Beihai
Originally, we had planned to go see canyons near Baise in the north. But it’s too rainy for the buses, so we’re going south to Beihai for a day trip.
Lonely Planet has about a paragraph on the city, all to do with great seafood. It sounds perfect for a slow day– take the train, catch up on work, maybe nap in a park between meals.
Jia’s mom’s friends are worried we won’t be able to navigate the trains, so our host in Nanning arranges our tickets and drives us to the train, and another high school friend of Jia’s mom is to meet us at the station.
She’s very happy to meet us, clasps our hands and leads us to a car where her husband is waiting. We are whisked away.
I’m used to Lonely Planet giving short shrift to villages, but Beihai is a metropolis of towering buildings, shimmering Cineplex, train station the size of an American sports arena. I stare out the window, sip from the bottle of water our hosts have provided in the backseat.
Suddenly, we’re at the beach. Our host alights, holding an umbrella for me to ward off the sun. Her husband takes our picture at the gate.
I take off my shoes to walk in the golden sand. It is hot, though less humid than Nanning. Jia and I pass by the umbrella-shaded tables to cool our feet at the water’s gentle edge. Huge float-wheeled tricycles paddle on top of the water. A man in chest-high waders rickshaw wheels a well-dressed couple out to a hired boat.
It’s too hot to swim, according to our host. Nobody comes to the beach until six, because it’s bad for your skin. Then everybody swims from six to seven, when it closes.
She and her husband buy us coconuts to drink. She poses with us by the rock that certifies Beihai as China’s number one beach.
After the beach, we go to the mangrove tour. They’re fretting that we won’t have enough time, though it’s still very early. Jia and I exchange glances. We’re along for the ride. And next up is a tour of the mangroves, which is a major tourist attraction since the prime minister came there in 2017.
The warm mud seethes with life. Mudskippers hop on their two short arms; bright orange crabs scuttle between the mangroves. All along the boardwalk, informational signs (“the male fiddler crab has one large claw…”) are interspersed with photos of the prime minister looking over this very section of railing.
And now, lunch! We’re driven again to a restaurant with a big steamer fixture in the center of each table. I still haven’t caught any names. I don’t think they know mine either; I’m Jia’s college friend, conversationally. Jia is translating for me occasionally. I catch some words but mostly sit silently.
This is a fine moment to have no words: lunch is exceptional. Dish upon dish is slid raw into the steamer; the server sets a timer and then returns at the perfect moment to pile now-cooked shrimp and scallops and clams onto communal plates. We dip our seafood into sauces we mix from a center table: soy sauce, vinegar, chopped garlic, red chilies, sesame oil, cilantro.
And now we’re driving again, Jia and me napping in the backseat. The husband is a marathon runner, so he’s pointing out the route he takes as we ascend a hill.
It’s a viewpoint– just a side of the road, but there are parasols up for sellers of spiral-cut pineapple. Binoculars on stands look out to the ocean. A woman has out a special fortune-telling mat and three bird cages. You put a marker on a square, and she puts the birdcage there for the bird to look at. The bird then opens its cage, hops out, pulls a fortune from a box of many paper fortunes, and returns to its cage.
Back in the car. We go to the fishing dock, walk out to see late afternoon sun shine on the water. And then old town, a AAAA-rated tourist attraction according to its placard. The long row of shops hosts juice and ice cream vendors, wedged between clothing stores and knick knack shops of all types. At the edges of the street, statues show an older way of life: boys bathing at a pump, a Dan clam-digging woman resting on a bench.
We’re not hungry, but our hosts won’t let us leave without dinner, so we compromise and have luosi fen (螺蛳粉), snail noodle soup, then walk by the fruit market on the way to the train station. We’re fed, and given enough jackfruit and lychee to feed ten people– train snacks, generosity. We walk with our hosts to the station.
The branches make a green double arch over the pedestrian path and the separated bike lane. It’s finally cool out, breeze brushing my cheeks in the evening air as we walk toward the train station. I peel a lychee with my thumbnail, cracking the hard green skin and squeezing to pop the fruit into my mouth. It’s been a full day, and I’m hot, overfull, jet lag only just ebbing. But right now is good.
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