that many myths have grown up to help make sense of them. It is said that junk-men used to cut off a rooster’s head and smear its blood on the prow of their boat to placate the river dragons. Fifty years ago boats were pulled through the gorges by thousands of straining coolies.
In our boat the helmsman’s assistant stood at the very front of the prow, his eyes fixed ahead, and gave the captain signals. I could feel the tension. There is no room for error between the Yangtze gorges. We crept forward, our way lit by the boat’s searchlight and the warning beacons that clung here and there on the dark rock edges between the wild water. It was magic.
At dawn I looked out to see that we had anchored in the second gorge to wait for enough light to navigate further. The river here was too deadly to take on at night. The narrow walls of the gorge looked as though they had been cut out with a giant knife. A torrent of water rushed between their sheer rock faces that rose straight up as high as nine hundred metres and enclosed us on either side. We pushed on laboriously. It seemed difficult to make headway against the current. Every now and then the white thread of a small waterfall cascaded down to join the river. Narrow and fast flowing, they zig-zagged through dark-green slots in the black rock. A lone brown falcon cruised past, rising and falling effortlessly on the eddies that formed in the narrow chasm.
The river channel became even narrower and the boat had to dodge rocks that stuck up out of the water. As we struggled through one dangerous part, the water boiled towards us and tossed the boat around like a cork. Then the river widened and the channel was marked by buoys on boat-shaped platforms. The walls changed to yellow and white limestone and were dotted with mysterious-looking caves. Coffins containing bronze swords and other artefacts have been discovered in these caves. They are said to have belonged to an ancient tribe of the Warring States period – 500 BC–whose custom was to place their dead in these high mountains.
Our captain obviously understood the river. At times he steered well away from the water’s edge where I discerned evil-looking whirlpools. But we passed some of them close enough to see several feet down into their swirling, seething, terrifying depths.
When we emerged from the gorges, everything was lightly veiled in early morning mist. The river was now a hundred metres across, but still boisterous, as it surged in front of the boat. Steep mountains folded one after the other into the churning brown water ahead, hiding the course of the river. We passed several riverboats going down river. That voyage took three days as opposed to the five it needed to battle upriver against the enormous current, which probably explained why I was the only foreigner aboard.
The boat was now sailing very close to one bank where, on a steep cliff at a bend of the river, a monastery hung out over the water. Perched precariously, halfway up on the sheer rock face, it seemed to cling by its fingernails to the bare stone. The edges of its roof curled upwards like hands lifted to heaven. Perhaps it was built on this high, remote and beautiful spot to make the monks feel closer to God.
A fisherman wearing a traditional straw hat sat with a scoop net where the bank, which was still all steep rock, sloped a little to afford a toe hold. Close by, a tiny village surrounded by terraced gardens squatted halfway up a mountain. Partly obliterated by trees and shrubs, it looked ancient and inaccessible. Miles from anywhere, I wondered how you would get into it, or out, for that matter. I could see no roads. Behind the village the mountain peaks were even higher, and only great stretches of uncultivated and deserted mountains followed it.
(Sadly, much of this wild beauty is about to be inundated with water as the Sanxia Dam project progresses. Due for completion in the year 2009, this colossal enterprise will be the
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