9. Staircase to gold medallions

The following day, Jan put herself through the bus attendants’ harassment again, this time in the search of our passage east, successfully finding a bus to our next stop, Hua Shan. For two irritating hours, we sat waiting for the bus to fill up. Unfortunately we had already paid so there was no way we could walk away and get our money back. We were at the bus driver’s whim and he was waiting for all the seats to be taken before we left.

Finally, with each seat filled, we left the bus station and soon made our first stop: the petrol station. As the fixed seats all accommodated people, stools were placed in the aisle and four more people took seats there. A gruelling three hours after we’d got to the bus station the bus finally hit the road.

Hua Shan is a sacred Buddhist mountain a few hours drive east of Xi’an, and is known as a place of pilgrimage for the religious, hence a major tourist attraction. Our driver bypassed the bus stops and pulled up outside a cheap hotel expecting us to stay there and earn him a commission.

We obliged and took a relatively uncomfortable room for four people, but it had the luxury of a western toilet, which was a bonus after the squat toilets in Xi’an. While discussing future options, the four of us decided to purchase our ongoing train tickets before we did anything else, so approached the hotel’s front desk asking for directions to the train station.

Jan enquired where the station was and how to get there to which the hotel owner told her that it was a ten-minute drive and the only way to get there was via private car. Luckily, he knew someone. The street was deserted in both directions with no local bus going past and no taxis nearby. It was a small town so we believed him.

We piled into the car that cost us Y40 for the round trip, and the hotel owner stated that we would need his help. He said the local ticket operators wouldn’t sell tickets to foreigners and, to smooth the transaction, he would be needed to do the talking. We looked at one another dubiously as he took a seat. It’s not like any Chinese people had refused our money before, so why would the train operators do so here?

The roads were lined with old brick buildings falling into a state of disrepair and surrounded by piles of rubbish, such as discarded bottles and food wrappers. The little used train station was situated by a courtyard surrounded by more old brick buildings, and piles of bricks and waste filled the square outside. Puddles and glass mixed to create pockets of glare from the sun. We all exited the car and stepped into the ticket office, accompanied by the hotel owner.

Jan spoke to the ticket booth operator at length, ordering tickets for her and Sam to return north to Beijing, and for Karl and myself to continue east toward the coast. After some debate as to suitable times, Jan went to pay for the tickets. As soon as she produced the money from her pocket, the hotel owner snatched it out of her hand and passed it on to the ticket operator himself. We all looked extremely dubiously at him this time.

Jan collected our tickets and we got back in the car.

Passing back through the broken down town quietly, the hotel owner broke the silence when he said something to Jan.

“He just asked me if I saw him pass Y40 to the ticket lady,” she said as she stared into space.

“Did you?” Karl and I asked.

“No, did either of you?”

“No,” was our unanimous reply.

The hotel owner continued, and Jan translated. “Apparently he had to bribe them for us or we’d never have got our tickets.”

“Looked like you were doing fine without his help,” Karl said.

“I was,” Jan replied through her teeth.

“So he’s going to ask for his money back?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“Well, we’ll see what happens when he asks for it,” she said.

It could’ve been a conspiracy. I was pretty pissed off, as were the others. This guy whose hotel we had chosen was ripping us off left and right.

We went to the outdoor restaurants at the bottom of the street to get some dinner and managed to have a couple of beers, forgetting the day’s tribulations for a time.

The next morning, we left our backpacks at the hotel to be picked up on our way to the train station while we climbed the mountain. We walked out the door and were confronted by the hotel owner sitting in the morning sun.

“He wants his Y40,” Jan said.

“I don’t want to pay him,” Karl said, which was quite a unanimous feeling.

“He’s got our bags,” Jan said. “We’re kind of screwed here.”

“Any chance you can tell him to get fucked?” I asked.

“If you’d like to, go right ahead,” she said, so I shut up.

After a few minutes stalemate, Jan started bargaining with him saying we’d only pay Y20. He asked why not Y40 to which she replied by saying that we’d stayed at his hotel. He accepted this, grudgingly, which the rest of us had to, grudgingly, as well.

Saving face, Jan explained, is an important part of Chinese culture. If you lose face, you lose your honour, and if you cause someone else to lose face you also lose face yourself. By each of us, including the hotel owner, agreeing to the Y20, we all saved face hence our honour.

It didn’t seem fair to me. Here was a man who had just ripped us off for around NZ$2 each, but to shut him up we agreed to pay him NZ$1 each. If I could replay the incident I would probably have taken my bag over the road to another hotel then returned to tell him to get fucked. Still, this man probably had more friends in town than me so treading carefully wouldn’t hurt.

We were all less than impressed and slightly irritated with one another’s points of view. Jan was pleased that we had saved face, whereas Karl and I were both quite irritated at paying and Sam seemed to think the amount of money was insignificant. We discussed our dissatisfaction all the way to the gate of the mountain.

Karl and I had to pay Y55 for the pleasure of climbing Hua Shan, including an insurance payment that doesn’t actually cover the climbers. The insurance covers the government in the case of a foreigner being injured and suing for negligence.

Jan and Sam paid Y35 as, having Chinese ancestry, they were charged the Chinese rate. This was the first time I had seen this. Jan was smiling about it and we were all slightly amused, until four elderly gentlemen sauntered past the gate without having paid at all.

“Why don’t they have to pay?” she asked at the ticket counter.

“They’re locals,” was the reply. To rub salt in the wounds, a free baggage storage facility ran at the gate. If we had known that, we could have dropped our bags there instead of paying the bastard back at the hotel.

