A SLOW BOAT INTO CHINA: Up the Yangtze to the Three Gorges By

A SLOW BOAT INTO CHINA:
Up the Yangtze to the Three Gorges
By Diana Chambers
“Isn’t it a delight to have friends coming from afar?” Quoting Confucius, bubbly
“river leader” Alice Hu welcomed us aboard the Yangtze Paradise, a sparkling white,
dolphin-shaped vessel. The ship struck a sophisticated tone, beginning with a display of
worldwide time in the reception area.
As we departed Wuhan on our 850-mile (1370-km) voyage up the Yangtze River
to Chongqing (Chungking), she called a meeting to inform us about our “most luxury and
comfortable pleasure-boat.” On our five-day/four-night cruise, we came to agree—with
only a few small caveats. And even more, to feel it was her unflagging energy that carried
us up the ancient river.
Monumental yet softly poetic, the Yangtze Gorges are one of the glories of the
world, a Chinese national treasure. Yet, citing the river’s periodic flooding and the need
for new energy sources, the government decided to dam the great Yangtze. Despite a
long, contentious—and international—debate, construction has begun and will continue
over the next several years until the dam is complete and the gorges flooded—for all
time.
We wanted to see the gorges before it was too late and we didn’t want to commit
to a tour. The cruise normally begins upriver at Chongqing, culminating in Wuhan—or
even Shanghai where the Yangtze empties into the East China Sea. But since we were
headed into the heartland of China, it made more sense to begin in Wuhan (cheaper too,
we found) and let the river take us westward.
After some inquiries at our hotel, a go-getting clerk, Dick Hua, informed us that
the three-star Yangtze Star ($435 p/p) would be leaving later that week. Or, there was the
“ordinary” boat.
We decided to make the best of Wuhan and wait. Flashing a Pierre Cardin label
on his jacket sleeve, Hua took us to the China Hubei Province Yangtze Cruise
Corporation, an entrepreneurial offshoot of China Travel Service. Up five flights to ViceManager Ms. Wu Dan Dan, who miraculously located the last cabin on the four-star
Yangtze Paradise ($485 p/p). We forked over a pile of yuan, dollars and travelers’
checks—no credit cards—and were told that our tickets would be delivered tomorrow.
But what arrived was a mysterious scrap of paper, in Chinese. The hotel staff
assured us that this was our voucher.
Once we were on board, we set out to explore the ship, with its beauty shop,
ballroom, boutique, laundry, clinic, coffee bar and international communications center.
Strolling past the bamboo “garden” and (empty) swimming pool to the bow, we gazed at
the misty, muddy river, the fields of new-green and yellow rapeseed, the ferries and
bridges, the barges of logs, baskets and sacks of rice. Concrete blocks of isolated towns
jutted up from nowhere, then disappeared amid great rolling empty expanses punctuated
by a lone bicyclist watching us watching him.
Here, we chatted with a Hong Kong couple who had studied in the States and, like
so many we met, were well-informed on U.S. politics and culture. The husband told us of
a moving visit to Xian, the continuity he feels with his people, his civilization. To the
Chinese, this trip is about who they are. Roots.
It was time for the English orientation meeting, the Mandarin one just completed.
We entered the glassed-in observation tower, joining a group of Americans and
Cantonese-speakers—Overseas Chinese from Hong Kong and Malaysia—all eager to
view the famous gorges before they disappeared beneath 200 meters of water, and into
history.
We met energetic little Alice Hu, a force of nature in her own right, challenged,
but never defeated in her efforts to help us “enjoy on the Yangtze.” She passed out maps,
then detailed our program for the next five days, beginning with tonight’s banquet.
After passing through the captain’s reception line, we entered the dining room,
abuzz with predinner chatter as acquaintances circulated among the round, pink-linened
tables-for-eight. A vision in lace, Alice seated us at the one for “individuals”—our
companions two Chinese-born Californians with limited English and a Hong Kong
banker, his elegant wife and bright-eyed daughter.
Beside us were two tables for an American group; the others filled mainly with
members of a Hong Kong professional women’s association, their families and friends.
Their tour was booked one year ago in order to get this ship, reputedly number one, in
large part due to its kitchen. We were now about to experience the best Chinese food
ever, beautifully presented, imaginative, refined. Food, scenery and camaraderie are at
the heart of this cruise.
We toasted the captain and our voyage with plum wine, then began to eat “family
style,” the rotating center tray set with crab and shrimp toast appetizers. The dishes kept
coming—sardines, spicy squid, poached whitefish with broccoli, spring peas and baby
corn, duck—but no rice, a statement that the host could fill you without “filler.” The last
course was soup, customary there, we learned. Attractive young servers poured soda, tea
and warm beer.
