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Lijiang—Lion Hill and Wangu Pavilion
The narrow alley leading to and from our hotel in Old Town Lijiang was bordered with high walls. Every so often, an open door would give us a view of a small courtyard ringed by homes, or the interior of a newly built hostel. This morning sounds of hammering echoed from one open doorway. We peeked inside:
The far side of the courtyard was still intact, with its old doors and window, but the rest of the interior had been gutted and was being completely replaced. This type of overhaul seemed to be happening all over Lijiang. The city was being transformed.
Along the streets of Old Town, we saw a few people (women and men) performing their morning hygiene rituals, washing their hair and face with water from a basin placed on the sidewalk area.
We stopped to watch a group of older women and men perform a dance in a small plaza.
Most of the women had on blue and white aprons, which is part of the Naxi traditional dress.
Some of the people were hesitant in their movements, glancing over to their neighbors for guidance on what to do next, as if they were still in the process of learning the dance (or had forgotten it).
There was not a lot of joy or enthusiasm in the dance movements—although for all I know, it could have been a dance of mourning or sorrow. I got a sense that someone had taught a group of elderly people a dance, provided a limited number of aprons, and told them to perform the dance “for the tourists”. And there I was, a tourist, watching and taking photos. We were all playing our roles, yes? I felt a little sad afterwards.
While the dancing was happening, Genevieve and Sebastian were busy discovering some dragons:
Other families were taking photos of their children too:
We crossed over a nearby bridge and continued on our way:
This morning, our goal was to hike up to the Wangu Pavilion at the top of Lion Hill. The hill was named after its resemblance to the shape of a sleeping lion.
We climbed steadily and soon reached the entrance to Lion Hill Park. On the way, we passed this sign:
We think the message involved protecting and preserving the green spaces and culture of Old Town . . . but we’re not completely sure.
After entering Lion Hill Park, we stopped at a large viewing area. The grey tiled rooftops of Old Town looked like small waves in a sea.
Genevieve posed with Elephant Hill in the background:
Sebastian was fascinated with the mythical creatures on top of the fence posts.
We lingered awhile to absorb the magnificence.
We had a bird's eye view on all that was happening below. On one of the nearby buildings, a man was painting a sign in the Naxi language, which is considered to be the only living pictographic language in the world today.
Naxi pictographs contain human figures as well as many recognizable objects and animals.
Stairs led up the hill toward the Wangu Pavilion. As we climbed, we noticed some rows of wind chimes above us.
The chimes had hand-painted Naxi characters on them.
In the midst of the chimes was the Dongba Aspiration Windbell.
The following words were engraved on the stone holding the bell:
“This is a miracle place
You call the heaven. It answers.
You call the earth. It responds.
Make your wish from your heart.”
Genevieve closed her eyes and made a wish while ringing the bell.
Then Sebastian did the same.
Ben and I sent our wishes out to the heaven and earth too.
We continued our climb, on a manicured path that was interspersed with trees.
Wangu Pavilion was at the very top of the hill.
The Pavilion was fairly new—it had been built in 1997 (the year Lijiang Old Town had been declared a UNESCO World Heritage site). The name “Wangu” comes from the Naxi words for “on the hill”.
A bowl on incense sticks was on the top step of the entrance.
The Pavilion was five stories high, with a staircase that zigzagged up the middle.
Of course, we had to climb to the top.
The interior was painted with colorful designs and figures.
There were supposed to be 10,000 carved dragons in the Pavilion. The largest one hung from the center of the ceiling on the top floor.
Through the 5th floor windows, we could see an expansive view of the Old Town.
In addition, we received our first look at the more modern section of Lijiang.
Behind the Pavilion were two raised gazebos with elaborate roofs. The first held a large bell.
Genevieve and Sebastian took turns ringing the bell. (We saw some Chinese tourists ringing the bell, and there weren’t any signs saying “Do not ring.”) Sebastian could barely reach the ringing pole, but the bell chimed clearly when struck.
The second gazebo held a humongous drum. Genevieve gave a few swift (but soft) pounds.
As we were leaving the courtyard, a woman approached us who had been sitting at a small table nearby. She handed us two ribbons and told us that we should go into the building on our right to receive “a blessing.” We hesitated, as our “scam” radar was being triggered. We asked her outright if the blessing cost any money, and we said that we didn’t want to go inside if we had to pay a fee. She assured us that it was “free”.
