TheTraveler

 

Moon Hill Reflections
Susan Stephenson

Half-way up Moon Hill, I decided to stop climbing and pause a while for reflection. Well, that’s what I gasped to the rest of my party, urging them on with shooing motions. They continued, springing along the steep path like mountain goats, while I collapsed onto a mossy rock. For the next few minutes, I concentrated on breathing.

Once that was under control, however, I became aware of my surroundings. My current resting place was in the middle of a bamboo forest, several miles from Yangshuo in Guangxi Province, People’s Republic of China. Moon Hill (Yueliang Shan) is a limestone hill with a moon-shaped hole near the top, through which the sky can be seen. Apparently, there are eight hundred steps to the top but I had forgotten to count after sixty-seven.

Occasionally, small groups or solo travellers would pass me on their way to moon worship. Some returned my smile and stopped to chat; some averted their eyes. I always have trouble understanding the latter. Part of my delight in travel is making new friends, so I relish any opportunity to get to know other people. Perhaps they thought I was a terrorist cunningly disguised as a bronchial, middle-aged Australian?

Wind in the bamboo made a constant rustling noise which reminded me of waves on the shore. I closed my eyes and drifted away. A kaleidoscope of scenes from our six months in China whirled behind my eyelids. There was the time I discovered black chicken carcasses in the supermarket and my Chinese friend, Sunnie, told me they were very good for women with menstrual problems. My sixteen-year-old son asked where they put the chicken. There was the Market of Small Things, crowded with tiny, colourful delights. There were tranquil water buffalo grazing by the river and gazing disinterestedly as we cycled past. There was the time I was coming down the escalator in Zhengzhou’s biggest department store when a guy stared, jaw dropped and eyes out on stalks because he hadn’t seen a westerner before.

 “Hello-o-o, “yodelled my husband, breaking into my reverie. His voice had a slightly desperate edge so I opened my eyes. He looked exhausted and was shadowed by the old lady who had determined to accompany him to the summit in case he might finally want to buy a drink from her. Looking as fresh as a daisy despite having lugged a cooler full of drinks, her calf muscles suggested she made the trip several times a day, every day. We bought some mango juice from her and she went off to look for thirstier travellers. 

“So, I guess you still have what it takes, huh?” I jerked my head toward the saleslady, rapidly disappearing down the trail, and grinned at him. 

“Don’t be silly, she was a businesswoman!” he protested. 

“...And an athlete. How was the Moon?"

“Good. I took some photos.”

So we sat, sipped, and thought of the moon as we slowly built up our strength for the long cycle back to Yangshuo.

Meanwhile, the wind sighed through the bamboo on Moon Hill.

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