|
Post by laohuaqiao on Oct 13, 2012 5:34:36 GMT -5
Back in the early 80s, besides the visa to enter China, a traveler had to obtain a travel permit in order to visit specific places in China because foreign visitors were not allowed in some areas.
I see this new policy as just putting some restrictions on issuing visas but not restrictions within China once already inside. There are hundreds of millions of people traveling by car, bus, train, or boat within the China. There is no way the government can monitor where foreigners go.
|
|
|
Post by helen on Oct 13, 2012 22:19:28 GMT -5
That's good to hear Laohuaqiao. I guess it's best to have a visa in place before arriving - better than being turned away. It happens here in NZ - people arriving and being rejected at the border.
|
|
|
Post by helen on Oct 15, 2012 4:06:05 GMT -5
We now have our visas - so we will be going soon.
|
|
|
Post by carbacca on Oct 17, 2012 1:48:19 GMT -5
posting from china...zhuzhou, hunan to be exact
i am lucky in that i got a hui xiang zheng - return to homeland pass for HK residents(well worth it and makes life a lot easier if you are eligible for one). Once you are in you are in, as far as i can figure, though technically you have to register with the police on arrival, but i am told that it is not a big deal if you dont, only required if you are intending on getting a lease or opening a bank account of that sort
its annoying how its more difficult now, but last time when i went on my NZ passport i dont even need the flight details
|
|
|
Post by helen on Oct 17, 2012 23:12:46 GMT -5
Have fun - I'm in countdown mode 14 days to go. Douglas I'll be in Guangzhou city on the night of 8 November, then back again 11 and 12 November. Once we have booked, I'll PM you the hotel, near Pearl river, in case you are nearby
|
|
|
Post by helen on Oct 18, 2012 3:35:24 GMT -5
A story about Gwa Leng Village - where i will be going: nzetc.victoria.ac.nz/tm/scholarly/tei-Ba23Spo-t1-body-d26-d1-d4.html Wong Joe-Yee Melon Hill There are no hills in Melon Hill, only the round tombs of generations lying stretched to the east, their faces looking out over the water. Over the river that winds through a thousand villages on its way from the Pearl, past ten thousand villages on its way to the sea. There are no melons in Melon Hill, only long leaves of rice that ruffle fields green in spring and autumn, and lush groves of lychees, yielding their fruit in summer. This is our village, famous throughout all of Kwangtung. They say the lychees of Melon Hill are the best in China. Just break the crisp red shell and inside the membrane is dry a translucent skin filled with green-white flesh, juicy and sweet, fragrant of flowers and full of meat, and at its heart the smallest brown stone, smooth as jade flicked by the tongue. This is the story we tell, the story we have told for generations. I still remember the fragrance of the flowers, the small cream heads among the dark green leaves. In springtime you can smell them everywhere, and in summer when the fruit is ripening on the branches, the gow-pay-dahn come the dog fart bullets red insects like thingyroaches, with their brown spots and their stinking beating wings. I used to sit in the trees eating the smooth white fruit, and they would be there also, sucking out the juice and biting small boys. My mother would scold me for the pain bunn-dahn, saw-gwah, you stupid egg, dumb melon, she would sayas she spread knobs of ointment as long as her uncut thumb nails on the great red swellings. They say the dog farts like the taste of men who have been away the sojourners whose blood is sweet and foreign. But I have never