Portrait of an LBX

By Evan

A lot has happened since my last update from Shanghai, which was written in a snazzy cafe in the French concession over fancy coffee during one of Shanghai’s trademark, endless, winter rain sessions. As you might have ascertained from Andy’s last two posts, we trudged two hard days through biting cold and slow, interminable rain across the Zhejiang border and to a famous “ancient village,” Wuzhen. We had a hunch that Wuzhen might be an over-commercialized touristy hell, but, like the kid who puts his finger in the electric socket, we like to learn our lessons the hard way. Andy summed up our disgust with Wuzhen very tidily, but I’d like to add how sad it makes me to know that nothing decent has a chance of surviving intact these days. It’s as though the prize Wuzhen gets for miraculously not being completely decimated during the Cultural Revolution is to now have the yolk of über-myopic, local Party economic goals tightly wrapped around it’s most delicate features. Don’t let this article fool you — all the “sights” are neatly tucked behind a walled-in area behind a ticket tearer and carry a high price tag (which we’d not pay even on pain of death). The whole city feels painfully fake, and everybody around the “historic” part of town talked to us as though we had RMB signs floating around our heads. In short, we’ve learned that any previously discovered “ancient villages” (notably those with a devoted tourism website) are to be avoided like the plague.

Wuzhen, probably a very nice place to live at one point, but now its best parts have been cordoned off from reality and turned into a mini-Disneyworld, which not even locals can access without paying, by Andy

After the weather finally allowed our escape, we bolted from Wuzhen in our final ride (for a good long time) across the great expanse of flatland encompassing the Great North China Plain and Jiangnan. The implications of the great plain and its current state deserve their own separate article, which I promise to write one day, but for the moment suffice it to say that the gargantuan depression should prove to be, in all senses possible, the low point of our adventure. Before setting out from Beijing, Andy and I sat in front of Google Earth and took comfort in how blessedly flat and easy our ride would be all the way to the beginning of the mountains which cover 70% of Zhejiang, but at the time we had no idea that the more uniform the surface of a large area, the faster prevailing winds sow seeds. Nowadays the prevailing wind blows from singularly-concerned-with-industry-and-development Beijing. As we’ve written and photographed extensively, that means long stretches of ugly, polluted, dusty, culture-shy wasteland. In case that was too subtle, just understand that we were dying to escape into the mountains, where a great deal of modernity’s insanity is physically impeded from sprawling too quickly. Since I’ve ridden through Los Angeles’ San Fernando valley this last summer, I have to point out that the flatlands phenomenon is not just Chinese — not by a long shot. Woe are the valleys of our world today, for they have no defense from the overwhelming, misguided power possessed by contemporary man. May we find respite in the high places, which thankfully mankind is not yet able to submit to its will.

Diatribe finished, it’s time for some good stuff. After lunch on our way toward Anji, our first mountain-set goal, we rolled through some decent areas: rice farms, old-looking villages, and just lots and lots of really quirky modern architecture with Chinese characteristics. A lot of it is tacky in mafia-bride fashion, but honestly it’s still a reprieve from most of what we were seeing in the northern plain. In the village of Shenjiadou (沈家兜), we spotted a horizon-splittingly humongous Catholic church from the road, and like moths to flame, we sped down the narrow concrete road leading thereto. Outside the church a middle-aged man was weighing and marking boxes of imported Australian wool (the mono-industry of the town is wool clothing manufacture) with his very elderly father. Seeing our interest in the church, he jumped to

Shenjiadou's huge Catholic church towers over the rest of the small village, by Andy

explain everything. A church had sat on the site since the 1880’s, when English or Irish (he wasn’t sure) missionaries had established it. During Mao’s greatest accomplishment the church was reduced to rubble, but try though the Red Guards might, the Jesus just couldn’t be scared out of the locals. “More than 90% of the village is Catholic. We all come to mass every Sunday,” he explained using the same percentage we hear over and over describing village trends. His father all the while was busy fetching the key to the church, which the family house abutted. The inside of the tan, concrete neo-basilica, rebuilt to its current state in 2005 solely from parishioner contributions, had all the dressings I’d expect (16 years of Catholic schooling not a total waste) except in Chinese and with neon lights flashing around the Virgin Mother. The pastor, we were told, was away in a nearby village at their church, which he also pastored. Surprises — including some in familiar packaging — come every day in this country.

