After two weeks of traveling, I had reached the end of the line. Nanjing was to be the last stop on my journey from the Yangtze Delta to the backwoods of Anhui and back to the Delta. I had to return to Shanghai to catch a flight back to Chicago, and Tex had to get back to Wenzhou to start teaching again. After a few days of relaxing and enjoying the laowai life in Nanjing, we busted out the backpacks, and headed off for one final hurrah, a day trip to Yangzhou.
Yangzhou is a relatively modest sized town about an hour and a half from Nanjing via train. From what we had gathered, we could walk most of the town in a single day if we had an early start. Before our trip, I admittedly didn’t know much about Yangzhou. In fact for many people, (myself included) they only know Yangzhou in the context of being the birthplace of Yangzhou (young chow) fried rice…that, and former Chinese president Jiang Zemin, although I’m guessing the the fried rice probably receives more fanfare.
Tex and I set out with the simple goals of 1) exploring the Yangzhou city area on foot and 2) seeking out the world famous Yangzhou fried rice. It didn’t take us long to tackle the second goal, as our bus from the train station dropped us off immediately in front of this restaurant, named simply “Yangzhou Fried Rice.”
Fried rice has a certain allure in the West as being one of those sought after Asian dishes, presumably made carefully from fine ingredients in fancy kitchens and dining establishments across the Middle Kingdom. In reality, fried rice is essentially the Chinese response to leftovers. In most Chinese households, fried rice is what happens when you are stuck with cold rice and leftover scraps of meat and veggies from the previous day’s meal. The rice is thrown into a wok, along with a fried egg, and then mixed with whatever excess foodstuffs might be lying around the house. It is not intentional, gourmet or exotic. It’s simply practical, a functional method for the disposal of leftovers, which of course was also the impetus for the invention of Chop Suey in California.
Now with all that being said, Yangzhou has become known across the Middle Kingdom (and in many parts of the world for that matter) for Yangzhou Fried Rice, a special recipe, which is prepared intentionally, and is commonly eaten in classy restaurants, by those with a refined taste for Chinese cuisine.
If I had to break it down to a simple explanation, the secret ingredient to Yangzhou Fried Rice is…everything! According to the free brochures at the Yangzhou Fried Rice restaurant, the ingredients include “white rice, sea cucumber, dried scallops, chicken thigh, Chinese ham (火腿), fresh river shrimp, mushrooms, fresh bamboo shoots, peas, etc,” however this is just a small sampling. Unfortunately I didn’t take better notes at the time, but I remember counting nearly 20 different substances in my rice.
When all was said and done, there wasn’t anything which jumped out as particularly special about Yangzhou fried rice. It was just…well…fried rice, albeit a rather multifarious recipe, but still on the whole, fried rice. Definitely not worth a trip to Yangzhou just to sample it, but it surely worth eating if you are there.
Other than eat fried rice, there really isn’t much to do per se in Yangzhou, but fortunately the city has some rather picturesque streets and architecture, so we spent most of the day meandering around town.
There are of course the requisite 80’s style bathroom tile buildings and cement cages.
But overall, a rather large amount of the local infrastructure and housing stock is of vintage style.
Like Suzhou, and many other cities in Jiangsu, Yangzhou is a water town with canals flowing throughout the city.
Unlike Suzhou, Yangzhou has not undergone an explosion of modernism and industrial development, and there are no skyscrapers, industrial parks, or compounds of Westerner businessmen and their latte-sipping wives.
Many of its locals continue living the simple life, pictured here washing clothes in the street with their neighbors.
Most of the canals were lined with ornate cement bridges and railings, making Yangzhou one of the more aesthetically pleasing small Chinese cities to explore on foot.
Unlike Fuyang and Taihe, Yangzhou is not poor. As is the case most of southern Jiangsu and Northern Zhejiang, the pocket books people of Yangzhou have benefited greatly from the economic development of the post Reform and Opening up era. One manifestation of this is the Dairy Queen we found there. While it may not seem significant at first, 18 RMB (approx $2.50 USD) for a Blizzard is an astronomically large amount to pay in a country where ice cream can commonly be purchased from street kiosks for 2 RMB. Accordingly, Dairy Queen (simply called “DQ” in China, there is no Chinese name), is generally found only in the wealthiest, most developed cities in China. As you can see from the picture above, Tex was quite excited by our find.
Yangzhou has recently been focusing on exploiting its tourism potential and in the eastern part of the city, a large tract of neighborhoods had been leveled to make room for a new tourist street (pictured above). It’s part of a new trend in Chinese city planning which I like to call “tastefully touristy” development, where buildings and streets are reconstructed, in a careful attempt to mimic the architecture of times past. While it’s never as good as the real thing, these developments do provide some sense of historical authenticity, as opposed to the typical plasticy tourist traps.
As much effort as was put into the tourist area, it still paled in comparison to the extant canals and dwellings which still make up the majority of the Yangzhou cityscape.
I also found Yangzhou to possess some of the best public landscaping I have seen in China.
Several of the canals are lined with tour boats…
…as well as restaurants on the water.
In one of the public parks, Tex and I came across the site of retirees partaking in their daily half hour exercise regiment. A woman in the middle of the group led the exercises with a cheer cadence which was repeated loudly by the group throughout the workout. Here’s a video below.
more canals and bridges…
even more canals and bridges
Yes, there was definitely no shortage of water in Yangzhou.
Like anywhere in China, Yangzhou also had its default “scenic spots,” like this temple which we did not bother going into. Often times “attractions” such as these are simply commercialized versions of the sites and buildings which can be experienced for free in their natural context anyway.
We had planned to take the last train from Yangzhou to Nanjing which left around 7 pm, so we spent our final hour in Yangzhou exploring this bustling snack street.
Shawarma (or 土耳其烤肉, “Turkish roasted meat” as it’s called) is apparently a growing fad in Chinese street dining. We had to have a little taste before our final meal in Yanghzou, which consisted of…
…yup, you guessed it, more Yangzhou Fried Rice. We figured since we’d come all the way, and probably would never be back in Yangzhou, we owed it to ourselves to try the famous fried rice from at least two different restaurants.
As an interesting side note, Yangzhou Fried Rice is actually quite expensive in Yangzhou, typically going for about 15 RMB (approx $2.15 USD) for a serving like this, even in most hole-in-the-wall eateries. In most parts of China, fried rice in restaurants such as these is priced in the mid single digits.
We topped it off with an order of gulaorou (sweet and sour pork).
China is known for cramped bus seats, and low hanging doorways, but this is something I had never previously come across in my travels: a miniature toilet. I tried to get the brooms and the trashcan in the picture to capture a relative size comparison, but let’s just say this contraption would have been ergonomically perfect for me when I was about 5. The characters on the wall read:
Bowel Movements Prohibited; The pipes will get clogged
Finally, here’s a shot at night of the tower pictured at the top of this post. If anybody knows the name and/or the history of this monument, please feel free to speak up in the comments section. It was quite a spectacle at night. I couldn’t help but wonder how often the sides have to be repaired from erhant motorists crashing into it.
After our 8 hour soujourn in Yangzhou, Tex and I caught the train back to Nanjing. The following morning Tex headed back to Wenzhou, and I took the bullet train to Shanghai, where I crashed for the evening with some old friends, hurridly stocked up on tea and supplies from a Fujianese tea shop, and then flew back to the US the following afternoon. After two weeks of non-stop fieldwork and writeups, and then two more weeks of travel through eight different cities, it had been my shortest (and most efficient) trip to China to date. I’ve got a few more posts in the works formulated from thoughts and experiences from the trip, but will probably shift the focus of this blog more towards Chicago (including the Chinese community here) in the coming months. As of now, I have no set plans for any future trips to China. Thanks to everybody for following this series, and I’ll do my best to keep the content flowing.
In Anhui, Tex and I saw what we went to see, namely under-developed, low income, areas of rural China with little outside contact. Now it was time to return to the friendly confines of China’s big city foreigner “comfort bubble.” Neither of us had previously visited Nanjing, former capital of the Republic of China as well as several dynastic governments, so we decided to stop to scope it out for a few days
We were met in Nanjing by Andy Goldstein, a fellow American (and member of the tribe) who has been living in Nanjing for the past five years. Andy had a nice summation of Nanjing. He said it is the Chinese equivalent of Boston. Not as big as Beijing and Shanghai, but multiple universities, and brimming with intellectual activity. In this respect, I would definitely agree with Andy’s summation. After our rapid pace of traveling through Anhui, Tex and I took a 3 days to relax, sight see, and enjoy the former capital of China.
The streetscape of Nanjing looks very much like that of any other major Chinese city.
As far as major Chinese cities go, I found Nanjing to be quite livable. It’s small enough that you can get just about anywhere by cab for under 20 RMB, and even the subway which currently only has one line was quite useful all things considered. I have to say that Nanjing would be an ideal location for somebody who wants to experience a large Chinese cultural center, but without all the hustle and bustle (not to mention traffic congestion) of Beijing or Shanghai.
In terms of its architecture and streetscape, Nanjing is very much a southern city. However, in terms of the personality types it attracts and the general vibe of the town, I found it felt a lot more like Beijing than it did Shanghai or Guangzhou.
Although not nearly as expansive and populous as Beijing and Shanghai, Nanjing is still quite large and developed, and has one of the more well-defined skylines of the Middle Kingdom.
The only major site Tex and I had on our itinerary was the Nanjing Massacre Memorial Hall. In the winter of 1937/38 Japanese troops invaded Nanjing as part of their Chinese conquest effort. During the ensuing siege Japanese soldiers killed between 100,000 and 300,000 (depending who you ask) civilians. It’s 300,000 if you ask the Memorial.
Admission to the museum was 5 RMB (about 60 cents USD), which probably reflects the central governments desire for people to learn about the events in Nanjing in 1937.
Accordingly, every caption was written in English, Chinese…and Japanese!
