I've always admired the time and skill—or the sheer impulse of nature—it takes to create an oasis of green, of fresh, of quiet and nature in the middle of an otherwise gray, drab and noisy city. In China’s particularly gray, drab, and noisy cities, the difference seems most striking. Upon setting foot in one of Nanjing’s many gong yuan (public parks), the environment is immediately transformed. City on the outside, peaceful park on the inside. In addition to having over a dozen public parks of varying sizes, Nanjing also has a sizeable mountain within the city limits (I’m sure it was on the outskirts until recently, but the expansion of the cities population and construction has consumed it whole). Zijin Shan (or “Purple-Gold Mountain) is a popular destination for tourists and Nanjing natives alike. In fact, a friend of my Shu Shu organizes a weekly hiking and camping outing on the mountain.
One weekend, I was invited to join the expedition. I packed my hiking backpack (the only luggage receptacle I’d brought with me to China) with a tent, sleeping pad and bag, some other useful camping supplies, and plenty of snacks. When my host dad packed his bag, the bulk in both space and weight was taken up by beer. The evening of the climb, after going out for a nice dinner with the whole family and my host aunt and niece (who’s family, coincidentally, is hosting another laowai or foreigner at their home. And not just any foreigner but a girl I went to high school and college with, and now we’re doing the CIEE study abroad together). We returned home to grab our bags—and of course can’t forget the stash of beer—and took a taxi to the trailhead that we would take up the mountain.
By the time the group of 25 gathered at the bottom and we started to hike to the top, it was already past 8:30 PM. After stumbling up endless by the light of the headlamps—and the mid-autumn moon that all of China would be celebrating that very weekend with Zhong Qiu Jie or the Mid-Autumn Moon Festival—we made it to the top, panting and drenched in sweat drawn out of us by the muggy air. After reaching the summit campsites, we wasted no time in setting up camp. And after setting up camp, we wasted no time setting up the elaborate feast we would enjoy on the mountaintop. We did a head count and a can count, and discovered that there were roughly 4 cans of beer per person, plus a few bottles of red wine for the ladies and bai jiu (traditionally China’s alcoholic beverage of choice, a strong foul-tasting clear liquor with the smell of rubbing alcohol) for the men.
I didn’t drink my fair share, I assure you, but couldn’t get out of drinking a couple cups of red wine. The customs surrounding drinking in this country are quite different from those in the U.S. The U.S., as far as I know, doesn’t really have many if any such customs, except for the occasional raising of a toast. In China, however, throughout a meal at which alcohol is served, usually the more respected, almost always male, members of the party, will frequently raise toasts to their guests and friends and families. They will drink a certain amount, and usually the other person is supposed to drain the same amount. Luckily, it seems OK for ladies to accept the sentiments of a toast but refuse to drink. But some times, you can’t get out of it.
From all I’ve seen so far, it seems the most popular recipients of toasts are the “meinu” or “beautiful ladies.” So in our hiking-camping party, the women that I sat with got toasted countless times. But because I had the added novelty of being a “Mei Guo meinu” or “beautiful American woman,” I can accurately claim that most of the toasts that night were in my honor, thankfully not always involving me to take a sip of Great Wall red wine in a flimsy plastic cup little bigger than a shot glass. Astonishingly, all of the cans of beer, the bottles of bai jiu and red wine, were drained by the end of the night. And only one guy in the group had noticeably too much. Everyone else—myself included—was left in still standing and in good spirits, and got to keep their suppers.
After the mountaintop meal and drinking party was finished, I hiked up the rest of the way to the actual summit with a small group of . There we sat to admire the nearly full moon that would occasionally peek out from the cloud-smog cover. Atop Zijin Shan, with two days to go until the Moon Festival, we enjoyed some moon cakes to complete an excellent meal and get an early start on the celebrations. And what celebration is complete without… more beer. Someone had apparently stashed some cans away just for this purpose. More toasts. To the moon. To the mountain. And, of course, to the “meinu.” We then hiked back to the campsite. Everyone crawled into their respective tents (it was around 3 AM by that point) and fell asleep.
We didn’t stay asleep for long. As happens early every morning in every park in the city, people—mostly the elderly—come to “duan lian shenti” or “work the body.” Zijin Shan, despite being a sizeable mountain, was not exempt. In fact, the added challenge of climbing the mountain seemed to draw larger numbers of early morning exercisers. A wide range of workout activities were practiced, from Tai Chi and other forms of martial art to dance and using the workout machines (which, when clustered together in the clearings scattered across the side of the mountain, looked like a bizarre, run-down playground). Also, large numbers of elderly men seemed to prefer exercising their voices. That entails hollering and grunting and doing something that sounds reminiscent of yodeling—all at maximum volume—while walking up the mountain. Mind you, this all starts at around 5:30 in the AM.
That unwelcome yet unique alarm clock was sufficient to wake up all of us in the camping group. Whether ready to wake up or not, we decided to start disassembling camp and heading down the mountain. We took a different and apparently more popular path on our way down, and the closer we got to the trailhead, the closer the crowds were packed together.