Leaving the church, we made a quick jaunt down National Highway 104, on which we we had previously traveled to Yixing just to the north, before passing our very first tea field of the trip (and a welcome sight it was) and cutting onto a small rural route headed right through those glorious, long-awaited mountains. Immediately we were immersed in a world of undulating, bright-green hills — the color owing to the leafy tops of an endless sea of tall bamboo. The trucks, noise, and clutter of the National highway faded like an old memory. I felt we had finally entered “human territory” (or a place befitting the existence of human beings), the namesake of one of my favorite old Chinese poems, which I’ve translated at the bottom of this post. We had camping in mind as we approached the famous Mount Mogan through the long, uphill, winding passes, and so stopped at the first little country store we came across to buy dinner for the bamboo patch that would be our home for the night. Outside of the shop, we asked the bearded proprietor where we might find a decent camping site, a comment overheard by a man standing next to the gate of an enormous house right next door. “You can stay in my house!” he offered. I’d say his reaction was completely unexpected, but we had secretly hoped our question would elicit such an offer — a trick we learned from the guys over at the Pan Eurasian Bike Trip. Mr. Fu, as his name turned out to be, gestured us across his front courtyard and into a downstairs foyer of his unheated, concrete palace on a hill to put our bikes down. “I’ve just returned from overseas — Italy,” he told us. It turned out that he was on a short stay in his native village of Fangshan (芳山村) from his other home outside of Florence, where his family resides and he owns and operates a leather factory. What a turn of luck! Mr. Fu, very excited by our arrival, packed us into his car and took us to the quaint village at the base of Mount Mogan. Seated in a heated pavilion of a nice restaurant, we were in for what all three of us agreed was the best meal we’ve had of the trip, including all sorts of bamboo shoot dishes (the winter bamboo shoots had been harvested three days previously), local fish, cured Chinese cabbage, hard-leaf old chestnut tofu (苦珠豆腐, a very unique tasting local delicacy), and lots more. Served with the meal was warmed rice wine (黄酒), a specialty of nearby Shaoxing (绍兴). The wine was sweet and not overpowering, a most welcome change from the atrocious baijiu we’d had forced on us, almost maliciously, in the north. Just as the warm wine was pleasing, the conversation was genuine and genial, quite a contrast from our last Chinese meal with the Party members back in Lai’an. They told us everything there was to know about the seasons for and preparation of bamboo, bamboo shoots, tea, cabbage, and everything else we wanted to know. I felt like we were talking to an old South Louisianian about redfish, Ponchatoula strawberries, and creole tomatoes. Mr. Fu’s older sister, a math teacher in nearby Huzhou (湖州) related that she and her husband come to the village as often as they can since, “The pace of city life is just too fast. The farm villages are where you feel the most human (农村人情味最浓).” Her banker husband, Uncle Du, whose quick wit and slightly off-color humor reminded me of my Uncle Don, was most informative and entertaining. There was ten times more honesty and sincerity among this small family than you’d find among a thousand Party members back in Huafeng or Lai’an. The whole experience was refreshing like stepping into a walk-in freezer on an August day in Baton Rouge. Uncle Fu himself was the most noteworthy, and as such he will have his own dedicated post coming soon.

Uncle Du standing next to a vat of sweet-smelling family brewed rice wine. This batch, already seven days old, would be ready for consumption in another three weeks. By Evan

Dinner concluded and feeling slightly buzzed, we retired to the family mansion. Before we crashed upstairs in our sleeping bags, Uncle Du made good on a promise from dinner and took us to a room containing a vat of homemade rice wine. The brownish-red rice, he explained, is first steamed and then put into the vat with the amount of water corresponding to how strong you want your wine to eventually be. It had to be kept at a certain temperature to preserve the quality — too cold makes for sweet wine, and too warm makes it sour. The family even reserves the yeast after every batch, which is sun dried and stored for use on the following batch. This particular batch, he explained, was made by one of the old aunts who lived in the compound, but he makes his own back in Huzhou too. Finally a real family brewing tradition in China — it was just too excellent. We were blown away to think these are educated people, living with modern amenities and fully integrated into society, but who still value nature, beautiful traditions, and the finer things in life! The following morning after Uncle Fu had ridden us back into town for a breakfast of noodles and salted mustard green flatcakes (梅菜烧饼), we organized our affairs and prepared to depart from the Fu homestead, which will be described in greater detail in the next post. Just as we were filling up on their fresh, potable mountain stream tap water, Uncle Du returned with a mess of live fish just netted in the neighboring reservoir. Honestly it was hard to convince them to let us leave without joining them for a piscine lunch. Once they knew we were on a mission and needed to keep rolling, they insisted that we return anytime we want — with as many friends as we want — but especially to come back at the beginning of May, right after the local tea harvest and when the tea would be at its finest. We absolutely must make it back there at some point. These people are just too great.