The message was clear. The powers that be wanted as many people to see the museum and learn as much about the Nanjing Massacre as possible…which is why I found it rather ironic that cameras were not allowed in to the majority of the museum, and hence few photos follow.
I had done a decent amount of reading in regards to the Nanjing Massacre, and in addition to the historical events themselves, my interests also extended to how the they would would be presented in a Chinese museum. Two years ago I visited the Japanese war museum at the Yasukuni Shrine in Tokyo for that same reason. The Japanese museum presented a rather curious view at historical events which undoubtedly would infuriate those who had experienced them first hand. You can read some of them in this post I wrote two years ago.
As for the museum in Nanjing, in terms of curation, it was by far and away the best museum collection I have seen anywhere in China bar none. There was a copious amount of artifacts, images, and information, all given insightful and well-written multi-lingual captions and explanations, that would have given any American museum a run for its money. (From my experience, well-presented museum exhibits in the Middle Kingdom are few and far between).
However, the museum reinforced a theory which I have been nursing along for the past couple years. That is, that Chinese propaganda results in the exact opposite of the intended effect when applied towards Westerners. Let me use myself as an example.
Just like most historical man-made tragedies, there are certain fringe groups who maintain that the Rape of Nanjing either a) didn’t happen or b) accounts of it are grossly exaggerated. The academic credence given to these theories is somewhere in the neighborhood of Holocaust denial and Bigfoot sightings, but it is certainly enough to get China (and most of Asia) in an uproar from time to time.
As we meandered through the museum reading captions on the walls, we were constantly bombarded with rhetoric such as “This proves that the Japanese brought great suffering on China,” and “The history cannot be denied.” As a Westerner, I couldn’t help thinking to myself that the preponderance of evidence (photos, artifacts, personal accounts and taped testimonies) meticulously displayed in the museum were perfectly ample in shedding any possible doubt one might have about the events in question. But every time I read the word “prove” in a caption I couldn’t help the knee-jerk reaction that the authors clearly had an agenda. In my Western-educated psyche, this incited the natural feeling of doubt about the claims which were being “proved.” In other words, I never had a shred of doubt about anything I had heard about the Nanjing Massacre until I visited the Memorial Hall. This is not by any means I have any concrete doubts of what happened in Nanjing, but it is an interesting psychological question to ponder.
I would be interested to hear what kinds of feelings this over-extended (by my Western standards) rhetoric brings about among people who have been educated in the East, and how it might differ from mine, which I feel are quite typical of those educated in the West.
The museum is located outside of the Nanjing city walls in an area which used to be on the outskirts of town. The reason why, which we learned, was that it was built on the site of a mass grave uncovered years later. The final exhibit of the Memorial Hall was a walk through areas of the body dumping grounds which had been partially excavated and were open to viewing.
The end of the museum is marked by an eternal flame with the character 祭 (ji4), which refers to offerings to sacrifice.
Once we were outside of the actual museum, we were allowed to take pictures again.
After the Nanjing Massacre Memorial, we took a walk along the moat and city walls which partially surround the city. The skies were clear and temperatures were in the 70s, which was fortunate because most locals told us Nanjing only gets about 2 weeks of nice weather all year. The rest of the time you either are freezing (most buildings don’t have heat), or roasting in the heat of the summer.
Ancient Chinese god of fertility?
Like Beijing, Nanjing also has an active community living in old hutong style houses. Although the buildings are old and dilapidated, and many lack modern plumbing, its inhabitants are not from the lower class. Rather, they are upper-middle class holdouts who have elected to preserve their traditional neighborhoods rather than move into the modern high rises which can be found all over the city.
This particular neighborhood was just inside the south side of the Nanjing city wall.
After 4 days of trekking through Anhui, Tex (right) and I decided we wanted to relax and be laowai again for a few days in Nanjing. So on our second evening in town, we met up with Andy (left) at a bar downtown which served stout beer for 30 RMB a glass, roughly the equivalent amount of money needed survive on street food in Anhui for a week. As it so often does, the evening morphed unintentionally into a karaokeefest when a young Chinese man in his twenties invited the three of us (as well as our newly acquainted couch surfer friend Stephanie) to join him and his friends in his private KTV room.
The man (left) was in charge of an organization of tennis coaches, and had been treating several other coaches to an evening of binge drinking and off-key renditions of Chinese pop songs. He had invited the four of us into his room presumably to garner more face in front of his associates. I’ve found myself in this type of situation countless times in China and creates an excellent opportunity for symbiotic usury. We get free alcohol, excellent oral Chinese practice, and rambunctious evening of entertainment. The other party gets the requisite face generated from having a group of foreigners constantly toasting him throughout the evening in the karaoke room he has hosted.
In addition to the drinks and singing, another element of the Chinese male KTV experience is the KTV girls. For a fee ranging anywhere from 100-500 RMB, these girls can be “rented” for the evening to sing with, flirt, and pour drinks for patrons. They also tend to consume a decent amount of the alcohol that the host has payed for as well. This is certainly nothing I would seek out and pay for myself, but when somebody else is footing the bill….why not?
The girls generally come from different parts of the country (especially Dongbei and Anhui) and are attracted to the profession as a way to escape the dullness of their rural lives. Being a KTV girl is a profession which is generally frowned upon by Chinese society, and thus leaving the hometown is a necessity.
About three hours after we had been invited into the karaoke room, the bar closed down and a waiter brought our host the bill. The total came to over 10,000 RMB (approx $1400 USD). In accordance with Chinese social norms, our host paid the entire bill himself, without expecting any contributions from anyone else in attendance.
Being the veritable Boston of Chicago, Nanjing has its fair share of college campuses, and some of the finer ones in the Middle Kingdom taboot. Many of them are concentrated in a single university district. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe the following pictures are all from Nanjing Normal University.
With its multiple major universities, Nanjing also has a quite sizable foreign student population. In most Chinese cities, when you first meet another foreigner you ask them “Where do you teach English?” In Nanjing you ask them “Where do you study Chinese?”
Many of the campuses are located in the vicinity of Nanjing’s “Student Street,” in the heart of the student district (unfortunately not actually pictured here). The street and surrounding area has a Starbucks, a McDonalds, small restaurants, tea shops, a specialty shop which sells Heinz tomato ketchup and Captain Morgan’s, and various barbershops, net bars, and other establishments to serve the massive student population.
lots of basketball as well
and of course, lots of abortions. In this particular add the Nanjing Dongda Hospital Institute is advertising “Painless Abortion…Endless Holiday…Full Package 350 yuan.”
At Nanjing University they have what I am told is the most extensive Institute of Jewish Studies in the Middle Kingdom. Now, keep in mind, this is not an institute for Jewish people to learn about their history and culture, but rather one for Chinese students who are not necessarily of Jewish lineage or belief.
Andy told me that once a year, one of the professors with invites him (along with any other Heebs he can round up) to attend class for a day so that the Chinese students can get ask questions to bona fide living, breathing, talking Jews. Andy and the other Jews are then give demonstrations of Shabbos, Hanukkah, and other Jewish customs.
Yeah, these shots are totally cliche, but it is always somewhat refreshing to see a pinch of the countryside in the big city.
Ok, so now to the most important part…food. Anybody who has set foot on Chinese soil at one time or another has probably eaten baozi (包子). Essentially baozi are hand-made dumplings cooked in bamboo steamers. They can be eaten almost anywhere in the Middle Kingdom, and they vary a great deal from region to region. The inside can be filled with either meat, vegetables, or just about any combination of the two. Last summer I even saw multiple shops selling mapo tofu baozi (麻婆豆腐包子) in Beijing, and pizza and curry baozi selling in Tokyo 7-11’s.
What the Yangzi River Delta region is known for however, is what are called 汤包 (tang1 bao1), our “soup baozi.” Rather than being made of mantou bread, as are most baozi, the soup baozi have a thin, impermeable casing, more similar to that of a regular dumpling. Inside, in addition to the pork ball, is a pocket of “soup” which if the entire baozi is not consumed at once, will explode all over an unexpecting consumer’s clothes when bit into. If you pop the entire thing in at once, you can appreciate the outside, the pork ball, and the soup all at once. We ate these at Student Street every morning for breakfast
Her’es a local chicken dish which andy ordered, but unfortunately I cannot recall the name. The inside is giblets of woodchipper chicken* stewed in peppers, and on the outside is a bread onto which the chicken can be placed upon.
*Woodchipper chicken” is a term I like to think I invented myself. It is the most common way to serve chicken in China, and gets its name because random parts of an entire chicken (bones, head, feet, etc.) are all chopped up randomly as if they were simply thrown into a woodchipper before cooking.
As alluded to above, we spent most of our nights in Nanjing reverting back to laowai again, and the Nanjing student street is an excellent place to do that. On our second evening, Andy introduced us to the legendary “Nanjing beer lady.” While most nearby bars serve 12 oz bottles of beer for no less than 10 RMB, a while back an enterprising middle aged woman on student street set up a few chairs in front of the small kiosk she ran, and started selling cold 18 oz. beers for 3.6 RMB. Being that it is China, and there are no open container laws (or at least none that I’ve ever seen enforced) foreigners, always in search of the cheapest cold beer, would congregate for hours on the sidewalk, chatting and getting drunk off beers that cost less than 50 cents a pop.
The Beer Lady herself is of a rather nasty disposition, speaks no English, and requests for beer are always replied to with “Get it yourself. The fridge is around back.” Nonetheless, it’s the cheapest booze in town, and the Beer Lady always attracts a decent crowd when the weather in town.
Here’s a shot of our Nanjing Crew on our last night in town. From left to right that’s Tex, Shakiri, Andy, Stephanie, me, and on the far right the Beer Lady’s daughter and grand-daughter. No word yet on whether they will take over the business when the Beer Lady decides to retire.
新街口 (xin1 jie1 kou3), Nanjing’s central shopping district at night
And finally a shot of the Nanjing Train Station at night, which is conveniently connected to the city center by Nanjing’s newly built subway system.
