Don’t Drink the Snake Wine. Please.

(Joseph)

The Li River boat trip from Guilin to Yangshuo was misty, but enjoyable nonetheless; I can’t complain, as it was supposed to rain. We saw some huge limestone rock formations, Chinese workers and home along the riverbanks, and the occasional water buffalo. Also remarkable were the “river” vendors: balancing on five large thatched sticks of bamboo (which makes for a very narrow raft and, I’m sure, and no easy balancing act), these eager sellers paddled towards our boat, tied themselves onto it, and sold their produce to the cooks on our boat while the cooks prepared our buffet-style lunch. Such vendors are ubiquitous, and we saw at least a few hundred of these boats either in motion or tied up along the riverbank. Thousands of Li River families earn their living doing this, which is fascinating, but also creates for fierce completion, I imagine, since most of them are selling the exact same produce. In fact, this seems to be the case in at least much of Yangshuo, where we have stayed for the past two days.

I was aware of the huge “bartering” culture/art of the Chinese, but I needed to watch our student Allen barter (quite successfully) a few times before I threw myself into the competitive masses. See, the vendors are pushy. Extremely pushy. There is no such thing as window-shopping, at least in Yangshou. If you even so much as look in the direction of a vendor’s stall, you will start bartering for something, even if you don’t know what you’re negotiating. These sellers seem very desperate and willing to sell their goods for at least half of their initial asking price—usually even less. Why? Perhaps a few reasons. One, they see easy targets in the tourists, who, even at full asking price, are usually getting a solid deal. Two, there is so much competition because the vast majority is selling the same products: clothing (especially silks), jewelry, trinkets, and so on. I will never make fun of the fact that Americans often have two or three Starbucks within walking distance of each other; in Yangshuo, it is easy to get lost on the city streets because you keep asking yourself: Didn’t I just pass that same stall—about twenty times in the past minute or two? Another question: how do all these people manage to survive, when some of their stalls seem to remain un-patronized for hours at a time, and, I bet, many vendors go an entire day without selling one item for what may be the equivalent of a few U.S. dollars? Beats me.

Nonetheless, I began looking at a small silk (100% silk, I’m told—although I also know that my credulity must be on watch) Chinese dress that serves as a wine bottle cover, something I began collecting maybe a few years ago.

Vendor: “You like?”
Me: “Yes, very nice.”
“You buy?”
“No thank you.”

I know not to show my interest too fast.

“Very good quality!”
“Yes, I see.”
“You buy now?”

Although the amount of English spoken in Yangshuo is extremely limited, the vendor-vocabulary of maybe ten words is all they really need.

“I’m not sure.”
“How much?”

The vendor, typically a woman, whips out a small notebook and begins writing.

“For you…” And she writes the numbers 4 – 5 on the paper. 45 Yuen.
I know not to take the bait.

“No thank you.”

Then she quickly crosses out the number. Bargaining happens fast. Very fast. The introductory price is a joke in its non-existence—exactly like “retail price” works in the U.S.

She writes 4 – 0. I just hit a 10% off sale.

I shake my head. Then she hands me the pad and pencil. Because I’ve watched Allen, I know what to do.

I write 3 – 0. I want a 33% off sale.

She shakes her head.

“For you…” She writes 3 – 5.

I point again to the 3 – 0, which is the equivalent of less than five U.S. dollars. Something like this in the United States would sell for at least $15 – 20, easily, perhaps more.

“Okay, okay,” she says. About ten seconds of extreme negotiation, the bargaining has ended. I think to myself: that was far too easy. I should have offered perhaps 1 – 0. Allen agrees. I should not have accepted less than a 50% off sale.

I must have given off a scent after my masterful (?) bargaining prowess presented itself, as she quickly started to try to sell me other items, and nearby vendors started to swarm me to take a look at their wares. I must have mistakenly and unknowingly purchased a “dumb rich tourist” hat when all I really wanted was a cute little traditional Chinese wine bottle cover. Go figure.

After one more day in Yangshuo and a return to the same street of vendors last night, however, I am happy to report that my bargaining skills have improved, and the 50% off sale is now standard practice. I am a little closer to retiring that hat, but I have a long way to go. Allen has successfully bartered down to nearly 70% off, which makes one wonder: just how cheap is this stuff if the vendor is still obviously turning a profit? Then I’m reminded that, on the day after Christmas just last month, I went to Macy’s to return a gift only to walk out with hundreds of dollars of clothes I never intended to buy, all because of a 60 to 75% off sale. Retail mark-up is huge, but we, the consumer, need to rest assured that we got a great deal, even if it isn’t one. Those sweaters I bought on sale at Macy’s for around $12 each cost the company no more than a few dollars each, when the initial retail price was often around $50, sometimes more. Even on a 75% off sale, Macy’s is pocketing a three hundred percent profit. And where did they buy from? China, of course. I realize that labor in China is a very sensitive and troubling issue, and everyone should watch the wonderful but sad documentary China Blue, which you may be able to find online, about how most jeans are manufactured. I’m sure other members of our group will blog about their own “deals” over the next few days or weeks, so perhaps we will re-visit the topic at a later date.

But back to the Li River boat cruise—and perhaps even more disturbing matters. Yes, the cruise was relaxing and scenic, but there is one image that I will not—nay cannot—get out of my head. As I was cruising down the river whilst sipping Sweet Osmandias wine (Osmandias is a local flower famous to Guilin, and made into a sweet blush-style wine), a woman right over my shoulder catches me by surprise.

“Snake wine?”

As I turn my head, there it is: exactly what you might imagine if you were offered snake wine in China, or watching an Indiana Jones movie (it reminded me of Temple of Doom, in particular): a large jug of wine, with at least two or three dead snakes—I didn’t bother to count, as I looked away as quickly as possible—curled up inside. Heads and all. It looked like something you might see in a science classroom: once living organism in bottle of formaldehyde for your educational purposes—but never drinking purposes. I knew that I was not alone when even Allen, our most adventurous (and ravenous) eater, did not want to try some, but other families, considering snake wine a delicacy as well as salubrious to one’s health, did imbibe. As for me, I had trouble keeping my lunch down—no, scratch that—getting my lunch down after that image burned itself into my head.

“These Chinese have very strange ideas about medicine,” says Dieter, our new friend with a very thick and obvious German accent who is seated next to us on the boat cruise (actually we keep running into Dieter as we explore Yangshuo). “But they must have some secret.”

And he’s right: there are many very old, seemingly healthy people walking around the streets at a brisk pace in Yangshou. But no matter. I will gladly shave off a few years (maybe a decade) of my life in order to avoid the snake wine.

Bleh.