I had injured an old and trusted friend, a big camera lens made by those clever people at Canon which allows me to take in a panorama and then zoom to a local character unaware that an intrusive foreigner believes their face would look interesting in his picture book. I should have known better but as the shack at the corner of the hotel had a hand-painted sign saying ‘Camera Repairs’ and since the Chinese are ingenious in their repair of western technical wizardry and the lens seemed ruined anyway, it was worth seeing what could be done. The youth inside with a blond streak in his greasy black hair recognised that his apprenticeship had not gone beyond ‘point and shoot’ models and took me through a dozen alleyways and up a dark wooden stair to an older man with long fingernails who rummaged in his drawer for a suitable cross-head screwdriver that would deal with screws scarcely visible to the eye. This seemed a good start but a large padlock was then produced to bash the bent connecting plate and when this had not sufficient clout it was superseded by a plumber’s Stillson wrench to really get down to dealing with the highest grade of Japanese stainless steel. A vital lug careered off and landed in my shoe. The technician, if that is what he called himself (there was no means of questioning him as to experience or ability), seemed quite unconcerned. Returning to his worktable, one short leg of which was propped on two cans of tuna, he fashioned a new lug with solder and vigorously went into the attack with assorted rasps. After digging further into the electronic bowels, opening another pack of foul smelling cigarettes and kicking the faulty bench light for the twentieth time, the scattered entrails of cogwheels, springs and delicate copper washers were miraculously reassembled. The lens still did not work but curiously I had enjoyed the show, a kind of triumph of pragmatism over technology. Later, recounting the tale to the camera specialist in London, he told me that but for a single cog put in upside down it should have worked perfectly.
Following the brown swirling Yangtze, we drove north to Shangri La – yes, really, the Shangri La of myth and legend – but here it was covered in mud and drenched in drizzle. The state tourist machine hijacked this evocative name and formally applied it to a wide area of south west China with Zongdian at its centre. Peter Goullart in ‘Forgotten Kingdoms’ started the rot calling it ‘A paradise of nature and humanity’ and James Hilton continued the dream in ‘Lost Horizons’; later transferred to celluloid by Frank Capra in 1937. (Niether Hilton nor Capra ever set foot in China.) The PR slush of the film studios has one reaching for the bucket: ‘A dream and a reality – a land of eternal enchantment for those seeking and yearning for the perfection of human community.’
The Gyalthang Dzong Hotel in Zongdian was both a surprise and a disappointment. Surprising for its interior designed elegance, its fully working mechanics and its level of comfort; disappointing for the exact corollary. I was looking forward to the homeliness of hewn pine, an intermittent shower, an open stair to the first floor and possibly (and even preferably) the warm smell of cattle and the honk of a black pig. What would never have been in doubt in either circumstance were the smiles and the helpfulness of the Tibetan staff. As our little bus drew up the whole staff of eight appeared through the overlapped, thick felted, ochre yellow and crimson trimmed curtain that served as a front door. All were gorgeously costumed, each different and everyone handsome. It could well have been the final curtain call of Turandot. The speech of welcome from the tall, heavyweight young Dutch manager (he could have lifted a Tibetan with each arm to shoulder height; what was he doing here?) was followed by a cheerful song from the chorus line and we were ushered in for a five night stay.
On reflection, the wish for rustic simplicity went out of the double-glazed window. Perhaps one night at the local inn would have satisfied the search of authenticity but I am clearly something of a fraud, for if a hot bath and a cold whisky are on offer, I am first in the queue. However, before I condemn myself too harshly, I object to the grotesqueness of out of place, self-indulgent luxury – the candelabra on the safari dining table, the six course dinner as a train rumbles through primary rain forest or the cruise ship that swamps a fishing village and its culture with six air conditioned coaches of gawping, camera clicking, medallioned, bermuda-shorted trippers. And while I am letting off a little steam of my personal prejudices, I am reminded of a holiday that M and I had in Thailand in 1998. I had come up the Mekong from Laos in a boat akin to a walnut shell propelled by a jet engine to join her at the Regent at Chiang Mai – an elegant hotel with a reputation amongst travel softies of producing the best of comfortable lazing and jolly nice it was too. But then we went on to the Rayavadee at Krabi that was so over the top in inessential luxury that I found it simultaneously obscene and a giggle – M in particular giggled a lot. Each round two-storied villa was wonderfully positioned but who on a seaside holiday, even if their name was Branson or Beckham, wants separate bathrooms, a dining area, an ‘entertainment room’ and for heaven’s sake what do you do with a butler beside the beach? Ours was charming, attentive, keen to unpack suitcases and keener to pack picnic baskets, arrange a dinner for six, press clothes, ensure the maids had polished every corner and ‘be of service’. While my shorts and torn tee-shirt for the cocktail hour clearly disappointed (M fortunately salvaged a little of our reputation with a slinky silk number), he brightened considerably when asked to arrange a day’s outing to some sea nomads. However, having done that and explained the buttons for the blinds, lights, air conditioning, the exquisitely veneered panel that slid back to reveal a monster TV, the racks of movies, the music system, the workings of the juice extractor, ice maker and microwave, he outlived his usefulness and had to go.
