The Yangtze Gorges

In the grey murk of a March morning, the city of Chongqing viewed from the riverbed is not a pretty sight. Even its inhabitants do not pretend Chongqing is a pretty sight. Rather, they take a perverse pride in its grimness, in common with the denizens of grim cities everywhere.

Standing on the upper deck of the cruiseship Victoria 1, my wife and I watch the last passengers arrive. This early in the year the river is low. Perhaps fifty ...
...laid, separate the ship's mooring from the quay. Raggedly-clad porters ("stick-soldiers" as they are known, from the sticks they use to sling loads across their shoulders) vie for hire, surrounding the tourists as they emerge from buses or taxis, seizing the baggage and shuffling with their burdens across the boards.

A band consisting of half a dozen teenage girls in red uniforms, which had piped arrivals up the gangplank ... more

In the grey murk of a March morning, the city of Chongqing viewed from the riverbed is not a pretty sight. Even its inhabitants do not pretend Chongqing is a pretty sight. Rather, they take a perverse pride in its grimness, in common with the denizens of grim cities everywhere.

Standing on the upper deck of the cruiseship Victoria 1, my wife and I watch the last passengers arrive. This early in the year the river is low. Perhaps fifty metres of mud, over which a temporary walkway has been laid, separate the ship's mooring from the quay. Raggedly-clad porters ("stick-soldiers" as they are known, from the sticks they use to sling loads across their shoulders) vie for hire, surrounding the tourists as they emerge from buses or taxis, seizing the baggage and shuffling with their burdens across the boards.

A band consisting of half a dozen teenage girls in red uniforms, which had piped arrivals up the gangplank half an hour earlier, has fallen silent. Now, they simply watch impassively as the late stragglers hurry aboard.

Beyond the mud on either bank, steep retaining walls rise from the riverbed. In a month or so, when spring has melted the snows of the Himalayas two thousand miles upstream, the water level will rise by twenty or thirty metres and being on the river will not seem like being at the bottom of a canyon any longer. In a few years, the water will slowly but more permanently rise from the other direction as the Yangtze dam floods four hundred miles of gorges, and the scene we are viewing will never be seen again.

Meanwhile, we can taste the pollution in the tainted air as the smog shrouds the city. Chongqing clings like a crusty fungus to the hillsides above the river, a foetid growth of stained concrete apartment blocks, some with incongruous mock-pagoda cornicing, ugly industrial buildings and unrelenting grime.

Then, among the many blasts of hooters and churnings of wake in the busy waterway around us, come a louder hoot and a churning from our own vessel, and we are under way.

*

Strictly speaking, this is not the Yangtze. To the Chinese the name only applies to the lower reaches, the full length being known as Chang Jiang (the long river), but few outside China would recognise it as such, so I have followed Western usage in calling it the Yangtze throughout.

The Yangtze is one of the world's great rivers, the third longest after the Nile and the Amazon. Over three hundred million people live along its banks, more than the populations of, for example, the USA or the old Soviet Union.

Historically, the river has been of immense importance. For China, it is traditionally the meeting place of north and south, and the main trading route between east and west. The waters of the Yangtze have both irrigated vast swathes of arable countryside and, when they flooded, wreaked occasional devastation.

Nearly four thousand miles long, the Yangtze falls roughly into four main stretches: first tumbling out of Tibet into the scenic province of Yunnan; next, having threatened to follow the Mekong and Red Rivers south into Vietnam (and what a different world we would live in if it had), veering north to water the interior region of Sichuan; then, furrowing its way by a series of gorges through the mountains of central China; and finally, meandering across the eastern plain to meet the sea at Shanghai.

It is the third of these stretches, through the gorges, that we shall navigate, over 700 miles from Chongqing to Wuhan.

*

It was the early Spring of 2001 and my wife and I were on the first of several journeys to visit our elder son, who taught English in a series of faraway places to finance his seeing the world.

This gave us an excuse to see the world too, and since his first job was in Harbin in the far north of China, we set out circuitously via the far south, beginning at Hong Kong. From there we had gone to Yangshuo, rural China at its most peaceful, with the Li River a gentle stream fringed by bamboo amid peaky hill-tops, a picturesque backwater.

The short plane-hop from the Li River to the Yangtze at Chongqing plunged us almost brutally into another China entirely: huge in scale, impenetrable in character, and anything but a backwater.

*

The smog lifts a little and the stench is alleviated as we leave Chongqing. The breeze of passage freshens the air.

We pass the junction where another huge river, the Jialing, joins from the north, slip under a ropy-looking cable car and then an enormous suspension bridge in the process of construction. We pass encampments of itinerant workers on the rocks beside the river, fishermen trying their luck in the polluted flow, factories and allotments. Hardly a square inch of soil is unused. Slowly, the city falls behind.

