There was a silk painting that hung in our living room for many years. It was a pretty landscape of China. A picture of pensive hills, wispy clouds and a meandering river flowing off the canvas. It was 'generic' scenery, similar to an Alps snowfall scene or the Indian village and lady-with-pot-on-her-head views that one sees all over the place. A few months ago I had the uncanny experience of walking right into it; walking right into that picture I once had on my wall. That indeterminate piece of scenery, I discovered, was of the River Li, a place of poets, artists and beautiful vistas in southern China. To be precise, the river is located in the northeastern area of the Guangxi Zhuang autonomous region. A cruise on the Li Jiang is touted to be one of the top attractions of China. From the southeastern town of Guilin about 80km upriver to Yangshuo, the sleepy river wanders by fertile fields, bamboo copses, tiny villages, fishing crafts and rafts, placid buffaloes, waddling ducks and towering limestone hills wreathed in clouds. For this special experience, some 2,000 tourists apparently flood Guilin daily to board the cruise boats. A variety of low-slung barges -- some shaped like Chinese houses -- coast up and down the river packed with Nikon-clad tourists. It is a six-hour jaunt, with lunch onboard served fresh from the galley. We found ourselves travelling with a huge pack of Taiwanese, and a few Europeans, Americans, Japanese and NRCs (non-resident Chinese). This was actually the only place in China, on our trip, where we saw so many Westerners. The Taiwanese seem to be the most common visitors. The Chinese have capitalised on this particular attraction and the whole experience proceeds with the efficiency of a conveyor belt, with groups of tourists moved from hotel to the docks by coaches, loaded on boats and despatched upriver. This, however, does not detract from the experience and one is not jostled by herds of tourists the way it can happen at the Niagara Falls or the Eiffel Tower. Nor, as one imagined, are the boats crude rafts packed with humans. The Chinese have it all sorted out. The boats are comfortable affairs, quite like what you might find on the Rhine or the Seine, with groups of passengers occupying their own cabins and an exotic meal at midday. Pamphlets are handed out and an English-speaking guide accompanied us on the voyage. An hour into our journey, we halted to visit a group of limestone caves. For the next two hours, using boats, lifts and trains, the guide bravely herded us through forests of stalactites and stalagmites. Like the hills outside, each of the hundreds of formations has been lovingly named. And the caverns were luridly lit with green, blue, yellow and pink lights, giving a Las Vegas feel. As we re-boarded the boat, we could see chefs whipping up a special lunch. Pots steamed and woks spluttered. How does one explain to enthusiastic hosts, in a land where everything from pigs and rabbits to snakes can make a midday meal, that one is vegetarian? Many rounds of sign language, phrase book sessions and sketches later, we were presented with platters of boiled peanuts, tofu on noodles, and mushrooms, served up with black tea. Some of it looked mildly suspicious, but we dutifully pecked at it. As the boat proceeded upriver the scenery took on a certain dreamlike quality. The river is flat and flows languidly, as the land seems to have little gradient. One passes through a maze of strange-looking hills. Like giant termite homes, these limestone pinnacles crowd the bamboo-fringed riverbanks and produce interesting reflections in the placid water. The hills are hazy under the mist, but bright green in places. The Chinese seemed to be fond of affectionately nicknaming each of them -- Snail Hill, Court Board Hill, Nine Horses Cliff, Five Fingers Hill, Green Lotus Peak, Dragon Head Hill, Penholder Peak, An Old Man Pushes a Mill Hill. Their imagination is very vivid. In this particular neighbourhood of China, cormorant fishing is a common way of livelihood. Fishermen crouch on narrow, frail rafts of bamboo at night, shining lights into the water to attract fish. And release black cormorants. These birds, whose necks are ringed to prevent them from swallowing the fish, duck into the water and return victorious. The Li, which originates in the mountains 400km from Guilin, has been the focus of reams of Chinese poems and art. Like River Seine in Paris, artists have often hung along the foggy banks of the Li waiting for a masterpiece. Thick black strokes, with special Chinese art tools, of the swirling mist and waters have given the lazy river immortality. Generations of writers have eulogised the Lijiang with poems and hymns. They have dubbed this hinterland a 'fairyland' and likened coasting on the river to 'boating into a dream'. The land bordering the banks of the Li seemed infertile in areas and almost sandy. In other areas it was iridescent with paddy. Like India, China has a significant tribal population and the indigenous people who live around Guilin (who speak the Guilin language) do a bit of farming and fishing. And raise water buffaloes or giant flocks of ducks. But unlike India, where riverbanks teem with life, it was hard to spy much activity beyond the bamboo thickets as we swished along. Beautiful though it was, the landscape seemed a bit forlorn. And hence even more unreal. Sharing our cabin was a Japanese with stories of another world. Much travelled, he had forayed into India, to learn more about mythology, meditation and the roots of Buddhism. On one jaunt to Amritsar, he discovered his wallet missing. He had no way of returning to his lodgings and struck a deal with a rickshaw-puller that he would pedal his vehicle. The rickshaw-wallah, he discovered, was a teacher of meditation who transported people on the side to make a little bit of money and keep in touch with the real world. The Japanese gentleman spent many weeks at his home refining his own meditation techniques. When we reached Yangshuo some hours later, we found ourselves in a picture-perfect, tiny market town. In a few ways it resembled parts of India, a bit like Ladakh. Houses were brightly whitewashed with red roofs and the streets of cobblestone. Yangshuo seemed a favourite tourist spot -- a backpacker town. It was well populated with tourists who had decided to overstay or even stay on. The place was dotted with cosy little guesthouses, cafes offering pork or fish spiced with the special Guilin lajiaojiang pepper sauce, lively karaoke bars and even Internet cafes. A lively little place indeed. Chinese artefacts of all varieties were on sale in the stalls -- bamboo hats, umbrellas, carvings, brass and with a little bit of hectic bargaining, prices plummeted dramatically. At Yangshuo a coach was waiting to take us back to Guilin. Bye Cockfighting Hill. Cheerio Five Tigers Catch a Goat Hill. Farewell Black Buddha Cave. Adieu Dragons Playing Water Precipice.... Vaihayasi is relaxing in Bombay after her hectic holiday. MORE FROM THE SAME PEN: Oh, China any day! From Estonia with love Page design: Uttam Ghosh Tell us what you think of this diary
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