Intent on suicide, I mixed this Oriental rocket fuel with occasional morsels of pickled and chili-infused garlic. Run of the mill Chinese rice wine is only good for cauterizing wounds and pouring into a petrol tank, but the wine of Yi Fang’s father was a match for the very best Grappa. And so began the first ‘Gangbei War’ between East and West, which I feel I won but at the cost of a serious headache the next morning. But if the toaster says ‘Gangbei’, which translates as ‘Bottoms up and no heel-taps’, you are obliged to drain your glass. If you are singled out to be toasted, you must stand, take a sip, clink glasses and sit down. That same evening we sit around a restaurant table with Yi Fang, his sister PanPan and their parents. After Yi Fang’s earlier remark I wasn’t surprised to see his father produce a silver hip flask the size of a hot-water bottle, charge our glasses and kick off a series of toasts. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I Shall I wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. I think of T S Eliot’s poem ‘The Love Song of J. The picture shows me with the slightly dippy, bewildered look of the old and timid. Risi e beezy! After dinner I pose for a photo with Evita. ‘What is this?’ I ask Evita, nimbly transferring a battered object into my rice bowl. I pick at a carpaccio of marinated bamboo and some quick fried snail. ![]() The susan slowly revolves, depositing in front of me comestibles previously unknown to science. We are sitting at the traditionally round table with lazy susan where I have been placed next to Evita, a charming law student who speaks English. The boys have gone clubbing and I am having dinner in a restaurant with Mesa and her friends. Luckily my bed has an electric blanket, which I leave on all night, popping out in the morning like a slice of burnt toast. There is no heating in the house and I lose two toes to frostbite before we sit down to dinner. The days are warm, even though we are in the last days of winter, but as soon as the sun goes down it becomes very cold. Our neighbour keeps chickens and I wake to the sound of crowing roosters at sunrise not a bad way to start the day. It is in a gated community and a smartly dressed sentry salutes us each time we enter and leave. We are staying in a house on the edge of the city. While we are being persuaded to become cyclists, the Chinese, once a race of bike-riders and took-took drivers, have tossed out their bicycles and took-tooks for BMWs. Now why didn’t we think of that? What lacks, for European eyes, is the unusual, the juxtaposition of ancient and modern, the bend in the road, the slight architectural deformity that provides interest and creates charm. The lampposts are all topped with wind turbines and solar panels. Trees and plants unsuited to Kunming’s climate are wrapped for the winter, making the sidewalks and parks look like an immense project by Christo and Jeanne-Claude. ![]() The streets are broad and straight and lined with trees and shrubs, the plazas spacious. ![]() There has been a quantum leap from rough houses to modern skyscrapers in less than a single generation. In Kunming the past has been bulldozed away. European cities evolved slowly leaving their historical development clearly visible – the glass skyscraper next to the Roman Forum, the 11 th century Tower of London next to Victorian Tower Bridge. This totally modern city of six and a half million people sits on the shores of Lake Dianchi with the Shiumennen mountains holding it in a bowl. Kunming, so-called ‘city of eternal spring’, is home to the Han people and has a sub-tropical climate like Sydney although, being on a plateau 6,200 feet above sea-level, there is little or no humidity. I am with my son, his friends Chris and Sunny, whose Chinese mother, Mesa, meets us at the airport. Perhaps Dragonair would be a more appropriate name for Qantas. The cabin staff is all female and all pretty. We are flying to Kunming, capital of Yunnan province, a two and a half hour journey from Hong Kong by Dragonair, an offshoot of Cathay Pacific. ‘In the market place there is money, but under the cherry tree there is rest and peace.’ Chinese proverb
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