360 Degrees Longitude (30 page)

Opening the door to our cabin, September stood still in silent disbelief. Being a bona fide guy I usually don't notice the décor of my surroundings, but I couldn't help it in this case. The water-stained walls and ground-up chips of paint in the carpet gave it that homey lived-in feel, as did the half-consumed cups of tea left from the previous occupants. I broke the silence. “I'm glad we got the deluxe cabin!”

“We've slept in worse,” September replied. “We'll survive.” Then after a pause she seemed to change her mind about surviving. “I can see my breath in here! Can you please find the heat?”

We had, of course, escaped Beijing to get out of the cold. I walked over to the heater and switched on the fan; it dutifully blew cold air. “It'll probably take a minute or so to warm up.”

Twenty minutes later I removed the cowling so I could attempt to coerce some heat from it. “It's no use,” I said. “The fan works fine, drawing in air through a radiator. Problem is, the radiator is completely disconnected from any hot water source. Or any source at all. The pipe is just dangling.” Over the next four days we took turns blow drying our feet with September's hair dryer to remove the blue tinge. It was our only source of warmth.

Even though it was after midnight, Katrina and Jordan were happily making tents out of moldy blankets in the top bunks. It gave them something to do while I was dismantling the heater. I admitted defeat with the heater and said, “Okay, guys. Bed.”

Jordan had the misfortune of being the first to use the ensuite bathroom. “AAAGGGGHHH!”

“Jordan, keep it down! You don't want to wake up our neighbors!”

“All I did was flush the toilet and this ice cold water squirted me all over!”

The next morning at 6:00 a.m. we were all sleeping deeply, only to be awakened by the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard with violin accompaniment. The PA speaker,
right in our room
, was pumping out Chinese Muzak.

“It can't be Ramadan or time to pray!” September cried out. “Make it stop!”

Later that morning we were in the dining room eating Cheerios with the boxed UHT milk sludge that is ubiquitous in the developing world. The kids were doing their morning homework and in came an American couple, one in a wheelchair.

“Name is Jeff. Where'd you get Cheerios in the PRC?” the man asked.

“John,” I said, shaking his hand. “We got them in Chongqing at a grocery store, before we got on the boat. How did you enjoy the wake-up service?”

“Jeff practically exploded out of bed,” the woman in the wheelchair explained. “I thought I was going to have to peel him off the ceiling.”

“I can help you there,” I said. “Remove the molding off the speaker and you can unplug it.” I figured we couldn't understand the announcement to abandon ship anyway. It worked so well that I did the same thing to the two speakers in the hall outside our room. Of course the staff didn't look too thrilled with what I was doing, but they didn't stop me.

Jeff and Muffy were from Utah. Muffy had been on the U.S. Ski Team until a misguided tree ended her career. Now she skis with the Paralympic Team.

“So, do you have any heat in your room or hot water in your shower?” Jeff asked.

“Zip. But we did pay extra for the ensuite bathroom.”

“Don't feel too bad,” Jeff replied. “We paid extra for an English-speaking guide.”

“Yes,” September said, “it's not worth getting hung up over. You don't know what you really agreed to anyway. A lot could be lost in translation. The important thing is to roll with it and enjoy the spectacular scenery.”

“You're right, of course,” Muffy agreed. “But with no hot water, only the strong of constitution will be showering during the next four days.”

About that time a nice grandmotherly woman came in and sat next to us. She smiled broadly and I returned the smile. She then pulled a garbage can close to her and proceeded to hack into it for a good minute or two. We had been exposed to this in Beijing, as the Chinese are infamous for their hacking and spitting. When she stopped, I started to feel the knot in my stomach relax. She then proceeded to blow her nose, sans tissue, into the trash can as well.

“I'm glad I don't have to empty the trash,” Jordan remarked.

We spent the next two days floating through the Yangtze River Gorge. The river was calm, betraying the rugged terrain that rose high above us on either side. Floating through the gorges should be a “must do” for any visit to China—even after the dam is finished. During our cruise we noted markers on the cliffs and mountains clearly showing the expected water level upon completion of the dam. There will be plenty of stunning scenery after the dam is finished. Just be smarter than we were, because there are other boats marketed to Westerners!

