I get to bed late again after some blogging chatting with an Englishman in the hostel bar. So instead of trying to catch the 8 am bus to Qingcheng Shang, I sleep in. I'm still nervous about navigating the bus system solo and find it tempting to give up and stay in bed. Actually it feels similar to driving to a ski resort for the first time: okay, where do I go? where's the entrance? where's the actual parking? and now the parking that doesn't cost an arm and a leg? Part of me just doesn't want to deal with the unknown anymore.
But I get out of bed. I ask the front desk about buses to Dajiangyan (the transfer city) and trying to get Qingcheng. They shake their heads. No, I have to go to Xinnanmen Bus Station in the south of the city. Catching a break, there is a direct bus from Chengdu to Qingcheng Shan leaving from there. Further, there's a local bus that goes there with a stop near the hostel. Okay - while a taxi is a buck-fifty, I feel like trying the local bus. I get on, and the route map on the bus does not match the route map from the hostel. Ah well, at most I'll be walking a half-mile. Just need to pay attention whether the bus turns before or after the river.
Here's the funny thing about this journey (and maybe life in general, but I hadn't noticed it before): help appears a little ways after committing to a path. In this case, as I am waiting with my prospective passengers for Qingcheng Shan. The bus ends up being 45 minutes late. A little girl, maybe 10, asks me a question in English, in the simultaneously bold and shy way children can. We talk a little but quickly run out of commonly understood questions and answers. A woman next to me then strikes up conversation. We talk for a bit, and I ask her if she knows when the last return bus is. She does not. She and her boyfriend are going to spend the evening on the mountain. However, she asks the bus driver and informs me of the time. Little kindnesses make the world go 'round. She also pointed me in the right direction as I got off the bus and promptly started walking the wrong direction.
I start up Qingcheng Shan. There's this great big gold ox at the entryway. I think it's because it's the year of ox. Only later do I realize Laozi, the founder of Daoism/Taoism, rode an ox. Due to my sleeping in and the bus being late, I have four hours to see the mountain. I decide to take the cable car up, and if there is time, hike down. I don't wish to be stranded, and it's hard to estimate how long it will take to hike up.
At right is the view from the cable car on the way up. If you click on it, you'll see it gets rather steep at the end. And, on the left, a pagoda high on the mountain. When you hike in the Appalachians, you feel the mountains are old. When you "hike" in China, you feel the that the land has known the feet 
of humans for a long time, like parts of Italy. Specifically, every peak has a pagoda on it. And the building materials had to be hauled up (in part).
I put "hike" in quotation marks, because hiking in China is more a strenuous stroll up a mercantile staircase. I showed up - again - dressed in hiking clothes, hiking boots, bearing rain gear, layers, and food and water upon my back. Everyone else is in jeans and boots with three-inch heels (women) or suits - or at least slacks - and dress shoes (men). No one else brings any supplies because every 500 yards (er, meters in Chinese) is a stand or a food vendor or a teahouse. I'm exaggerating, but most people are dressed like it's a city. And I guess it is. Plus there is the apparent Chinese indifference to cold. On one of the steepest parts of the hike/stairwell, I was being paced by a couple and
their three year-old. Kids here are remarkably precious, like the French, almost small adults.
Every near-peak is marked by a temple or palace of old. They are quite colorful. But I'm a little palace'ed-out, much like you can get cathederal'ed-
out in parts of Europe.
At one, I see a new (I suppose) ethnic minority. They are dressed in dark blue cloth, with hats to match. The men and women are dressed identically. Sometimes I am a little slow. In the second temple, one of these folks is attending an altar and it finally dawns on me: Daoists. From the interpretative boards along the way, I learn this is the mountain upon which Daoism was created. This dilatory realization is
even more embarrassing because my blog is named "The Tao of Dan" for crying out loud. "Tao" is an early romantization of the character for Dao - it's actually pronounced with a "d" and a falling tone. But the "Tao" spelling is deep in Western culture, so I kept it.
Again, the closer to the top I get, the older the stairs get. There was a pleasant, merchant-free stretch near the summit. The pagodas too were wilder, made of wood, vines, and branches, taking on a distinct elvish cast. And now vegetation breaks, granting views of
the surrounding countryside. It's hazy, but I can see much farther than on Huangshan. To the south and east, the Chinese plain begins, complete with city receding into its own haze, and to the west and north, the mountains begin to shoulder on top of another, climbing towards the Tibetan Plateau (grrrr). The white buildings in the near distance of the picture at left are the beginning of the cable car.
