by Kurt Caswell
According to Fan Chengda, a miasma is “caused by mountain mists and watery poisons, together with foul exhalations from wild grasses and steamy swelter from lush vegetation. People who have come down with miasma look like they have malaria.” He goes on to report that miasma “relates to the blazing quarter [the south], where the pulse of the land is dispersed and the air is drained. People are baked by its constant heat.” The treatment? Monkshood, as well as “pinellia, atractylodes, and agastache formula.”
Fan Chengda was not particularly productive as a writer during his stay. That came later: he wrote the whole of Treatises during the journey to his new post in Sichuan. In the book, he says he found a life-giving “peace of mind” in Guilin and, upon departure, remained “deeply attached.” Among the many reasons for his enduring attachment is “the wondrous nature of the [limestone] hills,” which he describes as “jade bamboo shoots and jasper hairpins, forests of them extend[ing] without limit.”
(4) As we approached Elephant Trunk, I had myself become intoxicated by the wondrous hills and stood at the railing in quiet awe. I could feel the lush greenery and wet stone that would soon tower over me as we entered Ox Gorge. This place felt old, and full of an alien history that I might come to know only at its surface. It also felt new. Despite Fan Chengda’s claim that the pulse of the southern lands is dispersed and the air is drained, I felt a vital energy here, a frenzy and voraciousness for the shiny and new. But not just here on this tourist boat—everywhere in Guilin, and everywhere in China: in the streets, shops, and markets; in the flow of tourists buying up food, alcohol, and trinkets; at the museums, the tombs, and the Great Wall, where a crowd gathered as Kraig and I batted about a hacky sack; at the monuments to the three thousand years of glorious Chinese civilization. The whole country was perched on the edge of a terrifying capitalism, and here I was sailing gaily through the center of it.
Elephant Trunk Hill is so named because this mound of limestone features an arch at the river’s edge that looks like an elephant’s trunk drinking from the water. Atop the hill is a pagoda built during the Ming dynasty (1368–1644), and though old, it was not here during Fan Chengda’s day. The space through the arch is known as River and Moon Grotto. Fan Chengda writes that the summit is “upright and orderly, just like the great disk of the moon.” It is the symbol of Guilin, and as we passed by, I put my head back momentarily to gaze up at the sky. This was the life I had dreamed of, a traveling life, in which my constant movement offered a changing vision of the luminous world. I wanted to look back on my life from a ripe old age and think not on the years that I had passed but on the distances I had traveled and on the places I had seen.
Fan Chengda was no different, for along with his Treatises, it is his travel writing that distinguishes him. Capitalizing on a new form of travel narrative emerging in China at the time—the river diary—Fan Chengda wrote accounts of his boat journeys both into and out of Guilin. The story of his journey in, Diary of Mounting a Simurgh (Canluan lu), takes place over 115 days, in which snow, rains, and swollen rivers forced him to abandon his boat and travel overland. The story of his journey out, Diary of a Boat Trip to Wu (Wuchuan lu), translated by James M. Hargett, features, among other things, a ten-day ascent of Mount Emei, during which he bathes in a strange light known as Buddha’s Glory. He also includes an account of the annual slaughter of fifty thousand sheep in honor of a third-century Chinese engineer; a confession of his fondness for lychee fruit; and a small dragon spotted on the river’s shore. But it was from the summit of Mount Emei that Fan Chengda found the pinnacle of his experience: “The mountains stretch and sweep into India and other alien lands. . . . This magnificent, surpassing view tops everything I have seen in my life.”
Such travel narratives were little more than catalogs of the sights and sounds of a journey coupled with history and tall tales. They were most often arranged chronologically, with one entry comprising one day. Entries could be brief—just one line—or could go on for hundreds of Chinese characters. Critics remark that not only are his travel narratives among Fan Chengda’s greatest achievements, but his prose is itself a journey, a dynamic and moving force that reflects the motion of the boat in which he travels: “The scenes described,” writes Hargett, “are almost always shifting, and the angle from which objects and places are observed is constantly changing. . . . Scene after scene, in rapid-fire succession, flash right before the reader’s eyes.”