Our “cruise” reminded us of how miserable travel can be. Typical of the kids, they forgot to notice. They were even disappointed when our boat broke down and we were rescued by another boat, because the new boat didn't have a toilet that shot jets of water when you flushed it.

Wuhan was where we had expected to disembark. Several hours before Mr. Singy-Person would have been trying to test my reflexes mid-REM, a loud banging came on our door. Mr. Grumpy opened it and shouted at us in Chinese. I did what any other sleep-deprived consumer would do. I yelled back and put a pillow over my head and went back to sleep.

Mr. Grumpy didn't give up so easily. Twenty minutes later, he was banging on the door again, only this time he came prepared with someone who could speak English. “You have to get off the boat now.”

“I usually like my boats to be at the dock first. That's supposed to be after 7:00 a.m. A full night's sleep is a plus, too,” I said.

“We are approaching Wuhan now. Everyone must be off the boat in twenty minutes!” Then Mr. Grumpy and his English-speaking assistant left to bang on more doors.

“Hmphf!” I grunted, as they slammed the door shut. “They'll have to throw me off. I paid for a full night's sleep.”

They called my bluff. Twenty minutes later the boat had docked and Mr. Grumpy was taking our luggage down the ramp to shore. If we wanted to see it again, we were obliged to follow. Before I could say, “Gee, this doesn't
look
like a big city,” our luggage was being loaded onto a bus. Mr. Grumpy's sidekick announced, “This bus will take you to Wuhan.”

“You said we were
in
Wuhan!” I countered, but they simply walked away. That was the last I saw of Mr. Grumpy and his sidekick. We sat on the bus a long time, and that was before it ever started moving. The seconds seemed like hours in the predawn fog. Finally, off in the distance, we understood why we were waiting when we saw Jeff pushing Muffy in her wheelchair.

Jeff poked his head in the door. A few moments later someone was shouting at him in Chinese. September said to no one in particular, “Gee, what is that all about?” A moment or two later, Jeff was carrying Muffy on his back down the aisle of the bus. I noted that Muffy's knees were clipping people in the head as he carried her to the back of the bus; it didn't look as though he was trying to prevent it.

“What was that about?” September asked Muffy when they got settled near us.

“There was one empty seat up front,” Muffy replied. “Jeff asked the man sitting next to it if he would move so we could have two seats together up front. They guy wouldn't budge and the only other seats were in the back of the bus.”

September thought for a moment and then said, “I guess in a place with 1.3 billion people, you stake your claim and don't budge for anything.”

Four hours later we watched the sun rise above Wuhan as we drove into the city.

Independent travel in China means getting on a bus or a train and hoping that it takes you where you want to go. You just wait until you are told (or forced) to disembark, and are left scratching your head while you watch the dust settle from the departing bus (or train). We felt gratitude to a higher power when we found ourselves deposited in the correct time zone.

We said good-bye to Jeff and Muffy in Wuhan and spent the next several hours at a bustling train station. Dazed and confused from lack of sleep and communication skills, we were hoping to beat the odds and actually make the correct connection to yet another unfamiliar place. After some head scratching, we boarded an overnight train to the southern city of Guilin and arrived before sunrise. It was colder than it had a right to be, being a scant three degrees above the Tropic of Cancer. It was time to flex our economic muscle and get a real hotel with central heating. A short walk from Guilin's train station was a hotel that looked like any other business-class hotel I had stayed in when someone else was paying the bills.

“It is
freezing
in here!” I exclaimed in disbelief upon entering our hotel room. The windows were wide open, creating a stiff breeze when the door was opened. “Let's get those windows closed and find the thermostat!”

September closed the windows and I started a search for a thermostat. After a few moments I had to conclude there was none. “Nowhere in the lobby was it posted, ‘Warning! This hotel has no heat!'” I protested. “At least not in a language we can read.”

