I love a good reality check, especially when it comes at ten minutes after midnight on a Thursday night.
Last night, I was treated to a healthy dose of reality as I waited patiently for my sleeper train to take me to Yingtan, a stop-off en route to Guilin in the south of China.
I had been hanging out in Tunxi, near Mount Huangshan, with some lovely folk for a few dayts and I had got a little comfortable. One lovely Taiwanese lady, Lina, had been keeping me company with her perfect English. I’d been indulged with her insightful, fascinating conversation and even treated to her skills as a translator. It was heaven.
Then, just as it started to get nice and cosy, I upped and left, like a Aussie guy who thinks he might be in love. The road was calling.
It started with the taxi driver. He decided to round Y6.40 up to 7 Yuan. It took a good five minutes to figure that one out.
In the packed-out, human-odour-filled waiting room a young Chinese man struck up a brief conversation with me in English. This ain’t so bad, I thought.
His train and most of the waiting passengers left and I pulled out my book, ready to chill out. It was midnight, after all and I’d had a big day sampling different sorts of tofu.
But, peace alluded me and, instead, I was treated to a piece of modern-day Commedia del Arte.
A friendly-looking, pink-clad young Chinese woman excited beckoned me over. I obliged, lugging my backpack to sit opposite her and her companion (friend, sister, cousin, maid – I was not sure).
Naturally, she started chatting away, asking me all sorts of questions and confusing my blank face for comprehension. After a few minutes of her rapid-fire Chinese, my shy smile, combined with a head shake, brow crunch, silence and shoulder shrug eventually told her that I was understanding her as much as vegetarian understands a butcher.
She was crushed. Her shoulders slumped and her head drooped, for a few moments at least.
But it did not take long for her intuitive Chinese nature to take over and she was it again. Question after question poured out of her, alongside a million beautiful smiles. She was convinced, I’m sure, that if she said the words slowly and loudly enough, that I would understand. Does that sound a familiar tactic, I asked myself, guiltily.
So I sat there, pouring over my useless phrase book, looking like a complete fool and repeating the meagre words I knew. Mi fan (rice) and ce sor (toilet) – at least I think that’s what those words mean – did not really fit into the conversation. But, dua bu qi (sorry) was bandied about like bubble bath at a slip ‘n’ slide.
It was pretty funny, really, and it was certainly more amusing than my rather hard-core book about Chinese history.
There weren’t many people at the station, about 8, I reckon, but they were all crowded aroud like kids at a clown show.
I was definitely the clown.
My fellow passeners were smiling, adding their two-cents worth every few minutes and, of course, having a nice giggle at my expense.
Then, the conductors came over, three of them, and joined the circus. Of course, I couldn’t understand their Chinese either.
It started getting ridiculous when one of the ticket officers decided to display his considerable mime skills. He was jumping across the waiting room like some rabbit-cum-reindeer with an exceptionally goofy grin on his face.
I’m not sure if he was trying to mime a kangaroo for me, as I’d divulged that I was an Aussie, or whether he was trying to tell me that doing acrobatics with my heavy backpack would be difficult.
In any case, it was a real treat to see the conductor, decked out in his full uniform – complete with the train driver’s hat and blazer – take on the attributes of a jack-in-the-box.
After that wave of laughter had subsided, we were really in stitches at one point, the girls got straight back to their task: to tell me what they had been doing in Tunxi. The bought out the old let’s-show-her-in-writing-so-she-can-read-it-because-the-problem-is-clearly-her-lack-of-oral-skills trick. The Chinese business letter they whipped out for me to read, unsurprisingly, did not ease our mutual confusion. I can read the date, I thought, impressed with myself.
But, once again, I crushed their dreams.
And it was touching that they cared so much about continuing a conversation with a foreign stranger. It was short-lived, but I felt a breif sense of community with the folk at the station. I managed to learn the Chinese words for sister, name and tired, too, which was a bit of a boon.