After a bland cake, the captain made a speech, translated (and amplified) by
Alice. Welcoming us to the beautiful Yangtze and magnificent Three Gorges. Hoping we
would be saddened when our voyage came to an end.
Later, we met two Californians who related their sister’s experience last summer
on an “ordinary” boat. Second class being full, she traveled third class in a dorm, bodies
lining the halls to the toilets. Grateful to be in Paradise, we retired.
Lulled by the soothing roll and ripple, we slept like babies. Until—a great
THUNK. A mechanical breakdown? But no, it was only the ship dropping anchor in the
heavy fog. We dozed off...
The PA crackled into life. A sweet female singsong: “Good morning, ladies and
gentlemen. This is your wakeup call.” Thirty minutes later: “Your breakfast is ready.
Please go to dining room. Thank you.” But outside was pea-soup, and our beds so cozy.
The phone rang—Alice, cheerily notifying us of breakfast, Chinese or Western.
Evidently, a command appearance.
Joining our two San Franciscans, the chic Hong Kong couple and their daughter,
we nibbled toast, our stomachs still full from last night. By mid-morning, though, we
were starving.
It couldn’t have been the “gym”...which I found nestled next to the slot machines
in the rec room. An attractive lady stepped on the “hip” machine, then watched her son
play with the equipment, speaking to him in Chinese as he replied in American English.
Other youths were shooting pool, balls rolling with the deck.
Back in the cabin, my husband was gazing out the picture window at a hypnotic
monotony of river and shore, amid the gentle rocking and slap of the wake, foghorns
trading greetings, channel markers bobbing. A man strolled the deck, humming.
It was soon noon—time for the sweet-voiced PA call to lunch, highlighted by
sesame-coated fishsticks and dumplings. The worldly Hong Kong lady, a vegetarian, was
served delicious dishes, such as crispy sliced lotus root and noodles of dried bean curd
crust. We requested more of the same, then discussed 1997 and the Chinese takeover,
which her banker husband viewed as a great opportunity. From the rampant capitalism
we’d seen here, it appeared that Hong Kong had taken over the Mainland rather than vice
versa.
Alice now informed us that due to last night’s lengthy halt, we’d have to forgo a
planned village sojourn and push on. She put a good spin on things by telling us of other,
more beautiful sights to come. Not only that, we wouldn’t have to rise at 4:30 a.m.
tomorrow to view the locks.
After another tranquil day of scenery-gazing, another tasty dinner, we came
ashore for a visit to the ancient city of Jingzhou, now a boomtown of construction
workers, video arcades and nightclubs. Past old city gates, we drove to the museum, only
its gift shops brightly-lit. We attended a traditional concert—zithers, gongs, drums and
pan flute—performed by lovely young women in yellow and rose brocade. Then we
moved on, through musty, dim corridors to view the prize display: “Mr. Sui,” a twothousand-year-old corpse from the Western Han Dynasty. Haunted by the past, we exited
through a shadowy garden.
At breakfast, Alice, brow furrowed, announced another weather delay—in fact we
were still at anchor. We feared the unthinkable: that we might be forced to pass the
gorges in the dark.
But by mid-morning, the fog lifted and we continued on...To lunch. Later on
deck, we thanked Chinese-Canadian economist Frank for informing the crew that
Westerners like cold beer! Talk moved to the controversial dam. Referring to last night’s
excursion, he said that traffic in these small towns was a mess—why? Because they
didn’t have a reliable source of electricity. Why, too, they didn’t have cold beer. This, he
said, the dam would provide, contrasting it with coal and nuclear. Tough choices in our
world.
By late afternoon—“Hello, this is Alice Hu, your river leader”—we hurried to the
bow to view the locks of the Gezhouba Dam, which generates almost three million kw
per hour, precursor to the great Gorge project. Joining the queue of vessels, we entered
one of the channels, concrete walls towering over us. When we were tightly packed, the
rear gates closed and water began to pour in, raising us sixty feet to the river’s new level.
Then, the front gates opened and we moved out into the Xiling Gorge.
This gorge is the longest of the three, once the most dangerous, with whirlpools,
hidden rocks and shoals. In the soft dusky light, we wound our way past walled villages
and pagodas, fishermen and ancient junks, cultivated fields and lush peaks that soared
around us as the sky dissolved into flaming swirls. The river gleamed pink and orange,
then went black. Now, out of the darkness, we saw flashes of light on the north bank:
work had begun on the new dam—and was continuing even after nightfall.