“Okay, the way I see it we either have a bonfire in the middle of the bed, or go shopping for a space heater. Right after my shower.” It had been four days on the Cruise Ship of Pain with no showers, then another twenty-four hours making our way to Guilin. I don't think I have ever been so happy to feel hot water come out of a tap.

• • •

We began our quest for a space heater, quickly locating a large department store a few blocks from the hotel. It was a large, modern glass and chrome building and as we walked in it appeared dark and deserted; yet the sound of Christmas carols beckoned us up the escalator to the second level. Arriving on the second floor, we found a store stocked and decorated for Christmas that would have fit right in in any suburb back home. Except that it was deserted. “It's freezing in here, too,” September said. “Maybe they're closed.”

“It can't be closed,” I said. “The doors are wide open.” After walking around the store for a bit, we found a group of five employees. We startled them when we brought over a space heater we wanted to buy.

“Interesting,” September said, as we were taking our treasure back to the hotel. “Same thing as the grocery store in Chongqing, only different.”

“How's that?” Katrina replied.

“This store had more employees than shoppers, even though there were only five employees. At that grocery store in Chongqing, there were also more employees than shoppers, but it was packed.”

Guilin is a large, modern, bustling city. The surrounding mountains have been described as the Switzerland of China, although it doesn't look anything like Switzerland. The towering geological formations are as beautiful as they are bizarre and look like they were designed by Dr. Seuss. I would call it a green version of Cappadocia, but that doesn't spin as well.

The weather had been gloomy, but one afternoon the sun broke through the clouds. We took the opportunity to stroll along the elaborately landscaped walkways along the Li River. We sat on a bench overlooking a large pagoda and watched the river slip quietly by. Behind us traffic was bustling.

Suddenly there was a horn blaring and squealing tires. We all turned and saw a woman picking herself off of the pavement and shaking her first at a shiny Mercedes.

“That car almost hit that lady!” Katrina exclaimed.

“I've been watching how drivers interact with each other as well,” I replied. “If I didn't know any better, I'd think the fancier cars have the right of way. Perhaps those who have no car at all are at the very bottom of the social ladder.”

“That's dumb,” Katrina said. “What we own shouldn't matter.”

“I'm sure there are parts of our society these people would find dumb,” I replied, “but you're right. What kind of car you drive, or whether or not you wear nice clothes, doesn't define who you are.”

“That's a very Western sentiment,” September countered. “Perhaps in this culture what you own really does define you.”

We started back to our hotel, discussing social status and material possessions, including a top-level summary of Road Rage 101. When we returned to our room we found that the cleaning staff had kindly switched off our space heater and opened the windows for us.

One of the things I wanted to do on this trip was to try to understand different cultures, but I just couldn't fathom the lack of heat. Months later, safely in California, I asked a Chinese colleague at work about this. He explained to me: “It is well known that heat is not permitted in dwellings south of the Yangtze River, although that wouldn't apply to a Western hotel or river boat. You traveled too much like a local.”

• • •

The woman behind the Internet café's counter was frantic. It took a moment, but I realized that she was blocking Katrina and Jordan from entering. September turned to me. “Are you sure this is
just
an Internet café?”

“It seemed to be that and nothing more when I was here yesterday.” Just then the young woman handed me a card written in English that stated: C
HILDREN
U
NDER
18 A
RE
N
OT
A
LLOWED
T
o
U
SE
T
HE
I
NTERNET
.

Katrina and Jordan were affronted, but that didn't matter. “I don't care how dumb you guys think it is, it's their country and their law. You have to follow it.”

“But I want to check my e-mail!” Katrina implored.

Of course I did, too. My mother was a bit frantic about us being in China and had e-mailed me a news article about an outbreak of bird flu. If you were to believe CNN, every chicken in Southeast Asia was infected with avian flu and looking at them cross eyed was enough to contract the disease. I wanted to reassure her that we were in the city and the only chicken we had interfaced with was extra crispy. “Not to worry,” I told Katrina. “I'll download your e-mail to my e.brain and you can answer it back at the hotel. I'll then come back here to send it.”