I reckon it’s the absurdity of these sorts of situations that make them so memorable. It’s really not every Wednesday night you find yourself at a train station in rural China trying to understand the local dialect. For me, that’s the real brilliance of travelling alone and visiting exotic places. Climbing Mount Huangshan and road-testing stinky tofu are fascinating and thrilling experiences, but the ones that make you laugh and take you by surprise, they’re the real gems.
The never-ending game of Charades continues.
Author: Penny Potter
Freedom. Adventure. Curiosity. Laughter. Nature.
Conquering Mount Huangshan with the rest of ’em.
Imagine stepping back in time a few thousand years and going on a quest. Oh, there’s fun to be had tapping into that side of your imagination. You could find a few handy companions, a dodgy map and pack yourself some provisions. Then you’d set out to conquer an ancient mountain.
That’s what I did a few days ago, but with a little less ancient mystique and quite a few more Chinese people. And a couple of Norwegians.
Mount Huangshan is a good spot for such an expedition. It’s about a 6 hour bus-ride or 13 hours on a comfy train south of Shanghai. (Of course, I took the longer route.)
On this ancient mission you should not forget your wallet. You’ll need a fair bit of coin to survive on the mountain. Most notably, you’ll need to fork out 230 yuan to get in the gate.
All you have to do is find your way to the other side.
That means strapping up your boots at the Mercy Light Pavilion, climbing a few thousand steps to CelestialPeak, cresting LotusPeak on your way to the Heavenly Sea and then finally reaching the hotel at Bright-Top Peak. Then you can find the room that you’ll share with 20 others, includingh 17 friendly locals.
The Chinese have made this much easier by attaching concrete pathways to the side of the sheer cliffs on Huangshan. And the prehistoric mountain, with its exceptionally steep slopes and sharp granite outcrops, is as easy to navigate as a brand spanking shopping trolley.
In China, accessibility means people. The domestic tourists swarmed around the peaks like greenies at vulnerable old gum tree. They were ubiquitous. Many are wearing yellow hats that are themed for their special tour group and they follow their flag-waving, yelling-Chinese-into-the-microphone-so-the-people-in-Shanghai-can-hear-but-no-one-one-the-mountain-can-hear-their-own-footsteps guide fastidiously.
The Mandarin is like the buzz of your next-door neighbour’s lawnmower on a Sunday morning. It can be annoying, but you learn to tune out and both are non-negotiable.
The people were a mixed bag. Some charged up the hill, and it’s a bloody steep hill, as if there was a pot of gold at the top.
Others were less keen on the hiking and paid men to carry them up in chairs attached to bamboo poles.
In fact, the Chinese tourists came in many shapes and size, from the hard-core Adidas-shod athletes to the pretty ladies strolling up in Dior shirts, tight jeans and heels.
It was a strange sensation to be atop a stunning mountain, with peaks cascading upon each other all the way to the misty horizon, with thousands of other people.
I’m impressed by their enthusiasm for the outdoors and that they take the time to visit these places. On the flip side, it’s overwhelming. And it seems ironic to have a swanky four-star hotel in such a mystical place.
But, hey, that’s China. It’s modern and ancient, simultaneously.
The biggest surprise for me was that I already knew this place. It’s one of China’s most famous landmarks and features on many of their oriental paintings. It’s what I always imagined China to look like, but without the tourists and the cable cars.
Still, the mountain has myriad charms. The scenery is exceptional, especially at sunrise and sunset, and the place names are something else entirely.
On your way down the Huangshan you’ll need to keep Flying–Over Rock on your left as you head towards the Black Tiger Pine. The trick here is not to go to the White Goose Station, but instead go straight down to the CloudValleyTemple via the Scenery-Inviting Pavilion.
If you get lost, which I did, of course, you can make your way back to the Black Tiger Pine by the Beginning-to-BelievePeak and the Harp Pine. It’s best not to take the path to the Stone Monkey Watching the Sea. Instead you should take the sign to the North Sea.
