One of the most interesting things about living in rural China has been observing the cultural differences between here and Britain. The ultimate matutinal nation, the Chinese get up at 6am every day to do morning exercise, usually some kind of tai chi or basketball, and to clear out their lungs. Despite having an effective alarm clock, more often than not I am awoken to the distinctive call of the 'hawk' - a phenomena fairly widespread in China (though dying out under pressure formthe government). They typical hawk is worked up with a great force from the belly, with a deep voval accompaniment. There is then the briefest of pauses before expectoration in a somewhat disappointing speck on the dusty pavement. One can often track a male by his Hansel-and-Gretel trail left along the ground.
Of course, when most people think of China, one of the images is that of 1.3 billion people in streams of jostling bicycles. Though Xifeng is very small, and can easily be traveresed from one side to the other on foot, one can live one's life a little more on the edge if one embarks on one's 'mighty steed'. Most bikes have no gears, and sport speed modifiers as opposed to bona fide brakes, but as Xifeng is on a plateau, this does not pose much of a problem.
At a first glance the internal workings of motoring China seem chaotic, but there is some semblance of order. Pedestrians cannot walk on the pavement as this is reserved for parking bicycles, motorbikes and overflowing skips; stalls for mending shoes and making keys; and as a retreat for those who wish to squat, smoke, play mah jong and watch the world go by. It thus follows that the parallel bicycle lanes are the domains of ambling bipeds (usually accompanied by a fluffy Pekinese trotting behind) and donkeys lugging towering rickshaws of unspeakable weight behind them.
The intrepid cyclist must therefore utilise the road - the only remaining bastion of possible travel. The road ought to have an 'Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter' warning on it to prepare those of weak disposition for the rabble and chicanery of the traffic. Typical obstacles include intransigent green taxis, hermit crab cyclists (literally moving their house on the back of a bike, including washing machines and three-piece suites tottering on two wheels) and the loose interpretation on which side of the road to drive on. Perhaps this is why bikes tend to be occupied by at least three people. A navigator is essential on these routes. Accordingly, post-cycling odyssey, there is a sense of exhilaration when you make it to your destination unscathed.
Another peculiarity of China is the dining experience. It is traditional for the most honoured guest to be seated facing the door, and to be welcomed with firecrackers exploding at the entrance to frighted away any bad spirits. Guests also take past in one of China's national sports: speech-making. These tend to be shouted into a microphone as the audience chatters away blithely into their mobiles, assisted by China's choice of drink/window cleaner: bai jiou. The Chinese are generally laid-back about most things, but their afternoon nap is something they take very seriously. Like flocking birds, almost everyone goes home in unison for their 40 winks. This is a part of Chinese culture Britain should definitely adopt.
Of course, when most people think of China, one of the images is that of 1.3 billion people in streams of jostling bicycles. Though Xifeng is very small, and can easily be traveresed from one side to the other on foot, one can live one's life a little more on the edge if one embarks on one's 'mighty steed'. Most bikes have no gears, and sport speed modifiers as opposed to bona fide brakes, but as Xifeng is on a plateau, this does not pose much of a problem.
At a first glance the internal workings of motoring China seem chaotic, but there is some semblance of order. Pedestrians cannot walk on the pavement as this is reserved for parking bicycles, motorbikes and overflowing skips; stalls for mending shoes and making keys; and as a retreat for those who wish to squat, smoke, play mah jong and watch the world go by. It thus follows that the parallel bicycle lanes are the domains of ambling bipeds (usually accompanied by a fluffy Pekinese trotting behind) and donkeys lugging towering rickshaws of unspeakable weight behind them.
The intrepid cyclist must therefore utilise the road - the only remaining bastion of possible travel. The road ought to have an 'Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter' warning on it to prepare those of weak disposition for the rabble and chicanery of the traffic. Typical obstacles include intransigent green taxis, hermit crab cyclists (literally moving their house on the back of a bike, including washing machines and three-piece suites tottering on two wheels) and the loose interpretation on which side of the road to drive on. Perhaps this is why bikes tend to be occupied by at least three people. A navigator is essential on these routes. Accordingly, post-cycling odyssey, there is a sense of exhilaration when you make it to your destination unscathed.
Another peculiarity of China is the dining experience. It is traditional for the most honoured guest to be seated facing the door, and to be welcomed with firecrackers exploding at the entrance to frighted away any bad spirits. Guests also take past in one of China's national sports: speech-making. These tend to be shouted into a microphone as the audience chatters away blithely into their mobiles, assisted by China's choice of drink/window cleaner: bai jiou. The Chinese are generally laid-back about most things, but their afternoon nap is something they take very seriously. Like flocking birds, almost everyone goes home in unison for their 40 winks. This is a part of Chinese culture Britain should definitely adopt.
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