GuiLIT

For the first weekend since I touched down in Asia, I did not ingest a single drop of alcohol. It was one of the best weekends I’ve had yet.

It’s funny how easily you can click with people you meet abroad. Likely it has something to do with how anyone who decides to up and move to a foreign country for an extended period of time must share some degree of open-mindedness and ambition and desire to learn and grow and adventure, all qualities that make for compatible friends. Within our second time meeting each other (and at this point knowing very little about each other), Alan, Cathryn, and I decided to take a trip to Guilin. It was one of those casual things (“Oh you wanna go to Guilin? I’ve been wanting to go, too! Wanna go together? Ok? Ok!”) that ended up turning out pretty much as perfectly as it possibly could have. Very quickly, rough outlines of plans for my first trip to the motherland in a literal decade began to take form.

We spent our first night in Yangshuo, where hundreds of tree-covered limestone formations (bigger than hills, not quite mountains) set a dramatic backdrop to the vibrant and bustling village nestled neatly in the valley. The day was spent surrounded by more cumulative nature than I’ve seen since I left Vancouver, the untouched bamboo groves and native greenery exuding an almost prehistoric aesthetic. We spent the morning drifting leisurely down the Yulong (Jade Dragon) river in bamboo rafts and the afternoon kicking up dust along deserted country roads on scooters so cheap to rent that I had severe reservations about their safety (despite some close calls, we ultimately emerged from our ride unscathed) with only the cows, one single chicken, and the angelic voice of Ed Sheeran for company. The landscape was stunning and the weather scorching, both of which became only too apparent as we abandoned the wind in our hair in favour of a mildly strenuous hike up to Moon Hill, a natural arch several hundred metres in elevation, and the first of three summits we conquered in our three days in China.

The next day we drove out to the Longji rice terraces. The roughly hewn path to one of many scenic peaks encompassed several small hamlets and ethnic minority settlements, adding some colourful points of interest to an otherwise uninterrupted sea of green rice sprouts on the way up. The construction of the terraces, long, tiered rows of rice paddies stretching all the way down the mountainside, took from 1271-1911 to complete, and the resulting effort, aside from like, doing the important work of producing actual rice, is one of the most majestic displays of human capability I have ever seen (and most importantly, will probably star in about a week’s worth of Instagrams). On our way back down, Alan and I stopped to purchase and consume an entire watermelon the approximate weight of a small toddler from a hilarious old lady peddling fresh fruit on the side of the trail. I mention this because it was quite possibly the most delicious watermelon I have ever tasted, and most definitely my proudest accomplishment over the course of the trip.

Our last morning in China before several hours of transit back to Hong Kong was spent climbing to one of the highest points in Guilin, because of course it was. As if we hadn’t yet had enough physical activity in 40 degree weather, we decided to catch one last bird’s eye view of the city. Honestly, I don’t know why I just spent like five minutes writing colourful descriptions of Yangshuo and Longji when I also inserted photos which did a better job of explaining what they looked like anyway, so I won’t make the same mistake here. Look, this is what Guilin looks like:

Aside from getting more exercise in three days than I had in the last two months (and growing my honestly kind of impressive collection of mosquito bites), China was a nice opportunity to get back in touch with my Chinese identity. Being the only fluent Mandarin speaker in our travelling trio definitely helped, and so did the lack of constant internet access which forced me to be more present and probably also detoxed my pores and exorcised my demons among other purported benefits of “disconnecting” I’ve read internet blog posts on. I’ve spent the better part of my life (and definitely the majority of my eight months in Europe) trying to make people see past my skin and hair and eyes and believe that I’m Canadian. I spent Canada day at a bar celebrating with all the other expats, and when the Canadian anthem came on, I almost punched an Irish guy who was genuinely shocked that I knew all the words and kept repeatedly (and very rudely, hence my aggression) refusing to accept my insistence that I am indeed from Canada.

Much to my family’s disappointment, I identify far more with Canadian culture and values than I ever had with their Chinese counterparts. In the way that I dress and I speak and I act, I try at every turn to express that while I may look Asian, I’m not that Asian. You know, I drive well and speak English and don’t exhibit the negative stereotypes that are the root of the stigma surrounding new immigrants. Something something eurocentrism and westernized default standards of pretty much everything, something something internalized racism instilled by systemic white heteropatriarchy. But being in China again – for the first time without family – reminded me of what it means to be Chinese. It reminded me of why my mother is the way that she is (especially when we butt heads, which is often). It reminded me of the full scale and history and grandeur of the culture and heritage and language and microcosm of China that existed only within the walls of my home as I was growing up (and also like, at Crystal Mall and in Richmond, but I just feel like including those erodes my point so whatever). But most of all, it reminded me that however hard I try to assimilate into North America, I will always carry a slice of China with me – and that that’s not a bad thing.

(oh hey P.S. I made a video:)