But back to the real Shangri La. This came with a thumping headache and a foul cold. While others went off for a Tibetan hot pot in town, I sank a whisky or three, wallowed in a foaming bath, sipped onion soup as good as that from the Brasserie Lipp in front of a fire crackling with incense cedar and finally, on a moderately soft mattress, gratefully pulled up a duvet of exceptional warmth and prepared for a slow death. In the morning I was better and the others worse. The hot pot was so fully authentic that they had had to grapple with grizzly meatballs, boiled bones, slices of pigs’ liver, hunks of pork fat, chunks of cabbage, chopped tubes of varying diameter, slithers of yak cheese and turnips, all of which floated around in grey and greasy broth.
This is not the place for a treatise on botany but any piece that mentions Yunnan must consider the extraordinary diversity of flowering plants, trees and shrubs that grow there. Yunnan means ‘South of the Clouds’ (referring to its position South of the Sichuan rainbelt) and its high altitude grasslands not only feed the great yak herds of the nomadic Tibetans but are the natural habitat of magnolias, ancient camellias (in Lijiang there is one reliably recorded as being 600 years old), and over 650 varieties of azaleas. In all there are about 18,000 different botanic species – Europe can muster around 3,000. No British garden or park could possibly bloom so prolifically, for such succession and with such variety, if seeds had not been brought to this country from this botanic wonderland. The 19th century legends of the plant world -Vietch, Farrow, Forest, Wilson, Rock and Ward explored, identified and collected and this continues with today’s entrepreneurs – Lancaster, Kirkham et al. As we travelled, I was reading Kingdon Ward’s ‘Land of the Blue Poppy’, passing through the same towns and seeing the same plants (including his famed discovery, meconopsis wardii) but did not have to endure the rigours of his solo journeys. At Yuhu, I sat for a few reverent moments in the lodgings of the eccentric and cantankerous Joseph Rock; a single first floor room where he lived for 15 years until he died having collected over 1,000 plants new to the west. But if I mention plants by name, a few hundred more will clamour for attention so these will have to remain in my notebook and my memory, but I was conscious that every foot I travelled was across one of the great botanical wonders of the world.
The Shangri La Horse Festival was something of a highlight of the trip. Not only for its local colour and excitement but b
ecause we had a chance to be on our own feet instead of riding on Chinese wheels. A half hour walk over red clay, thoroughly wettened by days of rain to a glue as effective as Oxfordshire plough, brought me amongst hundreds of jolly Tibetans. All entrances to the substantial grandstand were heavily guarded to ensure that neither tourists (there were only a couple of dozen) nor locals mixed with the military and government bigwigs. Almost entirely male, they sat in glum rows each with an identical arrangement of lilies, stellera and juniper between them and facing the crowd camped on the sweep of hillside partly covered with birch and stunted pine that overlooked the arena. For the three days of festivities many of the onlookers had erected tents. These were mostly of white canvas and covered in intricate interwoven designs in black but some (including those stencilled with a Coca Cola logo) went for the multicoloured look. Inside were laid mats of woven yak hair and outside, braziers of charcoal smoked continually giving off spicy smells from pieces of meat of strange shape and colour.