(5) Downriver we went, past the Forest of Odd-Shaped Peaks and then Daxu Town, which dates back to the Northern Song dynasty (960–1127). Near the head of Ox Gorge, I went below to join my friends. When I arrived at the table, Kazuko looked up at me with her dark, shining eyes. She raised her hand for a waiter. “Biru,” she said, and then, “xiexie,” and winked at me.
“That language sounds good on you,” I said.
“Oh, yeah? You really think so?” She giggled.
“Yeah, it really does, Kazuko,” Kraig said.
“Xiexie,” Kazuko said. “And how you like massage last night?” she asked me.
“You didn’t show up,” I said.
“No. Of course I know that. Did you en-joy?”
“Yes,” I said. “Very nice.”
(6) It had not been, in fact, very nice. In the Park Hotel in Guilin—where Fubo Hill stands sentinel, and inside its cave the Han General, Ma Yuan (14 BCE to 49 CE), tested his sword, and where a dragon once lived illuminated by a pearl—Kraig, Kazuko, and I returned from the streets laden with gifts for people back home. At the head of the stairs leading down from the lobby, Kazuko noticed a sign that read: Massage.
“Very good for health,” she said. “Six o’clock. Don’t be late.”
At six o’clock, I went downstairs. At the entrance to the shop, a long, lovely woman stood at a podium in front of the open doors. Her eyes were a little glassy, and she held her shoulders square, her long pearly white arms bent at the elbows where her black hair dropped over them, her chin pointed up bathed in red light. Everything around her was red. The door was red, the walls and the hanging things with long tassels from the ceiling were red, the very air was red. She looked like a crane ascending into the clouds at sunset.
I waited for Kazuko. And I waited. I began to wonder if she was already inside. The reader board gave a price of 250 yuan for a sauna and massage, and I had 400 in my pocket. Since I had the cost covered, I thought I might as well. The woman in red showed me the way in.
The red hallway opened into a darkened red room where a dozen men, younger and older, wore white towels and reclined in lounge chairs, smoking. A young Chinese man appeared at my side. He was my age, maybe younger, and he wore a fine black suit.
“Hello, sir. Nice you come here to this place. We have a nice sauna here,” he told me. “Very nice for relaxing. Inside you change clothes.”
Two young boys approached me in the dressing room. One reached for my waist as I was removing my pants. I pulled back, startled. He giggled like a girl. He thrust out his hand. I shook my head. I could undress myself. Then another boy snatched up my favorite Italian hiking boots.
“Shine!” he said. “Shine! Shine!”
“OK,” I said.
I wrapped a heavy cotton towel about my waist like a skirt. The man appeared beside me again. “You like shiny shoes!” he said, smiling. “Come this way, please. Right this way, sir.”
I followed him to the sauna.
“Go inside,” he said. “Very nice. Very hot and nice inside. Good for health.”
I opened the door and entered the steam-filled room. I sat down on the wood bench and drew the steam into my lungs, exhaled. Inhaled. Exhaled. Beads of sweat came down from under my hair, fell over the arch of my nose and dripped onto the wood slats.
The door opened. It was him again. He stood before me in the steamy room, wearing his nice suit.
“By the way,” he said. “Sorry to disturb you, sir. I must ask a question. You want the regular massage? Or the really, really good massage?”
He wriggled his white fingers in the air.
I didn’t have a lot of money. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting to pay. Kazuko always paid for everything, and it was nearly impossible to stop her. Over the two and a half years in her company, I completely surrendered to this luxury.
“I’ll take the regular massage.”
“No,” he said. “You don’t understand me. You want regular massage, or the really, really good massage?” He said it more slowly this time.
“I’ll have the regular massage,” I said. Sometimes, like a terrier, your mind grabs onto an idea and won’t let go.