For the first kilometre a brick footpath stretched up the valley into the mountains that rose up around us covered in natural plant life. Within fifteen minutes walk, I came across the first wild snake I had ever been within striking distance of as it wriggled along the drain beside the path. Nearly choking on my tongue in fear of the small, foot long serpent, I swapped to the other side of the path.

The shops and restaurants servicing wary climbers interrupted the path’s nature walk every few hundred metres. With stereos blaring, all sorts of chilled foods, fruit, and cooked meals were available, and the higher up the climb the more appealing each merchant became. We managed to forego the first few because we were only just beginning the tough onslaught of the mountain. Soon the footpath became a staircase and the slog up the mountain increased in its levels of strenuousness. The steeper the staircase became, the more respect I held for the porters lugging stock from the town at the bottom of the mountain up to the restaurants in baskets and on poles that rested on their shoulders.

We would pass them then stop for a rest and they would overtake us again as they kept trucking on up the stairs without hesitation. One guy we came across near the top was playing a flute to his hearts content as he climbed with his heavy burden. Here I was, admittedly unfit, struggling to breathe let alone play a wind instrument, and wasn’t even carrying a bag.

“Bloody show-off,” I said wryly, pointing to him as a couple of British men passed us on their way down.

The staircase became perilous in places. Chains formed flimsy handrails stretching nearly straight up the hill, the 60-degree slopes continued up under rock outcrops, and above sheer cliff faces. At the end of each set of stairs was the sight of another set reaching towards the heavens. Restaurants were perched on cliff tops with great drops and fantastic views available. The gods were smiling on us and had produced sunny blue skies allowing views of farmland and mountains in the distance.

As we neared the top, noises seemed to grow louder, replacing such noises as lungs panting for breath, the odd flute-playing porter and the occasional radio playing at the restaurants along the way. The noise of music and people grew louder the closer we got to the north peak, which is at 1600 metres.

Until this point there were few other people to be seen on the mountain, and most were proprietors or customers of the shops we were passing. Where all these people had come from was a mystery. We climbed to the peak and were walking amongst throngs of people, struggling to find a place to sit and eat lunch. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people seemed to have been conjured up from nowhere. At the peak, we looked over the other side of the mountain, and there it was: a cable car to the summit.

Stalls at the peak sold engraved gold medallions inscribed with “I was at the top of Hua Shan”. Hundreds of Chinese tourists streamed off the cable car, climbed a few steps up to the peak and lined up for the photo opportunity and the medallion having avoided the major staircase. I considered buying one but figured the joke would be more on me than them.

Chinese mountain climbing garb was similar to that which was worn on the Great Wall at Badaling. Women climbed in Sunday dresses and high heels, making their way around difficult and shaky footing in the most ladylike fashion possible. Men prepared themselves for the elements with the modern Mao suit, that is, polo shirt, dress pants, and dress shoes. People swarmed everywhere, engulfing the peak and responding to megaphones from the tour guides. There was no rest area unpopulated. We were all pretty irritated so found a quieter place to eat further up the mountain, having given up on taking photos amongst the masses.

Being less fit than Jan and Karl, Sam and I started down the perilous staircase after lunch, while they fought the crowds heading further up to the summit proper. It was a fun and scary time descending the steps, which seemed even steeper than on the way up. Looking out into nothing as I took my next step down was liberating and the views were easier to enjoy. Steps led down into the valley below, amongst the forest and between two mountains bordering the trees, farmland could be seen in the distance. Shrines and temples sat on the sides of the mountains, a monastery sitting perilously close to what could be a sheer kilometre drop. I know what I would be meditating on if I lived there.

The mountain felt different to climb, compared to the climbs I have enjoyed in New Zealand. At the top of a mountain, I was more accustomed to a sense of quiet achievement, maybe a topical discussion amongst other trekkers, but most importantly rest and relaxation from the climb. Hua Shan provided none of these. At the peak, I found people selling and buying amidst the loud music. By New Zealand standards there was no serenity to be found there, although by Chinese standards it probably made an impression on those local tourists who had made the journey.

Sitting at a restaurant halfway down the hill, Sam and I were discussing our disappointments of the day and why we came to China in the first place. Sam was merely there to visit Jan and have a look around while on holiday, whereas I failed to have any real answers. I thought I was there for a holiday.

“Why not Fiji or Europe though?” Sam asked, to which I struggled to reply.

“Travel seemed like a good idea at the time,” I said. “Europe sounds too boring and lying on a beach in Fiji does too. I think I needed a departure from what I know.”

“All I’m saying is there’s nicer places in the world to visit,” Sam said.

The four of us were reunited mid-afternoon when Jan and Karl rushed down the hill to meet us before Sam and I got back to town. We gathered our bags and headed out for something to eat before going to the train station.

With such obvious signs as carrying our bags, the taxi drivers and passers-by were trying to get our attention in the hope of getting business. When night arrived, we were sitting at the outdoor barbeque restaurant area again, enjoying a pineapple beer yet unable to chat or relax. The hundred or so taxi drivers that converged on our location couldn’t help but toot and wave, hoping their friendly faces would earn them our dollars. Motorcyclists joined in, as did mini-van operators.

Ignoring them didn’t work, so we gave up and piled into one of the taxis and headed for the station. The driver charged the four of us Y15, Jan having bargained him down from Y25. I had the feeling we were still getting ripped off, but at least we were leaving. The people of this town really got to me, with the hotel owner ripping us off and the drivers not leaving us alone. I just wanted to be left alone.