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.
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.
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