There has to be a Chinglishdom on the mountain of course. This one, however, is not an odd translation, but accurate and lyrical, a mini-poem. It might be the motto for the environmental movement. Two others I unfortunately did not get pictures of were: 1) a garbage can with recyclable and unrecyclable cannisters labeled "recyclable" and "unredeemable," and 2) a sign at the airport declaring it to be a "Civilized Airport." Well, I should hope so! (I think they meant "Civilian Airport" - so 
much in a word.)
I near the summit, upon which sits the holiest Daoist temple. It contains a huge golden bull, three stories tall...oh, wait, as I stick my head in a little farther, I see Laozi astride it. For reasons of respect, I could not take a picture. What I do though is walk around the outside, take in the views, and sit down to have a lunch in the wind just this edge of cold. I had randomly stopped in a bakery in Chengdu. 
They sold this dark, rich bread with walnuts and raisins. I love dark bread. I haven't had anything like it in the US and thought it might make a good import. A fruity health drink was also remarkably tasty, so much so I took this picture. While it may look humble, eating on a mountaintop, warm in the cold wind, hungry from the (stair) climb, it's just so satisfying. Here was part of my view,
sitting on a fallen column, looking north into the rising mountains. I am at about 4000 feet. Below is one of the interpretative signs. It includes the helpful information that the concentration of negative oxygen ions can be as low as 1800 per cubic centimeter. My breath shortens. By the way, Zhang Ling was born with white hair and a beard, and so is known as the Old One or Laozi in Chinese.
After lunch, I meditate, enjoy the view for a while and the slow, rhytmic ringing of a bell as a Daoist rite is celebrated, and then start down. I'll take the cable car again. I'm tired and I rather enjoy the view than descend a couple miles of stairs. On the ride down I see this house below in the countryside. It's rare: the only other houses I've seen were in Hangzhou out near where the tea plantations began. Otherwise the housing I've seen (I haven't been traveling through high-rent districts) consists of either: 1) apartment buildings, 2) old villages, where the housing is single-room stone or cement houses, or 3) newer villages with the three-story
townhouse I talked about earlier. The "suburban neighborhood" doesn't seem to really exist. Perhaps a good thing. I've seen adds in the airplane magazines for huge European-style villas (complete with Range Rover speeding out of the garage), but none in person.
Taking the bus to Qingcheng, I passed again through newer villages, where like in Huangshan, no lights were on during the day, the bottom floor was open to the elements, and everyone had their winter coats on inside and out. This got
me thinking (perhaps incorrectly). From my admittedly upper middle-class upbringing, I want a space that is warm, lighted, and comfortably appointed, to relax in, to feel "at home" in. There is a physical release upon entering. But in many places here, upon entering, I kind of feel like I'm still outside, albeit with furniture and no chance of getting rained on or blown away. This inability to relax is what contributed to my minor culture shock in Huangshan. So it's not a physical comfort, except in having a roof over one's head. (That I consider this minor is an indicator of my being...spoiled is too strong : ) Maybe here it's the people that define home? You get that psychological release based on who you're with rather than where you are? Complete speculation. But for most of human history, four walls and a roof has been luxury.
But I get out of bed. I ask the front desk about buses to Dajiangyan (the transfer city) and trying to get Qingcheng. They shake their heads. No, I have to go to Xinnanmen Bus Station in the south of the city. Catching a break, there is a direct bus from Chengdu to Qingcheng Shan leaving from there. Further, there's a local bus that goes there with a stop near the hostel. Okay - while a taxi is a buck-fifty, I feel like trying the local bus. I get on, and the route map on the bus does not match the route map from the hostel. Ah well, at most I'll be walking a half-mile. Just need to pay attention whether the bus turns before or after the river.
Here's the funny thing about this journey (and maybe life in general, but I hadn't noticed it before): help appears a little ways after committing to a path. In this case, as I am waiting with my prospective passengers for Qingcheng Shan. The bus ends up being 45 minutes late. A little girl, maybe 10, asks me a question in English, in the simultaneously bold and shy way children can. We talk a little but quickly run out of commonly understood questions and answers. A woman next to me then strikes up conversation. We talk for a bit, and I ask her if she knows when the last return bus is. She does not. She and her boyfriend are going to spend the evening on the mountain. However, she asks the bus driver and informs me of the time. Little kindnesses make the world go 'round. She also pointed me in the right direction as I got off the bus and promptly started walking the wrong direction.
