The sky looked dark and foreboding as we left. The humidity felt thick and the clouds hung low, keeping the horizon grey above the dramatic spikes of the karst hills. But spending the day inside the hotel felt unimaginable, so despite the threatening rain, we went for a walk - my mother, my daughters and I.
The girls stopped every few steps to gather rocks alongside the smooth, concrete road curving away from the hotel. They looked up every time a truck pounded by, billowing black smoke into their faces, the engine chugging like a train and the load of bamboo rafts piled on top looking as rickety as it sounded. With the enjoyable draw of the gravel on the roadside, the girls were wont to leave this heavily trafficked area for the quiet of a dirt road leading to the river. But my mom and I cajoled them with fresh puddles of mud for splashing. We studied dragonflies, taught my daughter that she shares her name with one of the flowers on the roadside, and watched a woman weed her narrow plot of corn perched precariously between two square ponds growing thick green rice.
The girls walked slowly, and my mother and I followed suit. We studied their rocks with them – still in enjoyable abundance, even on this small dirt road. My mom, an avid observer of all things, pointed out unusual red flowers, families of ducks, old tombs on the hillside, and effortlessly kept the girls engaged and moving forward.
By the time we reached the river crossing, it had begun to rain. Our shirts were damp, but our shoes remained dry so we sat under a tree common along the Li River, resembling a grove of fluffy green feathers. Sitting on my rock, I could imagine that leaning back against the tree would be like leaning into a bright, feathery pillow. The fronds reaching over us kept us dry from the steady drizzle of rain, as we removed our shoes and the girls’ dry clothes to put on their brightly colored swimming suits.
The light rain fell softly on our hair and our shirts, sometimes stopping completely, and eventually picking up enough that my daughter thought the rocks moved beneath her feet with the quickly running current. We got wet. And we encouraged the girls to get wet. The youngest slipped, and rather than cry over the fall, we splashed her and laughed. She splashed, her sister splashed, and soon everything within reach of their little legs had been sprayed.
A groom and bride stood on the other side of the river, having their wedding photos taken with the picturesque background of a running river and the green karst hills in spring. Whenever the bride and groom rested, the photographer turned his camera toward us. Normally I complain when people photograph my children – a too common occurrence for my blonde toddlers in black-haired China. But I could hardly blame this young man. The adorable spectacle our children made, with their pink and blue swimming suits and their green and blue sandals as they kicked their feet and gingerly poured water over their heads must have been irresistible. Because my mom and I remained constantly aware of the quick current and the edge of the ledge so near where we played, and because we so enjoyed the splashing, our cameras never left our bags. This will be the only picture we have.
The rain picked up and drove the current faster at around the same time our stomachs began to growl. We headed slowly and begrudgingly out of the water, toward our dry shoes and bags. In an effort to return before their bellies began to scream, we carried the girls back and what had been a nearly 45 minute walk out was returned in under 10 minutes.
The girls stopped every few steps to gather rocks alongside the smooth, concrete road curving away from the hotel. They looked up every time a truck pounded by, billowing black smoke into their faces, the engine chugging like a train and the load of bamboo rafts piled on top looking as rickety as it sounded. With the enjoyable draw of the gravel on the roadside, the girls were wont to leave this heavily trafficked area for the quiet of a dirt road leading to the river. But my mom and I cajoled them with fresh puddles of mud for splashing. We studied dragonflies, taught my daughter that she shares her name with one of the flowers on the roadside, and watched a woman weed her narrow plot of corn perched precariously between two square ponds growing thick green rice.
The girls walked slowly, and my mother and I followed suit. We studied their rocks with them – still in enjoyable abundance, even on this small dirt road. My mom, an avid observer of all things, pointed out unusual red flowers, families of ducks, old tombs on the hillside, and effortlessly kept the girls engaged and moving forward.
By the time we reached the river crossing, it had begun to rain. Our shirts were damp, but our shoes remained dry so we sat under a tree common along the Li River, resembling a grove of fluffy green feathers. Sitting on my rock, I could imagine that leaning back against the tree would be like leaning into a bright, feathery pillow. The fronds reaching over us kept us dry from the steady drizzle of rain, as we removed our shoes and the girls’ dry clothes to put on their brightly colored swimming suits.
The light rain fell softly on our hair and our shirts, sometimes stopping completely, and eventually picking up enough that my daughter thought the rocks moved beneath her feet with the quickly running current. We got wet. And we encouraged the girls to get wet. The youngest slipped, and rather than cry over the fall, we splashed her and laughed. She splashed, her sister splashed, and soon everything within reach of their little legs had been sprayed.
A groom and bride stood on the other side of the river, having their wedding photos taken with the picturesque background of a running river and the green karst hills in spring. Whenever the bride and groom rested, the photographer turned his camera toward us. Normally I complain when people photograph my children – a too common occurrence for my blonde toddlers in black-haired China. But I could hardly blame this young man. The adorable spectacle our children made, with their pink and blue swimming suits and their green and blue sandals as they kicked their feet and gingerly poured water over their heads must have been irresistible. Because my mom and I remained constantly aware of the quick current and the edge of the ledge so near where we played, and because we so enjoyed the splashing, our cameras never left our bags. This will be the only picture we have.
The rain picked up and drove the current faster at around the same time our stomachs began to growl. We headed slowly and begrudgingly out of the water, toward our dry shoes and bags. In an effort to return before their bellies began to scream, we carried the girls back and what had been a nearly 45 minute walk out was returned in under 10 minutes.
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