Travel Notes: Two Pieces

Author: Ding Wenjiang / Country: Mainland China
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 1998-12-01
Features: "Roaming Notes" and "Travel Notes to the Soviet Union" are unique travelogues praised by Hu Shi as "texts of permanent value in the Independent." They not only record meticulously and write clearly, serving as academic essays for scholars, but also provide substantial materials on mineralogy, sociology, anthropology, and folklore in Southwest and Northwest provinces during the late Qing and early Republican era. The latter offers a liberal intellectual's perspective on the diverse aspects of Soviet society in the 1930s, comparable to works like Qu Qiubai's "Journey Through the Starving Land" and Hu Yu's "Moscow Impressions," all of which are worth attention.
The waterways in the Taihang Mountains are worth noting. Traditional Chinese geography regards mountains as water divides. The Taihang Mountains, however, contradict this notion. The Tang River originates in Hunyuan, flows through Damaguan to Tang County; the Hutuo River originates in Fanzhi, passes through Yuzao Pass and Woshi Kou to Pingshan; the Zhang River has two sources, one in Xiyang and the other in Yushu, which merge into one after leaving the Taihang Mountains and flow to Cixian. These major rivers all pass through Shanxi and the Taihang Mountains before reaching Hebei. Not only the major rivers but also many smaller ones follow this pattern. Within the regions I investigated, there are two relatively larger rivers: the Qian River, originating in Shouyang, flows through Niangzi Pass to Jingxing; and the Zhan River, originating in Xiyang, passes through Changzhuang Kou to Pingshan, both also crossing the Taihang Mountains. From the perspective of Fushan and Mengshan to the west, one can see the complexity of these tributaries. Pingding and Xiyang are lowlands extending from north to south, with the southern part higher than the northern. To the west lies a plateau, and to the east stands the Taihang Mountains. We assumed that natural water flow should be from south to north, absorbing tributaries from the higher eastern and western areas. However, the reality is entirely different. Except for the Nan River in the south of Xiyang, all the rivers in this region originate from the plateau, flowing from west to east across the lowlands between Pingding and Xiyang, directly into the Taihang Mountains and forming gorges.
What is peculiar is that the two tributaries of the Qian River south of Pingding—the Nanquan River and the Hamafang River—do not flow into the main stream from loose yellow soil but instead head east, along the western slope of the Taihang Mountains, carving a shallow north-south valley on the rock faces. This shows that these waterways conflict with the current terrain. Studying the causes of such waterways is a fascinating problem in geology.
On Tin Smelting. Because tin ore contains no sulfides, it is easy to refine. However, traditional smelting methods do not use dissolving agents, so the ore must be cleaned extremely thoroughly before being put in the furnace. With modern furnaces and a bit of sand (silica) as a dissolving agent, even sand containing 50% tin can be smelted without further cleaning. The sand used in traditional furnaces has an average tin content of over 55%. For the same reason, the slag produced by traditional furnaces contains about 30% tin. True, this slag still needs to be crushed, washed, and remelted, but even the final washing still loses a significant amount of tin to wastewater. Yet these are not the fatal flaws of traditional methods. The reason traditional smelting cannot exist is that it relies entirely on charcoal. To smelt one ton of tin requires about 4,500 jin of charcoal. Calculating based on Gejiu's annual tin production of 8,000 tons, the region would need 16,700 tons of charcoal annually. There are no trees near Gejiu, so the charcoal must be sourced from over a hundred miles away. In 1914, the cost of traditional tin smelting was 156 to 160 yuan per ton, while the modern smelting furnaces of the Tin Bureau used coal instead of charcoal, costing only 100 yuan per ton. According to my calculations, starting from 1914, there would be no charcoal available within two decades. Based on recent materials, my prediction was indeed correct. In 1914, the average price of one jin of charcoal was 2.7 fen. By 1925, it had risen to 4.5 fen, and by 1928, it had reached 1.2 yuan. The cost of tin smelting had increased from 160 yuan in 1914 to over 600 yuan. It would not take more than five years for traditional tin smelting to be completely eliminated due to the lack of charcoal.
The second issue is washing the sand. Traditional sand washing requires at least six washes, sometimes as many as ten. Each wash consumes a lot of labor and time, making it highly inefficient. If all the sand from Gejiu were to the Gejiu Tin Bureau's washing plant, it could be washed in one go! Moreover, since there is no water on the mountains, traditional washing can only be done during the rainy season, allowing for work only half the year. A modern sand washing plant, however, can operate year-round because it is moved near water sources. Even this single improvement can increase efficiency by over two times.