been back. These are the things I remember: the lychee trees, the gow-pay-dahn, the grassy smell of rice when it is ready to harvest. I do not remember my wife, only her smooth white skin and tender hands. The tiny silk slippers, embroidered with flowers, that she wore each night in bed. My wife writes about my son my Number Two Son who was born after my return here. The resemblance is unmistakable. Look in the mirror, she says, and there you will see your son. All I know is the letters, the envelopes coming back in my own handwriting, self-addressed, so that she cannot mistake this strange language: Wong Joe-Yee, 100 Adelaide-road, Wellington, New Zealand. And inside her beautiful grass script (or sometimes his). Respectful Husband, The roof is leaking, please send 20 man The river has flooded again and the house has collapsed should we rebuild with mud bricks or will you send money for fired ones which will not dissolve in water Cousin So-and-so has died and there are expenses. Now it is his writing that comes a sheet of paper so thin, I hold it to the light, almost read the black ink from the other side. Excellent Father, I am writing to tell you that Mother died of fever on the fourth day of the fourth month at two in the afternoon. She was sick for three days. I have arranged for her burial in the family plot on the eighth, as this is a favourable day according to the almanac. All the money will be used up to pay the monks and pall-bearers, and to buy the coffin, the bowls and chopsticks, the beef and fish and vegetables. Your foolish son, Wong Chung-Lai 1908, the fourth month, the fifth day. Every three months I have sent 5 pounds home. I have educated my son and repaid our debt. Now I have saved 129 pounds 100 pounds for the poll-tax, 22 pounds for the ship (steerage class), 7 pounds towards settlement expenses. Enough to send for my son. It has been seventeen years and she has been buried already three weeks. There are many hundreds of lychee trees in Melon Hill, they cover the land across the river. They say the lychees are junn hou sihk, the very best in China. Yes, there are hundreds of trees, but there is only one half withered, half alive that bears the gorgeous fruit, the fruit that is given to officials.
|
|
|
Post by helen on Oct 31, 2012 1:40:15 GMT -5
24 Hours to go - and I'll be at the airport. Have a great trip Douglas Lam. Maybe we can see you somewhere, some place.
|
|
|
Post by douglaslam on Oct 31, 2012 3:48:31 GMT -5
Helen, have a great trip. I know you and Lap Chi are going to enjoy time away together. I will try to make my way to Gwa Leng from Dongguan for a day trip. I am sure if I mention Lap Chi's name, all doors will open for me. He is a true local identity. Are there local special delicacies I must not miss? Lychee will be well and truly out of season now.
My departure date for HKG is less than a week away.
Douglas
|
|
|
Post by helen on Oct 31, 2012 15:15:39 GMT -5
Thanks Douglaslam. Maybe they will remember him because we will have just got there before you - probably be there either Friday or Saturday. Will also be going to Harc3 's village of Wu Shek, as that is where his Paternal Grandfather is buried - Grandfather's grave tended by his daughter's Shum family. Flight leaves in less that 14 hours.
|
|
|
Post by helen on Nov 1, 2012 0:50:09 GMT -5
We're off to the airport- See you later
|
|
|
Post by helen on Nov 19, 2012 4:45:36 GMT -5
Just got back from China - Had a fantastic time - went to Feng Gang in Dong Guan for 2 days - and had a formal civic welcome. The last night was a typical Hakka dinner, with dragon dancing and a feast, which included dog - which I passed on.
