23/09/14
Endormit, je regarde la ville obscure qui s'etale devant moi. Sur la carte du site internet de mon auberge, la vieille partie de la ville de Pingyao, derriere sa douve et son vieux mur fortifie, devraient etre tout proche de la station de train. Mais encore, faire semblant que quelque chose est plus proche qu'il ne l'est vraiment semble une technique classique pour attirer des clients.
Pas grave si ils se perdent.
A la sortie de la station de train, un type a l'air indien se tient debout les deux yeux dans graisse de bine. Je lui demande quel est son plan et il me repond "I am absolutely useless mate", alors je le laisse derriere et prend deux secondes pour reflechir.
Un chinois d'environs 60 ans me tire de ma reverie en me hurlant des "Hello! Taxi!" a deux pouces du visage.
Je decide de prendre un taxi au lieu d'aller me perdre dans le noir avec mon gros sac-maison. Je regarde le bonhomme et dit "Yamen Hostel?" et il repond rapidement "Yes yes taxi!" et est deja en train de marcher. Ils aiment bien offrir un service et discuter du prix a la fin en Asie mais 100% du temps tu te fais fourrer sans meme un souper ou une sortie au cinema.
Je lui dit d'attendre et leve la main, ecarte les doigts. "¥5?". Son visage se transforme, comme s'il venait de mordre dans un citron, et crie No! Suivit de ce qui doit etre du chinois pour "T'es fou mec!" et il croise les deux index pour faire un X, en repetant Ten! Ten! Sur le coup je croyais que c'etait un vestige de vieille tradition a marchander avec les romains (le pti hamster d'imagination part facilement) mais j'apprendrai bien vite que chaque chiffre a son propre signe de la main ici.
(Pour les chiffres: tout d'abord c'est le dos de la main qu'on presente. On commence par l'index pour 1, ensuite index et majeur pour 2, ainsi de suite jusqu'a 5. On garde le petit doigt et le pouce pour 6. 7, c'est comme le signe pour l'argent, on touche le pouce, l'index et le majeur ensemble. Pour 8 on fait un fusil avec le pouce et l'index et on pointe vers le bas en montrant le dos de la main. Pour 9 on remonte le bras et on fait comme une bouche de petit monstre (ou un C, celon votre niveau de maturite) avec le pouce, index et majeur. 10, on fait un X avec les index en les tappant ensemble, horizontalement. Et juste pour le plaisir, le 7 et 9 semblent s'inverser quand on change de region!)
Alors, j'embarque dans son taxi, une byciclette qui tire un cart, et je me laisse porter. Le bonhomme porte un veston trop grand pour lui et les epaulettes lui donnent un drole d'air.
La chaine de son velo marche a l'envers.
15 minutes plus tard, apres avoir passe des centres d'achats sombres, magasins, arrets d'autobus, travailleuses de la ville en veston orange fluo en train de ramasser les nombreux dechets avec une geante pince fait d'une grosse tige de bambou coupee sur le long et atachee avec un gros elastique. Apres avoir passe les douves, le gros mur de brique et silloner les petites rues entourees d'anciennes maisons de pierre avec toits classiques en tuiles noires au coins pointus, on arrive a destination.
Il l'a merite son ¥10, le monsieur!
La petite maison ancestrale qui habrite l'auberge est remplie de noir, c'est ferme. Je m'apprette a siester sur un petit banc de bois mais le chauffeur cogne a la porte sauvagement en criant.
Bien vite, un chinois a la tete blanche vient nous ouvrir la porte, tout souriant. Il m'indique de deposer mes sacs, s'empare d'une queue de billard et tout fredonnant se dirige vers le petit bureau d'accueil. Avec la queue de billard il pointe un petit morceau de carton accroche au mur.
"Business hours: 6am to 11pm".
Ensuite, tout en fredonnant, il pointe l'horloge a cote. Il est 5:30 am.
Je hoche la tete et simule dormir sur un des nombreux petits divans de la place.
Il hoche la tete a son tour, satisfait. En fredonnant toujours il retourne se coucher, me disant bonne nuit avec un petit pet.
Je m'ecrase sur le premier matelas mou en une semaine et m'endors pour 3 heures.
Quand je me reveille, je depose mon sac dans le dortoire et debute ma journee avec une petite marche dans cette ville sortie tout droit d'un film d'epoque. Les rues a peine larges pour deux voitures sont posees entre de petits hotels et magasins, eux-memes dans de petites maisons de pierres grises, renovees. Les deux axes principaux de la ville, la rue nord-sud et celle sud-ouest, sont interdites aux voitures dans le centre de la ville.
