"River of Poems."

"He who travels in Guilin hills finds himself in a fairyland...He who sails along the Li River finds himself boating in a sweet dream."

The Li River is called the river or poems and paintings. Floating down the river it is easy to see why. I woke up early one morning, near the end of my China adventure and set off on a boat gently floating the Li River, 54 miles of scenery that in China they say is the best under heaven. We began our boat journey in Guilin, and ended 4 hours later in Yongshuo.

The river was crowded with boats of like mind, passengers wishing for glances at the fabled landscape. Hopefully, each of them discoveredas I did that it is called the River of Poems and paintings not merely for the strokes of pen and paint brush it has inspired over centuries and millennia, but because the river itself is the poem, each drop of water some sacred word, and the mountains and sky and fields and farms and huts and villages, all the envy of every artist, and I am no artist, so what justice can I possibly give to this sacred river, this River of Poems?

The river took us down in to the countryside, green in summer's sweat. The river was calm, like the day itself, and the water looked cool below us lapping against the boat. The river twisted and turned and carved its way through the Karst Mountains, limestone peaks at every view, pyramids to all nature, temples of dirt and stone, and as we floated down, these very

mountains became our bread crumbs leading the way to Yongshuo. The jagged peaks rose and stood mighty, tall juts of stone. Some formed mountains, others stood solo and proud. We passed many villages, farmers in their fields, children washing away

the heat in the winding river. Water buffalo waded through, wetting their skin and dipped and dove to eat the plants growing tall from the river bottom. Fishermen waded through with spears and some fishermen used trained birds to catch fish in their beaks too big to swallow, which then came back for the fishermen to pull the fish from their beaks. It is a way of fishing here practiced for many years.

The weather was befitting the river,forecasted for hot and humid, but perhaps because of the wind rising from the water it felt much cooler on the river, my shirt off allowed the breeze to blow and brush my skin and redden my chest and shoulders. I stood out on the deck, bending over the rails as though each inch out allowed me deeper breaths and a greater understanding of the wind on my face. I needed to feel it, just a little more. I needed the feel and smell of wind and water on my face, and I breathed with every silent awe of wonder.

The river wrapped and carved around the mountains and valley with scenic vistas at every bend. One point provided panoramic views of the scene displayed on the 20 RMB note. It is worthy of the honor. A cave sat silently to the left, and giant chutes stood arrogantly to the right. Monoliths lay at every bend, every corner, and the mountains formed puzzles or held hidden paintings, one held 9 sacred horses eroded into her giant belly. Of this river of poems though, let a poet worthy enough give her final praise. "The river looks like a blue ribbon, and the mountains are emerald hairpin." - Han Yu

The river was glorious and spectacular,

though remember the river was but the journey and not wholly the destination, the means, but not the end. I arrived in Yongshuo and found a hostel with a guy

from Mexico city I had met who had been living in Shanghai for the past year.

We headed out to explore the city, found some small hole in the wall diner, run by a husband and wife and very young child who acted the part as waiter. It was run down and not all too clean appearing, but cheap and filling and delicious.

That night we met up with a gal from Sweden and all went to the famous light show on the river, the second biggest performance in all of China, next to the Bejiing Olympics' opening ceremony, directed by the same guy. The show was good, but made amazing by the setting and scenery. Much of the show takes place on the river or her banks. All the seats stared directly on to a large, private portion of the river, secluded and glass smooth, with those jutting peaks standing guard so close in the background. Hundreds of performers would sing or dance, all in traditional chinese costume. Hundreds of torches carried on canoes, or brightly lit boats floated across the river and spot lights fastened to the mountings lighting them in surreal fashion. It was art to sit and watch the river and those mountains, lights and reflections, and the performers merely interacted, knowing they could never steal the show.

Later that night we met up with a couple from England and all went out to a bar and stayed and talked for hours, and then me and my friend from Mexico went out to the various small clubs in town and arrived back at the hostel late.

In the morning we again woke early and set off on another adventure. We rented mountain bikes and headed out in to the countryside several hours. When you think of rural China, that is what I saw that day. Swamped rice fields held small hay tee pee and hogun style contraptions. Mountains and fields and rivers and ponds and small huts nestled under trees, overgrown with ivy. Water buffalo, ducks, and chickens roamed about. Farmers worked their fields, plowed and picked and gathered and raked the harvested rice grains in Zen like style. Men and women carted and carried

vegetables or hay, or hauled their loads on donkeys. Women washed clothes in the river, beating and grinding cloth against rock and stone. Irrigated fields formed pools of fish farms, corn and rice and peppers and so much more. I picked a hot peppera from a plant to taste and burn my mouth. We travelled small paths through small villages run down brick homes dark and drab and all we saw were those working the fields. It was hot and humid in the sun and we rode around in Chinese straw hats, amazed at every turn and peddle of our

feet. We reached an old stone bridge on the river about 35 feet high and we stripped to our boxers and jumped from the top. The water was perfect on such a hot day and we each jumped again and played and swam in the water with the occasional bamboo raft floating by. It was a grand day, perhaps my favorite part of China. Yongshuo was the postcard I had heard and hoped it would be.

This countryside, the many fields and

farms, and the mountains mixing and

mingling with rivers is often bragged about in China, and for me, one old and famous Chinese saying held true. "Guilin has the

most beautiful scenery in China, and Yongshuo is the most beautiful part of Guilin." Thank you Yongshuo, thank you for every blade and grain,thank you.

I ended my Chinese journey in Shanghai, walking around the city, eating delicious dried mangoes purchased from a fruit stand. I walked down to the Bund, Peoples' Square, and the French Concessions. I walked and shopped and looked and met up with an Ozzy for dinner in some small restaurant, and that night I stayed up late in my hostel room talking with people from around the world, and I was not ready for sleep, though the hours passed and my eyes burdened. I loved the talks. I loved the whole journey. China was a grand place for me, each day some new adventure, always busy, yet always refreshed and relaxed, and the end of China merely brought on the beginning of some new adventure in the land of the rising sun.

I spent my last days as I would have wished, juxtaposed journeys of roaming about crowded cities, and peddling quiet countrysides. Oh when I see the sights I did see on that river, or biking through small dirt paths cutting through farms and fields, I am drawn to the pastoral.

I had so long been troubled by official hat and robe

That I am glad to be an exile here in this wild southland.

I am a neighbour now of planters and reapers.

I am a guest of the mountains and woods.

I plough in the morning, turning dewy grasses,

And at evening tie my fisher-boat, breaking the quiet stream. Back and forth I go, scarcely meeting anyone,

And sing a long poem and gaze at the blue sky.

-Liu ZongYuan.