Later that evening, we passed through the second, Wu Gorge, famed for its serene
beauty, which ship spotlights vainly tried to illuminate. We went to bed, only to be
awakened during the night by the bangs and shouts of the Paradise coming to dock at
Wushan, the end of the gorge and the entrance to the “Three Lesser Gorges.”
Early the next morning, we were bused through town to docks at the base of a
great mountain. We boarded what Alice called “small boats with simple toilets” for a
five-hour voyage up the Daning River. With bamboo poles, our three wiry boatmen
pushed off through crystalline waters. As sheer cliffs closed in, we gazed up at rows of
small parallel gouges, remnants of the ancient plank walkway, an engineering
masterpiece that connected vast stretches of forbidding terrain (which we also saw in the
mountains of Northern Pakistan). But our boatmen were a match for the river, even the
“Nest of Silver Rapids,” with its hull-scraping shallows and tumbling white water.
Overhead, goats were leaping amid mountain-green, which soon descended into
pristine fields where straight backs balanced bamboo baskets. Along gravelly shores,
women washed and children waved, while young men fished by hand, thigh-deep in
water near wooden longboats with tillers at each end.
Sharp peaks again sprang up, stalactites resembling “Monkey Fishing in the Air”
and “Fairy Throwing a Silk Ball.” Later, beneath remnants of mysterious hanging coffins,
we collected Yangtze pebbles, soon to disappear forever beneath the flooding.
Too quickly, we returned to our buses, waiting at the foot of the 200-meter high
Dragon Gate bridge to which the water would eventually rise, submerging this hilly town.
As we drove up and down congested streets, we speculated on the fates of all those to be
displaced. As one of our Hong Kong companions put it, only half ironically: what is one
million compared to one billion?
After a lunch of fresh fish, we made our way past furiously clicking mahjong tiles
to the bow, awaiting the third gorge. Under a warm, breezy sky, we caught up on the
China Daily Business Weekly—“State Industries Are Left Out of the Boom” and “New
Plans for Luring Machinery Investors.” A third piece—“Utilitarian Gifts are Out,
Ornamental is In”—we showed to one of our new friends, a Hong Kong fashion
executive taking a time-out from opening beauty shops and boutiques in China, Elizabeth
Arden and Ferré.
But now, grassy banks rose into cliffs of swirling Chinese rocks, as we entered the
Qutang Gorge, the shortest and most powerful. Our words fell away.
After dinner we made for the ballroom—and a “talent” show of karaoke hell,
followed by the real talent, as the crew took over. Beginning with a drop-dead number by
a tall waitress, slinky in silver sequins, gracious as men rushed forward with flowers.
Next came a languid fan dance by Alice (!) and six others in filmy red. The climax was a
fashion show choreographed by the receptionist, an amateur model and drummer in the
house band, spiffy in her Sgt. Pepper blue-with-gold-trim tunic.
Another peaceful sleep, cradled by gently rocking waters, then the sweet-voiced,
but dreaded call to breakfast. We praised Alice and her staff on a bangup show, then
settled in for our last day in Paradise.
Our last day on the river, flowing timelessly past solitary, suit-jacketed figures
with water buffaloes and bicycles, hillsides of bamboo and banana palms, fishermen and
boatbuilders, smokestack factories and sudsy waters, islands of rock being cut into blocks
and carried by sling aboard barges—onward to building China.
We entered the farewell banquet to see each table’s centerpiece a breathtaking
work of art on a plate—swan, fish, phoenix, Chinese fan, even our ship—delicate
carvings of vegetables, fruits and eggs. We traded toasts and addresses, nostalgic, even
sad—as our captain had predicted. It was late as our slow boat into China neared the end
of its voyage, but Alice did not sleep until we did—safe in Chongqing, our bed oddly
still.
If You Go:
The Yangtze cruise can be arranged by any good travel agency. Our Canadian
friend booked his through a Hong Kong agency, at about half the Toronto price. We went
in March (shoulder season for the rates quoted here); during summer we might not have
been so lucky in our last-minute arrangements. But it is worth a try if you are there and
have the time; the savings are considerable.
In Wuhan the Asia Hotel is the best (about $90/day). The Qingchuan is
conveniently located at the docks and a bit cheaper. The Jianghan is cheaper still, with
atmosphere of a certain sort.
In Chongqing the Holiday Inn is highly recommended (about $90/day). In China,
this chain is topnotch. The Renmin Hotel is on the river and closer to city center.
Prices are probably higher now, although often negotiable, depending on seasonal
demand.