And that’s all for Nanjing, a pleasant, vibrant, culturally stimulating city in which I would consider spending more time if I ever moved back to the Middle Kingdom. After our stint in Nanjing, Tex had to return to Wenzhou to work, and I had to make my way back to Shanghai to catch my flight back to Chicago. However, on our second to last day traveling, we took a day trip to Yangzhou, and the ensuing travel log will be the final entry in this series…coming soon.
After spending two days exploring Hefei and wandering the streets Fuyang, Tex and I still wanted to travel deeper into the backwoods of Anhui. Our goal had been to see some of the most underdeveloped and isolated (relatively speaking) locales in the Middle Kingdom, and we wanted to dig even further into the thick of it. There is no better way to do this than head deeper down the administrative ladder of the Chinese map. But before explaining the next leg of our journey, let me provide a brief explanation of how Chinese administrative divisions are broken up.
The massive political unit we know today as the People’s Republic of China is broken down into a massive Confucian municipal hierarchy, much of which has been in place since ancient times. Modern China is broken into 22 provinces(省) and 5 autonomous regions (自治区) which are essentially the same as provinces, as well as 4 municipalities controlled directly by the central government. Each province is broken into geographic regions referred to as “cities,“ (市) with the largest city generally designated as the capital (省会). In addition to housing the provincial government, capital cities are also generally the hub of transport and commerce for each province. Each “city” region is then broken into various “counties,” (县) with the city center serving as the de facto hub of government, transportation, and commerce. Within each county, there is a county seat which serves as the de facto hub of the county. The pattern continues down several more bureaucratic levels, so that every last smattering of buildings across the Middle Kingdom is relegated to its place within the whole hierarchy.
Fuyang is a city (市) and Tex and I wanted to travel to one of the surrounding counties (县) under the administration of Fuyang, so we consulted the map, and decided to head to Taihe (太和), a county seat which appeared to be roughly an hour away according to the map. The beauty of traveling in unfamiliar parts of China is that transportation patterns are entirely predictable, and based around this municipal hierarchy. Thus, as Tex and I both accurately predicted, there is a mini bus running from Fuyang to Taihe, which departs roughly every twenty minutes. There are no set times, and no advance tickets. The bus simply leaves when it gets full. There are always enough people wanting to travel from the “county” up to the “city” that there is a constant flow of traffic in either direction. Likewise, there were also buses from Fuyang to Hefei, which ran every 5-10 minutes, and from Taihe, there were similar shuttles en route to surrounding villages. This same pattern applies virtually everywhere in China when traveling from a city to a county town.
The bus cost 10 RMB (approx $1.30 USD) each way and was ridden mainly by farmers and merchants from Taihe making their regular trips back and forth from Fuyang. As is common in rural China, the bus made frequent stops along the road to pick up new passengers.
Taihe was like a miniature version of Fuyang, with its drab architecture and modest streetscape.
The reactions we received from most locals was as if we were martians arriving on earth for the first time. It was as if they had heard of the existence of 6 foot white guys, but didn’t fully comprehend it until they saw them in person. It was difficult to stop anywhere without making a scene.
Fuyang (where we went in the previous entry), although poor and underdeveloped, is not what I would consider “rural.” Taihe, on the other hand, was I would say, more rural than urban. Thus, you encounter numerous sites that aren’t typically seen in cities, such as this veritable corn/rice processor. It looks like an old truck engine, and has the cacophonous sound of an electrical generator, but in reality, it’s sole function is to produce a rudimentary snack which sells for a mere 1 RMB per bag.
The operator pours a mixture of half rice and half corn into a funnel at the top, and then after much smoke, clanging, and dust a cylindrical tube with the consistency of a cheeto shoots out the end. The cheetoish mixture of corn and rice is then broken into sticks about a foot in length and bagged for sale. The pure rice/corn mixture without any artificial additives or flavors, provides a nostalgic reminder of what chips tasted like before the advent of modern food science.
Although Taihe is small, rural, and for lack of better terminology, out in the sticks, this does not mean it was by any means desolate. I couldn’t find accurate figures, but Tex and I both estimated there must be at least 200,000 or so people in Taihe. Bear in mind, this is a town which can be traversed on foot in roughly half an hour.
A common street snack we found, especially near schools in Taihe was this concoction made from bean noodles.
The finished product looks like this, and like most street food in Anhui, sells for 1 RMB (approx 15 cents USD).
It isn’t every day that martians descend on Taihe, especially just as school is letting out. This, accordingly, caused quite the ruckus near the school gate, as a mob of elementary school students watched Tex and me curiously as we payed for our snack and ate.
The timid curiosity quickly morphed into rabid excitement as the children discovered that these two odd creatures could communicate with them in their native language. The scene which would then ensue was like nothing I have ever experienced in the Middle Kingdom.
While eating our bean noodles, a mob of students began to gather, who along with their parents on the periphery, all wanted to get a glimpse at the two six-foot Chinese-speaking white dudes, Out of the blue, a little girl handed me her school textbook and asked me to sign my name on the first page.
Figuring it was but a minor request, I complied and signed my name in both English and Chinese on the first page of her textbook.
Seeing how I had agreed to her request, student after student, pulled out their textbooks, all waving them in my face and pleading for an autograph.
Tex, who stands a good 4 inches taller than me, couldn’t escape either. Soon the both of us had aching hands from all the signatures. But the excitement on the students’ faces was too much for us not to comply with their small request. We each signed every last student textbook, plus a few datebooks from parents.Everything was going fine until all the attention attracted a police officer. The officer shot us a questioning look, and Tex and I, somewhat worried, decided that we weren’t really doing anything wrong, and even if we were, it wasn’t as if we could have escaped anyway since we were surrounded by a veritable wall of children. The officer approached me, asked where I was from and what I was doing in Taihe. As kids were still shoving textbooks in my face and pulling on my jacket, I nervously told him that we were from the United States and we had come to Taihe to experience Chinese small town life. After a brief pause, the officer reached into his pocket, pulled out his police notebook, and politely asked if Tex and I could each autograph it in the margins.
The whole experience lasted 25 minutes. and when it was over, several hundred Chinese children, a handful of parents, and a police officer were all in possession of the autographs of two American tourists. You can view a video of the fiasco here.
Like most small agricultural towns, Taihe’s development is centered around a permanent market located down the center of its main street. This is where agricultural middlemen (generally not the farmers themselves) come to sell their goods, and townspeople come to shop for groceries. While it’s mostly foodstuffs changing hands in the market itself, storefronts along the street sell kitchen supplies, T-shirts and slacks, umbrellas, bicycle parts, remanufactured car altenators, funeral garments, sandals, maternity clothing, toothbrushes, PCV piping, or any other household objects needed to carry on daily life in Taihe.
As we had been noticing throughout Anhui, chicken was definitely the meat of choice in Taihe.
While we did also see a fair share of pork, beef, lamb, and fish, chicken was still king. I am no expert on agriculture so correct me if I’m wrong, but my best guess was that this was a reflection on space constraints. Anhui contains some of the most densely populated farmland in the world, and chickens generally have a higher yield per acre than would pigs or cattle.
Another pleasant culinary surprise we found in Taihe was some of the tastiest peanuts Tex and I had ever consumed. While peanuts are common in most parts of China, their taste and texture vary widely by region. I am no penutologist either, but I would posit this probably has something to do with the soil and climate. This particular batch, sold at the market, was fried up with hot chilis. They could also be purchased salted or plain.
Well, I’m not sure exactly what you would call this, but Tex and I both settled on referring to it as the “Chinese Jell-O Mold.” As we marveled at this strange concoction, passers-by solicited their opinions to us as well, as this is not a common item in most necks of the Middle Kingdom. One told us, “It’s delicious you should try it.” Another cautioned, “You wouldn’t like it. It’s disgusting. Stay away.”
More street snacks. These candied fruits on a stick however are no local specialty, and can be bought just about anywhere in China. Their Chinese name always seems to escape me somehow.
Like major cities, small towns across China have also seen rapid population growth as many agriculturalists (or more accurately the children of agriculturalists) have left the farm to seek jobs in town. The incipient residential developments often contain wide avenues such as these, which are developed to accommodate rural China’s burgeoning automobile culture.
The older, more central parts of small towns, which were laid out long before automobile traffic became common in the 1990s, generally look more like this. Enough space between buildings for a person or two to walk through is usually enough.
This of course does not mean the occasional car won’t wiggle its way through streets such as this, but in a town like Taihe, most traffic on such streets is still pedestrian or bicycle.
Another frequent site in small towns, caged barn yard animals on wheels. Small Chinese towns always have a way of getting me nostalgic about locally based agriculture. When you eat in a place like Taihe, you can be pretty certain that the vegetables and rice that you are eating were all probably pulled out of the ground within a fifteen mile radius and 48 hour time frame of where you are eating them. Same goes for meat, which was probably a living, breathing, eating animal less than 24 hours before it made its way to your plate. This pattern of freshness and local eating remains the norm in areas of the world like Taihe which by in large do not have access to modern refridgeration techniques.
People who follow this blog regularly probably know I have a soft spot for Chinese propaganda slogans. Not that I necessarily agree with all of them, nor that I even agree with the concept of displaying vague statements in awkward public meeting spots, but nonetheless I find this form of rhetoric worth some examination. This flavor of sign is extremely common in rural China. It reads:
Stabilize, lower the birth rate
Accelerate the construction of the New Countryside
The enforcement of China’s Family Planning Policy has always been trickier in rural areas than in cities, mainly because the rural lifestyle favors having additional children, economically speaking. This, combined with lower levels of education, more traditional thinking, and generally higher levels of corruption, have led many rural families to continue the practice of exceeding statutory birth limits. The government, in its rhetoric to combat this practice, often takes the angle that a lower birth rate is necessary for the future development of the country.
