Xinnian Kuile 新年快乐 Happy New Year

Oriental culture spread quicker than Swine flu last Sunday as the Chinese community celebrated the new lunar year of the Tiger and displayed to us 'laowai's (Chinese word for anyone not Chinese) the kind of song and dance and noises typical of their flamboyant Spring Festival. Watching neon paper dragons swaying like snake's heads before a backdrop of grey Birmingham skies as I tucked into my Wonton soup, my mind played with memories of last Spring Festival (aka Chinese New year) when I experienced first hand, firecrackers and dancing dragons aside, a more rustic and exclusive insight into what the Chinese get up to on their most prominent annual celebration...

Cycling to Foushi, Guanxi prvince, China. 25th Jan 2009:
66km today. Average 14.6 km/hr, maximum speed 47.7 km/hr, total 4.5 hrs cycling:
So exhausted after climbing 4 hills, mountain passes on top of the hills. Burned out knees. I didn't want to see one more uphill but we kept going towards Foushi, up and down and through egg-box shaped karsts and little farm villages of mud huts, hay stacks and fields of green and gold. Eventually stopped beside a peaceful village and asked a farmer where we could get food..."chur fan, nali?" Unexpectedly he invited us inside his home where his daughter watched cartoons and dramatic reenactments of Chinese folklore on their centrepiece TV. He handed me a few mini oranges and insisted I tucked in. His daughter watched me curiously but unthreatened.

Their house reminded me of Ireland, humble, surrounded by limestone hills with a smoky fire for us all to cotch around. The older brother hurried about sweeping and dusting, preparing to welcome the new year in. I wondered if they would see it as a good omen for two foreign travellers to embark on their home on New Year's, lugging bicycles and pannier bags through such a backwater where not even tourist buses pass through. They certainly were inviting but not fussing excessively over our presence, considering we were probably the first foreigners they had ever seen.

Within twenty minutes we were summoned in for food, into the charred stone kitchen where the man and his wife sat on child-sized wooden stools (the kind that are standard furniture for all rural Chinese homes and even traditional small restaurants), inches off the floor, close to the fire circle that burned beneath a large, heavy, sooty wok. The hot-pot bubbled away, it's steam and the smoke from the flames rose to the drying leg of pork which hung from a hook above our heads. They handed us two large bowls and kept two small ones for themselves. I discreetly picked my way through the chicken, trying not to waste anything or offend, and feasted on tofu, green veg rice and soup until I was finally warm and could feel the protein waking my muscles.

Two little cats, one tabby one black, lapped up scraps of bones and yawned by the fire, sleepy from the warmth and the dim light. The man and wife ate in silence, only looking up from their bowls to offer us another helping. We expressed our gratitude in the only way we could, by smiling and repeating "Hao chur!" (Delicious).

Back in the stony dark sitting room, our hands were again filled, this time with strips of sweet potatoes, which we roasted on the little fire at our feet. The world outside was tranquil and secretive. It was time to see what was over the next hill, although we were reassured with hand gestures and nods that the 'lu' (road) ahead was flat. We feared they were just being polite as not to put a damp mood on our departure and in reality more mountains awaited our aching legs. We discreetly tried to slip the daughter some money, as a new year's gift, minus the traditional red envelope that children receive at this time of year, but the family refused no matter how much we persisted. They wanted to feed and accompany us from the warmth of their hearts, to express their humble hospitality with no expectation of material reward.

As we walked our bicycles along the bumpy dirt path away from the warmth and security of their home, and towards the tough tarmac road ahead, disenchanted with the idea of leaving into the unknown. We turned to wave as the father gently held a shiny and proud cockerel by the neck, firmly and humanely squeezed the life out of it, looked towards us and joyfully declared "Hot-pot number two!"

By 5pm we had hit a Chinese version of a chav town, where all the residents seemed drunk and leery and unwilling to help. We thought it best to keep plodding on and polished off our sugary treats before hitting even more hills. After several uphill bends we cruised along an open mountain pass with amazing views of graceful hills. The forgiving flat road soon gave way to a divine stretch of downhill, the only downhill we'd encountered all day. It was sketchy in the looming darkness at such speed but we were too overwhelmed by finally covering some ground that day. When we reached the tiny valley town and the damp, dark road ahead appeared to go upwards again, we decided to try our luck and ask the house with a truck outside for a lift the remaining 10km to the town of Foushi.

