A different China...

After composing a blog a few weeks ago from the inside of a glorified shed, this week's effort comes from one of the swankier establishments that I have had the pleasure to visit during my flaneurial meanderings. It lies at the beginning of the covered market place that runs beside the River Li as it runs northwards out of the town. The café, I am assured, is known as the 'Elegant River Bank Cafe', although I have to take this on trust as my reading of Chinese characters is perhaps not the greatest skill that I possess. In fact, after spending three of the last five months in the People's Republic, I can barely manage to recognise ten of them. On the other hand, and very surprisingly, my spoken Chinese is actually beginning to come on quite well. I can even hold four or five sentence conversations, as long as the context remains simple and the Mandarin speaker sufficiently patient and charitable to forgive my mangling of his national language.

The café itself feels very relaxing with its subdued lighting, discrete corners and even boasts a separate lounge overlooking the river. Right in the centre of the floor is a baby grand piano which looks very impressive in the circumstances. The luxurious surroundings also demand luxurious prices, at least by normal Chinese standards. Coffee is very much in that category in China, often costing something like five times as much as a 500ml beer.

This last week has been spent in the vicinity of Yangshuo after an impulsive but thoroughly sensible change of plans. The original intention was to spend just three nights here, but the place proved to be so pleasant (if one ignores the ubiquitous Chinese traffic problems on the main road running through the town) that it difficult to resist. As Oscar Wilde himself once famously said, I can resist anything but temptation, and so it is that I find myself in these thoroughly agreeable surroundings tapping away happily at yet another blog.

I have continued to take pleasure in the taking of long, slow bicycle rides through the remarkably flat and beautiful valleys between the tall karst mountains, usually in the company of my Chinese companion, and we have even ventured up the occasional hill, though this of necessity this has entailed as much pushing of bikes as riding.

On one of these sojourns a couple of days back we found ourselves in the appropriately named 'God's Village' which lies just on the outskirts of Yangshuo, although it is so peaceful that you would never guess you were so close to the town. We rode on narrow, elevated roads above rice paddies being careful not to cycle to close to the ten foot drops on either side. Eventually, the road ran out but we proceeded further down a somewhat muddy track until we came across a young man leading a couple of bullocks through an orchard.

Oft times, when running across such people in these mountains, they have a tendency to be somewhat taciturn and monosyllabic, often resorting to gestures rather than words, and this even when spoken to in Mandarin by my Chinese companion. This man was the exception that proved the rule though. He seemed both pleased and interested to see us and even spoke of a friend of his, a teacher and an artist, who lived in a house in the forest that rose up the side of the hill to our left. The teacher had come to the village four years previously and liked it so much that he had chosen to live there ever since. He was always keen to practice his English apparently, and was said to be more than happy to have guests to chat with.

Thus we found ourselves proceeding up a narrow and steep path to a cottage hidden away in the forest above the valley. Entering by a makeshift gate held in place by a simple loop of wire, we found ourselves entering an alternative reality. Although the teacher didn't appear to be in, we were greeted at the top of the stairs leading up from the gate by an elegant but windswept mannequin whose clothes had, at one time at least, been quite stylish before the incessant wind had torn and ripped them to such an extent that they were barely in place at all. The whole front of the building was bedecked with a varied assortments of artwork, some very fine and betraying the handiwork of a refined and gifted artist, but left out to fend for themselves against the unfeeling and unappreciative elements.

Oil canvasses lay soaked against the wall, their tattered edges fraying. Ink drawings on fine paper had been soaked so many times that even within their frames the paper was almost visibly disintegrating. Works of the finest calligraphy had been the victims of the same disdain. Clearly the artist was a man more interested in the act of creation than in any act of preservation.

