This is not a big deal. Really.
It was an early November morning, and I was sitting on the Qingdao-Jinan high-speed train with my not-yet-5 year old daughter, who was showing early signs of a cold. Her birthday was coming in only 2 days and I didn't want her to be sick for her big day. A cold is just a cold, and an overnight in a remote mountain village wouldn't make it any worse.
Would it?
Vivian and I were embarking on what I would call a “soft” adventure, perfect for a mom and a young daughter who, while experienced travelers, were unaccustomed to traveling alone. After arriving in Jinan by train, I planned to find a taxi willing to drive us 45 km outside Jinan to Zhujiayu Village, reputedly the oldest intact village in Shandong province. This driver would be both honest and friendly, of course, and a safe and sane driver. He would flawlessly navigate to the village and deposit us at the door of a cozy guesthouse, where we would spend a snug night after exploring the streets and alleys of the village until sundown. But the cough was sounding rough and I was worried about what we would find when we arrived in the village.
Despite my best efforts at online research, I had been able to find little concrete tourist information about Zhujiayu. I had called the China Culture Center in Beijing to request a local guide, but to my disappointment, they were unwilling to go to Zhujiayu. They told me that the village is dirty, with rubbish everywhere, and very touristy. Undaunted, I decided to go it alone. Somewhere online, I found a photograph that showed the phone number of a village guest house, and called. Yes, they were open for business, even during the first week of November, and no, they don't take reservations. The reason, my interpreter told me, is because they always have rooms available.
They always have rooms available? Maybe there’s a reason for that. Maybe we should have stayed in Qingdao.
With little information in hand aside from the name of a guesthouse and a phone number, we set out. It wasn't until we were on the train that the cough started, and my disquiet began to grow. I noticed my feelings, and noted my nervousness. I was nervous because I was entering the unknown, alone, with my daughter in tow. Five years ago, I never would have imagined myself in this situation. I know the reasons why this kind of “adventure” is safer in China than it might be in other countries, and I also know the reasons why it isn't. Ultimately, I listened to the inner voice that told me to go, have fun, and live in the moment, not go home and give my girl some cough medicine.
Don’t worry.
At the Jinan station, on the third try, I found a taxi driver willing to drive us out into the country. He didn't know where the village was, but I told him to head out Route 309, and turn off after 45 km. My directions were flawless. We arrived at the ancient village gates an hour later, paid the 15 RMB entrance fee, and took a step back in time as we bumped our roller bag up the Ming dynasty-era stone track.
With no guide to dispense information, all I knew about the village I learned online. Some online sources claim that the village was settled in Shang times (1700-1100 BC), but the Lonely Planet disregards this claim. True or not, most of the current structures date to the Ming (1368-1644) and Qing (1644-1912) dynasties. Zhujiayu is surrounded by a restored stone wall, and the modern village has spilled over to the other side, leaving the ancient village intact. Inside the wall, ancient stone streets snake through the village, some two-track, and some barely wide enough for a child. The village consists of mud-brick homes, stone bridges, small shrines, and ancestral temples. In warmer seasons, the village appears to have a modest supply of operational guesthouses and restaurants. During the first week of November, however, we appeared to be almost the only tourists. Certainly the only blue-eyed ones.
So quiet. Ancient. Peaceful.
Eventually we found a guesthouse, after stopping and chatting with every elderly person we passed along the way. Zhujiayu is locally famous as a village of longevity; many of its residents are over 90 years old. We passed perhaps a dozen of the local elders enjoying the weak afternoon sun, stopping to chat about where we're from, what we're doing here, how old my daughter is, and most importantly (from my point of view) just where is the guesthouse, anyway?
This is great. We can do this. What’s more, we can do it in Mandarin.
My Mandarin isn’t very good; Vivian’s is definitely better but limited by the vocabulary of a 5-year old. But between us, we managed to direct the driver to the village, arrange for the him to come back the next day to pick us up, chat with the village elders, tell them our life stories, buy a dried sweet potato snack for Vivian, and find an inn. We negotiated a good rate on a room (only 40 RMB, or about $6), ordered our favorite foods for dinner, and set off into the village to explore.
There’s that cough again. I didn’t bring any medicine.
Sunset came early on that chill November day in the mountains. By 4:30 Vivian and I had our fill of exploring the village and were ready to settle into our cozy room. But it wasn’t very warm in there, so we went up to the roof to enjoy the sunset. Dinner was served: broccoli with garlic, sauteed tofu, and tudou si, tangy and spicy shredded potato, with flatbread and warm tea.
I wonder what time the heat comes on?
The tea was warm, but the night was cold. The heat never did come on, incidentally, but somehow I half-anticipated this. We brought along plenty of warm clothes, and since the guesthouse was otherwise empty, I went around to all the other rooms and borrowed the quilts off the unoccupied beds. The beds were of the typical Chinese type I had never slept on before: a hard wooden bed topped by a 1” thick piece of worn out foam. Like rock and cold, cold, cold. We lay half the quilts underneath us, the other half above, and cuddled up close for a long night.
Its only 2 am. I hope that rooster goes back to sleep. But at least Vivian is not coughing.
We were up early, with the rooster. We hiked up the mountain behind the inn to the temple to catch the early morning sunrise. As we hiked, the resident monk rang the gong to greet the day. It was a glorious morning: cold but quickly warming, quiet except for the roosters and the dogs, and smog-free, but with the scent of wood smoke.
This is perfect. This is exactly what I was hoping for.
The village was awash in the weak November morning sunlight. Warm, golden light managed somehow to make the broken down village beautiful. I needed a guide to tell me the stories of the empty houses, the crumbling walls, the abandoned places. With no guide, we had to make up the stories to fit the place: the story of the poor village girl whose beautiful calligraphy brought her fame at the Imperial court; the story of the kindly village doctor whose magic fed the villagers when the crops failed. These were the fairy tales; the real stories of this mostly abandoned, mostly ruined village are still secrets.
We finished our morning ramble by 9 and headed back to the guesthouse, where Vivian spent the next two hours playing “innkeeper” with the owner. Vivian makes friends wherever she goes, and the innkeeper gave her the full country treatment: picking winter vegetables, collecting eggs, peeling dried loofah gourds.
I wish we could stay longer.
We bumped the roller suitcase back down the cobbled streets, saying goodbye to the locals along the way, buying one more bag of dried sweet potato for the train ride home. We found the taxi driver, waiting, exactly where he said he would be, and we headed back to Jinan.
I need never have worried. Vivian’s cold is mild. We can speak Chinese. We made a memory for a lifetime. The train is on time.
{This post was started two months ago, on November 10, right after our return from Zhujiayu village.}
{ETA 6 July 2011: the photo below shows the sign with the guesthouse name in Chinese and also the phone number for those who might want to visit Zhujiayu}
