A large river deserves a good name. The one I have travelled on is known worldwide as the Yangzi River. It got this name from the first foreigners that came to the Shanghai region where the river reaches the sea. When they asked some local fishermen what the river was called, the reply was ‘Yangzi’. Not knowing that in that particular area of the river delta the people spoke a different dialect from the rest of China, they assumed it was the correct name for the river, and soon the outside world didn’t know better but to call it the Yangzi River. In China however, most people will not know what you mean when you ask them about the Yangzi River, instead they call it ‘Chang Jiang‘, the Long River. 
With over two thousand miles stretching from the Tibetan highlands to the Eastern seaboard, it is China’s longest river and most vital waterway. It has played a part in virtually every major epoch in Chinese history, and it is affectionately known by its pet name: ‘Da Jiang’. When I boarded the large white hulk of the steamer in Nanjing, little did I know this name would follow me for the rest of my life.
The gleaming white ship would take me on a seven-day journey to Chongqing, the massive industrial metropolis in central China, home to 16 million people. In doing so, I would pass the three furnaces of China: Nanjing, Wuhan and Chongqing, where some of China’s highest temperatures are recorded each year. I was filled with anticipation for the coming trip. It had long been one of my lifelong goals to sail the biggest river in China, and besides, after weeks of intense travelling through China’s North-Eastern provinces, I was looking forward to a week of leisure. After all, on a boat there is little to do, other than to sit on deck and quietly watch people go on with their lives on the riverbanks.
The other people on board were all Chinese. My Chinese language skills had been improving steadily in the past few weeks, and I was able to have short conversations with the temporary travelling companions with whom I shared my cabin. We were eight in all: an elderly lady, a young girl called PingPing travelling with her mother, a guy named Yibo also with his mother, and the Zuo’s: a father returning home to Yichang with his beautiful daughter Meng. Before long, the younger people had got to know each other a bit, and we hung out together for most of the time. The four of us, Pingping, Meng, Yibo and myself, explored the ship, played cards and taught each other our languages. Meng was very pretty, and I couldn’t help being secretly in love with her. Of course, I knew that this was the kind of love I could only be enjoying by myself, and for the next three days I simply had an uncomplicated affair with her in my mind. Her name meant ‘Dream’, and here one instantly sees the aptness a name can have.
It was my name that gave my new friends more trouble. The ‘r’ is hardly used in Chinese, with the result that my name sounded much like ‘Lu’. Unsatisfied with this they decided they would give me a proper Chinese name. After some time of contemplating suitable combinations, it was father Zuo who came up with the name ‘Da Jiang’, after the river that carried us. At first we laughed at the suggestion, but then this funny thing occurred that tends to happen with names: it stuck. I was Da Jiang from then on, and Meng even offered her family name for me to use: Zuo Da Jiang.
A day later we arrived at Dongting Lake. Looking over the peaceful body of water that stretched out before me, I balanced on my heels as I often saw the Chinese do, and lit up some tobacco. I was quietly looking at the second largest lake in China, which makes the news regularly for flooding its surrounding flatlands, killing thousands at a time. Numbers tend to lose their meaning, as is so often the case in China. Nothing of this, though, could be inferred from the serene beauty of the lake, as I sat on deck taking in the view. There wasn’t a breath of wind and I was watching the orange sunlight being reflected on myriad tiny waves. I was thinking of how most colours in China always came down to three basic shades: brown, grey and green, when I noticed an old man hunching next to me with a carrying pole leaning against his shoulder.
He was the archetypical image of an old sage that we picture ourselves in our minds when we think of a Chinese philosopher, but this one next to me had been visibly hardened by life’s challenges. Through the cracks in his face I saw he smiled at me. He started pointing here and there with his crooked fingers, muttering words in a nearly unintelligible dialect, probably commenting on the loveliness of the lake. I offered him my tobacco, and he gladly took the pack in order to scrutinise it carefully. Then, just as I was about to offer rolling a cigarette for him, he took out a paper and in an expert way rolled a beautiful cone as if he’d been doing it for years. (Later I concluded he must have been doing exactly that, for in the mountains I would see villagers roll home-grown tobacco in cut up newspapers.) We smoked our cigarettes, and when he was finished stood up fumbling in his pockets for something. He took out a coin, and I saw it was an old bronze coin from the last Imperial dynasty, corroded with age and with a square hole in the centre. I admired it for a while but when I wanted to give it back, he indicated for me to keep it. Luck had it that I had a length of black string in my pocket, so I tied the coin to the cord and hung it round my neck. When the man saw what I had done, he smiled even more with obvious glee, and ensured me that I was welcome in his home anytime. It seemed I had done the right thing.
At times, the friendliness of strangers can be startling, but when you’re on the road and you discover that you have made friends, the shock is always greatest when you go separate ways. We arrived at Yichang, a charming little town just upriver from Wuhan, and here my fellow cabin mates disembarked. We said goodbye, exchanged e-mail addresses and silently made our peace with the fact that we would never meet again. I was on my own again, and knew I would miss the homely atmosphere we had had in the last four days. In a way, we had been a temporary family. The mothers had sort of taken me into their custody as well, and I can still remember us washing our clothes by hand in the cabin-sink, and them showing me what I was doing wrong, teaching me how to do it properly. Meng proved to be as fleeting as any dream, when she strolled down the dock and didn’t look back.
