Southwest Guangxi: The good, the bad and the beautiful
This story is not part of The Trip series. It is based on a previous trip to Guangxi Zhuang Autonomous Region.
by DAN WASHBURN
There were times during my pursuit of the world’s second-largest transnational waterfall that I began to wonder: Just how many transnational waterfalls are there in the world anyway? What if my trek through the rarely visited southwest section of China’s Guangxi Zhuang Autonomous Region led me to a trickle instead of a fall? What if Detian Waterfall, which straddles the Sino-Vietnamese border, earned the “second-largest” distinction by default? What if the list is Niagara and not much else?
There are a lot of what ifs when traveling in this often ignored corner of China. Most people who visit Guangxi stick to the well-worn paths of the northeast. There, the city of Guilin has long been a popular tourist destination — Chinese, who visit by the busload, describe the city as “famous” — and the nearby village of Yangshuo has evolved into one of China’s only legitimate backpacker havens, with a decidedly “un-Chinese” feel. The region’s landscape is truly breathtaking. But its popularity has spawned an atmosphere heavy on touristy kitsch, in which every foreigner — and there are plenty — is a walking mark, a dollar sign in the eyes of some budding entrepreneur.
Travel southwest a couple hundred miles and the dollar signs are replaced by question marks. Stares are long and hard. But then they end, and no one has tried to sell you anything. They’re too busy wondering what you are doing there — in these parts, you can go weeks without seeing another foreign face.
In many ways, southwest Guangxi is the anti-Guilin. It has similar scenery, but it is not well equipped for tourism. It is not “famous.” It is unexplored. It is unknown — for now, at least. Some are trying hard to promote the area as a tourist destination. But their claims to fame are clunky and filled with qualifiers: The world’s second-largest transnational waterfall! One of eight leaning towers in the world! The best beach in mainland China!
Not exactly slogans that will have them coming in droves. Which means now is the time to visit. The problem, as it is in most of uncharted China, is in the planning. Information is scarce. Suggestions are scarcer. And travel agencies are usually a dead end. To our request for advice, the response from one of the larger outfits in Guangxi was short, simple and of no help whatsoever: “I am sorry that maybe we cannot do the service that you mentioned.” At least a Shanghai-based agent was honest: “I recommend flying to Nanning and using a Lonely Planet guidebook to help you make your way.” So that’s what we did.
We set aside two weeks. Not because that’s how much time we thought it would take to experience Detian Waterfall, but because that’s how much time we thought we needed to experience everything else — so that when the waterfall was a disappointment, which we were sure it would be, it wouldn’t ruin the entire trip. Not one of my 400 or so students at Shanghai University had even heard of Detian. “But it’s the largest transnational waterfall in Asia!” I pleaded. They didn’t seem to care.
From Nanning, Guangxi’s capital, the area stretches west to Vietnam, south to the Gulf of Tonkin and east to Guangdong Province, famous in recent months for SARS and civet cats. There’s plenty to see: a white-sand beach with a hermit crab housed in every shell; a river that winds past cliffs still covered with paintings nearly 2,000 years old; and strange, sharp mountainous regions that look as though Mother Nature got bored and stopped the mountain-making process midway.
The challenge, then, is actually getting to these places. Those who value comfort and convenience over ad-libbed adventure probably should avoid this region. Outside of Nanning, a city of 1.5 million that seems to get more modern every day, southwest Guangxi is an area seemingly ignored by China’s recent economic growth. Roads, if paved, are often pockmarked with potholes. Transportation is perplexing and unpredictable. Accommodations, while generally clean, are by no means cutting-edge. (Get used to cold showers. And when nature calls, be prepared to squat.) But what do you expect for $5 a night?
Little money can last you a long time in southwest Guangxi. And that’s good, because two nights in a small town can quickly turn into three or four if you happen to miss the only minibus out of town — or if it just never shows up. If you travel here, bring an open mind and an open calendar. It takes patience to be a pioneer.
A trip through the Guangxi countryside is a series of contrasts. It’s China’s good, bad and beautiful, with no buffer in between. Most of the cities and towns in the region are dirty, and the filth hovers in the air. Aside from Nanning, every place we stayed in appeared to be stuck in some stage of depression. Buildings were either incomplete or in decay.