Les touristes chinois abondent, armes de geantes cameras, capturant des portraits d'artisants s'affairant a transformer des os de Yak en peignes ou engages dans l'installation de leur trepied pour prendre la meilleure photo de la tour de garde ancienne.
Il est possible, pour un prix trop eleve, d'aller faire le tour de la ville en marchant sur les ancients remparts et j'y passe une bonne heure.
Quelques metres plus haut que les toits pointus de la ville, on obtient une belle pespective. Claustrophobique!
Les longues rues semblent mener a de petites ruelles sinueuses, elles-memes donnant sur de petites cours d'ou facent quelques maisons. J'imagine qu'une famille partage les petits appartements qui entourent la cour qui habrite parfois un jardin, parfois une corde a linge, un debarras, des jouets d'enfants.
Partout, ses grosses lanternes rouges qui harborent des signes chinois noirs, si charmantes la nuit.
Pour diner je trouve un petit guesthouse ou on parle anglais. Un homme dans la soixantaine est penche sur son laptop. Un voyageur lui dit ses adieux en espagnol et l'homme lui repond fluidement. Un autre voyageur a l'accent americain lui lance un bonjour et il lui repond du meme accent. La receptioniste lui demande une question en chinois et il lui repond dans sa langue assez rapidement.
Je m'en peut plus. "Hello sir! How many languages can you speak?" "Only six. English, spanish, cantonese, german, russian and french". "Ah, I speak french too". Sur ce il me debute une discussion en francais impeccable. Je commence a lui repondre en francais et son visage s'illumine. "Ah, mais vous etes quebecois!" Sur ce, son accent change a MI-PHRASE tandis que sa voix se deplace et devient nasale. Je m'esclafe pendant qu'il me sort expression quebecoise apres l'autre.
Finalement, il est d'origine britanique mais a apprit le francais a l'ecole. Il a passe son adolescence dans le coin du Mont Tremblant et ensuite vecu 3 ans au mexique. Il est en Chine pour apprendre la langue "just because"...
Impressionnant, le bonzomme.
Showing posts with label pingyao. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pingyao. Show all posts
Sunday, 26 October 2014
Thursday, 23 October 2014
Beijing markets, night train to Pingyao
23/09/14
After a nice day spent wandering around the Beijing weekend market laid out in a huge open area covered by a giant roof, under which are stalls are thrown together in long lines offering every kind of goods. The first end of the market seems to deal more in bracelets and necklaces, huge and ridiculously long, sold directly on a carpet thrown on the floor. People are haggling while smoking cigarettes, squatting comfortably inches from the floor. Again, like every place in China, there are almost no western tourists.
After a few rows of these the stalls change into huge piles of what looks like infinitely precious china - porcelain - all arranged neatly, waiting for a bidder. There are way less people in these rows and the stall owners are playing games on their phones or catching a quick nap on a tiny chair, head laid back, mouth wide open.
Following this rising trend, the last stalls are small rectangular affairs, more high than wide and my personal favorites: they deal in folk paintings of tigers or rice fields, mountainous landscapes or huge characters of Chinese alphabet, an awesome display of calligraphy.
When I even just ask to look at a tiny necklace of a Buddha sculpted in jade I am rudely waved off by an aged Chinese woman, her eyes closed to emphasize the gesture.
When you reach the outskirts of this mass (mess?) of people you run into these old, small stone buildings that look like something directly out of a Kung-Fu movie. The jewelers occupy these squat houses.
I soon realize that behind those buildings there is another, smaller market where they sell books, old vinyls and even propaganda art. I think about getting a booklet of fragile paper full of drawings against Japanese soldiers. I only know they are Japanese because of the flag insignia they are wearing - they are drawn resembling dogs or rats, stabbing farmers or common folk with bayonets! I know my friend Angus would go nuts for it but I'm afraid to destroy it if I take it with me on my travels. I settle on a classic small Chairman Mao red book written in french, from 1966. Easier to carry.
That night, in my little room consisting of a rock-hard double bed, a tiny desk and a toiler/shower, I read about leaving Beijing.
From the tiny bathroom window seeps in sounds from the street below. The incessant honking that was breaking the silence of day is replaced by chatter, laughs, spitting and burping as people eat their meals on tiny plastic furniture laid out in front of the restaurants. Classic Chinese music (it's exactly what you're picturing) provides a soundtrack to this social life buzz.