“No!” he said firmly. “Listen, please. Listen to me. You want regular ma-ssage, or reeeally reeeally gooood ma-ssage?” He wriggled his fingers in front of me again.
Honestly, I didn’t get it at first. I was a fairly innocent guy from rural Oregon, and this was my first visit to a place where I might be offered what was being offered. There’s a first time for everything.
Surprised, and worried over money, I told him I’d take the regular massage.
“OK,” he said. “But the regular massage isn’t good.”
He left me, and I sat quietly, sweating in the sauna. But I was agitated now, a little worried, not relaxed at all. The sauna was too hot, and I felt vulnerable and exposed in my towel. My clothes and my favorite Italian boots were inside that little dressing room, guarded by two hermaphroditic boys who wanted money for service. Shine shoes? Shine shoes? Right. The regular shine, or the really, really good shine?
I opened the door and went out into the dressing room.
“Please,” said my host, materializing out of thin air, “put this on.” He handed me a blue cotton shirt and a pair of blue cotton shorts. “Come with me.”
He led me through the front lounge and into a small room in the back. A group of women assembled in a line. “You must choose,” he said.
This was a moment beyond my star, and I was wholly unprepared. It seemed that everything in China was for sale, including these women. I was embarrassed for them and embarrassed for myself. I would not walk up and down the line, look at their teeth as if they were horses, test the sturdiness of their legs. I would not. Yet I had little to trouble me, as I had but asked for the regular massage. Why should I feel guilty? I pointed to the first woman in line. She giggled and they all giggled together, then she took my hand forcibly and led me away.
The room we entered was empty but for the two of us and a couple dozen massage tables covered in crisp white sheets. She had me lie down on a table in the middle. She stood over me, and I felt her black hair fall over my chest. She wore a black dress with lace curving in low around her neck, opening her chest to my view. Her eyes were black too. The red and the black. Her mouth was lovely and red, and her hands looked strong. I was surprised at myself for feeling excited. I had chosen well. She said something in Mandarin, and I responded in Japanese, then in English. She shrugged her shoulders and went to work. The regular massage, remember. It was fine. It was regular. I overcame my little surge of excitement and went back to feeling like a regular guy doing a regular thing. I relaxed a little and let the tension go.
She spoke to me in Mandarin, and I said a few things in Japanese, I don’t know what, and then she said a few things more, I don’t know what. We started to laugh. We laughed a little together because we were having a conversation and not understanding, although the circumstances made it seem possible to know what the other had said. Everything was OK and regular, and I felt like a regular guy, and I think she felt like a regular girl.
I began to think about what she did for a living, what she did for men who came into her room. It was an odd thought about such a regular girl. But also, I really didn’t mind it. I wondered where she lived and how she had grown up. Was she Chinese from the north, or from one of the several local Man tribes? Then she hopped up on the table and put her knees into my back. She sat on my back and worked her hands through my shoulders. My neck went lax and my arms tingled by my sides. Did regular girls do this? I thought they might. I hoped they would.
When it was over, she stood beside the table. She seemed to be asking me to consider her again. I sat up. Our eyes met smilingly. I shook my head. She looked down and then offered me her hand and led me out of the room.
Then it was him again, interrupting our pleasant walk.
“My friend,” he said. “That wasn’t very good, I know. How about you and she once more time with the really, really good massage.” He picked up her hand and put it in mine, offering her like a pastry. “You see,” he said, “she likes you.”
I shook my head.
“How about it!” he said.
“I don’t have enough money.”
“It won’t be much more.”
“How much?”
“About two hundred.”
“Yes,” I said, “that’s not much.” I paused, realizing I was considering it. Then I said, “I didn’t bring enough.”
“So?” he said. “OK. It’s settled then. You go back again with her.”
I shook my head.
“All right,” he said. “All right. But I am sure that wasn’t very good. How about a tip for the girl, then.”
“How much should I tip her?”
“One hundred.”
I gave it to her, and she smiled and departed. I didn’t want her to go, because I was beginning to reconsider.