I start up Qingcheng Shan. There's this great big gold ox at the entryway. I think it's because it's the year of ox. Only later do I realize Laozi, the founder of Daoism/Taoism, rode an ox. Due to my sleeping in and the bus being late, I have four hours to see the mountain. I decide to take the cable car up, and if there is time, hike down. I don't wish to be stranded, and it's hard to estimate how long it will take to hike up.At right is the view from the cable car on the way up. If you click on it, you'll see it gets rather steep at the end. And, on the left, a pagoda high on the mountain. When you hike in the Appalachians, you feel the mountains are old. When you "hike" in China, you feel the that the land has known the feet 
of humans for a long time, like parts of Italy. Specifically, every peak has a pagoda on it. And the building materials had to be hauled up (in part).I put "hike" in quotation marks, because hiking in China is more a strenuous stroll up a mercantile staircase. I showed up - again - dressed in hiking clothes, hiking boots, bearing rain gear, layers, and food and water upon my back. Everyone else is in jeans and boots with three-inch heels (women) or suits - or at least slacks - and dress shoes (men). No one else brings any supplies because every 500 yards (er, meters in Chinese) is a stand or a food vendor or a teahouse. I'm exaggerating, but most people are dressed like it's a city. And I guess it is. Plus there is the apparent Chinese indifference to cold. On one of the steepest parts of the hike/stairwell, I was being paced by a couple and
their three year-old. Kids here are remarkably precious, like the French, almost small adults.Every near-peak is marked by a temple or palace of old. They are quite colorful. But I'm a little palace'ed-out, much like you can get cathederal'ed-
out in parts of Europe.At one, I see a new (I suppose) ethnic minority. They are dressed in dark blue cloth, with hats to match. The men and women are dressed identically. Sometimes I am a little slow. In the second temple, one of these folks is attending an altar and it finally dawns on me: Daoists. From the interpretative boards along the way, I learn this is the mountain upon which Daoism was created. This dilatory realization is
even more embarrassing because my blog is named "The Tao of Dan" for crying out loud. "Tao" is an early romantization of the character for Dao - it's actually pronounced with a "d" and a falling tone. But the "Tao" spelling is deep in Western culture, so I kept it.Again, the closer to the top I get, the older the stairs get. There was a pleasant, merchant-free stretch near the summit. The pagodas too were wilder, made of wood, vines, and branches, taking on a distinct elvish cast. And now vegetation breaks, granting views of
the surrounding countryside. It's hazy, but I can see much farther than on Huangshan. To the south and east, the Chinese plain begins, complete with city receding into its own haze, and to the west and north, the mountains begin to shoulder on top of another, climbing towards the Tibetan Plateau (grrrr). The white buildings in the near distance of the picture at left are the beginning of the cable car.
There has to be a Chinglishdom on the mountain of course. This one, however, is not an odd translation, but accurate and lyrical, a mini-poem. It might be the motto for the environmental movement. Two others I unfortunately did not get pictures of were: 1) a garbage can with recyclable and unrecyclable cannisters labeled "recyclable" and "unredeemable," and 2) a sign at the airport declaring it to be a "Civilized Airport." Well, I should hope so! (I think they meant "Civilian Airport" - so 
much in a word.)
I near the summit, upon which sits the holiest Daoist temple. It contains a huge golden bull, three stories tall...oh, wait, as I stick my head in a little farther, I see Laozi astride it. For reasons of respect, I could not take a picture. What I do though is walk around the outside, take in the views, and sit down to have a lunch in the wind just this edge of cold. I had randomly stopped in a bakery in Chengdu. 
They sold this dark, rich bread with walnuts and raisins. I love dark bread. I haven't had anything like it in the US and thought it might make a good import. A fruity health drink was also remarkably tasty, so much so I took this picture. While it may look humble, eating on a mountaintop, warm in the cold wind, hungry from the (stair) climb, it's just so satisfying. Here was part of my view,
sitting on a fallen column, looking north into the rising mountains. I am at about 4000 feet. Below is one of the interpretative signs. It includes the helpful information that the concentration of negative oxygen ions can be as low as 1800 per cubic centimeter. My breath shortens. By the way, Zhang Ling was born with white hair and a beard, and so is known as the Old One or Laozi in Chinese.