As is frequent in many Chinese municipalities large and small, the oldest street in Taihe is generally occupied by the lower class, and thus is rather dirty and and not well-kept. Chinese people can be quite sensitive of this and as Tex and I strolled down this street snapping pictures at sites like these, we had several locals tell us to stop taking pictures. “You should take pictures of something beautiful, not this. You are just doing this to show your American friends how poor and dirty our town is,” they would say. Which I guess, in effect, is true to some extent.At this juncture we also had an extremely difficult time convincing them that we were not journalists on assignment. “This place is not for tourists. You are wasting your time here. There is nothing to see,” we were told multiple times.
Well not all the town was dirty and poor, especially not the government buildings, such as this, the “Taihe People’s Courthouse.”
I’ve always maintained that one major area of city planning where China could really use some work is that of waste management. Sites such as these were common in Taihe.
school children on their way to class
A homeless man relaxes on the steps of a storefront on 古街 (Ancient Street), the oldest street in Taihe, with most of its buildings dating back to the late Qing Dynasty.
Another shot of “Ancient Street.” In China, buildings this old (over 100 years) are ironically quite uncommon. Due to relatively short cycles of architecture, wars, limited construction materials, general turbulence, and razing to make room for new developments, I would maintain there are probably more 100-year-old buildings in Chicago than there are in any city in China.
What I really love about places like Taihe is the feeling of isolation you get. Sure, they have the internet, and sure people are traveling to and from Fuyang, and to Hefei, and from there to Beijing and Shanghai, but the sense of isolation and consolidation with the small town and the its surrounding agriculture is something I never feel in big cities.
During our walk we even encountered a church.
more private houses
The outskirts of small Chinese towns are typically surrounded by scattered houses such as these, where the inhabitants continue to farm, but are close enough to town center that they can stay active in town life as well.
another one of the main drags of Taihe
Here’s another common site in the countryside: small children wandering around unsupervised, and often playing with sharp, pointy, and/or flammable objects.
For retirees, their days are often passed playing and spectating at card and board games which take place out in the open public.
Games range from regional versions of poker…
…to mah jongg, which is also highly regional, with different parts of the country each playing with a slightly different rule set. Regardless of any difference in rules, money almost always exchanges hands.
For our last meal in Taihe, Tex and I decided to sample 太和板面 (Taihe board noodles). And no, that is not a typo, these are 板面 not 拌面, with 板 implying a board or flat surface, which represents the shape of the noodle. We had seen signs for 太和板面 all over Taihe, and even a few in Fuyang, and without much other choice in dining options (Tiahe like Fuyang, has hardly any restaurants), we decided to check it out. The restaurant consisted of a single room with an open kitchen (see above) and two tables set up for customers. The noodles cost 4 RMB (about 60 cents USD) a bowl, and the owner warned us that they were “extremely spicy.”
Regardless of the sticky table and the rusty bowls, the meal was magnificent, and concurs with my past experiences that many of my all-time favorite meals in the Middle Kingdom have also been some of the most economical. The noodles came bathed in a broth, which as the owner had warned, was extremely spicy. They were surrounded by green veggies, bits of wood ear mushroom, and a few scattered morsels of lamb ribs. After Tex and I had both cleared our plates, and sat staring at one another for a moment, panting, as our mouths recovered from the inferno of hot pepper. We both agreed that this had been our favorite meal in Anhui thus far.
After three and a half days in Anhui, we were finding ourselves noticeably exhausted by dust in the air, the loogies on the ground, and the cigarette smoke in emenating through poorly-ventilated indoor spaces. While these are all common nuissances, and easily blocked out by most veterans of the Middle Kingdom, their magnitude throughout Anhui was turned up to a notch which left us longing for the relative peace and tranquility of the coast. Our clothes and backpacks were covered in dust, our lungs were choking in dust and smoke, and our digestive tracts were longing for a break from street food. It was time to wrap up the Anhui adventure and head back to the “modern” world. We took the mini-bus back to Fuyang, and from there boarded the overnight train to Nanjing. More to come as we wrap up the adventure.
Chinese capital cities are funny. In many ways, they are all exactly the same. The same boxy buildings, with the new ones all being built by the same Sichuan migrant laborers, the same wide streets with bike lanes. Even the names of the streets parks are mostly the same: Wuyi Lu, Zhongshan Lu, Renmin Gong Yuan, etc. etc. At the same time, each Chinese capital city has, as Samuel Jackson elegantly put it in Pulp Fiction, “the little differences.” Ride a cab in Fuzhou, and jasmine flowers will be hanging from the rearview window. Take a bike ride in Chengdu and notice that all the bikes are equipped with a special holder for your umbrella. Visit a private home or restaurant in Changsha and keep an eye out for the Mao Zedong poster on the wall.
In more ways than not, Hefei was the default, generic Chinese capital city. It’s main “little difference” was the numerous signs that its people were less well off than those in other Chinese capital cities. There were some sky scrapers, but they were modest in height. A few fancy restaurants, but they considerably more affordable than those in other capital cities. And there were public parks, however slightly less landscaped and beautified than those out East.
However, Hefei was only a prelude to what Tex and I would encounter as we continued on our journey to the backwoods of the Middle Kingdom. As the goal of our trip was to visit some of the poorest and least developed regions of China, we decided to visit a city called Fuyang (阜阳). Located in the northwestern part of Anhui, and the heart of the Chinese Central Plain, Fuyang is statistically the poorest city in the province, and shares much cultural and economic similarity to neighboring Henan. Our journey began from the Hefei train station.
This time we rode the 空调快速 (air conditioned high speed train), or as I refer to it, the “moderately air conditioned and somewhat fast” train. These trains are a big step up from the 普快 trains which run most rural routs but not as fast nor as posh as the 动车组 trains increasingly running the main routes between major Eastern cities.
As an interesting note, some of the “manners training” from the Olympic period last summer seems to have had a lasting effect. Notice the passengers respectfully waiting in line to enter the train, rather than bum rush the doors, as would have been typical of pre-Olympic China. This is still the exception, not the rule of how to board a Chinese train, but it is nice to see some headway has been made.
Tex made a new friend on the train with his PSP and some rudimentary Chinese. I’ve always maintained that there is no better environment to learn Chinese than on a “hard seat” car of a Chinese train.
As we disembarked and wandered around Fuyang, we both realized that we had finally made it to our destination, the backwoods of China. Fuyang is not the kind of place I would recommend to any casual traveler, Chinese or Western. The air is stale, trash litters the streets, and the sounds of cheap motors, yelling, and loogie hocking ring through the air…And I mean much more so than would be expected in the typical Chinese locale.
If Shanghai is the most comfortable place for Westerners not “used to China,” than an Anhui town like Fuyang would probably be the absolute worst. For Tex and me though, this is exactly what we came to see. During our first conversation after arriving in Fuyang, a young boy in his late teens asked us directly “Why the hell would you ever come here?”
We spent the day wandering the streets of Fuyang, and chatting with locals who invariably assumed we were journalists, spies, American secret agents, or some combination of the three.
Although much of the streetscape resembled that of small towns, in actuality Fuyang has a population of several million people, making it a rather decent-sized Chinese city. The best modern day analog to Fuyang I could think of would be Kaifeng (minus its historical signifacance), another city of several million, which has seen much of the Deng Xiaoping initiated reforms completely pass it by. From the rough Mandarin dialect, to the architecture, and the demeanor of the locals, Fuyang increasingly reminded me of my ‘05 trip to neighboring Henan province.
With an annual per capita GDP of 3529 RMB (2005 figure) Fuyang is, by this measure, the poorest city in Anhui. When locals would describe their hometown to us, the most common adjective was 没钱了, “no money.”
In a “no money” environment, examples of public beautification are scarce. Here was one of such, a mural in an alleyway which reads “Love our China, Love our Great Wall.” For most people in Fuyang, this was probably the closest they ever could get to China’s most famous landmark.
Still a common sight when I first arrived in China in 2004, the rickshaw is rapidly disappearing from the Chinese transportation landscape. In the midst of China’s rapid economic development, an increasing number of cities have imposed rickshaw bans within city limits, relegating these vehicles to city outskirts. However, in Fuyang, while there are automobile taxis, the majority of public transportation is still carried out by the more economical rickshaw. This is especially impressive when you consider that the standard taxi fare for most destinations is a mere 4 RMB.
Much of Fuyang’s housing stock is constructed out of the infamous white bathroom tiles, ubiquitously used in China in the years directly following the Reform and Opening Up. There were no high rises nor expensive condo buildings.
Another interesting facet of Fuyang is the local dialect, which is a true dialect in every sense of the word. Unlike the various native languages spoken in most southern provinces, the Fuyang dialect, although quite different from standard Mandarin, is 90% comprehensible to any Mandarin speaker…assuming they listen closely and pay careful attention. Unlike most southern provinces, where locals must code-switch into Mandarin when speaking with outsiders, most people in China’s Central Plain continue communicating in their dialect even when speaking to outsiders or foreigners. Because of this, the Mandarin spoken on the streets in Fuyang is arguably more difficult to comprehend than that spoken in Fujian or Guangdong, the two provinces probably most notorious for Chinese linguistic diversity and poor Mandarin. Tex and I both had a great time doing our best to adapt our listening skills to the local dialect, an important skill for any student of Mandarin.
As the day wore on, lunch time approached. Fuyang has a surprisingly high concentration of Hui Muslims, and thus the correspondingly high frequency of Lanzhou La Mian (pulled noodles) restaurants. We wanted to try something more authentically Anhui-ish, so we decided to bypass the La Mian, and poke our heads into some of the local restaurants, which were few in number and located only on major thoroughfares. The conversations would all go something like this.
me: 你好，我们要吃饭？ 能不能看看你们的菜单？
老板：菜单？哈哈，没有菜单。 你看看那边告诉我你想吃什么，就OK了。
Translation:
me: Hello. We would like to eat. May I have a look at your menu?
restaurant owner: Menu? Ha! We don’t have any menu. Just look over there (pointing to open cooler of vegetables, meat, and fish) and tell me what you want to eat. That should be good enough.
We began to notice an annoying trend which would hold true for much of Anhui: No menus! Whenever we asked to see a menu, we received a chuckling condescending remark as if we’d just asked for fillet mignon and a bottle of Dom Perignon.