Feeling like an intrepid traveller version of Mary and Joseph on Christmas with a Chinese backdrop, we knocked on the front door, 'any room at the inn' style. We were greeted by a middle-aged man who looked so bemused that we quickly forgot about our vulnerable position and introduced ourselves and our plea, waving and pointing at our phrasebook, our bicycles, the sky, the uphill road ahead and then their truck, until we'd captured the attention of the wife, young daughter and who we later learned to be her husband. Before we knew it we were sat at their table, the buffet was reopened and we were theoretically gatecrashing yet another Christmas family dinner.

The mother/ wife decided it was best that no one would drive tonight and instead we would stay the night - a night that began with shudders of paranoia that we would be robbed, prodded and turned into hotpot, paranoia that eventually sunk into a dazy sleep, disturbed by the firecrackers exploding every fifteen minutes on the street outside.

We awoke, unharmed, half-rested to yet more food, fire and a smiley family, trying to convince us to stay another night and keenly flicking through pages of the phrasebook, pointing to pressing queries such as the all time favourite: 'Are you accustomed to life here?'

We managed to drag ourselves away from the warm home and the equally warm invites, we were getting better at refusing generous offers in favour of pursuing our journey. The road ahead forebode mystery. My bike felt heavier the more we travelled and my knees panged with fatigue, but I was encouraged by the run of luck and hospitality we had been blessed with. The deeper into these backwaters we travelled, the closer we chanced upon human spirit and the kindness of strangers and the stronger my faith in serendipity was becoming.

One more hill, 8 painful but beautiful km up, and a whisking 3km down to the next town where more paper dragons welcomed the new year, firecrackers exploded along the street, leaving behind a trail of coarse red plastic shells, jaws dropped at we peddled by and shouted "Xinnian Kuile! (Happy New Year)". The noise and the neon seemed unfamiliar after such earthy encounters, knowing that after following this road through the town and out the other end we would yet again be in the tranquil expanse of the hills. It was yin and yang. The extreme contrasts that I saw were so present in China: the people, the landscape, the ideas. Everything that battled against each other and lay in harmony side by side at the same time, on the other side of a window, or town, or in this case, as part of the same celebration.

Frozen times

From my diary, 4th May 2009:

I'm sat at the foot of an avalanche which is frozen in time. It has tiny waterfalls rushing from it through the slits in the rock like a threat reminding me that this frozen giant is still alive and it is only sleeping. Every now and then there is a ripping sound that echoes around the U-shaped valley where I sit. It stiffens me. I don't plan on staying here long - something tells me that humans should not out-stay their welcome here, take your photos and keep walking, it's reserved for Mother Nature and her mighty temper. I've never seen layers of ice, snow and rock so rigidly set, then gracefully slipping into a turquoise glacial lake. The only way I am sure that time is still moving is from the sound of the rushing waterfalls that cascade gleefully and gallantly, and the hoarse calls of the white birds that swoop in the cradle of the icy face. My breathing feels like a burden that might give me away, expelling whispy vapor into the hushed atmosphere. This cloud of ice stays completely fixed on the rock like an Andsel Adam's snapshot. A shroud of mist crowns it, eerily concealing the mountain's peak.

I could be in an ancient world before humans existed if it weren't for the faded and torn blues, whites, reds, oranges, yellows and greens of the prayer flags that drape from budding Pussy-Willow branches, and the miniature rock piles that that adorn the shores of the lake, holding the wishes of Tibetan pilgrims.

Right now, this is the closest I can get to Tibet. 60km away from the Tibetan border in the Meili Mountain Range, a 2 hour reckless drive from Deqin ('Derchin') in China's South Western Yunnan province. The Chinese government have rigid restrictions on foreigner access into Tibet, at the best of times you need a paid guide, a permit which only allows you to enter certain areas, plus a load of hassle from Chinese guards. (During the time of me writing this - May 2009 - no foreigner was allowed to get into Tibet.)

Generations before had walked over this mountain range from their homeland in Tibet and when their eyes fell on the lush pastures and dense forest below, they decided their mission was complete and they set up permanent camp. They now speak a Tibetan dialect and the younger Chinese born generation consider themselves Tibetan rather than Chinese. It confused me though to see Chairman Mao Zedong's beady eyes glaring at me from the ubiquitous poster hanging on the wall back at village guesthouse. It was a paradox of their proud ancestral heritage.