“Now, how about tip for me?”
“For you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“For what?”
“For service,” he said. “It should be about double as the girl.”
I only had 300 left, and the front desk would ask for 250.
“Double?” I said.
“It is for my service,” he said. “It’s a very good service.”
I handed him fifty.
He threw his hands up in the air and groaned. This happy guy wasn’t happy anymore, and suddenly he couldn’t speak English. He spoke hurriedly in Mandarin, perhaps cursing, and ushered me to the dressing room. The boys hovered like flies as I changed my clothes, and one handed me my polished Italian boots. They looked very fine. I gave them each ten yuan.
I stopped at the front counter to pay. The crane woman would not look up at me. I put everything I had left on the counter, and she swept it off into a basket with her hand.
Back in the room, I told Kraig about my adventure.
“So, you said no,” Kraig said.
“Right,” I said. “I said no.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I don’t know,” I said, really wondering. “Maybe I should go back for another try?”
Later, in Beijing, in the hotel Jing Da Du, Kraig would be invited to accompany the Japanese men in our tour group for a circle jerk. A few were newly married, and the others were married and bored. They ushered Kraig into a back room in the hotel bar and formed a circle with a Chinese woman to the left of each man. Each Chinese woman would reach across her body with her right hand and work the man on her left. Well, that’s my vision of it anyway. She could also work the man on her right with her right hand. Of course, if she was left-handed, then it all gets fouled up. Anyway, we will never know for sure, because even though the married Japanese men would have paid the bill for Kraig (they were keen to see how things shaped up for an Englishman), he turned them down.
“So, you said no,” I said to him that night.
“Yeah,” he said. “I said no and came right back to the room.”
“How do I know you really said no?” I asked.
“How do I know you really said no?”
“Good point,” I said.
“Well, we’ll probably be remembered as the two guys who said no.”
“Probably,” I said.
(7) Back on the Li River, lunch rolled out on carts across the dining room, and the people on deck came inside. There wasn’t much to do but eat and drink and watch the country slide by from the windows. Seated at the table, though,
I couldn’t see the sky or the tops of the karst mountains bending away and leaning over the river. The limestone towers of Ox Gorge are reported to look like oxen, especially the formation known as Nine Oxen Ridge or Nine Oxen Playing with Water, where the river bends along a series of long sandy beaches. Others claim the formations look like horses, or lions, or tigers, or even dragons. To me, however, they are mounds of mashed potatoes, and they remind me of “Hakone,” one of my favorite woodblock prints by Hiroshige from his Tokaido Road series. Dragons or potatoes, all I could think about was getting back outside. We were missing the best part of the river.
Most of the fare from that lunch is lost to me, as so many things are, and I wonder now what dishes were served, what new and exotic tastes I encountered. Did I sample Fan Chengda’s favored lychee fruit? I think I did. According to his Treatises, he didn’t care much for the lychees of the region, claiming those from Min are far superior. And he mentions the dragon lychees. When steamed, they taste like longan (as if anyone knows what that is). But do not eat them raw, Fan Chengda advises, “for this will trigger the onset of epilepsy or apparitions of monsters.” Maybe someone had such an apparition when looking out on the karst hills? And did I taste the soft plums he writes about or perhaps the human-faced fruit? Or the more auspiciously named goat-droppings fruit, the taste which Fan Chengda claims is “not outstanding”? Or, my favorite, the rubbing-and-scratching nuts, which are “sweet but slightly astringent”? I could have eaten the barbel fish: “very fatty,” and “full and wonderful.” Or the shrimp fish: “tastes like shrimp but lighter and more wonderful.” Or the goby fish: “In shape they resemble black carp” and, along with the shrimp fish, are “regarded as precious,” both of which come from the Li River. Were the fishermen along the river banks catching the fish we ate? What did we drink, aside from the beer? Perhaps the local wine Fan Chengda calls “auspicious dew,” made with “clear and cool water” from a local well. So many questions, and all of it lost. What a pity.