I am a little nervous as I read online that apparently it is nigh impossible to get a seat on a train on the same day. I set my alarm for 6 am and try to relax, reading a book in bed while the street noise slowly dissolves and all that is left is the man in the next room snoring peacefully.
After a short 3-hour night (time difference, a ridiculously hard bed and an even harder snorer team up to keep me awake) I take a cold shower to wake up, pack my bags and make my way to the train station.
I get there fairly easily - the subway system is efficient and there are plenty of directions in English - and I all but stop dead in my tracks, gazing at the scene unfolding in front of me.
First of all, the train station is intimidating. Huge, with no English signs at first glance.
Second, there's hundreds of humans moving about like ants working around their fortress. A policeman with machine gun, all dressed in bad ass black, is standing on a podium like a statue.
Not too far from him, kneeling on the hard ground, a lady of about 70 years is begging. I notice that she is not wearing a shirt... but you cannot see her breasts. They are completely engulfed by giant tumors flowering out of her chest. Several people are eyeing me down and pointing at my tattoos without shame.
After a few minutes of aimless walking around with my 15 kilos on my back I finally find the ticket office.
Judging from the giant light sign displaying trains, departure times, seat availability and prices on the far wall, there's a few seats left for the sleeper train that I need. Several minutes later and I have a spot thanks to the fact that there is one window at the ticket booth reserved for English speakers. The train leaves at 5 pm and it's not even 10 am yet so I find the place labeled "Baggage Let" and drop off my temporary home. The man at the booth tries to joke with me in his language and ends his sentence making a gun with his hands and pretending to shoot me.
We both laugh at the awkwardness that ensues.
A quick look at my map, there's still time to squeeze in a last sight! Temple of Summer it is.
Perched on top of a stony hill, overlooking a big lake crowded with small boats, sits a temple built right in the middle of jagged rocks. The climb is quick and easy and the view well worth it. During my walk I try some street food, this type of Pogo... a sausage wrapped in a gauffre, on a stick. Delicious!
Walking back from the Temple of Summer (it was, as you may have guessed, the summer residence of the emperor in ole days) I try more street food that I have been shying away from. All great, all cheap. I try this giant spring roll that turns out is packed tight with rice. I also get 2 types of pancakes, folder onto each other several times to become compact little squares packed with vegetable goodies. I feel that my grace period of adaptation is coming to an end: no more expensive hotels or fancy food or falling for scams, I tell myself!
That night, as a kind of confirmation, I climb into my hard mattress, 3rd bunk from the floor on a rocky sleeper train. There's small handles you can unfold from the wall to help you climb up since it's 7-feet high. I am the only whithey in the wagon. I keep waking up all night, afraid to miss my stop. I am scheduled to arrive at 5 am and I set my alarm for 4:30 but all the announcements are in Chinese and they have a very different way to pronounce city names.
At 4 am however, I am woken up by a train officer, this lady in blue uniform armed with a flashlight aimed directly in my face. When I first got on the train she came to take my ticket and exchange it for a small color card, big like a business card. She is now handing back the ticket to me as I return the color-coded card, I guess it's their little system to make sure people get off at the right place. She tells me to get ready with gestures. 40 minutes later and I arrive in Pingyao.
It's 5 am, it's pitch black, and it's cold.
After a nice day spent wandering around the Beijing weekend market laid out in a huge open area covered by a giant roof, under which are stalls are thrown together in long lines offering every kind of goods. The first end of the market seems to deal more in bracelets and necklaces, huge and ridiculously long, sold directly on a carpet thrown on the floor. People are haggling while smoking cigarettes, squatting comfortably inches from the floor. Again, like every place in China, there are almost no western tourists.
After a few rows of these the stalls change into huge piles of what looks like infinitely precious china - porcelain - all arranged neatly, waiting for a bidder. There are way less people in these rows and the stall owners are playing games on their phones or catching a quick nap on a tiny chair, head laid back, mouth wide open.
Following this rising trend, the last stalls are small rectangular affairs, more high than wide and my personal favorites: they deal in folk paintings of tigers or rice fields, mountainous landscapes or huge characters of Chinese alphabet, an awesome display of calligraphy.
When I even just ask to look at a tiny necklace of a Buddha sculpted in jade I am rudely waved off by an aged Chinese woman, her eyes closed to emphasize the gesture.