One day, our bus paused in a village that epitomized the paralysis. It was midday in the middle of the week, but hundreds of people littered the roadside. Some were selling, some were buying, but most were just sitting and staring as if they had nowhere better to go. Stuck in the middle of this scene was a large metal sign labeled “1995-2005 Plans.” On it was an artist’s rendering of a new town, a vision that perhaps seemed realistic back in 1995. Eight years later, the sign was covered in rust and a little boy was urinating on one of its posts.
But then, around the next bend, you could have beauty — scenes so spectacular you could point your camera in any direction and end up with a postcard. After every problem, a payoff.
From Nanning — a lively city with outdoor karaoke, packed public parks and side streets lined with stalls serving up the city’s delicacy, dog meat — we traveled by bus to the sleepy seaside city of Beihai, where cows roam free and people carry live chickens in wicker satchels like briefcases. There’s an aquarium in Beihai, but most people visit the city because of Silver Beach, touted as mainland China’s best.
The beaches on the non-mainland island of Hainan, an 11-hour boat ride from Beihai, are much better, but Silver Beach is wide and some of the sand is actually white. We walked away from the crowds, past the kids playing soccer, to a point where all we could see was sand and sky. We kept walking until we came upon an army of workers, hundreds of them, mostly female, scraping the sand with shovels, looking for signs of sea worms and crabs. At the end of the day, the mounds of sand they left behind made the beach look like a minefield. I approached one of the ladies to peek into her bucket filled with the day’s catch. She smiled a polite smile, quickly snatched it up and scurried away. She didn’t work all day to have someone come and steal her quarry.
After Beihai, we traveled back to Nanning and then southwest on to Chongzuo, a city memorable for a rather unmemorable leaning tower and a nightmarish night of little sleep. After two hours worth of firecrackers outside our hotel window, we were serenaded by the violent screeches and howls of a hog being tortured by a gang of laughing teenagers. We couldn’t leave soon enough, and early the next morning we boarded a train headed further southwest toward Ningming, a small city with smokestacks, a lingering odor of sour milk and giant hogs that roam the streets feasting on giant piles of garbage.
Ningming, not too far from the Vietnam border, is only worth visiting because it’s the launching point for a peaceful trip along the dazzling Zuo River. We walked from the train to a muddy dock underneath a nearby bridge. There, we hired a rickety skiff and traveled upriver two glorious hours to Huashan Bihua, where a single cliff wall is home to more than 2,000 strange stick figures believed to be painted by the Luoyue people during the early Han period (AD 25-220). We stared and wondered: How did the painters climb so high up the sheer cliff? And why does ancient paint last so much longer than the modern stuff?
On the boat ride back, we got dropped off in Panlong, a village with stunning views and more chickens than people. Like an oasis, the Huashan Ethnic Culture Village exists here with a cheerful staff that cooks — while singing — during the day and performs traditional song and dance routines at night. In the mountains behind Panlong is the Longrui Nature Reserve, which has enough overgrown trails to keep the hardiest of hikers happy for hours, maybe days. Many come here hoping to catch a glimpse of the elusive white-headed leaf monkey. But, the owner of the Huashan hotel told us, there aren’t any.
It was difficult to leave Panlong, but we had to march on. Back in Chongzuo, we caught a minibus north to Daxin, the typical jumping off point for Detian Waterfall. The ride exemplified the double-sided nature of the entire journey. The bus — part of which was literally held together by tape — was rundown and rusty. Windows rattled. A door popped open every time we picked up speed. A woman seated behind me held a baby who cried. Her husband held a rooster that cried, too. The driver smoked cigarettes and spit incessantly. So did the man seated in front of me, only his spit landed on the floor and eventually trickled back to where my feet were resting. I was reluctant to touch anything.
Outside the window, however, everything was wonderful. Mountains, like jagged puzzle pieces without partners, created a jarring backdrop for a stunning series of pastoral scenes: tiny villages, fields of sugar cane, farmers guiding herds of oxen along the side — sometimes in the middle — of the road. Then it was back to reality. That evening, at a rundown Internet bar in Daxin, I sat beside a boy who couldn’t have been more than 11 years old. He was playing a computer basketball game — and smoking on a cigarette as though it was the last one in Asia. I looked at him. He looked at me. And then he spit on the floor and took another long drag.