The interior of the building was dimly lit, and there was a small table off to one side. Sitting behind the table was a man dressed in the red robes of a monk; he motioned for Ben and I to come forward and sit in two chairs in front of the table. Genevieve and Sebastian hung back. We handed the monk our ribbons and sat down. The monk went through a ritual of lighting incense, putting the ribbons together, and saying many words to us both in Chinese. He then held out a bracelet—wooden beads threaded with an elastic band--and motioned for Ben’s hand. He slipped the bracelet on Ben’s wrist, and then said some more words, which we took to be an enhanced “blessing”.
I was happily absorbing everything, and feeling that this “blessing” was really a special experience. Then the monk wrote something down on a piece of paper and showed us. He had written the number “100”. My spiritual groove came to a screeching halt. It dawned on us that the monk wanted 100 Yuan (almost $15). Ben reached into his pocket and pulled out a 10 Yuan bill and held it out to the monk, who shook his head and pointed at the “100”. I whispered to Ben that I did not want to pay $15 to the monk. I was planning my escape route. The monk then pointed to Ben’s bracelet and then again at the “100.” Ben slowly took off the bracelet and handed it back to the monk. He and I stood up together to leave. Then Ben reached out and inserted the 10 Yuan bill into the top of a slotted container on the monk’s table. I gave a small bow to the monk, and we made our getaway.
Perhaps a scam in spiritual guise is supposed to make the targets feel better about the experience. For me, it had the opposite effect.
On our way back down Lion Hill, we noticed these beautiful doors on the side of the Pavilion.
We were hungry when we reached the bottom of the hill. The first few restaurants that we selected had no empty tables for us. Then we spied a woman cooking some yummy-looking dishes at the Longevity Restaurant.
(Well, the chicken feet didn’t look all that yummy . . . .)
And there was an empty table for us near the back of the restaurant. I ordered our meal by going over to the cooking area and pointing at what I wanted, making sure to select things that we had never tried before (but not the chicken feet).
We were the only Westerners in the restaurant. One of the customers sitting behind the children spoke some English, and she was watching us eat. Finally, she asked us how long we had been in China, and said she was "impressed" that we had learned to use chopsticks so well. (We didn’t tell her that we eat with chopsticks quite often back in California.)
As a side note, our server hadn’t given us any plates or bowls to eat our food from. I spotted some place settings individually wrapped in plastic on a side table, so I got up and brought four settings to our table. The owner/manager, who spoke English and who had welcomed us warmly, came over and advised us that the wrapped settings cost extra (about 30 cents each—which was okay with us).
After lunch, we found some ice cream for the children. Here is Genevieve with her treat:
We also bought some strawberries from a woman with a large bowlful.
Back at the hotel, Sebastian and Genevieve were greeted by their new friend—the hotel’s pug dog, named Ben Ben (which means “dumb dumb” in Chinese).
Ben Ben was small and round, and loved to be stroked and cuddled. We all adored him.
After a brief rest, we were ready to continue our explorations around Lijiang.
One of the famous structures in Lijiang is the Mu Residence, which is sometimes described as a smaller version of the Forbidden City.
On the way to the Mu grounds, we passed under an elaborate wooden gateway.
The exterior of the Mu Residence:
Members of the Mu family were chiefs of the Naxi people when the area was invaded and conquered by the Chinese Ming emperor in 1382. The emperor then gave the family the name “Mu”, which means “wood.” The Mu residence was subsequently commissioned by a member of the Mu family, who was inspired by the design and style of the Forbidden City complex in Beijing. The residence served for many years as the home of the Mu family, and also was the political center of Lijiang.
The original residence had almost 100 buildings and covered 16 acres. It suffered much damage and destruction in subsequent wars, especially during the Qing dynasty. The current residence was rebuilt in the late 1990’s and now covers 8 acres.
A map showed the layout of the buildings and gardens.
After looking at the map, we discussed whether we wanted to buy tickets (about $5 for adults) to tour the interior. Genevieve and Sebastian had been through the Forbidden City and the Summer Palace in Beijing, as well as the Hanging Temple in Datong, and the Wangu Pavilion this morning. They were honest in saying that they really didn’t want to walk through the Mu residence. I understood. I often tell the kids to rate their desire to do something on a scale of 1 to 10 (with 10 being the highest); my personal desire to see inside the Mu residence was about a “5.” We skipped the tour.
Instead, we headed to the local open-air market. On the way, we purchased some fresh pineapple chunks on a stick for Genevieve. Sebastian’s attention was captured by a woman who was cracking walnuts. He loves walnuts, and he asked me if we could buy some. The woman didn’t speak English (and I don’t speak Chinese), and the dance of negotiating a purchase started out with me stepping squarely on her feet.