When you reach the outskirts of this mass (mess?) of people you run into these old, small stone buildings that look like something directly out of a Kung-Fu movie. The jewelers occupy these squat houses.
I soon realize that behind those buildings there is another, smaller market where they sell books, old vinyls and even propaganda art. I think about getting a booklet of fragile paper full of drawings against Japanese soldiers. I only know they are Japanese because of the flag insignia they are wearing - they are drawn resembling dogs or rats, stabbing farmers or common folk with bayonets! I know my friend Angus would go nuts for it but I'm afraid to destroy it if I take it with me on my travels. I settle on a classic small Chairman Mao red book written in french, from 1966. Easier to carry.
That night, in my little room consisting of a rock-hard double bed, a tiny desk and a toiler/shower, I read about leaving Beijing.
From the tiny bathroom window seeps in sounds from the street below. The incessant honking that was breaking the silence of day is replaced by chatter, laughs, spitting and burping as people eat their meals on tiny plastic furniture laid out in front of the restaurants. Classic Chinese music (it's exactly what you're picturing) provides a soundtrack to this social life buzz.
I am a little nervous as I read online that apparently it is nigh impossible to get a seat on a train on the same day. I set my alarm for 6 am and try to relax, reading a book in bed while the street noise slowly dissolves and all that is left is the man in the next room snoring peacefully.
After a short 3-hour night (time difference, a ridiculously hard bed and an even harder snorer team up to keep me awake) I take a cold shower to wake up, pack my bags and make my way to the train station.
I get there fairly easily - the subway system is efficient and there are plenty of directions in English - and I all but stop dead in my tracks, gazing at the scene unfolding in front of me.
First of all, the train station is intimidating. Huge, with no English signs at first glance.
Second, there's hundreds of humans moving about like ants working around their fortress. A policeman with machine gun, all dressed in bad ass black, is standing on a podium like a statue.
Not too far from him, kneeling on the hard ground, a lady of about 70 years is begging. I notice that she is not wearing a shirt... but you cannot see her breasts. They are completely engulfed by giant tumors flowering out of her chest. Several people are eyeing me down and pointing at my tattoos without shame.
After a few minutes of aimless walking around with my 15 kilos on my back I finally find the ticket office.
Judging from the giant light sign displaying trains, departure times, seat availability and prices on the far wall, there's a few seats left for the sleeper train that I need. Several minutes later and I have a spot thanks to the fact that there is one window at the ticket booth reserved for English speakers. The train leaves at 5 pm and it's not even 10 am yet so I find the place labeled "Baggage Let" and drop off my temporary home. The man at the booth tries to joke with me in his language and ends his sentence making a gun with his hands and pretending to shoot me.
We both laugh at the awkwardness that ensues.
A quick look at my map, there's still time to squeeze in a last sight! Temple of Summer it is.
Perched on top of a stony hill, overlooking a big lake crowded with small boats, sits a temple built right in the middle of jagged rocks. The climb is quick and easy and the view well worth it. During my walk I try some street food, this type of Pogo... a sausage wrapped in a gauffre, on a stick. Delicious!
Walking back from the Temple of Summer (it was, as you may have guessed, the summer residence of the emperor in ole days) I try more street food that I have been shying away from. All great, all cheap. I try this giant spring roll that turns out is packed tight with rice. I also get 2 types of pancakes, folder onto each other several times to become compact little squares packed with vegetable goodies. I feel that my grace period of adaptation is coming to an end: no more expensive hotels or fancy food or falling for scams, I tell myself!
That night, as a kind of confirmation, I climb into my hard mattress, 3rd bunk from the floor on a rocky sleeper train. There's small handles you can unfold from the wall to help you climb up since it's 7-feet high. I am the only whithey in the wagon. I keep waking up all night, afraid to miss my stop. I am scheduled to arrive at 5 am and I set my alarm for 4:30 but all the announcements are in Chinese and they have a very different way to pronounce city names.
At 4 am however, I am woken up by a train officer, this lady in blue uniform armed with a flashlight aimed directly in my face. When I first got on the train she came to take my ticket and exchange it for a small color card, big like a business card. She is now handing back the ticket to me as I return the color-coded card, I guess it's their little system to make sure people get off at the right place. She tells me to get ready with gestures. 40 minutes later and I arrive in Pingyao.
It's 5 am, it's pitch black, and it's cold.
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