This was the night before we arrived at Detian Waterfall. The next morning, anxious to get an early start, we actually had trouble leaving our hotel. All of the exits were chained and locked. We roamed the halls yelling until someone finally let us out. Three modes of transportation later, we arrived at our destination. And it didn’t disappoint.
Detian Waterfall alone is worth the trip to southwest Guangxi. Niagara it is not, based only on size and force. But aesthetically — unless you have a particular affinity for wax museums and casinos — Detian wins the prize easily. With its many layers, and the lush mountains and terraced farmland that abut it, it looks like a giant wedding cake of water. It was impressive when we visited in February, but photos from the summer months, when Detian’s flow is at its peak, are fabulous.
A sign at the fall’s entrance describes the scene as such: “During the season of heavy rainfalls, one may feel that the mountains are moving and the rivers dancing, the drops appear to strike as powerfully as thunderbolts. On the other hand, during the rest of the year, the waterfall looks like a beautiful braid of white silk.”
The thunderbolts and braids are best appreciated from a distance, but a raft ride into the waterfall’s spray is well worth its $1.25 price tag. Above the falls, past the vendors hawking Vietnamese chocolates and cigarettes, you can pose for a photo straddling the China-Vietnam border — no passport required. Almost as impressive as Detian is the windy motorcycle-taxi ride it takes to get there. The rugged route felt like a fairyland where everything — the vegetable fields, the banana trees, the pools of water — was a vivid green.
We left Detian on a high and headed northwest to Jingxi, the final stop on our trip. Known as “little Guilin,” this dusty city has the terrain — mountains that make the horizon look like an EKG reading — but not the tourists. We found that the best thing to do here is trek through the countryside. We took a 25-cent bus to nearby Jiuzhou and walked our way back, winding through picturesque mountains, patchwork farms — and what must be some of the friendliest villages south of the Yangtze. Offer a ni hao (“hello”) and people smile, laugh and open right up. Often, before I was out of earshot, I could hear the villagers gathering, discussing with wonder the tall white man who walked through their neighborhood with ni haos for everyone.
Satisfied, we boarded the bus to Nanning the following day. My mind drifted back several days, to our train ride from Ningming to Chongzuo, when so much was still uncertain. The train cars looked more suitable for cattle, but they were packed with people, their faces staring down at us solemnly through iron bars. And we squeezed right in, trying to find some pockets of open space.
That’s when a man with a gold tooth emerged from a closed door, pointed at me and motioned for us to come his way. Without thinking, we pushed our way toward him. The man turned out to be the manager of the train, and we ended up with seats in his office. Already there was a Spanish guy named Frank, who smiled and said, “Hello.”
Despite the obvious language barriers, the manager likes to handpick foreign passengers to ride with him in his office. Maybe it’s his way of reaching across borders. Or maybe he just likes showing us off to passers by. Whatever. We had seats. The man wanted to chat, too, no matter that we didn’t completely speak a common language. He expressed considerable interest in three things: My height, my salary and whether I preferred Chinese or American women.
We told him our travel plans. Told him we had been to Beihai and Panlong. Told him we planned to go to Detian Waterfall and Jingxi. He snorted and shook his head. “You need to go to Guilin,” he said authoritatively. “It’s famous.” But what about Detian Waterfall? we asked. “Not famous,” he responded succinctly.
I fumbled through my phrasebook but failed to find what I wanted to say: “But sir, that’s exactly why we’re going there.”
Dan Washburn is a Shanghai-based freelance writer.
Click here for photos.
TRAVELER INFORMATION
Visa: A visa is required to travel to China. Mail applications are no longer accepted, so you must either appear in person at the Chinese Embassy in Washington, D.C., or at one of the Chinese consulates in New York, Chicago, San Francisco, Los Angles or San Francisco. If you are unable to appear in person, you can hire a visa agent to apply on your behalf. For US citizens, Chinese tourist visas start at $50 and are valid for at least 90 days from the date of issue. Detailed information can be found at www.china-embassy.org.