First, I smiled and asked how much. She held up 2 fingers and indicated ½ pound on the scale sitting by her. I thought that she meant 2 Yuan (about 30 cents), so I held out 2 Yuan. She shook her head and turned her body away with a look of disgust. I had obviously offended her. Ben suggested, “Let’s just go.”
However, Sebastian still wanted some nuts, and I wanted to clear up the misunderstanding with the woman. We are, after all, ambassadors of our culture when we travel. And I knew that with some patience, I could remedy the situation. The woman’s two fingers had obviously not meant 2 Yuan, so I needed to find a different way to understand. I knelt down on the ground and dug out my small notebook and pen from my daypack. I smiled again, pointed to a handful of Chinese money, and wrote “5” and “10” on a blank page; then I handed her the notebook. She wrote the number “28” (about $7) and gave the notebook back. I nodded. She then scooped out some nuts onto the scale; it was a lot of nuts, and was still far less than ½ pound. Sebastian couldn’t eat that many. I pointed to the scale and then to my handful of money, asking, “How much for that?” She scooped a few more nuts onto the scale and then pointed to the 10 Yuan note in my hand (about $1.50). Sold! And she and I both had smiles after the transaction was over. Mission accomplished.
Ben snapped this photo on the sly as I was paying for the nuts:
The nearby open-air market had a wide array of items.
One stall was packed with belts, chains, spoons, and other metal objects:
Here were door handles/knockers:
Chili peppers:
This machine was pounding dried red peppers into powder:
Dried roots and mushrooms:
These roots reminded me of little squid:
Potatoes:
Plucked ducks:
Sausage and other meat products:
Leafy greens and vegetables:
Genevieve said she had a headache and needed to sit down. We found a door stoop around the corner, away from the market activity. There we sat and people-watched. And the people watched us back:
We slowly made our way back to the hotel. From this street, we could see Wangu Pavilion on Lion Hill, where we had hiked this morning.
In the plaza near the Mu residence, a group of women were waiting to be filmed singing a song; the man in the suit appeared to be the director.
We tried to be discreet with our camera, taking photos from afar with a zoom lens. Some of the Chinese tourists were very aggressive. One tourist squeezed herself in beside one of the singers and wrapped her arm around the singer’s shoulder while her friend snapped a photo. The singer was smiling hesitantly and glanced several times at the tourist beside her; however, the tourist never spoke to the singer or acknowledged her, and bounced up, laughing, when the photo was over, without a backward glance (let alone a “thank you”). The singer looked a little bewildered by the whole experience.
As with the dancers this morning, watching the singers left me feeling a bit sad, and also pondering my role as a tourist.
An influx of tourists into a community does bring increased income to (at least some of) the local people. However, the increased tourism can change the flow of life in ways that are not always welcome. I got the impression that the community of Lijiang is still figuring out how to strike a happy balance between providing services that cater to the tourists while still retaining many of the traditional ways of life for the local people. Without that balance, the local customs and traditions may become part of a Disney-esque show, presented to tourists but without any connection to daily living.
Tonight we ate at a restaurant that was “highly recommended” in our Lonely Planet guidebook.
The food was good, and the kids got to have pizza, which they hadn’t eaten since we left home. Ben and I splurged on a bottle of wine, which the waitress uncorked at our table and then left. However, when we took our first sip, it was obvious that the wine had gone bad. We refused to drink it, but the waitress refused to take it back, saying that the bottle was now open, so it was ours. We remained polite but firm—we were not going to drink it, nor pay for it. Ultimately, we were informed that since the bottle was uncorked, we now couldn’t just say that we didn’t want any wine at all; we had to order another bottle. The manager finally suggested another brand and type, which we found to be very pleasing.
Tomorrow afternoon we would be heading to another city, and I have to admit that I was ready to leave Lijiang. It was a beautiful city, and I was glad that we came for a visit. However, I would be relieved to leave behind the rows and rows of tourist shops selling the same things over and over. Added to that was the “blessing” scam at Wangu Pavilion this morning, combined with the sadness that I had felt watching the older people dance, and the some of the disrespect shown to the locals by other tourists. I was not sure if tourists in general (including me) are necessarily bringing about positive changes here.
In any event, I woke up ill during the night, lending a whole new meaning to the phrase “sick of Lijiang.”
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