Of course, if you were on an ancient quest there would probably be no signs and fewer tourists to ask advice from, but you should never let the facts get in the way of a good imagination.
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Just another notebook.
As I was wandering around aimlessly a few nights ago I came across some hilarious Chinese notebooks. I only just managed to refrain from purchasing one, but could not resist sharing them.
This is a selection of the most inappropriate.
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Not for all the tea in China.
I love a morning stroll. I especially love discovering new delicacies every morning for breakfast. There is one thing, however, that the Chinese do not do so well. It’s not a big surprise. I had been forewarned. But that doesn’t make it any easier.
It’s the coffee. It’s rubbish.
Even in the places it should be ok, it’s not.
But, this is all part of the China-detox I had been planning. Going without a morning latte is much easier when there is a smog-infused walk and ginger-flavoured candy on offer.
So far, I’ve also been keeping my dairy and cheese cravings at bay. Although, check-in with me in two months to see whether I’ve traded hiking for brie hunting.
Food aside, the best trade-off for coffee is, of course, tea.
And having a brew in China is like wearing a string bikini at Ipanema. It just feels right.
I’ve even invested in a little thermos, after seeing most of the population walking around with various shaped and coloured thermoses, all containing different types of tea.
I just love carrying the flagon around with me and stopping for a quick cuppa at every intersection.
And the looks I get from the locals, it’s like a daughter-in-law-to-be has just revealed to her future in-laws that she’s keen to have children as soon as possible after the wedding. I can feel their approval as they stare at me and trip over the chipped pavement.
Perhaps the best thing about my new pink flask is that it says “Childhood’s memory always tastes delicious,” on the side. I am always thinking that.
The tea is not super cheap, either. A few hundred grams of the nice jasmine brew I’m indulging in at the moment cost me the same as two plates of delicious dumplings. Choosing the leaves is quite the process, too. And a few leaves can be infused about five times by the hot water thermos that is conveniently located in the lobby. In fact, hot water is everywhere for your tea-drinking convenience.
But, despite all of the tea-leaf excitement, I still catch my mind wandering into the realms of lattes and Arabica beans at about 10am. At least I have my childhood memory, right.
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Beautiful bridge. Skanky river.
Group photo
Greetings from Tunxi!
Here are a few snaps from my journey so far.
I love the enthusiasm people have shown for getting a photo with a Westerner. Mostly, as a single white girl, I am not attracting too much attention, but it does raise a few eyebrows.
This is a selection of some of the best group shots. It makes me very happy to be welcomed like this.
Also, The China firewall is bloking WordPress and Facebook, unsurprisingly, and I am not sure whether these shots will go through. If someone wants to let me know if they are successful, you can post a comment on the blog, or email me at pen.lang.
I cannot change spelling errors either, so apologies for that.
Hope you all have a great day!!
Penny.
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Speak Chinese? No, not so much.