Books: We recommend Lonely Planet’s “South-West China” guide. Parts of it may be a little outdated, but the basics should all be there. You should also bring a Mandarin phrasebook with Chinese characters and pinyin. Not many people speak English in this part of China.
Money: It is very hard to spend a lot of money in this region. And remember, almost all prices are negotiable. Hotels range from $5-15 per night. Meals can be as little as $1 per person. Outside of Nanning, credit and bank cards are pretty much worthless, so you should carry enough Chinese currency to last your entire trip.
Getting there: From Shanghai, China Eastern Air offers nonstop service to Nanning for $402 roundtrip. From Beijing, China Southern Airlines, Air China International and Hainan Airlines offer nonstop service for $496. From Hong Kong, China Southern Airlines offers nonstop service for $426. The prices above are list prices. Tickets purchased through Chinese travel agencies are often discounted dramatically. Air and train travel is also available from Hanoi. Relatively inexpensive train travel from most parts of China is an option for budget-conscious travelers. Travel time by train would be at least 32 hours from Beijing and 36 hours from Shanghai.
Telephones: To call this region from the U.S., dial 011 (the international dialing code), 86 (country code for China), the city code (this varies from city to city) and the local number. Numbers listed below begin with their respective city codes.
Getting around: Train and bus will be your primary mode of transportation, and along main routes they are generally frequent and affordable. But often, you will find yourself on an odd assortment of mini-buses, packed vans, motorcycle taxis and pedicabs. This part of the trip can be a confusing game of trial and error, but eventually you should get where you want to go.
Organized tours: We were unable to find any that would have been worth the time and money. You might want to try your luck at the Nanning China International Travel Service (CITS) office at 168 Gonghe Road, 4th Floor, 0771-261-1788.
Where to stay: Yingbin Hotel, 71 Chaoyang Road, on corner of Chaoyang and Zhonghua Road, Nanning, 0771-211-6288, fax 0771-243-9297. Cheap and directly across from the train station. Around RMB 100 ($12) for a single or double with internet access, but you can get a dorm-style bed for as little as RMB 18 ($2.25). Ask to stay in the new building — it’s cleaner.
Nanfang Hotel, 76 Chaoyang Road, Nanning, 0771-218-3188, fax 0771-218-3262, www.nfhotel.com (Chinese only), nanfang@nfhotel.com. Also near the train station, but quite a bit nicer, discounted rooms here start at RMB 182 ($22.75).
Huashan Ethnic Culture Village, hotel in village of Panlong along the Zuo River, 0771-862-8195 or 86-13768596979 (ask for Ms. Teng, Chinese language only). Open 365 days a year, this oasis has rooms with hot water starting at RMB 120 ($14.50). To get to Panlong you must hire a boat in Ningming. We paid RMB 200 ($24), which included a boat ride to the ancient cliff paintings of Huashan Bihua and to Panlong, and a motorcycle-taxi ride from Panlong to Ningming two days later.
Outside of Nanning, all towns and cities have affordable — and very basic — guesthouses that differ little in quality or cleanliness. Providing a list here would be counterproductive, because these places change names and locations rather often — and all of the signage is in Chinese, anyway. Use your phrasebook, and someone will point you in the right direction. Most guesthouses have hot water for at least part of the day, but it’s always good to make sure before you agree to rent a room. Always ask to look at your room before signing anything. Prices are very negotiable. We rarely paid more than RMB 50 ($6) for a room.
Detian Waterfall: Open 365 days a year. Admission is RMB 30 ($3.60). Website in Chinese: www.detian.com
Massage in Nanning: At the conclusion of your journey, a good place to wind down is the Therapy and Health Center at the Nanning Academy of Chinese Medicine. They offer a variety of treatments including massage and acupuncture. A professional hour-long body massage is RMB 90 ($10.85) and an hour-long foot massage is RMB 50 ($6). Main branch: 63-5 Dong Ge Road, 0771-563-8720 or 584-8478, open 9am-2am daily. Secondary branch: 3rd Floor, Ninghui Building, 42 Binhu Road, 0771-552-1933 or 551-4438, open 11am-1am daily.
Dan Washburn and Johnson Zhang