ACROSS THE YANGTZE GORGE
In mid-November we left the White Water with a caravan of twenty-six
mules and horses. Following the road from Li-chiang to the Yangtze,
we crossed the "Black Water" and climbed steadily upward over several
tremendous wooded ridges, each higher than the last, to the summit of
the divide.
The descent was gradual through a magnificent pine and spruce forest.
Some of the trees were at least one hundred and fifty feet high, and
were draped with beautiful gray moss which had looped itself from
branch to branch and hung suspended in delicate streamers yards in
length. The forest was choked with underbrush and a dense growth of
dwarf bamboo, and the hundreds of fallen logs, carpeted with bronze
moss, made ideal conditions for small mammal collecting. However, as
all the species would probably be similar to those we had obtained on
the Snow Mountain, we did not feel that it was worth while stopping to
trap.
At four-thirty in the afternoon we camped upon a beautiful hill in a
pine forest which was absolutely devoid of underbrush, and where the
floor was thinly overlaid with brown pine needles. Although the Moso
hunter, who acted as our guide, assured us that the river was only
three miles away, it proved to be more than fifteen, and we did not
reach the ferry until half past one the next afternoon.
We were continually annoyed, as every traveler in China is, by the
inaccuracy of the natives, and especially of the Chinese. Their ideas
of distance are most extraordinary. One may ask a Chinaman how far it
is to a certain village and he will blandly reply, "Fifteen _li_ to
go, but thirty _li_ when you come back." After a short experience one
learns how to interpret such an answer, for it means that when going
the road is down hill and that the return uphill will require double
the time.
Caravans are supposed to travel ten _li_ an hour, although they seldom
do more than eight, and all calculations of distance are based upon
time so far as the _mafus_ are concerned. If the day's march is eight
hours you invariably will be informed that the distance is eighty _li_,
although in reality it may not be half as great.
In "Chinese Characteristics," Dr. Arthur H. Smith gives many
illuminating observations on the inaccuracy of the Chinese. In regard
to distance he says:
It is always necessary in land travel to ascertain, when the
distance is given in "miles" (_li_), whether the "miles" are
"large" or not! That there is some basis for estimates of distances
we do not deny, but what we do deny is that these estimates or
measurements are either accurate or uniform.
It is, so far as we know, a universal experience that the moment
one leaves a great imperial highway the "miles" become "long." If
120 _li_ constitute a fair day's journey on the main road, then on
country roads it will take fully as long to go 100 _li_, and in the
mountains the whole day will be spent in getting over 80 _li_ (p.
51).
In like manner, a farmer who is asked the weight of one of his
oxen gives a figure which seems much too low, until he explains
that he has omitted to estimate the bones! A servant who was asked
his height mentioned a measure which was ridiculously inadequate
to cover his length, and upon being questioned admitted that he
had left out of account all above his shoulders! He had once been
a soldier, where the heft of the men's clavicle is important in
assigning the carrying of burdens. And since a Chinese soldier
is to all practical purposes complete without his head, this was
omitted.
Of a different sort was the measurement of a rustic who
affirmed that he lived "ninety _li_ from the city," but upon
cross-examination he consented to an abatement, as this was
reckoning both to the city and back, the real distance being as he
admitted, only "forty-five _li_ one way!" (p. 49) ...
The habit of reckoning by "tens" is deep-seated, and leads to much
vagueness. A few people are "ten or twenty," a "few tens," or
perhaps "ever so many tens," and a strictly accurate enumeration
is one of the rarest of experiences in China.... An acquaintance
told the writer that two men had spent "200 strings of cash" on a
theatrical exhibition, adding a moment later, "It was 173 strings,
but that is the same as 200--is it not?" (p. 54).
A man who wished advice in a lawsuit told the writer that he
himself "lived" in a particular village, though it was obvious from
his narrative that his abode was in the suburbs of a city. Upon
inquiry, he admitted that he did not _now_ live in the village, and
further investigation revealed the fact that the removal took place
nineteen generations ago! "But do you not almost consider yourself
a resident of the city now?" he was asked. "Yes," he replied
simply, "we do live there now, but the old root is in that village."
... The whole Chinese system of thinking is based on a line of
assumptions different from those to which we are accustomed, and
they can ill comprehend the mania which seems to possess the
Occidental to ascertain everything with unerring exactness. The
Chinese does not know how many families there are in his native
village, and he does not wish to know. What any human being can
want to know this number for is to him an insoluble riddle. It is
"a few hundred," "several hundreds" or "not a few," but a fixed and
definite number it never was and never will be. (p. 55.)