I ｗａｓ ｃｈａｔｔｉｎｇ ａｗａｙ ｗｉｔｈ ｓｏｍｅ ｖｅｒｙ ｆｒｉｅｎｄｌｙ Ｃｈｉｎｅｓｅ ｆｏｌｋ ｔｏｄａｙ ｏｖｅｒ ｌｕｎｃｈ． Ｔｈｅｙ ｗｅｒｅ ｙａｋｋｉｎｇ ａｗａｙ ｉｎ ｒａｐｉｄ Ｃｈｉｎｅｓｅ． Ｉ ｓｗｅａｒ ｔｈｅｉｒ ｍｏｕｔｈｓ ｗｅｒｅ ｎｅａｒｌｙ ｅｘｐｌｏｄｉｎｇ ｆｒｏｍ ｔｈｅ ｓｐｅｅｄ． Ｉ ｗａｓ ｔｈｅｒｅ， ｔｏｏ， ｙａｒｎｉｎｇ ｏｎ ｉｎ Ｅｎｇｌｉｓｈ．
Ｔｈｅｒｅ ｗａｓ ｎｏ ｃｏｍｐｒｅｈｅｎｓｉｏｎ． Ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇ．
Ｙｅｔ ｗｅ ｗｅｒｅ ａｌｌ ｌａｕｇｈｉｎｇ ａｗａｙ ａｎｄ ｈａｖｉｎｇ ａ ｆａｂｕｌｏｕｓ ｔｉｍｅ．
Ｉｔｓ ｅｘｔｒｅｍｅｌｙ ｌｉｂｅｒａｔｉｎｇ ｔｏ ｗｏｎｄｅｒ ａｒｏｕｎｄ ａ ｃｏｕｎｔｒｙ ｗｉｔｈ ｎｏ ｉｄｅａ ｗｈａｔ ｔｈｅ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ ｏｒ ｓｉｇｎｓ ｏｒ ｖｏｉｃｅｓ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｒａｉｌｗａｙ ｓｔａｔｉｏｎｓ ａｒｅ ｔｅｌｌｉｎｇ ｙｏｕ．
Ｓｉｎｃｅ ｒｅａｌｉｓｉｎｇ ｔｈａｔ Ｍａｎｄａｒｉｎ ｉｓ ｅｘｃｅｐｔｉｏｎａｌｌｙ ｄｉｆｆｉｃｕｌｔ ｔｏ ｇｒａｓｐ， Ｉ ｈａｖｅ ｌｏｏｓｅｎｅｄ ｕｐ ａｂｏｕｔ ｔｈｅ ｌａｎｇｕａｇｅ ｂａｒｒｉｅｒ． Ｉ ｂｌｕｎｄｅｒ ａｌｏｎｇ， ｔｒｙｉｎｇ ｕｎｓｕｃｃｅｓｓｆｕｌｌｙ ｔｏ ｍａｋｅ ｍｙｓｅｌｆ ｕｎｄｅｒｓｔｏｏｄ． Ｍｏｓｔｌｙ Ｉ ｔｒｅａｔ ｔｈｅ ｃｈａｒａｃｔｅｒｓ ａｓ Ｉ ｄｏ ｉｎ Ａｕｓｔｒａｌｉａ， ｔｈｅｙｒｅ ｂｅｓｔ ｉｇｎｏｒｅｄ． Ｉｔｓ ｂｅｔｔｅｒ ｆｏｒ ｔｈｅ ｓｅｌｆ−ｅｓｔｅｅｍ．
Ｗｈａｔ ｉｓ ｔｒｕｌｙ ｆａｎｔａｓｔｉｃ ａｂｏｕｔ ｕｎｄｅｒｓｔａｎｄｉｎｇ ｎｏｎｅ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｌａｎｇｕａｇｅ ｉｓ ｈｏｗ ｅｆｆｅｃｔｉｖｅ ｓｉｇｎ ｌａｎｇｕａｇｅ ｂｅｃｏｍｅｓ． Ｉ ｃａｎ ｓｕｃｃｅｓｓｆｕｌｌｙ ｍｉｍｅ ｔｈｅ ｅａｓｙ ｓｔｕｆｆ， ｓｕｃｈ ａｓ ｗｈａｔ ｉｓ ｙｏｕｒ ｊｏｂ， ｐｌｕｓ ｓｏｍｅ ｍｏｒｅ ａｄｖａｎｃｅｄ ｍｉｍｅｓ， ｓｕｃｈ ａｓ ｗｈａｔ ｂｒｅｅｄ ｏｆ ｐｉｄｇｅｏｎ ａｒｅ ｗｅ ｅａｔｉｎｇ． Ａｓｋｉｎｇ ｐｅｏｐｌｅ ｔｏ ｔａｋｅ ａ ｐｈｏｔｏ ｏｆ ｍｅ ｉｓ ｅａｓｉｅｒ ｔｈａｎ ｐｌａｙｉｎｇ ｉｎ ｍｕｄ．
