meticulously peel the vegetables under the garden spicket. With me in the living room sat her bald-headed uncle who offered me an orange with a grunt. He sat himself in the opposite corner of the room rolling, licking, and smoking a chain of cigarettes. He laughed to himself and smiled at me possibly remembering a time when he didn’t even know white faces existed, or perhaps wondering why his niece would bring me to the farm.
Directly adjacent to the living room was the buffalo pen and I heard it grunt and snort, the smell of its manure pungent in the crisp country air. Rong spent nearly an hour cooking our meal and by the time it arrived I was good and hungry. The lunch consisted of three dishes, green beans, bean sprouts, and a sort of stir fired squash, as well as the obligatory bowl of rice. Her uncle watched us from his corner and eyed our meal with envy. After lunch and a brief rest we were back on our bicycles and headed for Moon Hill. This is perhaps the most popular attraction for tourists in the area and is a striking view from any vantage point. The hill’s name refers to the cresent shaped arch which sits high atop the green mesa. It took nearly 40 minutes to ascend the peak, a relatively short but strenuous hike. From the top, hilly lumps spread toward the horizon and patched quiltlike fields glimmered in the foreground. I took the time to snap some photos and marvel at the unreal scenary.
BY two pm we were back on our bikes and headed for the city of Yangshuo. Villagers waved and shouted at us as we rolled by, geese chuckled on ponds, and men raked dried rice. Mobs of people on bicycles, the favorite mode of transport in China, teemed through the streets. And finally we were back in the city. I thanked Rong for her kind guidance as she ran off to get ready for work and I dragged my mud caked body the the local bar for a pint.