Guilin, China
It seems that at any given moment on any given intersection in the city of Guilin, China there are 500 scooters idling anxiously for a green light.
Dodging scooters in Guilin.
Beware when the light turns, because every scooter wobbles to gain balance and squirms against on oncoming horde of equal size and determination. Contradictory to conventional urban traffic flow patterns, scooters and pedestrians share the same crosswalks here. I’m in this jousting match with my older brother Mike and his 26-year old daughter Jenna who teaches pre-school / early elementary education to Chinese youngsters in the mega-tropolis of Shenzhen, one hour north of Hong Kong. We arrived in Guilin by taking a twelve-hour train ride north from Shenzhen, cozily ensconced in a four-bed sleeper cabin the size of your typical office elevator.
It’s 7:30 on a hot, steamy May morning. The sky is the color of an old metal trash can lid and is just as grimy. We find ourselves at this and many other, frantic intersections during an exploratory walk of the city while waiting for our room at Wada Hostel. While it’s good to stretch my legs after a long train ride, I find it hard to relax and take in my surroundings for fear of becoming a handle bar accessory. Jenna, a seasoned traveler who is conversant in Mandarin, leads to safer back streets where we watch Guilinites start their day. (Admittedly, I don’t know if there are referred to as Guilinease, or Guilinarians, so picked the first variation that came to mind).
It’s no surprise, however, that a lot of activity in the back streets of Guilin has to do with scooter repair and maintenance. Mechanics sit on small milking stools, fumbling with wires and ratcheting things that need ratcheting. Tubes are patched; motors grumble to start; men point and offer advice – I think. To be fair, the backstreets of Guilin are more than pit row. We snake our way to an open air market where colorful vegetables are stacked with care and animal parts are hacked mercilessly with knives and hatches that would make a mediaeval executioner cringe. I see hooves, heads, and innards from various God’s creatures. Flies buzz. Guilinites bargain for cheap prices. I stumble over a blue plastic kiddie pool filled with flapping fish and slippery slimy things. A far cry from your suburban grocery store and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Breakfast “pizza” street food
Not far from the carnage, we come upon two make shift food stands: One serves dumplings the size of baseballs and small wads of green bamboo leaves hiding steamy contents. We opt for the next stand where an elderly woman serves something that resembles extra thin pizza. She happily cuts portions into tiny triangles and stuffs them in clear plastic bags and charges us the equivalent of $2.00 USD. They are a delicious mix of sesame, light oil and spices that would surely be all the rage should an Applebee’s back in the states decide to add it to their appetizer menu.
We weave our way through various backstreets. Some filled with activity, some deserted and eerily quiet. An unruly scooters startles us from behind with an annoying beep-beep and speeds by; it’s driver probably cussing to himself as to why foreigners — or “wài guó rén”– are walking three abreast in a narrow alley.
Amazingly, we find ourselves back at a familiar intersection, a mere two blocks from our hostel. Rush hour is still rushing and sees no sign of letting up. Evidently, the masses are on their way to do other things here in Guilin. And, so are we.