There are two major problems with menuless restaurants. Firstly, when doing the whole “point and order” dance, you never know exactly how your food is going to be cooked. Secondly, without a menu as a reference point, prices tend to ascend considerably between the time you order and the time you receive your bill. As we traversed from restaurant to restaurant, an alarming trend became apparent. There are no menus in Fuyang!
What we did find, however, is that Fuyang, even more so than Hefei, has a cornicopia of street food. While street food can be found just about anywhere in China, the sheer quantity in Fuyang was more than any other place I have traveled in the Middle Kingdom. When I asked a vendor about this, she answered succinctly “People in Fuyang are poor. They don’t have money for restaurants. If they want to go out to eat, they eat street food.”
After discovering that the local cuisine was, in effect, street food, Tex and I decided to follow the lead of the locals, and sample the local “cuisine.” It would not disappoint. One of our best finds was the Anhui chicken corndog, a fried and breaded cylindrical column of chicken goodness. Upon being ordered, the corndog would be deep fried (again), and then served piping hot. State Fair anybody?
Even the littl’uns were in on the street snacking.
When it comes to meat, Anhui people* have a preference for chicken. Here they are serving the 香酥鸡肉饼, a Chinese crispy chicken sandwich, similar to a 肉夹馍. Look out Wendy’s. You may have some competition out East.
*Anybody know of a better demonym for Anhui?
With our stomachs full, we set forth to explore the city center, not the typical architecture you’d expect to see in a city of several million.
In the geographic center of Fuyang lies this odd sculpture, surrounded by a field of dirt.
Behind the sculpture and the field is this ominous urban pond, flanked in bathroom tile apartment buildings.
One of the more aesthetically pleasing sites in Fuyang is the Ying River, which runs through the edge of Fuyang. As we continued our walk to the outskirts of the town, night fell and we became increasingly hungry once again. After 24 straight hours of eating nothing but street food, Tex and I agreed we’d suck it up and try one of the “point and order” menuless restaurants.
We would be pleasantly surprised. This first dish we ended up with consisted of tofu, carrots, lima-like beans, mushrooms, and peanuts mixed together in a sauce. Since there was no menu, I have no idea what you would call this dish, but if I had to describe the flavor, I would say it was 咸 (xian2), a word which doesn’t have an exact English translation, but could loosely mean “salty” or “savory.” This seemed to be the norm for most of the local cuisine in Anhui, as hot peppers and sugar were used only sparingly.
Next we picked out a popular dish called “lion heads” (狮子头). Contrary to what their name implies, these are essentially pork meat balls. The only reason I knew to order them was that I spied them sitting pre-made out on the counter in the back of the restaurant. When I’ve eaten lion heads before they’re usually served in a sweet sauce. In the Fuyang restaurant, I assumed this was how they would be served as well, but instead they were delivered floating in a soup and surrounded with sprouts. The flavor again was 咸 (salty), with not a hint of sweetness or spice. Tex and I both overwhelmingly approved.
In terms of the city environment, Fuyang could be accurately described as a very 乱 (disorderly or chaotic) city, even by Chinese standards. Case in point, this fine example of perpendicular parking.
We spent our only night in Fuyang exploring the bustling Hui Muslim quarter, and yes, eating again. Other than their traditional head gear and their abstention from pork consumption, the Hui are virtutaly indistinguishable from the majority Han Chinese. Their native language is Mandarin, and their physical appearance only slightly deviates from that of the Han majority.
Like most other locations in Fuyang, the Hui Quarter was covered with stalls selling street food, on most of which were posted signs such as these indicating that the food was Hallel.
In keeping with Muslim dietary laws, as well as local preference, the majority of the street food in the Hui Quarter was chicken based, such as these “New Orleans Roasted Chicken Wings.”
The woman selling the wings had no idea where or what New Orleans was, but that didn’t matter. They were delicious.
In typical Chinese street food fashion, Tex and I parked ourselves at an outdoor mini-table, and proceeded to stuff our faces with street food, discarding the refuse on the ground below. In accordance with Muslim law, no alcohol was sold within the Quarter. (Beer is usually a mainstay in these kinds of Chinese open food markets). However, when we checked with the locals, they guided us to a convenience store, just outside the Hui Quarter, which sold 3 RMB bottles Qingdao.
We were also informed by multiple locals (both vendors and patrons) that it was ok to drink within the Hui Quarter. They just didn’t sell it themselves. As you can see from the picture, we were not the only ones to take this advice to heart.
In Fuyang, Tex and I got our first real taste of Anhui life. However, Fuyang was still a city. For a better view of rural life in Anhui, we decided to take a microbus to a 县城 (small town/county) an hour outside of Fuyang the following day. It would prove to be the highlight of our trip. More to come.
Located just west of glitzy Jiangsu province is a land which bares little in common with its affluent neighbors. There are few skyscrapers, no Dairy Queens, and even karaoke clubs can be difficult to find. If there is one thing which characterizes Anhui province, it is a lack of discretionary income. What Anhui does have however is people, over 65 million of them and a per capita GDP of just around $2000, one of the lowest in the Middle Kingdom.
Anhui’s economic status, as well as its landlocked location, have also ensured that during the past three decades of reform, it has remained one of the provinces least touched by outside influence. There is arguably no other municipality in China’s eastern half (where 90% of the population resides) which has been left further behind than Anhui since the Deng Xiaoping reforms were initiated in 1978. While few travelers, Chinese or foreign, would opt to venture into Anhui (excluding Huangshan), the people of Anhui are a common sight all across the Middle Kingdom. In recent decades the economic conditions and slow pace of development in their homeland has triggered a mass migration of much of Anhui’s rural population to neighboring regions in search of work and a better life. Thesedays in many wealthy coastal cities, especially Shanghai, Anhui people form a healthy majority of the working class, partaking in those occupations undesirable to locals. If you’ve ever ridden a peddicab, paid to use a public toilet, bought vegetables in a wet market or received a foot massage anywhere in Eastern China, chances are you’ve been the recipient of Anhui labor.
It was with all this in mind that I decided to make Anhui the focal point of my recent trip to China. From the Great Wall to the Earth Buildings in Fujian, China is chalked full of a plethora of cultural heritage sites and attractions. However, often the most intriguing locales are the ones where there is “nothing to see.” Once Tex and I arrived in Anhui, the most common question we received from locals was, “Why on earth did you come here?” And that’s exactly why we went.
After our first day of travel to Huang Shan, Tex and I wanted nothing more than to get away from the over-commercialization of Huang Shan. While some travelers find Huang Shan to be a cultural and scenic highlight and others think of it a lackluster tourist trap, one thing that can be agreed upon across the board is that Huang Shan is not an accurate representation of Anhui. Our first introduction to the real Anhui came as soon as we arrived at the Huang Shan train station. Our next stop was to be Hefei, the provincial capital of Anhui. The only tickets available were for “hard seats” (no beds) on the 普快车, literally “regular fast,” or more accurately the “extra slow” train. Normally this wouldn’t be a huge deal, if only it weren’t an 8-hour overnight train. In all practicality, the best way to endure these kinds of journeys where one typically ends up sleeping upright on a firm seat in a train car packed like a school bus, is to drink…heavily…both before and during the journey. The plus side is that riding the 普快 train is usually cheap, dirt cheap. Tickets cost roughly $5 USD
A reminder to all patrons of the train station not to spit on the floor
This is the interior of the 普快 (extra slow) train. Back in the day, this is what most Chinese trains looked like. These days, most routes between major cities are serviced by 特快 or 空调快速 trains, which are faster, more comfortably furnished, and air conditioned. Over the past year or two, even these trains have been increasingly replaced by the super speedy 动车组 (bullet) trains. Yet in places like Anhui, many routes are still run by the old slow trains. Fortunately for us, the train was half empty and the outside temperatures were in the fifties. In peak travel times with a packed train and no air conditioner, the journey on the slow train can be an exercise in sheer human endurance.
In addition to keeping the cabin temperature to a level appropriate for human breathing, the fact that the train was half empty also allowed us to lie out across the seat, thus partially alleviating the discomfort caused by lack of beds.
That being said, you never are going to get truly satisfying sleep on the slow train.
You can either bitch and complain, or suck it up and view the journey for the value of the experience. For millions of people in China, the slow train isn’t merely an inconvenience, it’s just the way you travel. And they probably don’t have the extra money to blow on warm 5 RMB cans of beer either.
For any Chinese province, the capital city is the main transit hub and jumping off point. Our goal was to make it to some of the more remote regions of the region, but since we had to go there anyway, Tex and I decided to take the day to explore Hefei on foot. We arrived at about 6 am, and our first order of business was breakfast. One of the first options we encountered was 臭豆腐 (chou4 dou4 fu2) “stinky tofu.”
If you’ve never tasted it, you’ve probably at least smelled it before. Stinky tofu smells like boiled garbage, and its aroma can travel blocks away. Yet the taste of stinky tofu, as claimed by most vendors, is actually quite different from its rank smell. I’ve tried it before and am indifferent. Tex is a big fan.
In many ways, the setup of Hefei is congruous with other stock Chinese capital cities, with tall highrises, wide avenues, “scenic spots,” and public works projects such as this broad lake in the middle of the downtown. Yet noticeably deficient in Hefei are restaurants, tea shops, massage parlors, brothels, and karaokee bars, all of which are heavily dependent on disposable income.
As one of the more industrial of the Chinese capitals, Hefei is a city where you can feel the dust in the air between your teeth when you breathe.
While exploring Hefei’s city center, Tex and I came across the Anhui Provincial Zoo. With a 10 RMB admission charge, a campus no larger than half of a football field, and rudimentary bared cages, the zoo was a veritable trip back in time in the history of human treatment of animals.
This was very much exhibited in the “animal show” we watched. Bears and monkeys who spent the majority of their existence locked in tiny cages with barely enough room to turn around, were dressed up and paraded around the enclosure in a mock Chinese wedding ceremony.