One weekend, I was invited to join the expedition. I packed my hiking backpack (the only luggage receptacle I’d brought with me to China) with a tent, sleeping pad and bag, some other useful camping supplies, and plenty of snacks. When my host dad packed his bag, the bulk in both space and weight was taken up by beer. The evening of the climb, after going out for a nice dinner with the whole family and my host aunt and niece (who’s family, coincidentally, is hosting another laowai or foreigner at their home. And not just any foreigner but a girl I went to high school and college with, and now we’re doing the CIEE study abroad together). We returned home to grab our bags—and of course can’t forget the stash of beer—and took a taxi to the trailhead that we would take up the mountain.
By the time the group of 25 gathered at the bottom and we started to hike to the top, it was already past 8:30 PM. After stumbling up endless by the light of the headlamps—and the mid-autumn moon that all of China would be celebrating that very weekend with Zhong Qiu Jie or the Mid-Autumn Moon Festival—we made it to the top, panting and drenched in sweat drawn out of us by the muggy air. After reaching the summit campsites, we wasted no time in setting up camp. And after setting up camp, we wasted no time setting up the elaborate feast we would enjoy on the mountaintop. We did a head count and a can count, and discovered that there were roughly 4 cans of beer per person, plus a few bottles of red wine for the ladies and bai jiu (traditionally China’s alcoholic beverage of choice, a strong foul-tasting clear liquor with the smell of rubbing alcohol) for the men.
I didn’t drink my fair share, I assure you, but couldn’t get out of drinking a couple cups of red wine. The customs surrounding drinking in this country are quite different from those in the U.S. The U.S., as far as I know, doesn’t really have many if any such customs, except for the occasional raising of a toast. In China, however, throughout a meal at which alcohol is served, usually the more respected, almost always male, members of the party, will frequently raise toasts to their guests and friends and families. They will drink a certain amount, and usually the other person is supposed to drain the same amount. Luckily, it seems OK for ladies to accept the sentiments of a toast but refuse to drink. But some times, you can’t get out of it.
From all I’ve seen so far, it seems the most popular recipients of toasts are the “meinu” or “beautiful ladies.” So in our hiking-camping party, the women that I sat with got toasted countless times. But because I had the added novelty of being a “Mei Guo meinu” or “beautiful American woman,” I can accurately claim that most of the toasts that night were in my honor, thankfully not always involving me to take a sip of Great Wall red wine in a flimsy plastic cup little bigger than a shot glass. Astonishingly, all of the cans of beer, the bottles of bai jiu and red wine, were drained by the end of the night. And only one guy in the group had noticeably too much. Everyone else—myself included—was left in still standing and in good spirits, and got to keep their suppers.
After the mountaintop meal and drinking party was finished, I hiked up the rest of the way to the actual summit with a small group of . There we sat to admire the nearly full moon that would occasionally peek out from the cloud-smog cover. Atop Zijin Shan, with two days to go until the Moon Festival, we enjoyed some moon cakes to complete an excellent meal and get an early start on the celebrations. And what celebration is complete without… more beer. Someone had apparently stashed some cans away just for this purpose. More toasts. To the moon. To the mountain. And, of course, to the “meinu.” We then hiked back to the campsite. Everyone crawled into their respective tents (it was around 3 AM by that point) and fell asleep.
We didn’t stay asleep for long. As happens early every morning in every park in the city, people—mostly the elderly—come to “duan lian shenti” or “work the body.” Zijin Shan, despite being a sizeable mountain, was not exempt. In fact, the added challenge of climbing the mountain seemed to draw larger numbers of early morning exercisers. A wide range of workout activities were practiced, from Tai Chi and other forms of martial art to dance and using the workout machines (which, when clustered together in the clearings scattered across the side of the mountain, looked like a bizarre, run-down playground). Also, large numbers of elderly men seemed to prefer exercising their voices. That entails hollering and grunting and doing something that sounds reminiscent of yodeling—all at maximum volume—while walking up the mountain. Mind you, this all starts at around 5:30 in the AM.
That unwelcome yet unique alarm clock was sufficient to wake up all of us in the camping group. Whether ready to wake up or not, we decided to start disassembling camp and heading down the mountain. We took a different and apparently more popular path on our way down, and the closer we got to the trailhead, the closer the crowds were packed together.
The previous evening, when we met to start our climb at 8:30 PM, I was wondering, ‘Why start so late in the evening?’ Now it made sense. The mountain is a popular destination for locals and tourists from other parts of the country alike. During the daylight hours, the trails are packed with people. We made our way with our bulky camping backpacks through the crowds, me as the only foreigner in the group attracting a lot of surprised stares. Once we made it to the bottom and out into the busy streets of the surrounding city, we hiked a little farther to find a spot for our breakfast. Our group leader ended up bringing us to his favorite baozi (steamed bun) spot, their specialty being tang bao or small flying saucer shaped baozi filled with a tasty broth or tang. After we ate our fill of tang bao, we stood out on the street to say our goodbyes and then went our separate ways, through the busy streets with bulky backpacks in tow.
1 comment:
I didn't even know my people actually camp ... the drinking part ... what can I say?
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