Tibetan women are a colourful lot; like most of the minority peoples we met, it was the women who were in tribal dress and they wore it every day. On special occasions such as this they glitter and shine, weaving into their braided hair heavy ornaments of silver, malachite, turquoise, coral or bone. Giggling groups wearing shocking pink turbans and white pleated skirts made bright spots of colour on the hillside. A few other Chinese tribes were present: Yi, Muso and even Dai who had made the long journey from Dali. The men, in drab suits whose jackets seldom matched their trousers, seemed pre-occupied with gambling or shooting at balloons with an air rifle at five paces and seldom succeeding.
The first entertainment of the morning was exciting. Small, wiry mountain ponies galloped at top speed while their riders, trailing coloured streamers and dressed in tunics of a loose white jacket wrapped across the chest and wide, plus six trousers tucked into leather boots, stood on the ponies’ swerving backs, leaping from one side to the other, leaning out at right angles and sliding off their rump. At breakneck speed, slipping on the mud, nostrils flared and lathering under a single rein, these game little horses bolted round with their acrobatic riders to huge applause. And then on to the stage show; it was magnificent – apart from the screeching singing bit. On a raised dais, to amplification that could probably have been heard in Lhasa, 60 or so dancers, extravagantly costumed in many changes of highly coloured cloth and metallic thread, went through an elaborate and energetic routine. There were drums, symbols, trumpets, Buddhist horns ten feet long, conch horns, banners, streamers and flags, 200 waving children and a grateful crowd.
Formality over and BBQs dampened, the afternoon’s racing began. For myself, but clearly not the crowd, this was distressing entertainment. Four at a time, more of these brave ponies, bred to be nimble footed on mountain paths and steady under a load of wood or panniers of vegetables, were whipped around the arena by large and amateur riders, many riding bareback or at least on a gaudy blanket; some riders pulled back on the bit at the same time as thrashing a flank. Some ponies came near to total exhaustion. Next were the yaks; lumbering, shaggy, two-toned, long-horned, ill-tempered and obstinate. Completely unsuited for moving faster than an amble, they lined up to great applause, whistles and clapping. A tall yak herdsman, a practised poseur if ever there was one, delayed the start while he strutted around and stood with a hand in his belt for the cameras. And then they were off. For 30 ft (ten metres) they went into a spirited sprint and then, true to their stubborn nature, they spread around the course in several directions, one of them backwards. Riders and herdsmen tugged their noses, whacked their rumps, tugged their manes or lifted their tails – all to little effect. The crowd went wild yelling advice, clapping and stamping their feet and crying with laughter. This was animal entertainment of a high order and I laughed loudly too. But it was cruel. The poor beasts were probably terrified and an hour later when I saw a couple tethered behind the stand, they were still hyperventilating. However, this was exceptional and wherever we travelled, the ponies were well fed and in good condition, dogs – most of which seemed to be descended from an inappropriate marriage of a Corgi and a Pekinese – were happy and yaks grazed contentedly in rich pasture-land amid a patchwork of primulae and iris.
On my way home I stopped off in Bangkok to visit a friend. On the traffic-stalled flat road to the unsavoury suburb of Pattaya, the eyes are assaulted by huge bill boards, lungs are damaged by diesel smoke and sensibilities are dulled by drab developments of commercial concrete. In Pattaya itself, sullen, fleshy, scarlet-lipped girls anticipated the wallets of tattooed, paunchy, hairy, middle-aged, mid-European men. I longed for pure high altitude air, vertical valleys, peasant smiles and a yak with a bone through its nose.
Dubrovnik for the Weekend
October 2005
‘No vacation goes unpunished’ – Karl Hakkarainen
I never saw them but sometime during the night 100 maids with 100 mops must scrub the Old City of Dubrovnik until it shines. I have never seen such cleanliness. Not a toffee paper, not a dripped ice cream, a cigarette butt, debris in dusty corners nor weeds in careless cracks. And this in a town whose arms are always wide open in welcome for anyone who has the word ‘Adriatic’ written in their itinerary. The limestone that covers the streets wall to wall in precision cut paving is polished by 10,000 tourist feet each day.