Ｂｕｔ ｎｏｔ ｅｖｅｒｙｏｎｅ ｃａｎ ａｇｒｅｅ ｏｎ ｗｈａｔ ｉｓ ｔｈｅ ｂｅｓｔ ｗａｙ ｔｏ ａｓｋ ｓｏｍｅｏｎｅ ｗｈｅｒｅ ｔｈｅｙ ｂｏｕｇｈｔ ｔｈｅ ｇｏｏｄ−ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ ｎｏｏｄｌｅｓ， ｓｏ Ｉ ｈａｖｅ ｒｕｎ ｉｎｔｏ ａ ｆｅｗ ｉｓｓｕｅｓ．
Ｔｏｄａｙ， ｆｏｒ ｉｎｓｔａｎｃｅ， ａｓ Ｉ ｗａｓ ｃｈａｔｔｉｎｇ ａｗａｙ ｗｉｔｈ ｔｈｅ ｆｒｉｅｎｄｌｙ ｒｅｓｔａｕｒａｎｔｅｕｒ， Ｉ ｕｎｄｅｒｓｔｏｏｄ ｔｈｅ ｗｏｒｄ ｈｏｗ （ｇｏｏｄ） ｏｎｌｙ． And I’m fairly certain they only knew hello. Ｉ ｗａｓ ｆｉｎｅ ｗｉｔｈ ｔｈａｔ, ｂｕｔ ｔｈｅ ｎｉｃｅ ｍａｎ ｗａｓ ｇｅｔｔｉｎｇ ａ ｂｉｔ ｆｒｕｓｔｒａｔｅｄ． Ｈｅ ｒｅａｌｌｙ ｗａｎｔｅｄ ｔｏ ｋｎｏｗ ｗｈａｔ Ｉ ｄｉｄ ｆｏｒ ａ crust． Ｓｏ， ｔｏ ｍａｋｅ ｉｔ ｅａｓｙ ｆｏｒ ｍｅ， ｔｈｅ ｓｉｌｌｙ Ｗｅｓｔｅｒｎ ｇｉｒｌ ｗｈｏ ｃａｎｎｏｔ ｓｐｅａｋ Ｃｈｉｎｅｓｅ， ｈｅ ｓａｙｓ ｈｅｌｌ ｗｒｉｔｅ ｉｔ ｄｏｗｎ．
Ｗｅｌｌ， ｔｈｉｓ ｉｓ ｊｕｓｔ ｇｒｅａｔ， Ｉ ｔｈｉｎｋ， ａｓ ｈｅ ｂｅｇｉｎｓ ｓｐｅｗｉｎｇ Ｃｈｉｎｅｓｅ ｓｙｍｂｏｌｓ ｏｎｔｏ ｔｈｅ ｐａｇｅ． Ｉｔｄ ｂｅ ｅａｓｉｅｒ ｔｏ ｃｏｍｐｒｅｈｅｎｄ ｐｈｙｓｉｃｓ．
Ｉｖｅ ｂｅｅｎ ｉｎ Ｃｈｉｎａ ｆｏｒ ｆｏｕｒ ｄａｙｓ ｎｏｗ ａｎｄ， ｆｒａｎｋｌｙ， Ｉ ｈａｄ ｅｘｐｅｃｔｅｄ ｔｏ ｂｅ ｆｌｕｅｎｔ ｂｙ ｎｏｗ． Ｉｌｌ ｋｅｅｐ ｔｒｙｉｎｇ．
Ａｎｄ ｉｎ ｔｈｅ ｍｅａｎｔｉｍｅ, Ｉｌｌ ｋｅｅｐ ｗａｎｄｅｒｉｎｇ ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ ｔｈｉｓ ｂｅａｕｔｉｆｕｌ ｃｏｕｎｔｒｙ ｗｉｔｈ ｏｎｌｙ ｍｙ ｓｍｉｌｅ ａｓ ａ ｃｏｍｍｕｎｉｃａｔｉｏｎ ｔｏｏｌ． Ｉ ｆｅｅｌ ｖｕｌｎｅｒａｂｌｅ. Bｕｔ ｔｈｅ ｂｅｓｔ ｐａｒｔ ａｂｏｕｔ ｔｈｅ ｓｉｔｕａｔｉｏｎ ｉｓ ｔｈｅ ｌａｃｋ ｏｆ ｅｘｐｅｃｔａｔｉｏｎｓ． Ｉ ｎｅｖｅｒ ｋｎｏｗ ｗｈａｔｓ ａｒｏｕｎｄ ｔｈｅ ｃｏｒｎｅｒ.
