China by bus: The highs and lows of group travel

JINAN, China — Coal smog flattened the afternoon sun into a pale disk that hung anemically in the sky outside the bus window.

The tour group had left Beijing after a glutinous lunch of pork and chicken stir-fries, and now we were rolling into the outskirts of Jinan, three hours to the south. Gray and soot-stained, Jinan did not look promising.

"China Focus, China Focus! Now we come into Jinan," our guide said into her microphone. China Focus was the name of the tour company, but it was also how Lisa Li called the group to attention. "Ji means 'the river'; nan means 'south of.' Ji-nan. South of river. It is famous for motorcycles factory and washing machines."

Low expectations are more valuable than a Swiss army knife to the wise traveler. When you expect nothing, everything is a gift. And yet, as Jinan rolled grimly by, I felt my spirit waver. Had it been a mistake to take a 12-day bus trip of China to save money and time?

The bus heaved to a stop in front of the generic steel-and-glass Litian Hotel, and we — the 20 tourists on board — began to pile out. Suddenly, thunder rolled and those of us still dragging gear out of the back of the bus strained to see what was going on. A troupe of two dozen drummers and dancers in bright yellow-and-red costumes twirled and banged. Two dancers in front unfurled a "Welcome Jinan China Focus" banner.

Dumbfounded, we stood there on the lip of the hotel parking lot, watching this spirited performance unfold. Within minutes, most of the travelers had joined a conga line in the parking lot, some were trying out the drums and everybody was laughing.

The show ended as quickly as it began 15 minutes later, and we were milling around in the lobby waiting for room keys.

That, in a nutshell, was the yin and yang of the bus tour. Every time I got frustrated with waiting on the bus for the compulsive shoppers or grew tired of generic Chinese buffet meals, some unexpected miracle of a spectacle would reveal itself, redeeming every minor indignity of group travel. I even got used to the name tag.

I found China Focus, a San Francisco-based company, during an afternoon of Googling "budget travel China." The package, on sale because there were still openings in a tour not two weeks out, would cost about $2,000, including airfare from Minneapolis, single supplement and everything else, except for a couple "free" meals and any extra bottled water.

The price was appealing, but so was the itinerary. We would start in Beijing and travel overland 700 miles to Shanghai, mostly by bus, with one overnight train segment. The points between included one of China's most sacred mountains; its most sacred river; the home of its most venerated philosopher; and, granted, Jinan, famous for motorcycles and washing machines. I took the plunge.

Four days into the tour, the group had already formed alliances. There was the Central California contingent (mostly from Sacramento); the hardy band of Midwesterners (me and a retired couple from Wisconsin); and six Mexicans, subdivided into Quintana Roo and Chihuahua subsets. They relied on one of the Californians to translate, because Li spoke only English and Chinese.

Li, an athletic woman in her late 30s, was blessed with inner strength and a well-developed sense of humor. Riding herd on this group was not an easy job, but Li did it with patience. Periodically waving her blue flag and shouting "China Focus!" Li could bring us all to heel, except for two women, both named Mercedes, from the Yucatan, who were always the last on the bus by a half-hour and always laden with shopping bags full of whatever was being offered in that locale. They bought 10 silk comforters at one stop.

So the group dynamic was pretty entertaining, even when Li wasn't talking. The stops were generally brief, even for major landmarks.

The bus pulled into a parking lot at what appeared to be a government-approved place to stop and appreciate the Yellow River. A 15-foot-high brick wall topped by a serpentine dragon seemed built strictly to provide a photo opportunity. Otherwise, it was a bleak vista; a dusty plain divided by a torpid band of silty water. A distant factory and a few scraggly trees tentatively interrupted the horizon.

"The Yellow River. We call it our pride and our sorrow," Li said. "Why pride? It's the mother river, the source of our culture; all China's early capitals were on the Yellow River. Why sorrow? Because it's a river that has caused a lot of problems and killed many, many thousands of people in floods."

In winter, all the snow on the Tibet Plateau would come roaring down the Yellow, destroying much in its path. Now the Yellow has been dammed, diverted and drained off, making it much more useful and much less threatening. Yet on these barren banks, it also seemed stripped of its mystery and power.

The next day's big stop, the holy mountain Tai Shan, had lost none of its majesty.

It's traditional for pilgrims to climb the 6,666 steps to the top on foot, but lacking time, we took the bus and a gondola. In the bus, Li explained that for 3,000 years, pilgrims have come to Tai Shan, or Big Mountain, to pray for health, children and fortune. "Even today, you will see people climbing those steps, even old people, kneeling every step," Li said.

Taoism is China's native religion, and Tai Shan is one of the holiest sites in the Taoist world view. "We believe that at one time, the universe was all together, like an egg.... A giant came along named Pan Gu. He lifted the heavens, separating them from the ground, and he held them up for a long time. But eventually he died, and when he fell, his head became Tai Shan. His hands and feet became the other four holy mountains."

We emerged from the gondola ride, and Li set us loose for 90 minutes to explore the temples and shrines that crown the peak.

It was crowded with Chinese tourists — thousands of them. They carried bundles of incense and colorful streamers. Paved paths and stairways led toward the top of the mountain. A pillar of billowing smoke rose from a pagoda-roofed temple; at first I thought the building was on fire, but as I got closer, I saw that it was a bonfire of incense offerings, and the scents of jasmine and sandlewood floated among the filaments of ash.

The atmosphere was buoyant — the crowds smiled, the sky showed clear and blue and the view extended for endless miles; all of China seemed to be beneath our feet.

The trip had certain rhythms that were repeated. There are special restaurants all over China just for bus tours, and the food they serve is pretty generically Chinese. We ate quite a few chicken, pork or fish stir-fries, without a lot of spice or peppers (they've served plenty of American diners, apparently). I heard secondhand that three forced shopping stops at factory "tours" were a little trying. I confess I skipped those.

The golden moments kept unfolding, too. An amazing, hourlong traditional foot massage in Tai'an. The palaces and gardens of Suzhou. A surreal visit to a village in which a farmer proudly invited us into his home to inspect his collection of shellacked stumps that look like people, animals and mythical creatures.

The last leg of the land journey was an overnight train to Shanghai. Half the group got norovirus or something like it, which produced severe intestinal distress for the last couple of days of the journey. I escaped that fate, thankfully.

Because of the illnesses, the group disintegrated in Shanghai. Many stayed in their rooms at the hotel, while others went off on their own adventures.

We got together on the bus for the last time to go to the airport, and Li, still holding the blue flag, yelled "China Focus!" a final time.

A steady rain battered the street in front of the hotel. "I have one more saying for you," she said. "When a distinguished guest leaves, heaven cries."