The ship continued its journey, finding the quieter parts of the river to crawl up against the currents that grew in strength with each yard gained. Just ahead of us the mighty mountain ranges of central China were waiting for us. I was anxious to see the famous Three Gorges, the ‘San Xia’, with its dramatic scenery as it had been depicted on silk scrolls thousands of times. However, I knew that a few miles up-river work was in progress to build the cause of their demise. The last of the twentieth century’s massive constructions was straight ahead and we would have to pass it first. I had read it was a rather large project, but nothing could have prepared me for seeing the ‘San Xia Da Ba’. The largest dam ever built arose before us out of the water, a huge grey fortification with cranes and machinery along the entire length of its hulk. Nearing it, our boat diminished in size, and was ant-like when we inched around the giant concrete obstacle holding eight super-turbines in its belly. These generators would provide enough power to boost the entire Chongqing municipality into the 21st century.
With the boat’s turbines roaring full-throttle to combat the swirls that hurled past the narrow opening where the dam had yet to be filled, all of us mortals on board simply stared up at the largest superstructure we had ever seen. Entire villages had been erected for the construction workers on several places on the dam surface. From the edge on the top of this massive grey monstrosity we saw tiny people looking back at us. Some were waving; most of them did not care. I felt absolutely tiny, and everything I once thought I knew about proportional size and value, had to be thrown overboard to be re-evaluated. It is at times like these, when the sheer enormity is so overwhelming, that it tends to catch you off guard.
The scale of this project can not be underestimated. Leaving the dam in the background, we passed enormous mountain sides with here and there some farmer shacks perched between vertical cornfields. We had left the flatlands behind, and suddenly entered another realm, the dam forming an exaggerated border drawn to mark the division. In the afternoon the sun had more and more trouble with casting its rays onto the river, and the looming hill sides grew ominously dark up ahead. High up on the slopes we could see white marker stones. They were indicators of how high the water level would climb in future years, when the dam would be complete.
The next morning I discovered the ship had moored at a city that sprawled upwards onto the mountain slope. Early sunrays lit up a large stairway leading into the ascending rows of houses, and the shouts and noise of this early morning bustle made me feel I was truly in a foreign land. I saw merchants trading with passengers, and barefoot coolies carrying bales of goods to and from the ship. I made my way down to the second deck from where I could buy food from local vendors that had set up their stalls next to the boat. Two red Chinese characters reading ‘Fengjie’ were visible high on a signpost, and I guessed this was what the town was called. It seemed to be an ancient city, and my imagination took me back to the days when warlords were in constant battle over control of this river, and the lands that depended on it. I was convinced this town had seen better days, and when I saw the white markers high above the rooftops, I couldn’t help but feeling sad and rather ineffectual. Looking at the people scurrying about, fully realising the certainty that this city was going to be lost, gave me a strange feeling of complacency.
Steaming ahead on our last leg of the journey we saw more examples of what a mighty river can take. It was the first dead stranger I had seen in my life, and it was rather gruesome. A rotting green corpse floated past us, and as I stood on the forward bow I heard a man next to me saying it was bad luck to see corpses floating past. Pondering the futility of this message, the details of the decomposing body could be seen as we sailed right past it. It was a man floating on his back, arms and legs bent into the air, sticking upwards as if he were driving a car. I concluded he must have held on to something large like a tree-trunk to stop the water from dragging him away. His mouth was turned into a ghastly grimace like the ones you see on Japanese Samurai masks. I tried to imagine the last moments of this man’s life, but not liking my thoughts I stopped and sent him a silent prayer. Minutes later, a dead pig floated past us, emanating a horrid rotten stench. It was only a few weeks later that I was able to eat pork again without feeling nauseous.
Then one morning our own final destination came into view. The surreal high-rise of Chongqing City welcomed us through a haze of smog. A week had gone by, and we had traversed over a thousand miles, through one of China’s major arteries into its heartland. Sad to end this journey, I then realised this was only the first part of the true voyage that was still ahead. I felt I had not only seen the river, I had experienced it, and as with any experience I knew it would take time to entirely come to terms with it.
The river has had its impact on me, and in a way by carrying its name I give testimony to its imprint on my soul. But a name needs to be honoured. ‘Da Jiang’ means ‘Big River’, signifying strength and endurance. It is a name well suited for this powerful river, which provides a livelihood for millions, and continues to take human sacrifice to this day. I do not know how I can bear this name, but I feel that it has given me compliment and serves as a reminder for me to try and live up to my full potential. The river serves as an inspiration, much in the way it has done for many philosophers in the past. A Taoist priest could very well agree with me when I say that the Way of Life might in fact be a river, leading us along a path in one direction towards a sea; always the same river, but ever-changing as it is never the same water that flows past.
I have been back to my patron river a few times. I have seen its first bend deep in the mountains of Yunnan, and heard its currents rage below me as I swirled around mountain sides, going to places where springs would form tributaries, which in turn would converge into the body of water ultimately flowing out into the East Chinese Sea. Every now and then, I touch the coin necklace hanging down around my neck, and wonder if the old man is still alive. I think back to my journey, and imagine what the underwater city must look like. I think back of Meng and wonder what has happened to her since. And every time I see the big river I feel it is a part of me, as much as I am a part of it. And every time we are both a little different.
Roel Cruijff
Leeuwarden, 23rd April 2005.