I'm amazed at the strength of explorers like these. If to me, this village was remote, then how untame and fierce are their homelands and the pathways they took? My mind conjures images of the Tibetan plateau and all the secret contours and unpassable terrain restricted by dispute and law.

The journey to the green valley village of Yubeng involved a 5 hour uphill hike, followed by a 30 minute descent, dodging the locals that leaped past like mountain goats with their moody mules that stumbled carrying oversized Chinese tourists along the way. Yubeng is the main base for visitors in the Meili Mountains with large log guesthouses on wooden stilts amongst veg patches and chicken huts and views of the foreboding snow-capped Kawagebo peak that broods over the sacred village.

Every walkway begins with rugged prayer flags that flutter across the path and remind the visitor of how much the locals regard this neck of the woods. After weeks of walking through the trechourous beyond, this lush fertile land was a lifesaver for the pioneers of this place. A haunting message is whispered through the flags, asking you to respect the surroundings and be wary on your path. The locals told me of two European girls who took a chance with nature and met their fate whilst swimming in the glacial lake one summer. The frozen avalanche gave way and tumbled down on top of them.

Peering down at the stone piles below, I'm careful as to where I place my feet and how long I hold my gaze. The white birds are like an optical illusion disappearing againt the icy backdrop. I hear one more loud rip and rumble that comes from within and then echoes around the edges of the cove, like a wise old witch bellowing a belly laugh. I'm still feeling my inferiority and unfitting presence.

As I shuffle back down the path to more hospitable and colourful ground I hear the chopping of a woodcutter's tools and know I am not alone in the world, and that time is still moving.

What makes a home Home

On 22nd December 2009, I landed back in Old Blighty after 18 months on the right hand side of the road and of the world map, in lands where my colour and shape caused stares and comments, both innocent and intimidating, where I identified more with physical gestures than with wagging tongues and where people thought I was rich, because really, in comparison, I was.

Since sobering up after Christmas and New Year, I've been sifting through travel journal entries that never quite made it online (my excuse being the fact that for the majority of my time away I was situated somewhere amidst the arse end of nowhere) and rummaging through bin liners of my jumble sale life that at the time of departure I thought I would be parted with forever. Material objects that I knew I wouldn't need on my travels, but still held some significance which exempt it all from bonfire fuel or charity shop donations.

My whole trip combined certainly handed me many anecdotes of the material world - from visiting families living in dusty one bedroom concrete huts in Azerbaijan, villages in China where self-sustainability and community spirit were just a way of life, Hong Kong's metropolis of excessive shopping, partying and pampering, and India's spiritual message of detachment from emotions, possessions and people, where the enlightened way involves rattling around with a tin cup and accepting anything that karma throws at you, such as chapattis. Each society in itself has demonstrated human expectation and attachment and challenged my perception and distinction between what I need and what I want and what is necessary to survive.

If ever you've seen Peter Menzel's photographs in "Material World: A Global Family Portrait", where he travels about the globe somehow convincing families to drag all their possessions out in front of their house so he can photograph them to illustrate the scale of crap or lack of crap that different cultures accumulate, this is what was going through my mind as I was unpacking my bulging backpack and the life I had bin-lined up before I left for my trip. Menzel really puts into perspective how much we take for granted and how much space material objects take up in our lives.

Whilst I was away, less was most definitely more. The most frustrating part about my bicycle trip through China and Laos was everything that I lugged around with me. Every time I hit an uphill bit of road my mind frantically went through everything I could get rid of that might take a gram or two of weight out of my panniers and ease peddle pressure, until everything that didn't come under the category of absolutely key survival gear either got dumped, posted home or disintegrated into tooth floss.

At home, everything and everyone is so familiar it all forms part of a cushty routine even if you're not aware of it, but when you're away, every day is full of questions and inconsistency that can be alluring and exhausting, but always eye-opening. You crank up and challenge your intuition and learn to trust complete strangers in remote and alien places. The less crap you possess, the less you are at risk of losing it, and the more connected you feel to the people you encounter.

One of the plus sides of returning to my cocoon of material crap, is that I now have a laptop and reliable access to the internet, and I plan to celebrate this by actually posting stuff onto my long existing and previously abandoned blog and filling in from where I left off.

The ins and outs of opening chakras and entertaining orphans in India, Lady Boys and lazy days in Thailand, Tai Chi, cycle diaries and chasing goats in China have yet to be revealed...