We still have a day's sailing to go before we reach the main gorges but even the everyday Chinese countryside seen from the river is to us a fascinating novelty, and we can hardly drag ourselves inside for lunch and a briefing on what to expect on the journey.

*

The Victoria1 is a large and sophisticated cruiseship, with three decks of cabins, dining room, shops, fitness centre, games rooms and every appurtenance. The main lobby, which rises through two decks with a circular staircase around it, is elaborately decorated in polished wood and glass.

Although modern, there is a period feel to it. One can imagine an Agatha Christie mystery being played out on this cruise, and I keep an eye open for Hercule Poirot among our fellow passengers.

In fact, the westerners among them prove to be mainly American, with a sprinkling of Germans. We are the only British. Then there are Japanese, Koreans, Taiwanese, Hong Kongers and even some mainland Chinese, but these seem a rarity.

At the briefing, the Passenger Service Staff parade for their introduction, aggravating my misgivings about the stiffness and formality to be found on cruises - something that has always deterred me from trying them. We are only on this one because the opportunity to see the Yangtze has seemed too good to miss.

In the event, as the cruise progresses, the misgivings dispel. The staff unstiffen and lighten up as we get to know them. There are: Tim, the Cruise Director, a young Australian; John, his chief assistant, an amusing Mississippian; and "Jonathan", a Chinese with excellent English and a seemingly inexhaustible fund of knowledge on local topography, history, customs and religion and almost any other question put to him. Many Chinese have these adopted English names, which are apparently given to them by their teachers at school and never shaken off thereafter. I blush for some of the young people of Harbin, who have had 'English' names inflicted on them by my elder son with his mischievous imagination.

Fears of formality also prove unfounded. Although the guidelines suggest jacket and tie for dinner, hardly anyone bothers. We find ourselves tabled with a congenial crowd: three adventurous young women from Seattle, some lively Germans from Munich, and a most interesting Chinese educated in the States and now a senior executive with a big electronics company together with his charming American wife. Our table is soon distinguishing itself by boisterousness and laughter.

There is much to enjoy in our onboard experience, though I sometimes catch myself musing wistfully at its touristic artificiality, and thinking how much more of China one would learn by simply booking passage on a local boat. But I'm too old and timid for such exploits nowadays, I'm glad to say.

*

The highlight of the first day is a visit to the 'ghost city' of Feng Du. Its approach is heralded by the appearance of a weird structure on the north bank of the river: disjointed white edifices like bones arranged down the hillside from a building shaped like a human head. We later learn that this represents the Jade Emperor presiding over Heaven, whilst the dark hillside opposite, topped by a gloomy temple, represents hell.

The cruiseship docks and we are transported by bus to the base of a chair-lift, to which we entrust ourselves despite the sign that says: 'Passengers are prohibited from carrying inflammables and explosives in the sacred place'.

The chair-lift carries us up over gardens to the temple, which is full of fascination: the stone bridge over which one must stride in a set number of steps (remarkably difficult); the murals representing souls descending to hell that strike me as extraordinarily similar to those on a parallel theme in the Cathedral at Albi; masons in a backyard carving out Buddhist statues in traditional style; the view across the river to the far bank, high up on which new apartment blocks are being built. "A very beautiful new city," our guide assures us, to replace "the very beautiful old city," which will be inundated when the river becomes a reservoir. The temple is beautiful but as to the cities, the beauty of either escapes us. Still, what do we westerners know?

Descending again to the square at the base of the chair-lift, we read the public notice-board explaining all this in English and Chinese. The English version is headed 'Propaganda Window'. Well, we can't say we weren't warned.

*

We leave Feng Du at nightfall, and have to be up early the next day for the entry to the Qutang gorge.

This is the shortest but most spectacular of the three main gorges. Approaching it in the morning mist one can hardly see the mountain-tops to either side from which the sheer cliffs descend. The river narrows and the cruiseship slows, part of a queue awaiting the go-ahead from the signal-station perched high on the slope. Above its rooftop an upward or downward pointing arrow is suspended, to signify the direction in which river traffic is permitted, the gorge being too narrow for a two-way flow.

The down-pointing arrow is hoist aloft, and we edge forward into the narrow waterway between the cliffs. Necks are craned backwards to see the damp green vegetation that clings high up the rockface, while swooping shadows in the mist betoken birds of prey. The atmosphere is so haunting and claustrophobic that an involuntary shiver runs down the spine.