After lunch, I meditate, enjoy the view for a while and the slow, rhytmic ringing of a bell as a Daoist rite is celebrated, and then start down. I'll take the cable car again. I'm tired and I rather enjoy the view than descend a couple miles of stairs. On the ride down I see this house below in the countryside. It's rare: the only other houses I've seen were in Hangzhou out near where the tea plantations began. Otherwise the housing I've seen (I haven't been traveling through high-rent districts) consists of either: 1) apartment buildings, 2) old villages, where the housing is single-room stone or cement houses, or 3) newer villages with the three-story
townhouse I talked about earlier. The "suburban neighborhood" doesn't seem to really exist. Perhaps a good thing. I've seen adds in the airplane magazines for huge European-style villas (complete with Range Rover speeding out of the garage), but none in person.Taking the bus to Qingcheng, I passed again through newer villages, where like in Huangshan, no lights were on during the day, the bottom floor was open to the elements, and everyone had their winter coats on inside and out. This got
me thinking (perhaps incorrectly). From my admittedly upper middle-class upbringing, I want a space that is warm, lighted, and comfortably appointed, to relax in, to feel "at home" in. There is a physical release upon entering. But in many places here, upon entering, I kind of feel like I'm still outside, albeit with furniture and no chance of getting rained on or blown away. This inability to relax is what contributed to my minor culture shock in Huangshan. So it's not a physical comfort, except in having a roof over one's head. (That I consider this minor is an indicator of my being...spoiled is too strong : ) Maybe here it's the people that define home? You get that psychological release based on who you're with rather than where you are? Complete speculation. But for most of human history, four walls and a roof has been luxury.I get back to the bus with a half-hour margin. I spend the half-hour watching a Jackie Chan movie they are kind enough to have on the video screen. Then I wait another 45 minutes. Things are getting dramatic, lots of people getting on and off the bus, lots of minibuses (I know what they look like now), cars leaving, trucks arriving. I finally gather that the bus will not leave until it's near full (remember family-owned transport and they have to at least break-even). The people getting on and off the bus are the minibus drivers trying to recruit clients. I am offered a minibus ride to Chengdu for 30 yuan. The bus fare is 19 yuan. Good deal to leave now. I get onto the minibus. Another 10 minutes go by. Of course, the minibus won't leave until it's full too. A couple gets off the big bus and into a private car, but they are hestitating. Surmising that that car needs to be full too, I ask if they need one more. An affirmative head shake. So I get in the passenger seat. The price is now 50 yuan. Some haggling ensues and the driver gets heated. The couple gets out and so do I. Now a taxi for the three of us, still 50 yuan, but for $8 I'm happy to be free of the situation.
Back in Chengdu, well, on the western edge, the couple invited me to dinner, but by the time we got back I'm still not hungry and now I'm fairly tired. So I catch another cab to find an internet bar to post these pictures. The taxi driver had no idea, so per the guidebook I ask him to drop me off at the north train station. A few blocks south of there the guidebook claims there is an internet bar. I start walking south (thank you compass) and am immediately besiged by people selling hotel rooms (I really have to start expecting this). I then walk through a district that has lots of massage businesses, many with young women dressed...er, provocatively. I avoid eye contact. I think many of these were just fine; some had people in lab coats.
I switch from finding an internet bar to just walking home, right at the moment I find one. It's a lower budget one, and won't let me log into blogger. Who knows. It's impossible to debug in Chinese and I'm far from an area where people speak English. I continue on home, but after another half-hour walking through a foreign city at night lacking street signs and meaningful street lighting, plus feeling lost, I give up. I catch a cab...that takes me 500 m further down the road and drops me off - I was one intersection from the area I could recognize ;p Irony, know I thee not well enough?
It's late and I have a possible trip to see the pandas early tomorrow if other people have signed up. Cheers,
Dan
I love that ox! I know those pandas are or are becoming extinct. Hope you get to see some!! Love, Mom
ReplyDeletePandas???? Very very jealous!
ReplyDelete