Riding the Iron Rooster

Even in the rain, even with rambunctious tourists, it was sixty miles of magnificence. At Yangshuo the boat turned slowly, giving a sort of panning shot of the small town on the low bluff of the river. The stone landing stages had elegant roofs, and colorful Chinese stood waiting for the boat to put us ashore. But as the passengers disembarked, the town exploded, and we were mobbed by traders and marketeers and old women waving bamboo back scratchers. They had been waiting for two days for the boat to arrive, and time was of the essence: tourists did not linger in Yangshuo.

Wrinkled Chinese men in black pajamas and lamp-shade hats balanced shitting cormorants on their shoulders, and when tourists took their picture they demanded a fee of one yuan. There were people selling kites, pot holders, aprons, napkins, fans and carved salad bowls. I was attracted by pairs of handmade eyeglasses, the kind that transform anyone who wears them into a Chinese scholar. I bought a pair. I bought a silver box and an old wooden puppet's head. It was a typical tourist market—mostly junk, some charming handicrafts, and a few treasures from damp attics, being sold illegally. The tourists seemed surprised by the Chinese ferocity in pricing and bargaining. Surely after decades of isolation and communism these people ought to be a little naive? They had no right to know the real value of the stuff in their stalls. As was frequently the case in China, it was the tourists who were naive. The traders hardly budged from their prices, and when the tourists shouted at them, the Chinese hissed back. There were no bargains, even in this distant bend in the river Li, on the muddy riverbank. It was true of China in general, and was perhaps a key to their survival. I thought: The Chinese wake up quickly.

That night Mr. Jiang emerged from behind a potted palm at my hotel to introduce me to a small monkeylike man.

"Our driver," Mr. Jiang said.

"Qi," the man said, and smiled. But it was not a smile. He was only saying his name.

"I have fixed everything you requested," Mr. Jiang said. "The driver will take us to Taohua—Peach Flower restaurant."

The driver slipped on a pair of gloves, and whipped the door open for me. Mr. Jiang got into the front seat, beside the driver. The driver adjusted his mirror, stuck his hand out of the window to signal—although we were in a parking lot and there were no other cars in sight—and drove into the empty road. After perhaps fifty yards he stopped the car.

"Is there anything wrong?" I said.

Mr. Jiang imitated a fat man laughing: Ho! Ho! Ho! And then in a bored voice added, "We have arrived."

"There wasn't much point in taking a car, was there?"

"You are an honored guest! You must not walk!"

I had learned that guff like this was a giveaway in China. When anyone spoke to me in this formal and facetious way I knew I was being taken for a ride.

Before we entered the restaurant, Mr. Jiang took me aside and said, "We will have snake soup. We will have pigeon."

"Very nice."

He shook his head. "They are not unusual. They are regular."

"What else are we having?"

"I will tell you inside."

But inside there was a fuss over the table, a great deal of talk I did not understand, and finally Mr. Jiang said, "This is your table. A special table. Now I will leave you. The driver and I will eat in the humble dining room next door. Please, sit! Take no notice of us. Enjoy yourself!"

This was also an unmistakable cue.

"Why don't you join me?" I said.

"Oh, no!" Mr. Jiang said. "We will be very comfortable at our little table in the humble dining room reserved for Chinese workers."

This was laying it on a bit thick, I thought; but I was feeling guilty about this meal, and eating good food alone made me feel selfish.

I said, "There's room at my table. Please sit here."

"Okay," Mr. Jiang said, in a perfunctory way, and indicated that the driver should follow his example.

It was quite usual for the driver to be included—in fact, it is one of the pleasures of Chinese life that on a long trip the driver is one of the bunch. If there is a banquet he is invited, if there is an outing he goes along, and he is present at every meal along the road. It is a civilized practice, and thinking it should be encouraged, I made no objection, even though the driver had taken me only fifty yards.

"Special meal," Mr. Jiang said. "We have crane. Maybe a kind of quail. We call it anchun. We have many things. Even forbidden things."

That phrase had lost its thrill for me. It was a hot night, this young man seemed unreliable, and I was not particularly hungry.

"Have some wine," Mr. Jiang said, pouring out three glasses. "It is osmanthus wine. Guilin means 'City of Osmanthus Trees.' "

We gulped our wine. It tasted syrupy and medicinal.

The food was brought in successive waves—many dishes, but the portions were small. Perhaps sensing that it would go quickly, the driver began tonging food onto his plate.

"That is turtle," Mr. Jiang said. "From the Li River."