Li River Backpack: 6 Major Fun Activities in Guilin for You

Author: Shen Weidong
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 2003-09-01
Features: Strolling leisurely along the Riverside Road, the ancient camphor and banyan trees with lush branches sway in the breeze, and the tranquil Li River is right beside you. The river breeze is filled with the scent of plants, surrounding you. You can sit casually on the stone benches by the river. People fishing sit by the shore, holding their fishing rods. Bamboo rafts and small boats float freely in the river. With the arrival of spring, the Li River water has risen slightly, and the horse sculptures on the opposite bank seem to be calling their friends in the water. Someone on the shore walks barefoot in the river water. Vehicles and pedestrians stroll through the streets, splashing through the water. In the past few years, this area was overgrown with bamboo and wood, where many elderly people played chess and drank tea. Despite their dilapidated state, the streets with swaying bamboo shadows and the clear river water still evoke nostalgia. After urban development, the area has become cleaner, and these local pleasures seem to have faded.
By the Rongshan Lake, a stone pig lies under the shade of a tree, sleeping on a large pig, snoring with its hat turned upside down over its face. The fat pig seems reluctant—lying there with its mouth pouted, looking innocent. Grass has grown under its body—unknown how long it has been sleeping. "I’ll sleep too," it thought, and fell asleep. How many years will it take before moss grows on its mouth?
By Rongshan Lake, there are many such endearing pigs—lying around and sleeping freely. In their dreams, do they recall their lush mountain hometowns? You stroke its back and sit. Both you and it feel at ease. Rest, don’t exhaust yourself—being able to take a peaceful nap in the cool shade is a blessing earned in a past life. These are a group of pigs who adapt to their surroundings. Their bodies are like big houses for their souls to rest.
At the Li River bridgehead, a street singer performs at dusk. Under the swaying bamboo grove, a blind couple sings. The man is short and yellow, squatting there with a furrowed brow, playing the strings with his thin, bamboo-like fingers. The woman, however, is plump, her clothes tight with her flesh, standing there with her face toward the sky, singing a small tune in harmony with the music, her voice as clear as a young girl’s—they both look like elderly people. At their feet lies a worn-out porcelain teacup with a few-like banknotes inside. Around them, people come and go—what kind of world do they perceive beyond their own?
The weather is extremely cold, and the river wind blows fiercely. The woman’s voice trembles, and the man’s music becomes hoarse. The woman leans forward, gently fastening the man’s collar for him. The man touches the woman’s clothes and whispers to the old man selling roasted sweet potatoes nearby, buying one for the woman to hold in her arms. The music and singing resume. The surrounding world, with its people coming and going, fades into an insignificant background, yet they seem to clearly see each other.
Warmth in the Cold Rain
Guilin people eat dog meat. There is a "dog meat eating manual": yellow dogs are considered the finest, known as "one yellow, two white, three spotted, four black." The preparation is complex—first, the dog is skinned and gutted, then the whole dog is hung on a large iron rack and smoked with straw for a year until the skin turns golden. The dog meat is chopped into pieces, marinated for half an hour with Guilin Sanhua wine, light soy sauce, ginger slices, scallions, mustard, and rock sugar. Then, it is stir-fried with red chili peppers, fennel, dried cardamom, aged sand ginger, star anise, and tangerine peel, and finally braised with Shaoxing wine and Guilin fermented tofu. When the meat and bones are tender, it’s ready to be cooked in a charcoal fire for dry pot dog meat.
In winter, when the cold rain pours down, and the mountain villagers carry baskets of shiny charcoal to the streets, you’ll know it’s time to invite a few "dog meat" (a local term for good friends) to gather for a hot pot of dog meat. Sitting in a small shop, with the bitter wind and rain outside and the gentle warmth of charcoal inside, drinking a couple of cups of Sanhua wine, you’ll feel that being a Guilin person is truly great.