We also had a 3 day tour of the Sharman area. (Xiamen, Fujian Province) We went across to Gulangyu Island All the buildings are vintage 19th century,
|
|
|
Post by helen on May 2, 2023 0:53:39 GMT -5
A story about Gwa Leng Village - where I was going in 2012: nzetc.victoria.ac.nz/tm/scholarly/tei-Ba23Spo-t1-body-d26-d1-d4.html Wong Joe-Yee Melon Hill There are no hills in Melon Hill, only the round tombs of generations lying stretched to the east, their faces looking out over the water. Over the river that winds through a thousand villages on its way from the Pearl, past ten thousand villages on its way to the sea. There are no melons in Melon Hill, only long leaves of rice that ruffle fields green in spring and autumn, and lush groves of lychees, yielding their fruit in summer. This is our village, famous throughout all of Kwangtung. They say the lychees of Melon Hill are the best in China. Just break the crisp red shell and inside the membrane is dry a translucent skin filled with green-white flesh, juicy and sweet, fragrant of flowers and full of meat, and at its heart the smallest brown stone, smooth as jade flicked by the tongue. This is the story we tell, the story we have told for generations. I still remember the fragrance of the flowers, the small cream heads among the dark green leaves. In springtime you can smell them everywhere, and in summer when the fruit is ripening on the branches, the gow-pay-dahn come the dog fart bullets red insects like thingyroaches, with their brown spots and their stinking beating wings. I used to sit in the trees eating the smooth white fruit, and they would be there also, sucking out the juice and biting small boys. My mother would scold me for the pain bunn-dahn, saw-gwah, you stupid egg, dumb melon, she would sayas she spread knobs of ointment as long as her uncut thumb nails on the great red swellings. They say the dog farts like the taste of men who have been away the sojourners whose blood is sweet and foreign. But I have never been back. These are the things I remember: the lychee trees, the gow-pay-dahn, the grassy smell of rice when it is ready to harvest. I do not remember my wife, only her smooth white skin and tender hands. The tiny silk slippers, embroidered with flowers, that she wore each night in bed. My wife writes about my son my Number Two Son who was born after my return here. The resemblance is unmistakable. Look in the mirror, she says, and there you will see your son. All I know is the letters, the envelopes coming back in my own handwriting, self-addressed, so that she cannot mistake this strange language: Wong Joe-Yee, 100 Adelaide-road, Wellington, New Zealand. And inside her beautiful grass script (or sometimes his). Respectful Husband, The roof is leaking, please send 20 man The river has flooded again and the house has collapsed should we rebuild with mud bricks or will you send money for fired ones which will not dissolve in water Cousin So-and-so has died and there are expenses. Now it is his writing that comes a sheet of paper so thin, I hold it to the light, almost read the black ink from the other side. Excellent Father, I am writing to tell you that Mother died of fever on the fourth day of the fourth month at two in the afternoon. She was sick for three days. I have arranged for her burial in the family plot on the eighth, as this is a favourable day according to the almanac. All the money will be used up to pay the monks and pall-bearers, and to buy the coffin, the bowls and chopsticks, the beef and fish and vegetables. Your foolish son, Wong Chung-Lai 1908, the fourth month, the fifth day. Every three months I have sent 5 pounds home. I have educated my son and repaid our debt. Now I have saved 129 pounds 100 pounds for the poll-tax, 22 pounds for the ship (steerage class), 7 pounds towards settlement expenses. Enough to send for my son. It has been seventeen years and she has been buried already three weeks. There are many hundreds of lychee trees in Melon Hill, they cover the land across the river. They say the lychees are junn hou sihk, the very best in China. Yes, there are hundreds of trees, but there is only one half withered, half alive that bears the gorgeous fruit, the fruit that is given to officials. This post is from more that 10 years ago - near the time we went back to my husband's village of Gualing. He has passed away now, and I don't know when I will return to the village again. Reading this post has brought tears to my eyes - of the life so many years ago - of Wong Joe-Yee and of his son Wong Chung-Lai - burying his Mother on 1908, the fourth month, the fifth day. RIP To all Those who have left us over the years.
|
|
|
Post by helen on May 2, 2023 1:01:22 GMT -5
This post is from more that 10 years ago - near the time we went back to my husband's village of Gualing. He has passed away now, and I don't know when I will return to the village again. Reading this post has brought tears to my eyes - of the life so many years ago - of Wong Joe-Yee and of his son Wong Chung-Lai - burying his Mother on 1908, the fourth month, the fifth day.
RIP To all Those who have left us over the years.
|
|
|
Post by tsin.unfoon on May 2, 2023 18:05:56 GMT -5
Thank you for sharing the story of the Wong Joe-Yee. It reminded me so much of the letters between my Father in the US and my Mom and me as a child in Hong Kong. Also between my Mom with her cousins in Taishan area after she and I migrated to the US in 1960.
|
|
|
Post by helen on May 2, 2023 18:54:14 GMT -5
I wonder whether the letters have ever been kept. I know that it some time ago - but it would be really great to see those letters again - blue lettergrams that came so regularly. What a history the collection would hold.
|
|