Ｉ ｗｅｎｔ ｆｏｒ ａ ｓｔｒｏｌｌ ｔｏｄａｙ ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ ａ ｒａｎｄｏｍ ｐａｒｋ ａｎｄ ｅｎｄｅｄ ｕｐ ｆｉｎｄｉｎｇ ａ ｚｏｏ．Ｈｕｈ？ It had a bear and deer and peacocks and one very cranky monkey. I was just expecting trees. Ａｎｄ ｔｈｅｎ Ｉ ｆｏｕｎｄ a ｂｅａｕｔｉｆｕｌ ｈｅｒｉｔａｇｅ ｂｒｉｄｇｅ.
Ｓｏ， ｔｈｅ ｌａｎｇｕａｇｅ ｂａｒｒｉｅｒ， ｉｔ ａｉｎｔ ｓｏ ｂａｄ， Ｉ ｒｅｃｋｏｎ．
Splendour and smog in Shanghai
I can’t quite see the tops of some of the towers on the other side of the river, such is the thick, eerie quality of the smog in this city. Also, I had expected to see some old Chinese folk practising Tai Chi as I strolled along the famous Bund. But as dorm-mate had warned me earlier, “the Bund is pretty. but you’re just walking along the river.”
Shanghai, on first impressions, did not overwhelm me with character or bustle, just with its size.
I made my way around the bohemoth, however, and found some quaint charms.
One of the highlights was strolling along the Bund, very aimlessly, breathing in the thick pollution and admiring the stunning colonial buildings clashing with the stark modernisation on the other side of the river. By itself, this could appear a rather dull pursuit and indeed it was not superbly exciting.
The best part of this morning walk was being snapped out of a reverie by a group of Chinese tourists waving their hands in such an animated fashion I thought one of them may have just laid an egg. A few blank looks, smiles and hand gestures later I realised they wanted a photo with me. Sure, I thought, flattered.
We passed their cameras around snapping as if the camera had just an inch of battery left. Then I bought out my camera to grab a photo of them and I thought their faces may just burst from their exuberant grins.
I walked away thinking Shanghai might not be so bad, after all.
Then, it happened again. Cameras were passed around like damper at a campfire. How great is this, I thought as I took on my new role of mini-celebrity.
And then, it happened again. My head swelled a little more.
Throughout the day I clocked five experiences of photos with Chinese tourists and I really have no idea what’s going on with the combined tourist shost, but I love it. The sense of community and knocking down of cultural barriers is beautiful.
However, I was more than a little perturbed when my mate told me later on, rather awkwardly, that my fly was undone. Oh dear!
Gold fever.
“There’s plenty of gold there. I reckon we just head down to the creek and try our luck.”
That’s the first thing I hear on Easter Sunday.
I’m politely ignoring my brother in favour of my bacon and eggs. Then my mother chimes in.
“Do you think that’s going to be the best place to find the gold?”
“Yeah, that’s what the guy said yesterday at the festival. He said he got 100 pieces of gold at the creek near Nundle,” he replies.
“OK, well what are we going to use. We don’t have a pan.”