The third issue is mining. Gejiu's mining practices differ slightly from elsewhere. Owners of "cao pi" (surface mining) must rent land from landlords, paying a fixed rent regardless of the amount of sand produced. The rent is determined by the width of the waterway, measured by "tang" rather than "mu." For every waterway suitable for washing one "tang" of sand, with corresponding sand, miners pay rents ranging from three to four hundred yuan. Owners of "diao jian" (underground mining) also pay rent to landlords (called "chou shou"), but the rent is based on the amount of sand produced: typically 3% to 6% of the sand mined. If no sand is produced, no rent is required. Thus, whether it is "cao pi" or "diao jian," the rent is a significant burden for miners. Yet the mining areas are barren and have no economic value. Landlords not only have the right to collect rent but also the right to dig in the tunnels (called "kai huan jian"). The ownership of the tunnels belongs to the "kai jian zi" (tunnel opener), who can allow others to open "zi jian" (branch tunnels) within their tunnels. The tunnel owner retains the right to collect rent and dig in the "zi jian." This process can continue indefinitely, with "zi jian" being further subdivided. Since the tunnels are often close together, conflicts frequently arise. Adding to this complexity of rights and obligations, traditional mining methods create significant obstacles. Modern mining methods could at least eliminate the landlord's rights to the tunnels and rationalize the mining process.
After leaving the hotel, I saw many department stores, but the quality of their goods was extremely poor. Miss Asia said, "If you want to buy anything, you must go to the 'Cash Transaction Store' (Torgsin)." In these stores, all purchases must be made with foreign currency or gold rubles, or items that can be exchanged for cash. This is the Soviet government's agency for collecting cash. On the surface, it is said to be for foreigners, so foreign currency is used, but in reality, most customers are Soviet citizens. While few Soviet citizens have foreign currency, those who do, or who have previously hoarded gold rubles, silver utensils, jewelry, pearls, diamonds—anything that can be exchanged for cash on the international market—can use them in the Cash Transaction Store. The currency issue is resolved. Non-monetary items must first be appraised by store staff, who then issue gold ruble shopping vouchers to the buyer. These vouchers resemble stamps in size and quantity. Anyone with such vouchers can freely shop at any Cash Transaction Store. These stores are far superior to ordinary department stores. Not only do they offer a wider variety of high-quality goods, but there are no quantity limits, and prices are relatively cheaper. For example, butter, which was in short supply in Moscow that day, was almost unobtainable in cooperatives. Even if available in department stores, it cost over 40 paper rubles per kilogram! In Cash Transaction Stores, butter is displayed in large quantities, priced only a tenth of what it would be in department stores—but it must be paid for with gold rubles or items exchangeable for gold rubles. Butter is just one example; everything from food, clothing, and utensils is available in the same way. Thus, any Soviet citizen who has cash or cash-equivalent items is compelled to frequent these stores. Through this method, all the gold coins buried by farmers, jewels hidden by nobles in their shoes, and treasures seized by revolutionary soldiers or overlooked by secret police are peacefully delivered to the government.
The last vehicle was a "Cultural Car" (Cultural Car), similar to the American "Observation Car" but less luxurious. It was equipped with newspapers, magazines, a radio, and even movies in the evening. A ticket cost one ruble. The attendant in charge of the Cultural Car spoke German—having learned it during his time as a prisoner of war in Germany during World War I.
Mr. Bu had fallen asleep, so I went to see the movie alone. The film was silent and extremely old, its subtitles incomprehensible, leaving many scenes unclear. I only understood that it depicted old farmers opposing new medicine. Later, a young man takes his father to a sanatorium, where he gets into trouble and makes jokes constantly. Eventually, he comes to believe in the new system and medicine. The next day, the attendant for the Cultural Car invited me again. I told him, "Your film is too old to be worth a ruble." "Sir! Today's film is completely different from yesterday's. Yesterday's was from five years ago, but today's is from 1933." I then took Mr. Bu along, asking him to explain the plot to me.