In China, captive animals are still very much treated like novelties, and while it is easy to criticize the Chinese in this regard, it is worth remembering that the favorable treatment of animals we have in the West took many generations to develop as well. It is also very much confined towards those animals from whom we receive entertainment and companionship rather than purely nourishment.
Interestingly enough, turkey is the only member of the animal kingdom I have ever catalogued which is commonly eaten in the United States but never consumed in the Middle Kingdom. While I have never seen turkey on a Chinese dinner plate, it is actually a fairly common captive animal in Chinese zoos.
We spent the rest of the day exploring downtown and especially the large park in the center.
Like most major Chinese cities, Hefei has a pedestrian street which runs through central downtown.
A common site in some of the China’s less developed major cities, Hefei has a great deal of street activity which in other locations might be conducted behind a store front, such as this ear cleaning.
The edge of Hefei’s city center are surrounded by more water ways. As one meanders further from downtown, the streetscape becomes increasingly industrial with rows and rows of machine shops and materials plants (not pictured).
another shot of downtown
In the geographic center of Anhui is this Buddhist Temple. We took a brief peek inside, and decided it had little to differentiate itself from the other 925,873,895 touristy Buddhist temples in China.
Hefei had by far and away the best public infrastructure we would encounter anywhere in Anhui.
more parks and highrises
surprisingly picturesque Anhui overcast skies
another view
view over downtown
One of the more interesting episodes from our day in Hefei was a public “political meeting” we accidentally bumped into. Typically in these meetings retirees stand around in a public space and discuss political topics in an open format. Upon our entrance, myself, Tex, and Barack Obama immediately became the main topics of discourse. The retirees, led by several outspoken individuals griped to us that Anhui people were not receiving the majority of the benefits which have become available to the rest of China in the three decades following the Reform and Opening Up.
After a few minutes of casual questioing about our backgrounds and personal lives, the topic of discussion became increasingly political. Tex and I found ourselves stuck in the middle of a sea of bodies genially hurling pro-dem0cracy (and ant1-CCP) slogans our way. For the mob, it was as if for the first time they had encountered outsiders who presumably would share the beliefs and causes they were championing for. It was at this point, we decided it was probably in best interests to remove ourselves from the situation.
Before leaving the leader of the mob insisted on taking a picture with me. He wrote down his phone number on a piece of paper and told me to call him later to “discuss more political things.”
While walking through downtown in the afternoon Tex and I had come across 小吃街 (xiao3 chi1 jie1) or as we might say in English a “snack street.” A snack street is usually an alley off of a main street where vendors set up stalls selling freshly made street snacks. Some snack streets are officially sanctioned by city governments, however the majority consist of vendors who setup without the proper permits. Enforcement of street vending regulations in Chinese cities vary, but more often than not there is a mutual understanding between vendors and police that they will be allowed set up their stalls, but only in certain locations. One of the most entertaining Chinese street spectacles is when word travels through the crowd that the police are coming through and checking permits. A pack of vendors rush to pack up their carts and dash away before the police make it through. Fifteen minutes later, it’s back to business as usual.
Fortunately in Hefei, street vendors didn’t seem to get pestered too much by police. As our tour of Anhui continued, Tex and I would come to find that the province has an extremely high concentration of street food vendors relative to typical Chinese standards. This we found was to make up for the dearth of restaurants, as street food is generally more affordable than food served in a bona fide restaurant.
Snack streets also enable patrons to eat entire meals by grazing rather than simply sitting at a table and ordering food. This gave Tex and I an excellent opportunity to sample some of the local fare, like these deep boiled eggs and sausages.
…as well snacks found all over China such as these squid-kabobs
One pattern in Anhui cuisine which we noticed was a high affinity for chicken.
Large snack streets, such as the one we found in Hefei, often set up mini-tables with small plastic chairs for patrons to snack at. There are no trashcans. All skewers, napkins, cigarette buts, and other non-recyclable garbage is thrown directly on the ground. After the stalls close down at the end of the night, a thorough cleaning is done with all garbage swept up. The next day the cycle begins again.
Tex and I did most of our eating mobilly, bouncing from stall to stall, and sampling the various culinary delights. No item on the snack street cost more than 4 RMB (a little more than half a dollar) and most were more in the nighborhood of 1 or 2 RMB.
another parting shot of vendors hard at work
After dinner we took another walk around the pedestrian street. Like most cities in China, Hefei looks entirely different at night than it does during the day.
One particularly interesting site was this bus station located just near the end of the pedestrian street. The terminal is in fact a bridge over a busy thoroughfare. Coming down from the bridge are numbered gates where passengers walk down to street level to board their bus.
Tex and I had spent a full day exploring the largest, most modern, and well-developed city in Anhui. While it shared many of the same features and amenities of other Chinese capital cities, Hefei also provided us with a glimpse of what we would experience later in our journey as we traveled to the poorer areas of the province. Our next stop was to be Fuyang, a more anonymous Northern Anhui city, and one of the poorest in the province. More to come.
After six days of travel by myself, I was met in Hangzhou by my old friend James L. Goode, who is currently working in Wenzhou. I had taken the one hour bus from Linan to Hangzhou, and he had ridden the overnight train from Wenzhou. We met up at the bus station in Hangzhou, from where we set out to Tunxi, the nearest city to Huang Shan, our first destination in Anhui.
If you grew up in the West, you’ve probably never heard of Huang Shan (Yellow Mountain), but if you grew up in China, you’ve been hearing stories about it since before you’ve been able to talk. It’s one of China’s 5 “famous mountains,” and by many accounts, the best of the five. People who follow this blog are probably quite familiar with my own attitudes towards Chinese tourism and tourist attractions, yet I had heard enough raving about Huang Shan, that I didn’t want to have to take the flack from all my Chinese friends for visiting Anhui, and bypassing the famous Yellow Mountain.
To get to Huangshan, we took a bus from Hangzhou to a town called Tunxi. From Tunxi, a half hour shuttle bus takes you to Huangshan “village.” From the village, you take a taxi up to the base of the mountain. If you are a real mountaineer (or somebody in mildly decent shape) this is where you disembark, and begin the journey up the mountain on foot. For Tex and me, we chose option 2: the cable car.
Apparently the cable car is quite the popular option, because all of the taxi drivers and vendors at Huangshan, who don’t speak a lick of English still manage to finagle the word “cable car” into Chinese sentences. I couldn’t tell you how many times I heard the phrase “要不要去cable car.”
Another note about Huang Shan: March (or any other non-summer, non-holiday time) is the ideal time to go. While walking up the steps to the cable car, we passed a sign which read “from this point it is a 2 hour wait for the cable car.” Fortunately for us, there was nobody waiting ahead. Bottom line: Don’t go to Huang Shan during peak tourist season, unless you like shoulder to shoulder people traffic.
Riding up the cable car gave us a chance to look down at the scenery, as well as consult our trusty map.
oohhhh…..ahhhhhhh
It ain’t too yellow, but it sure does look nice.
Here’s a view from the top of the mountain. I don’t want to sound like a complete Negative Nancy, but the natural scenery at Huang Shan was pleasant, but certainly not the best I have ever seen in China.
Fortunately for Tex and me, we were going to Anhui, from Zhejiang, anyway so a day at Huang Shan fit perfectly into our route.
Now before I go any further, I should probably outline the cost of our little trip to Huang Shan. Keep in mind, these are all off-season rates. The taxi from Huang Shan “village” up to the base was 25 RMB per head. To actually get into the mountain park, you had to buy a ticket which cost 200 RMB. Once we were at the base, a main reason we sped up the mountain on the cable car was to avoid having to stay the night and pay for a hotel room at the top of the mountain, which allegedly costs several hundred as well. Instead, cost of cable car: 80 RMB…each way! Grand total: 385 RMB. By leaps and bounds, the most money I have ever spent on a single day of sightseeing in China.
For a handy comparison, visiting the Great Wall at Badaling costs a paltry 45 RMB. Actually, for the price of a single ticket to Huang Shan (including cable car) one could buy tickets for two people to see the Great Wall, Forbidden City, and Summer Palace, and still have a little bit of money leftover for souvenirs.
One of the err…attractions to Huang Shan is various peaks and rock forms which look like animals and household objects. Passing tour group leaders, we could often hear their explanations of how various geological features resembled things like…mobile phones.
Here is the famous Mobile Phone Stone (手机石). As we passed it, a tour leader was asking his group, “Who can tell me what brand of cell phone this rock looks like?” Too bad we didn’t hire a guide.
Once you are at the top of Huanghan, several paths wind through the peaks and vantage points. Other than rocks which look like cell phones, the main attraction is the view and scenery, which for me was the highlight of Huang Shan. As you can see, we had the fortune of arriving at Huang Shan on a beautiful spring day.
Ok, this one’s going on the Facebook.
One for Tex as well.
Another thing I should point out is that both geologically, and economically, Huang Shan probably shares much more in common with bordering Zhejiang province, than it does with Anhui, the province within whose boundaries it lies.
Most of the rest of Anhui we would see was not covered by scenic mountain ranges, but rather flat farmland, blanketed by the marks of civilization. In addition, the flood of tourists who flock to Huang Shan each year has also brought much prosperity to the region, and a booming local economy, dependent almost entirely on tourism revenue.
“A relaxed and happy feeling comes from the harmonious coexistence between human and nature.”
Well, you can probably detect it by the tone of my captions, but by the end of the day, Tex and I both agreed that Huang Shan is not all it is cracked up to be, even if you exclude the exorbitant ticket prices. As much lore as I had heard, Huang Shan really wasn’t too much different from other “famous mountains” which can be found all over the Middle Kingdom. This is not to say that Huang Shan is not a pleasant place to visit. It made for a great day trip along the route to the interior of Anhui, but had planned an entire vacation around Huang Shan, I probably would have walked away disappointed (and broke). And if I had gone during high tourist season, I’m sure I would have been completely miserable.