A group of locals processing bamboo tops into brooms on the side of the road outside of Fangshan, by Andy

As we rolled away from the Fu house and through the mountain roads toward Anji (安吉) on our quest for white tea (白茶), for which the region is famous, we passed more boundless bamboo patches growing on the sides of the mountains. In front of many of the houses were freshly harvested green bamboo stalks, tied up in bundles waiting to be collected and put to good use. At one point we passed a group of men using a crude, gas-powered spinning machine to shake excess leaves from the tops of bamboo plants (see HD video here), which they were preparing to be turned into brooms — the kind we see old ladies and street sweepers using everywhere up and down the country. They waved us over and explained in detail how every part of the bamboo plant is used — the shaft for all sorts of construction and crafts, the leafy top for brooms, and the excess leaves as roofing insulation. “We prefer to use materials we grow here ourselves. Why would you want to import materials from somewhere else to do what we can already do with bamboo?” I had never heard such divine logic from an LBX in all my years in China! I gave him my last U.S. dollar and reluctantly accepted his ten RMB at his insistence (to make it a fair trade, he said). After some exercises and stretching across the street, we were off again.

Cicada exuviae harvested up in the mountains are packaged in 5 kg boxes, bought at 160 RMB / kg and sold to Chinese medicine factories in Guangzhou for 210 RMB / kg. This year's ~300 kg will put ~15,000 RMB ($2200) into the Yu family coffer. What a way to turn a buck. By Andy

Maybe 5 km more up the way we happened upon the picturesque village of Mojiakan (莫家坎村), through which a crystal brook babbled between a bamboo slope and the narrow, public road. On the side of one of the village houses was written “white tea workshop” (白茶坊). Eureka! I asked the old woman sitting next to the house if she knew about the white tea, to which she responded, “This is my family’s white tea workshop! Come on in!” We rolled our bikes up the sloping walkway to her courtyard, which overlooked the brook, the ground of which was covered with drying Chinese cabbage waiting to be cured. She led us into the house, walls covered in white plaster and supported by thick, wooden beams. Right inside the door, about half of the room was full of cardboard boxes. Full of tea, I asked? “No, those are full of cicada skins (蝉衣). We keep the tea in the deep freeze so it won’t go bad.” How foolish of me — of course, you put tea in the freezer and cicada skins in the cardboard boxes! “Have you eaten yet?” she asked, pointing to the still steaming plates of lunch on her table. No sooner had she asked the question than we were sitting around the table with hot bowls of rice in front of us, picking at delicious, home-grown, home-made cured cabbage and pork. Talk about delicious!

Mrs. Ye, tea and cicada exuvia mogul, holds her 2 year old grandson as she explains the tea business to us in front of the family house in Mojiakan, by Andy

Soon thereafter Mrs. Ye, our kindly host, and her mid-twenties daughter Little Chen, who was in town visiting with her two-year-old baby, had us sitting out in the courtyard in the crisp mountain air and started conversing with us. The family, it turns out, is engaged primarily in two businesses, evidence of the first of which we had seen in the cardboard boxes. Cicada exuviae (aka molted shells), she explained, are gathered by locals on the tops of mountains after cicada season and sold to Mrs. Ye’s husband Mr. Yu (俞, a surname shared by, yet again, 90% of the village). Mr. Yu then turns around and sells them to TCM companies in Guangzhou, where they are packaged and and distributed. Apparently the idea is to crush them into boiling water and drink it like a tea — good for staving off cancer and fighting small ailments if you believe in that sort of thing.  Little Yu, the grandson, apparently drinks cicada water all the time. I guess it couldn’t be worse than cod liver oil.

After all the cicada discussion, it was time to talk about the other family business, the reason we had come in the first place. While we were eating, Mrs. Ye had prepared us glasses of Anji white strips tea (安吉白片), basically a local variant on the famous Dragon Well tea (龙井茶). The tea we drank, grown on a small plot near the house, was machine processed in the workshop next to the house and just a small part of their tea business. As we sipped away on that glass, she let us feel and smell (this is how you evaluate dried tea) her personal favorite, hand-fried Dragon Well tea, the strongest-smelling of her collection, and distinctly curly (the white strips were straight as arrows). That was all well and fine, but what about the famous Anji white tea written on the sign outside, I asked once we had moved outside. Mrs. Ye’s family, it turned out, had grown white tea for generations, and so once its reputation blew up a few years back, she was poised to profit. The family rents 200 mu (~33 acres) of mountain land from other families at 60 RMB / mu per year (~$1750 total). Six years ago the family cleared the land and planted the white tea trees. “The trees put out a very little bit after three years, but usually don’t get into full production until after five or so years. Once they’re mature, you can use the trees for thirty to forty years before replanting,” she told us.

