Dragon's backbone soup
Trip Start
Jan 24, 2004
1
30
31
Trip End
Apr 01, 2004
Guilin,
Guangxi Zhuang,
China
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Continued from ; The Li river
Tuesday 30th March
Finally, I wrench myself away from room 101 at the West Street Inn. The friendly chap on reception is startled that I am really leaving. I won't be able to make him laugh any more by claiming I'm going for breakfast at increasingly later times each day until it's ridiculous. I catch the 'fast bus' back to Guilin and deposit my main pack there at the railway station's left luggage department. Then catch a smaller minibus to Longsheng, and then a third contraption to a remote hillside called Huang Lao. From here I must climb up to a little settlement perched on a high ridge
Comfort assured
. It enjoys a view down over blankets of rice terraces - that place is called Ping An. There is a steep stone path leading between wooden houses that belong to a tribal people whose girls are known for having the longest hair in the world. It is difficult to dispute it. I stop and eat some chocolate cake and some oranges. Continuing the long slog up a hill studded with what look like fir trees. When I reach a road at the top, I am met by Susan who is standing there. What a coincidence. She invites me to stay at her guesthouse. I am sceptical. Again, her timing is uncanny. One lone traveller climbs a hill and sure enough, somebody sees it as a business opportunity.
I walk with her on the basis I have nothing to lose by it. As for downtown Ping An, I've never seen anything like it. The 'village' is a series of timber dwellings perched in such a way that almost vertical ascents and descents are necessary to move between them. The views are breathtaking. As with the guides at the Great Wall of China, the tactics of beating me into submission have worked. Susan has dragged me up so many steps to her establishment, I agree to rest there because I cannot walk any further.
My room is more like a small wooden cabin . Its very clean and the view from the window is so astounding that it doesn't look real. So to make sure, I sit outside the front door of Susan's place and drink a couple of cold beers. Its real. I am up here. Like I'm sitting in God's armchair observing the world below. And what's more, somebody's job is to climb all the way up here carrying the boxes of beer I am now enjoying .
There are sounds from under the house. A pig shed. The four porkers inside look positively miserable. I do hope they were given my dinner to eat because that's what I would have suggested but didn't , since it would be bound to cause offence.
I'll explain. With Susan's encouragement, I'd ordered the whole cooked chicken. I was ravenous after the climb and the beer. Dreaming of a silver platter with a huge meaty bird presented on it ready to be carved ceremoniously. All the trimmings piled high round the edges. But what I got was a different thing entirely. After an eternity it arrived. In a watery broth were the body parts of a chicken which looked like it had been mutilated with a blunt axe. Such was the precision of the work. There was gristle and two bony claws. And then a surprise suddenly pops up in the middle of the bowl. The chickens head, still attached to the neck, all yellowey and withered. Beady eyes full of menace.
I am used to the separation between the cut of meat on my dinner plate, and the original animal it came from. For example, a piece of steak does not look like a cow. A pork chop is not a pig. I was not looking at a roast chicken dinner. I was looking at a dead animal. And this is the difference when going native in Asia.
Next ; Hostel of horrors.