Our first view of the old town was against the setting sun and the massive fortified walls stood stout and solid like a sumo wrestler crouching defensively in the ring of the much larger modern city. There is nothing refined about these walls; no crenellation or embrasures, no fancy stonework to relieve the areas of great limestone blocks. The gates north and south are protected by squat bastions and that’s about it. Muscle seemed to be the order of the day when the main construction was carried out in the early 13th century, when fear of Ottoman expansion was at its highest. This immense perimeter protection surrounds a city whose stone buildings are almost universally roofed in new clay tiles since terracotta has been so vulnerable to earthquakes (1667 disastrous, 1989 bad) and artillery shelling (1991 awful). The wall has been an effective deterrent to any intending invader and there have been plenty of them. Slavs, Venetians, Hungarians, Turks, the Pasha of Bosnia, Emperor Napoleon, Austrians and the Yugoslav Montenegran/Serbian Herzegovina/People’s Army joint forces. When Balkan alliances get that complicated, all hope of understanding these regional politics are lost. The latest invaders come in shorts and trainers seeking the history that these aggressors have left behind and are met by 500 smiling, apron-clad waiters each of whose establishments offer identical choices: fish, fish or fish.
We stayed at the Villa Dubrovnik which was built into a vertiginous slope with each part at a different level. Like an extravagant club sandwich, there were eight layers from roadside reception to waterside terrace, each one room thick. With bedrooms at level two, a book forgotten at crispy bacon level six effectively exercised legs and lungs. Every item from pillows to sugar packets was elaborately monogrammed with the hotel’s initials producing an unfortunate epidemic of VD.
One morning, drawing back the curtains of our shoreline bedroom, there was the alarming and intrusive sight of a huge cruise ship moored, so it seemed, against our balcony. Ten stories of identikit rabbit hutches as high and as long as an aircraft carrier, the Costa Mediterranea began disgorging its inhabitants into a fleet of orange-roofed tenders that then sped to and from the harbour all day. Meeting a boatload of chattering, arm-waving, holidaying Italians in sequinned tops and Lycra bottoms as you walk the narrow path along the perimeter walls turns a pleasant stroll into a scusi, squeezing, squealing experience that is tiresome and tiring (a sequinned top or two excepted). It was time to leave town.
The Dalmatian coastline recklessly casts islands into the sea so that over 1,000 are scattered offshore. One of these named Lokrum was opposite the villa and we escaped the Italian hordes to wander its pinewood paths. Not just pine but black berried myrtle, arbutus laden with red and orange f
ruit, arboreal heathers, rosemary, pittosporum, ruscus, broom, dainty little autumn cyclamen and others whose identity showed up my botanical gaps. There were lovely, woody, wild scents, clear clean water, privacy and peace. Apart from these island charms, Lockrum’s history was a typical cocktail of Balkan excess and eccentricity. Reputedly the island where Richard the Lionheart was shipwrecked, it suffered the same indignities of the chain of invasions as Dubrovnik itself and was then bought by Archduke Maximilian of Austria (a Hapsburg and Emperor of Mexico) who chucked the Benedictines out of their monastery to make a summer retreat. Subsequently, on Maximilian’s murder by Mexicans, a local businessman turned it into a health spa; this failed and the island was bought back by Emperor Franz Joseph (he whose assassination started WWI) to pamper his son Rudolf ’s bronchitis (he of the ballet Mayerling). Now a retreat from noisy tourists, it is also home to a botanical garden and an impressive Napoleonic fort; the Benedictines are back and a nudist colony has bagged the only sandy beach within 100 miles (160kms).
Leaving Dubrovnik in a hired car only slightly larger than a dustbin, we daringly set out for Herzegovina and Montenegro with a Croatian map on which not a single name corresponded with any in my guide book. For additional confusion, many names were in Cyrillic script. Winding down the coast road precipitously cut into the rough hillside and cowering past the 14-wheeled monster trucks coming up from Albania and beyond, we veered off at Gruda to the celebrated restaurant Konavoski Dvori (celebrated, that is, by coach drivers for the cruise ships). However at 10 am on a Sunday morning, its abundant charms were just for us. A waterwheel, powered by the purest of chalk streams and linked to huge millstones, was grinding corn, whole lambs turned on a spit above charcoal onto which a branch of wild rosemary was thrown from time to time, rainbow trout awaited the grill, seats were shaded by walnut trees of great age and woodland walks were aromatically spiced by bay trees. We sipped an espresso or two while serving girls changed from tight jeans to flowing national costume and left before a dozen coach parties destroyed the sublimity.
The Last Blue Mountain Page 19
