I had slept deeply in the oversized, comfortable bed, the kind of sleep that pulls you into strange and vivid dreams. For a moment after waking, I struggled to separate reality from the bizarre scenarios that had played out in my head overnight. Was I really back in Yangshuo, or had I just married my ex-girlfriend while a band played in my living room? A quick glance at the hotel room, with its unique cave-like décor, confirmed I was, in fact, exactly where I was supposed to be.
After a quick breakfast, I set off on the day’s adventure. I had arranged to visit Xingping, a small, ancient village north of Yangshuo. The bus ride there was an adventure in itself. Initially, it seemed I’d have the bus to myself, but just as it was about to leave, a flood of Chinese tourists poured in, filling every available seat. The bus rattled and groaned along the narrow, bumpy countryside roads, its suspension virtually nonexistent. Every now and then, it stopped in seemingly random locations to pick up locals waiting by the roadside or to deliver packages at quiet intersections. It was clear this bus served as much more than just public transport—it was a lifeline for the rural communities it connected.
Arriving in Xingping felt like stepping back in time. The
village, said to be over 2,000 years old, had an atmosphere steeped in history.
Narrow stone streets wound between weathered buildings, many of which looked as
though they could crumble at the slightest touch. Yet, there was beauty in this
fragility. Wandering the quiet alleys, I came across an old plaque that
suggested President Bill Clinton had once visited the area—a surreal piece of
trivia for a place so removed from the bustling modern world.
Xingping’s Wharf was breathtaking. The Lee River flowed
serenely between dramatic limestone karsts, their jagged peaks reflecting in
the water like something out of a painting. Despite the low season, the area
buzzed with activity. Locals shouted to passing tourists, offering boat rides
and snacks. The iconic scene of the karsts looming over the river, immortalized
on the 20 RMB banknote, was even more stunning in person.
Navigating the area was challenging. Most signs were in
Chinese, and few locals spoke English. With my limited Mandarin, I pieced
together directions to the hiking trail I was determined to find. The path
followed the river for several kilometers, winding through picturesque villages
and lush farmland. It was a slice of rural life—women played Mahjong in shaded
courtyards, children chased each other in the streets, and elderly men smoked
long pipes outside their homes.
The trail eventually cut away from the river and into the
hills. The incline was gradual at first, but soon steepened into a grueling
climb. My lack of sunscreen became apparent as the sun beat down on my exposed
neck and arms. Despite the discomfort, the scenery kept me going. Citrus groves
covered the hillsides, their orange fruits glistening like jewels beneath
protective plastic sheeting. Farmers sold bundles of fresh, juicy oranges for a
single yuan, a refreshing treat that kept me energized.
The descent was easier, though no less picturesque. Citrus
groves gave way to narrow paths lined with bamboo, and I passed through more
villages nestled into the valleys. At one point, I found myself in a bustling
fishing village by the river, its air thick with the smell of freshly caught
fish being prepared for market. Modernity crept in here and there, as the
traditional bamboo rafts of the past had largely been replaced by noisy blue
plastic boats with outboard motors. It was a reminder of the delicate balance
between preserving tradition and embracing progress.
Back at Xingping Wharf, I realized I had missed the last
ferry back to Yangshuo. With no other options, I reluctantly boarded the same
bumpy bus I had taken that morning. Exhausted but satisfied, I made it back to
my hotel, my legs sore and my skin noticeably sunburned.
After a quick shower, I ventured out for dinner, choosing a
cozy spot called the New Asia Restaurant on the main drag. It was New Year’s
Eve, and the town was alive with energy. The staff brought me a small bucket of
glowing embers to keep me warm as I waited for my steak—an indulgence I allowed
myself to celebrate the holiday. The smoky warmth of the fire added to the
festive ambiance, though it also left my clothes smelling like a campfire.
As I enjoyed my meal, I couldn’t help but notice the curious
stares of passersby. Some even stopped to snap pictures of me, a foreigner
dining alone. Though it felt invasive at times, I reminded myself that this was
part of the experience of traveling in less touristy parts of China.
The streets were packed with people, a far cry from the
quiet of my first night in Yangshuo. Live music spilled out of every bar, and
the festive spirit was contagious. Walking back to my hotel, the cold air bit
at my cheeks, but I felt warm inside. The day had been long, challenging, and
utterly unforgettable. Yangshuo had once again revealed its magic, and I
couldn’t wait to see what the next day would bring.