Sichuan-Tibet Episode Five: China’s National Park Emei Shan
Before we get started, allow me to apologize for the delay. I started school this week and so have been busy with that as well as handling some other things I do here in Kunming. Also, if you're wondering where my photos of Emei Shan are, the truth is...I didn't take any! The ones I found on the web didn't really impress me, either, so you're left with nothing. My bad! Now read on...
Litang marked the mid-point of my journey, as well as its deepest immersion into the Tibetan world. Gradually, I would be heading down the eastern part of the plateau, re-entering the familiar terrain of Han-dominated China.
Litang, for all its charm, was not the most comfortable place to visit. Due to the cold nights, I slept in my jeans and a fleece. None of the buildings we went in had running water, and the much-advertised "hot shower" in my guesthouse turned out to be a cruel joke. No bathroom mirrors meant no shaving, no laundry places or washing machines meant dirty clothes, and all these factors left me in a rather disgusting state. It was time to move on.
I stopped for two or three days in Kangding, a small town located in the geographic center of Sichuan Province. With its mixed population, town square dance performances, and market atmosphere, Kangding charmed me into extending my stay longer than an intended twenty-four hours. Tibetan monks greeted me with friendly hellos and I bought a sweet dessert from a Uighur street vendor. I spent an hour discussing American universities with a Chinese teenage boy.
"What about the Harvard. Is it a good school?"
"Yes, very good."
"If I want to go Harvard, what SAT score do I need?"
"A very high one"
And so on.
Walking through Kangding I felt I could live there for a while, enjoying the bustle and the fine weather and the company of friendly locals. But the big city of Chengdu beckoned. All of the things I try to avoid while traveling suddenly appealed to be greatly. I wanted to sit in a youth hostel, drink beer, and listen to backpackers brag about their travel adventures. I wanted a cup of real coffee. I wanted a burger.
First, though, I was to go to Emei Shan. Billed as one of China's four holy Buddhist sites, Emei Shan was the first "essential" tourist spot I visited during my tour of Sichuan Province. As I arrived at my guesthouse, I felt a blast of pure humid heat for the first time since arriving in Kunming five months earlier. I was at sea level again! I breathed in as deeply as possible, but felt no difference from how I breathe normally anywhere else. Such is the adaptive power of our lungs.
The guesthouse manager, an unctuous young Chinese man, frowned when I asked him if any rooms were available.
"There's one, but it's very expensive. Very good though!"
"How much is it?"
"100 kuai (~$13) a night"
"I'll take it"
"You want to see first?"
"No need"
The room contained a king-sized bed, an air conditioner, a TV, a desk, two night stands, a private bathroom with a hot shower, and a clean Western toilet. By Tibet-Sichuan Highway standards, it was pure luxury. My fatigue from enduring a series of long and difficult bus rides soon manifested, and after a shower I barely had enough energy to make it downstairs for dinner. By 9 o'clock, I could barely keep my eyes open. Nonetheless, I was satisfied. I would wake up at dawn, eat a hearty breakfast, and prepare for the two-day hike.
I woke up at 10 the next morning, well-rested after a thirteen hour sleep but angry that I missed the boat on the hike. "Don't worry," the manager said, "You can still make it to the monastery if you go fast".
"Is it a difficult hike?"
"Not too bad".
I considered the math. I was to walk a distance of twenty kilometers, climbing from sea level (actually, 500 meters) to about 2,000. Could it be done? Not being a tremendously experienced climber, it seemed reasonable. And after all, the guesthouse manager probably advised hundreds of people. He'd know what he was talking about.
As I reached the national park entrance, I knew I'd hardly be the only one on the mountain that day. Busloads of camera-toting Chinese tourists filled the parking lot, queuing to buy the entrance ticket. At times, the walk was so crowded I actually had to slow my pace. Not that it mattered. The walk was killing me.
After an hour and a half, I was covered in sweat and huffing and puffing. Pint-sized Chinese porters asked me if I wanted them to carry me. My pride compelled me to say no, and I continued up the thousands of steps leading to the next temple. With my clothes sticking to me and my legs shot, I wondered whether I should just throw up my hands and say, "to hell with it". But I carried on. It couldn't be much further, could it?
Emei Mountain is best described as a national park with Chinese characteristics. The entire walk up the mountain is covered in concrete steps, with vendors at every turn selling everything from bottled water to flashlights to sliced-open cucumbers. Each temple had a bright, modern looking hotel and restaurant, identical to their counterparts in urban areas. Everywhere I turned, I saw bi-lingual signs with one instruction or another. My favorite one reminded visitors of proper "socialist" etiquette in national parks. Redistribution of income, I noticed, was not included.
In Fuzhou sometime last year, a Chinese friend showed me a photo album of her trip to Yunnan Province. Each photo was of a particularly well-known sight, such as the Black Dragon Pool in Lijiang or of the Stone Forest near Kunming. In each photo, too, was my friend, wearing the exact same smile and sticking her fingers in the air like Nixon on a helicopter. There were no candids, nothing out of the ordinary, no landscape-only shots, and nothing but postcard images with my friend seemingly pasted in. I imagined that millions of people throughout China possessed the exact same photograph, with only the individuals substituted.
Emei Shan reminded me of her, and of how commodified the travel industry is in China. The Chinese rarely travel independently and are usually surprised when I mention preferring to travel alone. In a country full of adventure opportunities, areas of unspoilt natural beauty, ethnic diversity, and vast rural spaces, its inhabitants primarily wish to travel among a limited number of destinations neatly outlined in tourist brochures. Show up, take your photo, and leave. This seems to characterize the overwhelming majority of travel experiences in China.
To be fair, I've heard the same criticism lobbied at Japanese travelers, who, unlike most Chinese, have long had the affluence needed for overseas travel. Some Western travelers, too, seem to only travel to gather evidence that they set foot in some well-known place or another. But Emei Shan in particular depressed me, because all of its unpredictability was swept away in order to provide the greatest degree of comfort and familiarity for its incoming tourist hordes.
These ideas, however thought-provoking, were not pertinent to me as I trudged up the mountain. Sometime in the early afternoon, I found that I couldn't walk for longer than five minutes without stopping. I imagined that I was climbing a stairway to heaven, and would have hummed the Led Zeppelin song had I possessed any extraneous oxygen.
A French couple bounded down the steps toward me. "How much longer is it to the monastery?" "Uphill? Oh, I would say another three hours". Three hours?!
I glanced at my watch, and calculated that I would arrive just in time for sundown. I fantasized about my warm hotel bed back in Emei town that I had foolishly forfeited to attempt this grueling climb. I wondered whether they'd have a room available if I were to, say, give up climbing for the day and head back. A minute later, I decided to find the answer to that very question.
A small part of me felt ashamed that I didn't meet my morning goal of twenty kilometers, but mostly I just felt relieved. Back in the guesthouse, which fortunately had a vacancy in another nice room, I told an Australian about my day on the mountain.
"Aw, that's cheating, mate!" he said.
Why do Australians always try to out-macho everyone when they travel?
In any case, I had one more day to spend on the mountain. Not sure what to do, I met a Chinese-born Brit and a Singaporean traveling together. Their plan? To take the bus up to the top, snap some photos, and then come back for a massage. I heartily agreed, and after a short yet productive day, we made it back in time for a nice meal in town.
Perhaps the Asian method of traveling isn't so bad, after all.