It is here that we first see the narrow pathways that have been carved into the rocky walls, perhaps thirty metres above the early-season water level. These are the 'Tracks' used by the 'Trackers' in an earlier age. In the days before steam, all up-river traffic had to be towed through the gorges by hand. Gangs of workers were enlisted for the task - as many as three hundred being needed for large junks in seasons when the river current was at its strongest. It was not an enviable job. Each individual was tied to the main tow-rope and if he lost his footing on the rocky path his fellows to either side would simply cut him loose to prevent his pulling the whole gang down off the track with him.

In China the brutality of previous eras - and of ones that are not so previous - is constantly brought home to the visitor.

*

From the Qutang gorge we emerge into a still deep but less sheer and less bleak valley. Bankside settlements appear once more, and soon we are tying up at the town of Wushan.

Like Feng Du, Wushan is scheduled to sink beneath the reservoir, and here we see high up the slopes above the town the forthcoming water-level marked on the hillside - 175 metres above the current level at the dam-site downstream at Yichang. The further we go eastwards, the higher the marks will appear to be and the more habitations will be doomed to inundation.

Wushan marks the confluence with the Daning river, which has carved out its own gorges on its way to meet the Yangtze. We are bussed through the town, a chaos of traditional open shop-fronts, food-stalls cooking ad hoc meals in the street, and bustling crowds. Overhead, electric wires are jumbled from pole to pole like tangled knitting-wool. Incongruously, one or two shops are smart, brightly-lit and full of fashion goods. I wonder that anyone has thought it worth the investment when the town is soon to disappear.

At the Reception Centre of the 3 Lesser Gorges, beneath the signposted slogans ('What a Joy to have Friends from Afar' and 'Make you return to Nature') we tranship into flat-bottomed motorised sampans to explore them.

Although the Daning cannot compare with the Yangtze for majesty and scale, its 'lesser' gorges, being narrower, are in some ways even more imposing, making the visitor feel even tinier beneath the peaks 2000 metres overhead.

Two features stick in the memory. The first is the line of small rectangular holes in the rock-face adjacent to the stream and paralleling the water level, much as the trackers' track does in the Yangtze gorges. These holes are the last relics of the ancient 'plank road'; millennia ago they held timber beams which in turn supported planks, forming a continuous walkway through the impassable gorges and connecting the Yangtze valley to the Xian-based centre of Chinese civilisation hundreds of kilometres to the north. Apart from military and communications use, it also carried a hollow bamboo pipeline through which brine was pumped to provide salt to areas that lacked it. The other feature is the caves, inaccessible by hundreds of metres on their sheer cliff-faces, which house the 'hanging coffins' of former dignitaries.

The sampans need to be helped over the shallow rapids by stalwart boatmen wielding long poles, who display amazing strength and skill. In the calmer reaches, when they are not preoccupied, our Chinese friend - the electronics executive - goes to chat to them. He is an affable and easy-going guy, but after a while he comes back saddened. "They told me how much they earned, and asked me how much I did," he explained; "It's a normal question in China, but I felt I couldn't tell them." Working for an American multinational, he probably earned more in an hour than they did in a month. Proud though he was of his success, he clearly felt the gulf it had created between him and his compatriots.

I shall not describe the 'lesser' gorges - the Dragon Gate gorge, the Misty gorge and the Emerald gorge - in greater detail for fear of this review going on forever. Apart from the scenic splendour, though, a human detail or two sticks in the memory: locals wading out into the stream to try to sell us trinkets as we whisk by; others begging in a town where we stop to look around; a man in a coolie hat perched on a pink plastic chair by the waterside, seemingly asleep, miles from any habitation, crops or flocks. Not fishing. What was he doing? Like so much about China, I shall never know.

*

We hurry back to Wushan to continue through the second of the main gorges, the Wu, before nightfall.

The chilly mist descends again, and we see less than we would have liked of the pleasantly wooded slopes and the peaks beyond - not so precipitous as the Qutang but quite as atmospheric. Many of the mountains and rock formations have been fancifully named, like Goddess Peak, for example, a series of ridges that resembles a recumbent woman. But these names seem to me to be superfluous gildings of the lily. The scenery is sufficient in itself, stark and stupefying in its immensity. I don't need it to represent anything more than that.

Despite the mist, as evening gathers a brisk cold breeze blows up the canyon, but we stay on deck with hands shivering and teeth chattering, conscious that this is a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

*

Late evening finds us moored, at Zigui, for a "cultural show". My heart sinks at the very concept and I almost decline to attend, but am persuaded by our dinner-companions.

Mostly my forebodings are borne out by the offering. If these trite costumed song-and-dance routines are genuinely cultural, as opposed to concocted for tourist consumption, then one despairs for the local culture. Just one performance stands out, as sharp and distinct as caviar amid candy.