The seriousness in my mother’s tone alarms me. “Hang on,” I say. “We’re not seriously going panning for gold, are we,” I ask, disbelieving.
My mum assures me that we are indeed going prospecting.
“Down Fossickers Way, Pen, that’s where we’re heading,” my brother declares, referencing a local road that has obviously taken his eye.
It’s always alarming when you are forced to wake up before you are ready, but it is even worse when you discover your family fancy themselves as nugget hunters.
There will be gold, my brother assures me. There’ll be plenty to go around. It’s just waiting for us to find it.
Yeah right, I think.
He fancies himself as some sort of modern-day pioneer.
I wanted to say something witty and cynical, but the savvy part of my brain stopped me. What if we actually found some gold? They’d laugh and say they told me so and I’d be gold-less and they’d all be rich.
This is what happens with gold fever, it sucks you in like a half-price packet of donuts at the end of a long day
My brother’s enthusiasm, as usual, is contagious.
And so the search begins for appropriate tools. We do not have a pan with the proper ribs on the side for jiggling the gold around, but a barbeque pan and a water filter will suffice.
A quick Google search reveals that plenty of optimists have tried their luck around Nundle. The prospects have even evoked the ire of a notorious land-owner enigmatically named Nundle Guy. He is not a fan of prospectors and has a history of threatening people wishing to cash in on the 160-year record of gold finds.
The hunt has become even more ridiculous as we concoct stories of what Nundle Guy will do when he hears about our nugget. Surely enough, I’m pulled into the expedition.
We improvise a few tools and head off to have a quick barbeque on Chaffey Dam, which is between Tamworth and the gold-hunting spot, before our days as middle-class folk are traded for a nouveaux rich status.
The snags are lovely and as I’m sitting amongst the gum trees quietly reading Mao’s Last Dancer and, of course, enjoying the serenity, I begin to think of how exciting it would be to find a large gold nugget.
Earlier today we had discussed some famous discoveries, such as the Welcome Stranger Nugget that was found in the 1800s in Victoria. It weighed about 71kg.
I imagined myself really excited, like when a Mangrove Jack is on the end of my line or when I find an eggplant in the fridge that I had forgotten about. If those sorts of events make me scrunch up my face and jump up and down, what would happen when my brother and I dug up a big nugget?
I could not even imagine how many dumplings such a nugget would buy.
I find in luck-centric money-raising ventures, the money is often spent before it is found. Mum had already picked out her camper van and dad was purchasing a winery in the Hunter for me to play on. Naturally, I would trade in my old car for a sexy motorbike.
On the way to the creek it was peak hour at Nundle. “You guys look like a pack of dudes traipsing off to the creek with your shovels, a barbeque pan and a water filter,” my mum commented about our crude equipment.
Indeed, we were a ragtag bunch.
Snake-fear was paramount as we waded through knee-high grass to find a suitable creek bank.
We fell down the narrow, muddy banks straight into the icy water. With high spirits, we waded across the jagged rocks, sensing gold just beneath our bloodied feet.
My brother and I could barely keep our excitement at bay. Concentration levels were akin to eating fish with bones in them.
We panned and panned with little idea what we were doing. The rocks bounced about in the big old water filter and I was certain I was propelling a large nugget to the bottom of the pan.
I’d scour the bottom of the makeshift pan as if I was searching for a $2 coin in the bottom of my bag. As usual, the search was fruitless.
We did not find any gold on Easter Sunday.
We returned to find mum and dad in their deckchairs on the side of the road. People had stopped to ask if they were ok, “yes, we’re just waiting for our kids. They’re down panning for gold,” my mum told the friendly strangers. Wickedly, she said to us later; “they probably thought we were very irresponsible parents, leaving their kids to go panning alone.”
“The might not have expected to find a 30-year-old and a 24-year-old by the creek,” my dad remarked, ever so proudly.