Had I grown up hearing stories about the Yellow Mountain since I was a little kid, I probably would have appreciated it more. But to me, Huang Shan was just an over-commercialized tourist trap, with some good, but not spectacular scenery.
After riding down the cable car, and taking the bus back to Tunxi, Tex and I spent the night exploring what is possibly one of the most affluent cities in Anhui. Behind the central downtown area (pictured here) is a street (老街) which has more tourist knickknack shops than any single street I have ever seen anywhere in China. Along the back streets are overpriced restaurants, with decent food.
With Huang Shan offically crossed off our list, and all of our touristy sightseeing behind us. Tex and I decided to officially start our journey to the backwoods of Anhui. We bought tickets for the overnight slow train to Hefei, the provincial capital, and our jumping off point in Anhui. This is where things would start to get really interesting (not to mention, ridiculously cost-effective). More to come.
After two and a half days, I had seen all I had intended see in Suzhou, and decided to head south, to the city of Linan. Linan is a county-level-city (县级市) located a one-hour bus ride outside Hangzhou, the provincial capital of Zhejiang province. An old friend of mine from my days in Fuzhou, Yang Yang, had recently relocated there to manage a womens’ spa and had invited me to come visit for a few days.
Most Chinese people from provinces other than Zhejiang probably have never heard of Linan. As a county-level-city it is considerably smaller than prefecture-level-cities such as Wenzhou and Ningbo, and accordingly gets less press and attention. And unlike Suzhou, there isn’t much to attract would be tourists to Linan either. What Linan does have though is money. Much like Fuqing, where I spent my first 15 months in China, Linan is one of the many anonymous small urban districts dotting China’s coastal provinces which have seen their local economies explode in recent decades, mainly as a result of trade and migration with the West.
This is what much of the streetscape in Linan looks like, very much similar to that of other wealthy small towns in Southeast China. Street traffic usually reveals a healthy mix of pedestrians, bicycles, rickshaws, minibuses, and German luxury cars.
A good portion of Linan’s housing stock consists of the infamous white-tile-style architectural layer. This is the building style which permeated far and wide throughout the Middle Kingdom in the decades immediately following the Reform and Opening Up. These days, most coastal cities have stopped using the white tiles for new buildings, in favor of more modern (not to mention stain-resistant) materials.
Since starting my work in Chicago as a medical interpreter, I’ve had to learn a great deal of medical vocabulary which previously had been of little use to me in China. One benefit I am finding is that I am now able to understand the posters which blanket residential blocks in small towns like Linan. This one is advertising a cure for gonorrhea and syphillis with results promised to show within 4 hours.
Linan is tiny and compact. It took me just over half an hour to walk from one side of town to the other.
On the edge of town is a river and a little riverwalk if you will. Along the riverwalk are what appear to be apartment blocks, right? Wrong! Most Chinese urbanites live in what we might think of as two or three bedroom condos. But in cities like Linan with high levels of affluence and relatively modest populations, the 4-story single family dwelling is quite commonplace. Since most Chinese still live predominantly in multi-generation family units, there is usually a storey for parents, one for grandparents, and another for the single child, often with an extra storey or two for face.
Like most cities in Southeast China, Linan is built in the valley of a surrounding foliage covered mountain range.
By several statistical measures, Zhejiang is currently the wealthiest province in China. Although it isn’t the exactly fanciest “riverwalk,” this type of public infrastructure would be hard to find in the county-level-cities of poorer provinces.
As their economies are based primarily around light industry and agriculture, and their climates do not necessitate a great deal of coal burning, small towns in Southeastern China also provide for some of the clearest skies in the Middle Kingdom.
Most of the industry that does exist in Zhejiang (and there’s a ton of it) centers around small trinkets, textiles, shoes, and the like. If you live in the West, chances are a sizable portion of your wardrobe was made in Zhejiang.
Here are a few more of the less scenic pics from my stoll down the Linan riverwalk.
more relatively blue skies
Unbenownced to me before my visit, Linan’s local specialty is one of my own personal all-time favorite foodstuffs, 笋干 (sun2 gan1). Made of pieces of baby bamboo dried out in the sun, 笋干 is essentially the sausage of bamboo. Unlike sausage however, 笋干 is not eaten plain, but rather is used as an ingredient in cuisine, often cooked up in a wok with oil, garlic, peppers, meat and/or vegetables. 笋干 can be ordered in many restaurants in Zhejiang, Fujian, and Guangdong, however, I’ve found it a bit difficult to come across in other parts of the country.
Another local specialty I discovered in Linan was 昌化刀切面 (chang4 hua1 dao1 qie1 mian4). These are long, flat, noodles served in a savory broth along with green veggies, carrots, and mushrooms. Like most Chinese noodle dishes, a variant meat/protein can be selected as a topping including beef, pork, chicken, tofu, pork lungs, and pork kidneys to name a few. I chose the 笋干 (bamboo sausage).
In the afternoon of my first day in town, Yang Yang took me on a walk through the central shopping district of Linan.
One of our stops was at a music/book store where we checked out the selection of American “classics” on sale to Chinese consumers.
…as well as new additions to the canon.
Here’s a quirky storefront which caught my eye. The Chinese characters literally read “clothing, pull (attract), customers.” However, pronounced aloud they have a pronunciation which sounds like the Chinese word for “Iraq.”
Yang Yang and I decided to settle a long day of shopping and wandering with an evening meal of hot pot. I’d imagine most people reading this have experienced hot pot before, so no need to go into detail, but one hot pot “accessory” which has recently won my favor is fried mantou with yogurt dipping sauce. As milk provides the perfect counteraction to spicy food, this snack is an excellent complement to a flaming hot pot.
Alright, I had a little bit of reservation about posting this, but figured it would be of interest to fellow Chinese food enthusiasts. Most of our hot pot experience consisted of the typical sliced beef and lamb along with a collection of green vegetables. Yang Yang however, decided she wanted to order pig brain. I had never personally eaten brain before, but figured I would give it a shot.
As the brain is mostly fat, the texture was accordingly quite soft. I’d liken it to a more coarse, solid form of pudding. The flavor itself was bland, and did not have the organ-esque aftertaste of other animal innards. If I hadn’t been cognizant of what I was eating, I probably would have thought it was quite tasty.
One fairly accurate way to gauge the relative wealth of a Chinese city is by the volume of businesses targeted at those with expendable income, including karaoke bars, massage parlors, and specialty tea shops. Accordingly, Linan has plenty of all three, often with entire streets devoted purely to entertainment. So after a day of shopping and brain eating, Yang Yang, myself, and several of her friends made our way to the karaoke bar. During my first years in China, I avoided KTV like the plague, but over time I have found that if you actually embrace it, and kick off your “this is so lame” premonitions, it can make for some quality entertainment, provided your blood alcohol content is in double digits.
After KTV, Yang Yang and I went out for another pastime of the affluent China upper middle class, the foot massage. More than merely a massage, your feet are first bathed in scalding hot water, wrapped in hot towels, throroughly cleaned, rubbed down and then massaged. Afterwords they feel as clean as the day you were born. All for the cost of around $5 USD.
Like my job in the barbershop, foot massage parlors provide a glimpse at the class divide in modern Chinese society. Trained in techniques such as back massage, foot massage, and ba guan, virtually all of the employees in these establishments are from rural areas in lesser developed provinces such as Anhui, whereas all of the clientele are upper-middle class locals and business travelers.
On my final night in Linan, Yang Yang took me out to one of her favorite dive restaurants. Due to its coastal location, Zhejiang food is often known for its emphasis on seafood, as well as bland and sweet flavorings. However, Linan with its location away from the ocean, has a cusine more similar to that of inland provinces. This first dish consists of 笋干 (bamboo sausage) cooked with pork and hot peppers.
Another local specialty of Linan is this blackened dry tofu (豆干 dou4 gan1). Commonly eaten individually as a snack, it can also be stir-fried with vegetables as pictured here.
And finally…Chinese potato latkes! Usually 土豆饼 (tu3 dou4 bing3), as Yang Yang ordered it, refers to a snack bearing little in common with those potato pancakes my mother used to cook for Hanukkah. However, these Linan latkes were absolutely fabulous! Perfect texture and just the right amount of spice. Enough to convince me to go back to Linan, if nothing else, just to eat.
After 2 days in Linan, it was now time to meet up with James L. Goode (aka Tex), my travel buddy for the next week. Destination: Anhui. More to come soon.
It was a rainy afternoon on March 3. It had rained every single day since I had arrived in Shanghai on February 17. Temperatures had been constantly hovering around the high 40’s. After two and a half weeks of work in Shanghai, there wasn’t anything I wanted more than to get out of the city. It’s not that I don’t like Shanghai per se, but my consulting work had me shacked up in a district full of ritzy foreign compounds, and constantly commuting across the city area and suburbs. I was living in a district which had the vibe of an American suburb, only much, much more crowded, and I was spending two hours a day sitting in cabs in standstill traffic. The work itself was productive and engaging, but from a personal stance, I still didn’t feel as if I had truly entered the Middle Kingdom I knew. Combine this with the weather, and I was simply ready to get out.
My old buddy Tex (James L. Goode) from Fuzhou had planned to meet up with me on March 13th. Our destination was to be the backwoods of Anhui. In the meantime, I had nearly a week to explore some of the sights and sounds that Jiangsu and Zhejiang had to offer. The first of which was the water town of Suzhou. Fellow blogger Ryan McLaughlin (The Humanaught) and his wife Maggie, offered to put me up, and I spent two and a half days wandering the streets of the ancient capital of the Kingdom of Wu.
Because of its ancient canals which wind their way through the town, Suzhou is often referred to as the Venice of China. During my first day of wandering through town, I came across a street called 平江路 (ping2 jiang1 lu4).
平江路 is located in the eastern part of the old city. Adjacent to the old street flows a small canal, which I am assuming is the 平江.