Mrs.Ye had chosen the site personally since she “knows from family experience which land is best for growing white tea. Tea grown high in the mountains will have the best flavor,” she imparted, “but if you choose the wrong place, your tea trees can die in a freeze, and the entire investment is a wash.” The picking season runs from the end of March to the end of April, usually a little less than a month. When the time comes, the family goes through a headhunting service (which charges 10 RMB per head) to hire mostly middle-aged women from Shandong to come pick. Why old women, and why Shandong, I asked? “First off, young people — and especially men — aren’t patient enough to spend weeks at a stretch painstakingly collecting the delicate, young tea leaves. People here in Zhejiang are mostly busy with their own businesses or crops at that time. Besides, they’d be too expensive for us. During our tea season the farmers in Shandong don’t have much going on. Their wheat usually isn’t ready to be harvested until the end of May.” I couldn’t believe the understanding of agricultural cycles she possessed and how wheat crops in Shandong affected tea in far away Zhejiang. Mr. Yu and Mrs. Ye arrange for the round trip bus fare, lodging, feeding, etc. of the women they bring down for anywhere from 10 to 20 days each during tea season. How many women are we talking here? “This year we had 380. I think next year we’ll need more than 400.” Most of the Shandong women are paid according to how many kilograms of tea leaves they bring in at the end of a day, with usual daily rates anywhere from 60 to 140 RMB, 80 being average. A smaller group is paid a fixed rate of 60 yuan per day for the easier job of manning the processing machines, of which Mrs. Ye owns fourteen. The entire process of drying, curing, and packaging takes about four hours per batch. “The real price of tea that you pay is in the labor,” she told us. Once all the tea is picked, processed, and packaged, purchasers from all over the country descend upon Anji to buy white tea in bulk for anywhere from 100 to 300 RMB per kg, depending on its grade, the market, etc. “The reputation of our Anji white tea has been growing every year. Business types and government officials who drink tea all day are beginning to switch to it since it’s lighter than most green tea and possesses more nutrition. That’s good for us since the prices are going up every year. That said, it’s been impossible for us to rent more land at a reasonable price since everybody knows how valuable the ‘Anji white tea’ name is becoming.” The business-savvy old Mrs. Ye told us all this while bouncing her baby grandson on her knee. Now that’s what I call a cool grandma.

After hours spent with Mrs. Ye, it was time for us to get on our way. She gave us a sticker of the family tea company to remember her by, and we bought a quarter kilo of her personally preferred Dragon Well tea for the road. From there we sped away through more of the awe-inspiring bamboo and tea-covered mountains toward Anji city. It’s impossible to describe how happy we felt riding through the clean air and immaculate surroundings, not only for their own sake but also for the fact that such natural beauty can still be found in China. It was as though we had been seeing the world through the end of a muffler, which we switched out for rose-colored glasses. Life is good in these mountains. Finally, we arrived in Anji itself and grabbed a cheap hotel for the night. This morning when we woke, Andy’s knee was acting up again, and so today we remain in the blasé, valley-set regional center, where at least there is a goofy “Western-style” café with wifi to share our updates with you. That’s it for today from Anji. As long as Andy’s knee cooperates, tomorrow we head back into the bamboo and toward destinations yet unknown. Goodnight.

The hills roll on endlessly like this in northern Zhejiang, by Andy

《结庐在人境》（陶渊明）

结庐在人境，而无车马喧。

问君何能尔？心远地自偏。

采菊东篱下，悠然见南山。

山气日夕佳，飞鸟相与还。

此中有真意，欲辨已忘言。

“Building a House in Human Territory” by Tao Yuanming

Building a house in a place where there are people but no hubbub of carts and horses (I imagine carts and horses were the height of offensive 1500 years ago – thank God Tao Yuanming never had to see a National highway)

People ask: how can you live like this?  [I answer:] my heart is far from the turmoil, and the place certainly is.

I go picking chrysanthemum under the east gate and relaxedly look up at the southern mountains.

The mountain looks incredible right at dusk, with birds flying hither and thither.

There’s real meaning here.  In the urge to describe it, I have forgotten language (exactly how I feel about the mountains we just rolled through).

. . . . . .