Mr Ubiquitous

Yangshuo is a small riverside town in the south, embedded in picturesque sugarloaf karst mountains which jut out of the landscape like verdant chunks of Toblerone. The town itself has been a tourist destination and inspiration for artists and poets for over one thousand years. 　

May 1, Labor Day, is a major holiday in China, and when I stepped off the ferry the packs of tourists were out in force. Once settled into my hostel, I secured a map from a cheery receptionist and set out to explore the town.
　
A discreet stairwell took me down to a table by the riverside, the “office” of an effervescent and splendidly-mustachioed German who, along with the melodies of Jefferson Airplane, welcomed me to the town. 　

Between recollections of European road trips and local dining recommendations, this tireless raconteur introduced me to his friend Ma, a portly fellow who duly emerged from some nearby bushes while doing up his zipper. After a brief hello, both of us, Ma radiating an air of mild amusement, continued to listen to the stream-of-consciousness ramblings of our shared acquaintance, before parting.　

After a sound night’s sleep, I determined to avoid the town on the following day, and take my own bicycle tour of the local scenery. Picking out my ride from the hostel’s racks, Ma suddenly materialized in front of me and began to quiz me about my plans. It was already getting hot, and he outlined the shadiest cycling routes on my map, highlighting particular rest stops, all the while urging me to drink lots of water.　

I said I hadn’t realized Ma worked for the hostel. He mumbled something about a night shift and hurriedly waved me off into the blazing sun.　

My “leisurely” ride was very hard going, all steep climbs in soaring temperatures. However, the plunging valleys, water buffalo-dotted rice paddies, fancifully-shaped geology and enduring tranquility left me light-headed – or perhaps that was the sunstroke.　

Upon my return to Yangshuo that evening, the streets were gridlocked with cars, mopeds, bicycles, pedestrians and even the occasional horse, all adding their own distinct noises to an urban cacophony. I emerged from the scrum onto the dimly-lit side of town where I was staying. Stopping at one small store, whose owner sat inside engrossed in a TV soap-opera, a figure sitting on the stoop emerged from the shadows and greeted me by name; it was Ma. I asked him what he was doing here this evening. 　

“Oh,” he replied. “Just talking with my friend.” He gestured towards the shop owner who had not stirred from his TV-induced reverie. I asked if he was working another night shift at the hostel but he responded ̶ with some bemusement ̶ in the negative. I left him on the stoop and trundled back to my lodgings.　

On foot the next day, with the town a little quieter, I took a mysterious staircase winding up a karst hill on the outskirts of town, a path I soon found was leading me high above Yangshuo with nary a soul in sight. On my way back, I stumbled across Ma yet again, this time seated atop a market stall. Old friends by this point, I asked him his business today. He nodded in the direction of a couple struggling to change a motorcycle wheel. “I’m helping them fix their bike,” he stated, before turning back to stare out across the river.　

The next, and my last in Yangshuo, I visited one of the many caves that honeycomb the hills around the town, before returning to my hostel, which was hosting a barbecue. As I emerged onto the outdoor deck, I caught sight of Ma struggling to light the grills. Sidetracked by a conversation with an elderly Australian couple, when I turned back to talk to Ma, I saw he had gone.　

I asked the hostel receptionist where Ma was. “Who?” she said. I repeated his name several times, and while her smile remained fixed, her eyebrows furrowed. She pointed to a different man now working the grill, adding that she knew of no staff member named Ma. He didn’t reappear that evening.　

The following morning the heavens opened, and curtains of rain lashed my face as I struggled through flooded streets to the bus station.　

As my sodden bus waited to turn into traffic, I wiped the fog off the window and peered out into the gloom. Locals were huddled under awnings seeking shelter. Suddenly, there – slightly apart – was that Ma, I asked myself? Same build, clothes, aspect. I tried to squint through the rain and steamy window. As the bus pulled around, the figure appeared to turn to look right at me. Then it waved.　

Whatever awaits me on my return to Yangshuo, among the hills, caves and the meandering river, I feel sure I will once again run into my curious friend Ma.