Snowboarding China: And a Bit of Skiing as Well

By Rosemary Kelly

In the 1980’s Rosie Kelly found herself braving the red tape, searing scrutiny and strict oversight of Chinese officials in order to lead bicycle tours in a country only recently open to the west. Mistaken for a Christian missionary, her luggage was searched for contraband Bibles and her tour groups for Playboy and other such evidence of western degenerate behavior.

Thirty years later, and twice as old as she was on her first adventure there, Kelly finds herself in China once more: this time to experience the ski slopes of China, solo. What follows is an up and down adventure that, in the course of one day, finds the writer wondering what on earth she’s gotten herself into and delighting in the day-to-day victories in struggles ranging from language barriers, transportation nightmares and culinary disbelief.

Enjoy her brushes with disaster, her humorous scenarios with incorrect Mandarin inflections leading to strange interpretations and her obvious delight in living life to the fullest in this latest adventure. Her unique circumstances thrust her into varying degrees of the spotlight, and she is welcomed into a world that few ski/snowboard bums get to experience.

Snowboarding China is a fascinating account of one woman’s adventure with real insight into the changing landscape of what once was a country pining for electricity and TV. She now finds herself riding state-of-the-art heated gondolas and bubble chairlifts. Even those who have never been on a pair of skis or a board, will delight in the intimate style of storytelling and may find her advice and expertise motivation to embark on adventures of their own. In addition to her story, she also includes a list of her daily expenses, packing list and useful websites. A must read!

Her first book is entitled Snowboarding Is For Adults. It is a step by step guide for those interested in getting off the couch and on to a snowboard. It’s certainly inspirational!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781682229705

Book preview

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THIRTY YEARS LATER IN BEIJING

I drag my oversized expedition pack with my left hand while I struggle to pull out my nose ring with my right. Panic sets in while I reminisce on bike tours I led here thirty years ago. Back then my hair was pulled back neat and tight. My white cotton blouse and below the knee black skirt might have given the impression that I was a missionary.

I was questioned about smuggling bibles into the country. The guys on my tour were asked about pornography.

I was responsible for 28 cycle enthusiasts from around the world. Luckily customs found nothing; we were welcomed into the country. I’m surprised we were not thrown out due to their sometimes mischievous behaviors such as the stealing of hotel doilies, and other items they could have purchased for a few bucks.

Something that was even more frowned upon was when participants would switch roommates. If a person came on the trip as a single it was assumed they were, indeed, single. When a few started shacking up with someone of the opposite sex halfway through the trip there were, indeed, problems.

On this return trip I’ve come to snowboard and ski. This time I am alone. I am solely responsible for myself.

As I look around the state of the art terminal, I recall buildings of paint-chipped ceilings and outdated ill-kept toilets. With no clue about what to expect in the country decades later, I attempt to present myself old and harmless (which is not too difficult at my age). Knowing that the nose ring would not be part of that illusion, I struggle unsuccessfully to pull it out.

As I inventory the folks around me I realize so much has changed. I am surrounded by mini skirts, plunging necklines, high heels, streaked hair and smart phones. Back in the day the fashion color choices were mostly black and gray. Perhaps the nose ring the size of a pencil point won’t be a deal breaker for me to enter the country.

I step forward, respectfully, as the agent nods for me to enter the customs zone. I greet him with ni hao (hello) as I hand him my passport with both hands. I get a sort of half smile, half chuckle regarding my pronunciation. He responds with the same greeting. Feeling relieved, I step forward in a more confident stride while I think about my goals for the trip: stay safe, learn some Mandarin, live comfortably on as little as possible and snowboard my brains out. Hopefully I’ll get to do some skiing as well. Despite the fact that I do hold an AARP card, I am a strong and confident rider. As for rails and jumps, they are no longer on my to do list.

A tidy, efficient looking woman at an info booth directs me to the proper carousel to retrieve my dinosaur of a backpack. It is unmistakably mine. It shows poke holes frommy vintage 12 point crampons that hung from it 30 years ago on winter camping trips. Stains on it remind me of old spaghetti sauce and red wine. They offer good and bad memories. I never quite got over the guy.

I contemplate asking the woman a dozen questions since I am not sure how many more workers I will meet with such pleasant demeanor and such perfect English. I decide to move on and let her do her job. Within minutes of my arrival at the carousel my outdated backpack appears. I struggle to put it on my back wondering if I have gone overboard with double thermals, double snowboard pants and a knee length down coat (in addition to my regular shell and fleece). Yabuli’s weather can dip down to a minus 45 degrees. As I take mental inventory, I feel good about overpacking despite the weight.