After breaking camp on the day following our departure from the "White
Water" we rode along a broad trail through a beautiful pine forest and
in the late morning stood on an open summit gazing on one of the most
impressive sights which China has to offer. At the left, and a thousand
feet below, the mighty Yangtze has broken through the mountains in a
gorge almost a mile deep; a gorge which seems to have been carved out
of the solid rock, sharp and clean, with a giant's knife. A few miles
to the right the mountains widen, leaving a flat plain two hundred feet
above the river. Every inch of it, as well as the finger-like valleys
which stretch upward between the hills, is under cultivation, giving
support for three villages, the largest of which is Taku.
The ferry is in a bad place but it is the only spot for miles where
the river can be crossed. The south bank is so precipitous that the
trail from the plain twists and turns like a snake before it emerges
upon a narrow sand and gravel beach. The opposite side of the river is
a vertical wall of rock which slopes back a little at the lower end to
form a steep hillside covered with short grass. The landing place is
a mass of jagged rocks fronting a small patch of still water and the
trail up the face of the cliff is so steep that it cannot be climbed
by any loaded animal; therefore all the packs must be unstrapped and
laboriously carted up the slope on the backs of the _mafus_.
At two-thirty in the afternoon we were loading the boat, which carried
only two animals and their packs, for the first trip across the river.
It was difficult to get the mules aboard for they had to be whipped,
shoved and actually lifted bodily into the dory. One of the ferrymen
first drew the craft along the rocks by a long rope, then climbed up
the face of what appeared to be an absolutely flat wall, and after
pulling the boat close beneath him, slid down into it. In this way the
dory was worked well up stream and when pushed into the swift current
was rowed diagonally to the other side.
After four loads had been taken over, the boatmen decided to stop work
although there was yet more than an hour of daylight and they could not
be persuaded to cross again by either threats or coaxing. It was an
uncomfortable situation but there was nothing to do but camp where we
were even though the greater part of our baggage was on the other side,
with only the _mafus_ to guard it, and therefore open to robbery.
About a third of a mile from the ferry we found a sandy cornfield on
a level shelf just above the water, and pitched our tents. A slight
wind was blowing and before long we had sand in our shoes, sand in our
beds, sand in our clothes, and we were eating sand. Heller went down
the river with a bag of traps while we set forty on the hills above
camp, and after a supper of goral steak, which did much to allay the
irritation of the day, we crawled into our sandy beds.
At daylight Hotenfa visited the ferry and reported that the loads were
safe but that one of the boatmen had gone to the village and no one
knew when he would return. We went to the river with Wu as soon as
breakfast was over and spent an aggravating hour trying by alternate
threats and cajoling to persuade the remaining ferryman to cross the
river to us. But it was useless, for the louder I swore the more
frightened he became and he finally retired into a rock cave from which
the _mafus_ had to drag him out bodily and drive him into the boat.
The second boatman ambled slowly in about ten o'clock and we felt like
beating them both, but Wu impressed upon us the necessity for patience
if we ever expected to get our caravan across and we swallowed our
wrath; nevertheless, we decided not to leave until the loads and mules
were on the other side, and we ate a cold tiffin while sitting on the
sand.
Heller employed his time by skinning the twenty small mammals (one of
which was a new rat) that our traps had yielded. We took a good many
photographs and several rolls of "movie" film showing the efforts of
the _mafus_ to get the mules aboard. Some of them went in quietly
enough but others absolutely refused to step into the boat. One of the
_mafus_ would pull, another push, a third twist the animal's tail and
a fourth lift its feet singly over the side. With the accompaniment of
yells, kicks, and Chinese oaths the performance was picturesque to say
the least.
[Illustration: A Liso Hunter Carrying a Flying Squirrel]
[Illustration: The Chief of Our Lolo Hunters]
By five o'clock the entire caravan had been taken across the racing
green water and we had some time before dark in which to investigate
the caverns with which the cliffs above the river are honeycombed.
They were of two kinds, gold quarries and dwelling caves. The latter
consist of a long central shaft, just high enough to allow a man to
stand erect; this widens into a circular room. Along the sides of the
corridor shallow nests have been scooped out to serve as beds and all
the cooking is done not far from the door. The caves, although almost
dark, make fairly comfortable living quarters and are by no means as
dirty or as evil smelling as the ordinary native house. The mines are
straight shafts dug into the cliffs where the rock is quarried and
crushed by hand.