And so we ended the day laughing at each other for heralding such child-like, hopeless ambition. We were jovial, but, ultimately, defeated.
For now, anyway. I suspect the gold may not be so elusive next Easter.
A festival with a flogging.
Street theatre, gold panning and local honey. The Go for Gold festival at Nundle, about 15 minutes from my folks’ house or half an hour from Tamworth, shot to pieces my expectations of a country shindig. I know these people like to party, but I did not expect the show-bag collection to outdo the Sydney Royal Easter Show.
I also didn’t expect to find a Chinese festival in the middle of the New England, especially five days before my flight to China. But, as sure as my brother can light a fire, the Chinese rolled into Nundle to celebrate the gold rush in years gone by.
Of course, there was dancing. The Chinese rocked out their dragon costumes to an adoring crowd.
I was delighted by the Chinese lanterns strung up across the town. The country pub, especially, was a paradox. It looked like a timeworn establishment being dragged, reluctantly into multicultural Australia.
But, if the difficulty getting a park is anything to go by, it was good for business.
For a town with an official population of less than 300 people, it was 289 at last census; it has its fair share of amenities. This included the aptly named Mount Misery Coffee Shop. These guys had a gold panning gig happening with sediment from the local Peel River. As if on cue, we passed a few local kids with pans on our way to the festival. This place is the Real Deal.
On the back of a helpful volunteer’s tales of finding 100 pieces of gold while panning yesterday, my brother has found a new career.
“It’s lucky you weren’t born in the 1860s,” my mum remarked, “because you would gone chasing gold as soon as you could walk.”
We left him at BCF looking for a pan.
I thought I’d be better suited to a career as a witch.
The local woollen factory, which looks like an antique museum from the outside, is a carefully-crafted, high-class shop on the inside.
Plus, the novelty value of the looms is irrefutable.
Unsurprisingly, the Chinese festival attracted a few foreigners. By a few, I mean a handful, but check out this beautiful Pakistani family who were ambling around.
The ten-gallon hats and country music was abundant. My dad, an avid connoisseur of country music, could not shift from the front bale.
And those bales do not make comfortable chairs, of that I am certain. Seriously, spiky hay, who thought to sit on that?
But, my dad’s shirt sums up why he can hack the hay bales and I cannot sit for more than a moment on them.
That’s not to say the music wasn’t rockin’.
The band had this lady’s foot tapping. She said the colourful vest came from a stall at the festival.
Further down the street I came across the obligatory honey stall. Dorothy and Max are manning this stall. These guys are a very cute, country couple.
I introduced myself as Penny, “like the coin,” I said, trotting out the usual cliché I employ for almost-deaf folk. I underestimated Max. Instantly he came back “you may be called Penny,” he said. “But you look a million dollars.”
It’s the hat. Some people in Tamworth will love you instantly if you’re wearing an Akubra.
Dorothy was not going to be outdone with the country hospitality. She wondered if I was related to Betty Langfield. “She lives just down at the end of the no through road. She used to be married to Fred, but he passed away a few years ago. I think her family is from Grenfell.” I am not certain of how my heritage could be linked to the lovely-sounding widow, but Dorothy’s bachelor son sounded slightly more interesting.
And the best, of course, was the street theatre we caught on our way out. Watching a man being chained up, stripped and given 14 lashes was highly entertaining. I was even enlisted to count the lashings.
The Cat of Nine Tails whistled through the air delivering a sharp blow that gave a macabre touch to the afternoon. “This flogging has been bought to you by the Nundle Festival,” the Sergeant at Arms yelled through the pedestrian-filled main street, lightening the mood.
“You were the best counter we’ve had all day,” the Sergeant told me. I skittered off, delighted at my booming voice.
This place, it is deeper than it looks at first glance across the lucerne paddocks. Its history, the charming folk and the ubiquitous flowering poplars are enchanting.
Country music aside, I am besotted, already, with Tamworth.
Penny's Cheeky Adventures 