I make a huge mistake by not obtaining the free trolly cart for my monster of a pack. At my age I should finally give up my last bit of machoism. Little do I know that the taxi line will be long and slow. The line snakes back and forth with no end in sight as my pack becomes increasingly heavy. I am bombarded with offers of cutting the line at double and triple the anticipated rate. I stick out like a sore thumb with blonde hair and my funny western eyes. Responding with bu xiang yao seems to be understood by all. Moments later I get a nod of approval from others in line who apparently understand the fact that I am telling the taxi guy don’t want, bug off.

Feeling frozen in time with my choice of luggage, I enviously watch folks effortlessly glide their wheelie luggage across the terminal. Perhaps on the next journey I say to myself. This is the best choice I think in self-confirmation; it would be hard to drag luggage through piles of snow in northern China. I try to talk myself into thinking I made the best decision. Soon I decide to drag instead of carry the pack. As I pull it along the grimy floor (for what feels like eternity), I decide that I would pay big bucks right now to switch to wheelie luggage and the extra bucks to cut to the front of the line. Maybe I was wrong to say bu xiang yao.

After what appears to be an eternity I find myself at the front of the line. Having been en route for about 24 hours, I am pretty beat by now. If I had joined a tour group I wouldn’t have to worry about any of this stuff, but I would be spending quite a bit more. I wouldn’t be able to do exactly as I like. I practice, mentally, all the useful Mandarin phrases for getting a taxi driver to bring me to my hotel. In English it translates into how much, too much, please slow down, nice weather, thank you, I only know a little Chinese, etc.

A handsome taxi driver, around my age, pulls up and grabs my backpack as I attempt to lift it before he does. A friend of mine recently told me a story of a taxi driver dashing off with her friend’s luggage leaving the passenger behind. Get a reality check I say to myself; does it really look like there is anything of value in your pack?. I chuckle within and come to the realization that my pack looks like I got it at the thrift store as well as most everything within it (which is, actually, the truth).

As I take my place in the back seat of the taxi, I decide that my decision to just rent my ski and snowboard gear was a good one. Although I will miss my Ride snowboard and my Burton boots, my pack is oversized and too heavy for me at this age. The last time I was in China I was 30-something and now I am twice that. Holy shit, I guess I feel thankful that I can still walk, not to mention ride a board!

Trying to overcome my fears of what lay ahead I think about all that has gone well thus far. My confidence is boosted as I show my driver the hotel address written in Mandarin. I say duoshao (how much)? A flow of a dozen or so rapid-fire Mandarin words are thrown back at me and then he puts the meter on. I decide that is a good thing.

Surprisingly, I understand most of the basic comments he states and questions he asks. We cover just about all the basic conversational Mandarin that I learned in a 10-hour course as well as a year of listening to Pimsleur’s language CD’s while driving. I tried some Skype classes with a teacher in China, but the stress of keeping up with the curriculum was so great that I found myself needing a drink or two before each class. It was too stressful; I dropped out.

I am thrown off guard by handsome taxi driver’s first comment being ni shi liushi sui (you are 60)! Despite the fact that he is right, I am flabbergasted by his abruptness, no beating around the bush attitude. I tell myself it’s a cultural thing and age is honored here. And besides that, I probably have at least one wrinkle for every year of life.

After about a half hour ride with the meter spinning the scenery seems somewhat familiar, though nothing like the country I visited years ago. After noticing the same Walmart three times I realize the driver has no clue where the hotel is. I show him the phone number for the hotel and I struggle to say dianhua trying to get him to call the hotel. I quickly add the appropriate word for please (xiexie). He gladly does so; he pulls over, makes the call and we are off. After one more loop past Walmart we arrive at Hotel 161 which is on the back side of a back side street.

Although 161 got high reviews on booking.com, I am not immediately impressed. I remind myself well, what do you expect for forty-something dollars in the center of a major city? Handsome taxi driver points to the number listed on the meter, which is still quite reasonable despite the laps around Walmart.

As I exit the vehicle I am reminded of the poor air quality and recall a China where almost everyone travelled by bicycle and the air was pure. (And of course, there were no Walmart’s back then). The driver assists me with getting the pack on as I hand over the Yuan. Smiles go back and forth between us.

Two courteous and attentive hotel receptionists offer a welcome as well as an 8 x 10 envelope once I provide my name and passport. It is my train ticket to Yabuli that I ordered a few weeks ago online. I am impressed with their thoroughness and decide I am going to feel comfortable here. For a moment I wonder how many trails are open at Yabuli since it’s just the beginning of December.

On the way to my room I pass what appears to be a small tourism desk and mini cafe that offers several coffee options as well as croissants. I wonder if the instant coffee packets that I packed are necessary. I look around at the guest common room in hopes of finding a new friend to share dinner with. No one is there; once again I am on my own.

Despite my room being just big enough for a bed, table and chair I am thrilled