A loyal female communist, working as a tram conductor, rents a room in a house occupied by private traders. Naturally, her neighbors are not friendly. Yet she reads Lenin's works every night. A son of a private trader becomes infatuated with her and pursues her, but she rejects him. Later, she falls for a fellow who drives a car and often goes out with him for entertainment. One night, the driver takes her home and encounters a storm, unable to return. He stays overnight at her place as a "dry sleeper." The next morning, before the man wakes up, the woman goes to work. Her resentful neighbors gather outside her door, shouting criticisms. The son of the private trader writes "whore" and "one man a night" in white powder on her door. The driver, awakened by the insults, sees the graffiti and assumes the woman is indeed a harlot, leaving a note to break off contact with her. When she learns of this, she nearly loses her mind, while at the same time, the son of the private trader throws a knife through the window, hitting her on the head. Soon, the police arrive and quickly solve the case, arresting both the private trader and his son. The woman is taken to the hospital but survives. The driver, upon learning this, immediately goes to the hospital to reunite with her.
The plot of the film is so rigid, the lighting so unsuitable, and the filmstrip so damaged with cracks. I asked Mr. Bu, "How could a 1933 production be so poor?" "It is a 1933 production!" he replied. "This film was shot at least six years ago. Don't you see the private traders in it? After 1928, private traders no longer existed." I asked the attendant, "What year was today's film actually from?" He replied calmly, "1926!"
The Soviet Travel Agency people visited me every day: "Mr. Ding! Can you visit Baku today? We have Arabic architecture, palaces and mosques of old khans, modern universities, museums, workers' clubs, and workers' housing. You have come all this way. Are you not interested in anything besides oil fields?" I told them every day, "I don't have time today!"
On the last day, after returning from the Geological Institute, I was already exhausted. The travel agency's host—a Jewish woman—came again to urge me to go out. I said, "It's late now. Let's just visit the workers' club and housing." The workers' club was located southwest, near the BibiGibat oil field. Its architecture was typical of Soviet buildings—wide but not sturdy, simple yet somewhat dilapidated. However, it housed an excellent geological exhibition. There were various geological maps, stratigraphic columns, and specimens of rock oil. A model of the BibiGibat oil field was also displayed. I seized the opportunity to review my lessons again. After leaving the club, I hurried back to the city and took a car ride. It felt like a museum of the Middle Asian ethnic group.
Finally, I visited the newly built workers' housing in the northwest. From the outside, it resembled residential buildings in the Middle West of the United States—mostly three-story buildings, with dozens of them clustered together. I told the guide, "It's not interesting from the outside. Please find a way to take me inside." She hesitated, saying, "We didn't arrange this in advance, so they might not let us in." Seeing two women standing outside their doors, she went up to ask. She learned that one was an engineer and the other a worker. After explaining my intention, the engineer's wife said, "If you don't mind the mess, please come in." We went to the second floor and entered. The bedroom and dining room were each only about ten square feet. There was also a small half-square-foot room, a kitchen, and a shower behind the door. The owner had kept it relatively clean, though the clothes and belongings were a bit disorganized. I heard that the workers' housing next door was also available to see, so I asked the worker's wife inside. She was not very welcoming. After the guide and the engineer's wife persuaded her, she reluctantly agreed. To my surprise, her home was much cleaner than the engineer's! The bed was covered with white sheets and pillows, spotless. The small room housed an elderly woman, the owner's mother, who relied on her daughter for support. In the kitchen, the owner's husband was sitting, having taken a break from work, shaving. He paid no attention to the visitors. I also noticed that the shower head was heavily rusted, suggesting it had not been used for a long time. That concluded my tour.
The hotel we stayed in was called Nova Europa, the only hotel in Baku, built before World War I. The upper floor had a balcony offering a view of the entire city. However, the room furnishings were extremely outdated. The straw mattresses were uneven, causing headaches when sleeping, and the room was infested with bedbugs. I repeatedly complained, and the next day they changed the bed, which was slightly better. But the hotel was incredibly noisy—people coming and going all night, with a dance hall on the upper floor that only ended at dawn. The waiters gathered, talking loudly, and the bell often didn't ring, or when it did, no one answered. I didn't sleep well for three nights. The food was decent, but the dining hall was chaotic, with guests shouting and laughing like in a Chinese tavern. Turks often take dishes from their own plates to serve others. Sometimes, they use forks to pick up a piece of meat and offer it to guests across the table. All in all, it was quite comparable to our Far Eastern Yangzi restaurants, a testament to the crystallization of Eastern cultural spirit!