 The artist's studio was located at the far end of the building in what seemed to have been a hastily tacked on annexe, although it too was showing many of the same signs of neglect as the rest of the premises. Gazing in through the barbed windows, one could see a pile of etchings, paintings, busts and drawings strewn about the place in an apparently haphazard way. Each piece though also seemed to betray the creative abilities of a very talented individual. There were oils and watercolours, pastels and charcoal drawings, some in the style of the pre-Raphaelites, others hinting at impressionism, still others as traditional Chinese landscape painting. Such was the variety of work that it was hard to believe that they could all have been created by just one man.

There was still no sign of the teacher/artist though at this stage, and as the light was beginning to grow dim we decided it was wiser to leave a note promising a return another day. Just as we finished posting the note through the door though, the artist himself turned up!

Mr. Lin (his name means 'forest' apparently) was perhaps five feet five inches tall but of a very athletic and powerful build. In his younger years he had been the local and provincial table tennis champion, quite a feat in a country that loves the sport. As we had been informed, he was very hospitable and friendly and did indeed enjoy conversing in English, although his accent took a bit of getting used to. He had travelled far and wide it seemed and he regaled us with programs from exhibitions of his works in Melbourne, publications of his cartoons and glossy brochures of his paintings. Reading the blurb in some of these, Mr. Ling seemed to be a man of some renown.

Speaking with him, one could feel the intensity and the depth of his passion, his energy was almost palpable. He spoke quickly, his enthusiasm sometimes getting the better of him as his stories meandered back and forth between personal experiences and conjectures on the nature of philosophy and politics. I strained at times to understand each word. For the first few minutes it was just the general gist that I picked up, but after a while I managed to fill in the gap and began to realise how fortunate we were to meet such a character.

After sharing some Sri Lanka green tea with us, he led us through to his studio. From the inside it looked even more chaotic than it had through the window. Pieces of all  manner of compositions lay strewn about the place. Some were in an adequate state of repair but many had simply been left to decay once the process of creation had been created. It reminded me a little of the practices of Tibetan monks when they painstakingly create their sand paintings over the course of several days. Once the painting has been carefully and precisely created, with due and deft care applied to every last detail, it is looked at for a few minutes and then simply swept up into a pile of coloured grains.

When I first came across this phenomena as a young man, I remember being absolutely horrified. It seemed almost a crime to destroy something that had taken such an effort and such creativity to make. It wasn't until much later that I began to understand the point. It is the act of creation that is important in itself, not the thing created. It, like all things (from a Buddhist viewpoint) will suffer decay and inevitably fall apart. It is a hard but profound lesson, but one that was scarcely needed by Mr. Ling.

We longed to stay with this fascinating man longer, but the light had completely disappeared by now and we were faced with a somewhat unnerving ride through the raised roads above the paddy fields. This we safely accomplished and even enjoyed, being the fortunate beneficiaries of an eerie light that shone through the clouds and bathed the scene in a soft, monochromatic glow. There was no moon to speak of the previous night, so I guessed that the glow from the clouds must have been the reflection of the nearby town. Still, it was sufficient to light our way and we got home without undue incident.

Reflecting back on it now, the whole evening had an oddly surrealistic feel to it. To find such a house, to discover such a character, in the middle of a strangely named village in the Chinese countryside gave me the feeling of almost stepping into an alternative reality. If it had been the south of France or perhaps somewhere in the hinterlands of California, then it may not have been so surprising, but here in the People's Republic of China!?

As I contemplate these matters, sitting back in a deeply be-cushioned settee in the Elegant Riverside Café, I realise that perhaps this particular area of China is one of the few places it could happen here. The whole ambience is quite exceptional, quite different to anything else I have experienced in the PRC. It seems to attract not only the hucksters of West Street and the usual exploiters of tourists that one can find in any such place, but an altogether different kind of almost esoteric character. The place is unique, a complete one-off, possessing at times and in places an almost ethereal beauty. Perhaps because of this it is but natural that such characters as Mr. Ling should find themselves drawn here.

Before we finally talk our departure that evening, he had said that if we ever re-visited the area and were in need of accommodation, not to hesitate to drop by. One day, in the not too distant future, I may well take him up on that offer ...