This is haunting rhythmic chant, performed by a troupe of seven or eight men led by a wizen-faced but burly elder, as they mime the hauling on rope of a team of trackers working a ship up the Yangtze. We are assured that the chant is indeed a traditional trackers' chant, used to keep their efforts co-ordinated much in the manner of a sea-shanty, and the leader was in his youth a genuine tracker. I have no way of knowing whether all this was authentic, but it was certainly and unforgettably impressive.

*

Morning finds us in the last and longest gorge, the Xiling, less precipitous again than those before it, and less barren.

Orange orchards and villages appear to either side, and we are told of numerous cultural relics, including the Huangling Temple, over 2000 years old but reconstructed and extended under the Tang dynasty. Even earlier, Neolithic, sites have been found on the banks and are in a process of frantic excavation, but most will be lost to inundation before they can be fully explored.

By now, though, the senses are becoming inured to the strange magnificence of the surroundings, and an effort is required not to become blasé. There is little sense of regret when this final gorge begins to widen out as we approach the site of the new dam.

*

The Chinese have always gone in for projects on a grand scale. One thinks of the Great Wall, and the 1000-mile long Grand Canal that linked Beijing to the Yangtze as long ago as the 7th Century. The Yangtze Dam is in the same tradition.

Anyone trying to learn about it is quickly as inundated in statistics as the gorges soon will be in water. It's the biggest dam in the world, the largest hydroelectric project in history, the material used would build a wall one metre square 13 (or is it 30?) times around the world, the reservoir will be 412 miles long, 2 million people will be relocated, etc. etc.

Leaving the cruiseship we are treated to a recital of all this by the guide on our way to the Visitor Centre, in which elaborate exhibits treat us all to it again. Then we are bussed up to a highpoint above the site to inspect - through the mist and drizzle - the vast excavations for the staircase of shiplocks that will bypass the dam. It is an incongruous eyrie, with a monumental statue in socialist-realist style, a planting of ornamental cherry trees, and tables with umbrellas advertising Coca-Cola. Below, the scene seems more one of devastation than of construction, as if a city had been flattened by an enormous explosion, but no doubt it is all proceeding to a central masterplan.

This is not the place to reiterate all the arguments for and against the dam - technical, environmental and human; there are many on both sides. Needless to say, we were given only the positive arguments by our guides.

As we were bussed back to the cruiseship, we asked our questions. Most of them focussed on the human side - about the people who would be displaced. How were they being reallocated to new settlements and new dwellings within them? The government had planned it all for the best, we were assured. Yes, but how, and which people were being given priority? No clear answer. And what if the people didn't want to go? But they would want to go, since it had all been planned for public benefit. Yes, but still, what if they didn't want to?

After several evasions, the guide realised she would have to answer. Her English had been fluent throughout, but now it faltered and became faint, with long pauses:

"Then….then….the government will…..persuade them."

*

From the quay for the construction site it is a clear run down to the old, shallow dam, and through the lock out onto the broad Yangtze basin beyond.

Suddenly the river seems ten times as wide, with flat banks far away in the distance. It is still going to be another day and night's journey to Wuhan, but we are out of the gorges.

*

Since I took this journey six years ago, the construction of the dam has progressed apace and the reservoir is already beginning to fill. To this extent the journey is literally unrepeatable, but the gorges are so extraordinary that even in their increasingly inundated state I would recommend people to see them, indeed to hurry to do so.

Notwithstanding the changes, cruises still run up and down the Yangtze. A number of companies do them, and they are often incorporated into packaged "see China" tours, in which case it is hard to isolate what this element of the package costs.

For those who might want to arrange it independently, I see from their website (www.victoriacruises.com) that Victoria Line, with which we travelled, no longer does exactly the same itinerary that we followed, but a slightly shorter one ending at Yichang is available for US$775-820 per person, depending on season. This includes everything except onshore excursions ($80),drinks and tips. We found the cruiseship comfortable, the food good, the staff courteous and knowledgeable, and the arrangements efficient. The only criticism would be that in the nature of such a cruise, the traveller is rather insulated from the real China. But without a knowledge of Chinese and an adventurous spirit, you would be brave to explore China without some insulation.

Whatever the economic and environmental benefits or disbenefits, it is a pity, though, that the gorges in their original form are disappearing, that many of the unique species of flora and fauna found there are expected to become extinct, that the jutting rocks that tower above the voyager in the swift and narrow waterway will become mere islands in a stagnant reservoir.

The busy ancient towns will have vanished beneath the silty water and, as for the people, the government will have….persuaded them.

© torr, first published May 2004

I regret to say I haven't been back to the Yangtze since this was first written, and the review has not been so much updated as revised. One of the people mentioned in it has been in touch with me out of the blue to query my wording on a particular point, which I have been happy to adapt accordingly. Gratifying to know that someone out there is actually reading my ramblings.  

...less