Without the hustle and bustle, and troops of annoying vendors, 平江路 was one of the quaintest, non-touristy, tourist streets I have ever come upon in China. Informative inscriptions (Chinese only) about its history are written on wooden posts along the canal. I really feel that any trip to Suzhou necessitates a walk along 平江路.
What I enjoy most about Suzhou, and 平江路 exemplifies this as well as anywhere, is that Suzhou is one of the few places you travel to in China which actually looks a lot like what most people picture China looking like before they ever arrive there. It has that warm, fuzzy, old style, Social-Studies-textbook feeling that is noticeably absent in most other “ancient” Chinese cities.
Even the newly constructed areas within the old city retain much of the their charm.
During my visit, I couldn’t detect much functional use for the canals anymore. No goods being transported, taxi services, or anything of the like. However there are tourist boats which run, and at several restaurants with their back to the canal, the water functions as the de facto men’s restroom.
Suzhou is probably most famous for its gardens. I had seen Chinese gardens on several occasions before. They are all quite scenic, but at the same time very similar (think Chinese temples!). This particular garden was called the “Lion Grove.”
Of the numerous gardens in Suzhou, Ryan had recommended the Lion Grove because of the concrete maze which surrounds the water. If you do make the trip to Suzhou, it is definitely worth it to check out one of the gardens, but I do stress the word one.
Going in early March, I had the advantage of the gardens being virtually empty of the usual commotion caused by herds of Chinese tourists with their colored hats, flags, and megaphones. At the same time, I’d imagine the flora would be considerably more scenic during the summer.
Like any other Chinese city, Suzhou does have its share of white-tile-style architecture…
…as well as the typical cement boxes (right) as seen all over the Middle Kingdom.
This is the “City Safe Sanitary Subdivision.” It did not appear to be any safer or more sanitary than the rest of Suzhou, which on the whole was both rather safe and sanitary, by my accounts at least.
Here’s a snack which isn’t necessarily endemic to Suzhou, but which I did both encounter and consume on several points throughout my trip. It’s called a 麻辣饼 (ma2 la2 bing3), which literally means “spicy pastry,” and that is exactly what it is.
Another common snack whose name (both English and Chinese) completely escapes me at the moment. Any help?
chestnuts (no open fire)
Here are some additional shots I took of less glorious examples of Suzhou architecture.
Throughout my three days in Suzhou I was constantly amazed at how well preserved the older architecture in Suzhou remained, even the more modest dwellings. In this sense, Suzhou very much reminded me of Pingyao, the old Ming Dynasty banking center built along the road between Beijing and Xi’an.
In addition to the housing stock which dates back to the Qing and Ming Dynasties, Suzhou also has several pagodas which tower over the old city. Like Beijing, Suzhou has regulations stipulating the maximum height of new constructions within the new city, so as not to over-impose on these historical constructions.
The old city is completely surrounded by a wide moat.
old city gate along the moat
On the Northern outskirts of the old city lies Tiger Hill, also with pagoda and Qing Dynasty housing stock.
Well, you knew it couldn’t all be ancient, right? Smack dab in the middle of Suzhou, like the middle of most Chinese cities, lies what is known as a 步行街 (bu4 xing2 jie1) or “walking street.” Suzhou’s walking street is called 观前街 (guan1 qian2 jie1).
观前街 is a great place to graze on street food. This is where I encountered the famous “Suzhou Octoballs.”
It’s also the main shopping artery for the young and the affluent in this growing Chinese metropolis.
…and home to an entire store which sells nothing, but “Hello Kitty” merchandise.
Another popular attraction is the Suzhou Museum. Containing much of the same ancient artifacts and calligraphy as most other Chinese museums, the collection itself is nothing out of the ordinary. However, the building itself, designed by Chinese-American architect I. M. Pei, makes the museum worth a visit, especially since admission was free.
Again, I felt that exploring the common architecture and streetscape of Suzhou was infinitely more worthwhile than most of the designated tourist attractions.
One of Suzhou’s many Buddhist temples. This would go in the “tourist attraction” category.
As would be expected, China is one of the world’s most pro-birth control countries. Here’s a condom vending machine attached to the cement wall just outside the temple. Notice the mother, father, and single (female) child.
On my second day of wandering through the streets of Suzhou, I came across the area which was the site of Suzhou’s former foreign enclave during the early part of the 20th Century. This is Suzhou’s largest church, which today conducts church services in both Chinese and English, and also holds Christian-themed activities for Chinese and foreigners alike.
As I meandered down the road I inadvertently encountered the campus of Suzhou University.
Originally founded by Methodists in the year 1900, Suzhou University is one of the most aesthetically pleasing campuses in the Middle Kingdom.
In the middle of the campus was a large green space, similar to what you would find in most Western universities.
Grass is always at a premium in the Middle Kingdom, and the campus of Suzhou University contains a pleasing cornicopia of it.
The majority of the campus’ buildings retain the same early 1900’s style.
As one might expect, a canal runs through the university as well.
The mixture of Suzhou and Western styles make the Suzhou University campus a must-see for architectural enthusiasts.
Throughout my visit to Suzhou, and especially during my time spent in this area with its western influenced church and university, I was constantly intrigued with how seemingly unscathed Suzhou’s architecture had been by the Cultural Revolution.
However, a close look at this doorway reveals a small vestige of that turbulent period of Chinese history, during which universities were a major target of attack.
Painted down the right side of the doorway, and apparently intentionally rubbed off years later, remains the faded slogan 毛主席王随 (Long live Chairman Mao).
On the left side, the faded characters read 共产党万岁 (Long live the Communist Party). During the Cultural Revolution it was common for university buildings to be defaced with such overly-patriotic slogans. Today, this practice would be unheard of.
Outside the school gates was more buildings and canals, typical of Suzhou architecture.
another canal lined Suzhou thoroughfare
In addition to the canals themselves, Suzhou is also world renowned for its bridges which cross the canals.
Most of the bridges are constructed of cement and are several hundred years old.
In addition to tourists who come from all corners of the globe, Suzhou is also home to several thousand Westerners, many of whom work with the multitude of factories located in the vicinity of Suzhou, and take advantage of Suzhou’s various clubs and bars, including the…uhhh…the Pulp Fiction Aussie Bar.
As picturesque as Suzhou is during the daytime, it is even moreso at night, as thousands of lights illuminate most of the main roads.
平江路 (Pingjiang lu) especially, is worth a stroll both during the daytime and after nightfall.
I spent my last evening in Suzhou wandering around town and exploring the nighttime scenery with longtime Suzhou resident Joe Thong, or as I call him “SuJoe”
the entrance to 观前街 (the walking street) at night
A native of Malaysia, and fellow Chinese snack enthusiast, Joe led me through the various street food stalls in 观前街, where we grazed for over an hour.
One snack we enjoyed, which is not unique to Suzhou, is what I call the “Chinese pizza.” It’s a flat bread with herbs, spices, and small pieces of pork sprinkled on top.
A new culinary delight which Joe introduced to me is called the 花生糊 (hua1 sheng1 hu2). It’s a cold drink made of peanut butter and milk, and is completely refreshing after several hours of walking.
After two and a half days in Suzhou, I decided it was time to make a move. I had a great time with Ryan and Maggie, and during my own exploration of the ancient Wu capital, but I only had less than two weeks of vacation time left, and more of the region to see. Next stop, Linan, a county-level city an hour outside of Hangzhou. More to come soon.
Recently I returned from a month-long stint in China during which I was consulting for PacEth for two and a half weeks, and then traveling independently for another two. At exactly 30 days, it was the shortest duration I have even stayed in the Middle Kingdom, but probably the most efficient in terms of both work, and play.
Downtown Nanjing, capital of Jiangsu province, one of the more affluent major and modernized cities in the Middle Kingdom
My first two and a half weeks were spent working in Shanghai. Located at the mouth of the Yangtze River Delta, Shanghai is the center of one of Mainland China’s two most prominent economic regions. (The other being the Pearl River Delta). Shanghai, Northern Zhejiang and Southern Jiangsu provinces collectively form a hyper-economic zone which has emerged as one of the wealthiest regions of modern China, representing the benefactors of Deng Xiaoping’s Reform and Opening Up policy.
However, right in the backyard of the Yangtze River Delta lies a province which bares little in common with the glamour and glitz of the Shanghai, Zhejiang and Jiangsu. With soil and farmland far inferior to the fertile Yangtze River Delta and no port access, Anhui is one of the poorest provinces in China. Unlike Shanghai with its youngsters touting PSPs and its businessmen chatting on iPhones, its café culture and western markets with organic produce, Anhui remains stuck somewhere between the economic woes of the 60s and 70s, and the economic miracle of the past 30 years. Public infrastructure is poorly maintained, expendable income is low, and its inhabitants live in constant knowledge that their brothers and sisters, just an overnight train ride away, are sipping lattes and updating their Facebook statuses on mobile wifi.
A city road in Taihe, located in Northwestern Anhui, one of China’s most economically lagging provinces
What Anhui does have though is people. With a population slightly larger than that of the UK, Anhui is the source of millions of laborers who make the short journey east to Shanghai to work as housekeepers, construction workers, vegetable vendors, and a multitude of other occupations undesirable to Shanghai locals. Within Shanghai, Anhui people comprise the rapidly expanding urban lower class, needed to support Shanghai’s growing urban elite. As the dominant element in Shanghai’s working class, Anhui people have developed a reputation as the shysters, sneaks, and beggars which populate the city and draw the ire of its locals. In the eyes of most Chinese, Anhui is a destitute land from which people come out, but nobody ever (willingly) goes in.
This is exactly why I wanted to spend a week of my vacation exploring Anhui. Embarking from Shanghai, my two week excursion took me in a clockwise direction through the prosperous Yangtze River Delta, to the backwoods of Anhui, back through the Yangtze River Delta and returning to Shanghai from where I flew back to Chicago on March 19.
The following series explores my recent trip from one of China’s wealthiest regions, through one of its economic backwaters, and back. In all, my journey took me to eight different cities, and there is a corresponding blog post, with images, for each of them.
