Harbin: Down Hill
t seems an unfortunate coincidence that one of the world's slowest chairlifts should find a home at Yabuli, one of the world's coldest ski resorts. Passing through nearby Harbin, Heilongjiang's provincial capital, the numbing weather had a certain novelty value. But out here on the exposed slopes, with the thermometer showing -25ºC, twenty minutes feels like an unfeasibly long time to be hanging in mid-air. Half way up the mountain my lips begin to turn blue. Small gulps of Siberian air numb the inside of my mouth and every breath is exhaled as a violent torrent of vapour. As my creaking carriage inches skyward, my body begins to go into deep freeze.
After a few shimmies at the 1,374-metre summit, life is mercifully restored to my limbs. The stunning views across the rippled, snow-drenched plains of Heilongjiang are almost as breathtaking as the icy air, and soon I'm hurtling along an empty slope feeling thoroughly glad I braved the Manchurian chill.
Sino-skiing is on the up, with around one million Chinese said to be taking to the slopes annually. The small town of Yabuli, with 21 years of experience behind it, is something of a Godfather to the sport in China. It played host to the Third Asian Games in 1996 and, despite the appearance of numerous new ski developments across the country, safely maintains its reputation as the biggest and best resort this side of Mongolia.
Yabuli may not be as sophisticated as its newer, more contemporary rivals in the Beijing area, or as thrilling as some of the ski fields of Japan, Europe or America, but it has a rural Chinese charm all of its own. In few ski resorts will you find scores of red lanterns illuminating the alpine trails or encounter entire battalions of chain-smoking workers apparently piste-grooming with spades. Both provide a novel distraction as I breeze along one of the many runs that have been carved from the mountainside forest.
At the end of my first day, my guesthouse landlady-cum-chauffeur collects me from base camp in a battered police van – another reminder of just how far I am from urban authority. The van looks like it's been rolled down more mountains than it has been driven up, but apparently the siren still works. We hurtle back to the guesthouse with blue lights flashing. Dried frogs are on the dinner menu and they dangle decoratively from a piece of string in the front window. Sitting cross-legged on a heated platform, I politely refuse my host's overtures as he teasingly rattles a petrol canister filled with home made rice wine, eventually settling for a meal of spinach and local Dongbei dumplings.
Yabuli's nightlife is unusual to say the least. The most basic of skiing questions, such as "Where's the nearest bar?" causes big problems. One man says the best bar is at the Xin Yu Hotel. Another suggests the only bar is at the Xin Yu Hotel. The receptionist of the Xin Yu Hotel has another opinion. "We don't have a bar," she says. In the only bar I can find, there is a solitary waiter perched, fist to cheek, surveying an empty room. Après-ski in Yabuli is muted, though the barman does direct my attention to the muffled karaoke wails coming from upstairs. "Chinese people don't like to drink and talk. They like to drink and sing," he reflects with a sigh.
Another vivid illustration of Yabuli's after-dark habits is offered up as I leave. Bursting into the night, it is hard to say which comes as more of a surprise – the freezing air or the fact a group of skiers is dancing around a bonfire to a high-decibel Vengaboys medley. Boom, boom, boom, please, let's go back inside my room. If patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel then the Chinese countryside seems to be the last refuge of bad 20th Century Europop.
One of Yabuli's less endearing quirks is the lack of an impartial information office. Four different operators work the resort and are reluctant to give business to the competition. If booked into a package deal organised by a local travel agent, be sure to check what kind of skiing you will be entitled to. I spent the first hours of my stay being assured the nursery slope I had been delivered to was the only venue open. "Oh, that mountain? That's….er….for the national team," chirped my escort, unconvincingly, before belatedly realising her mistake. This was after I had paid for a half day of skiing.
'That mountain' had actually belonged to Yabuli's most reputable operator, the Windmill Village, so named because of the Dutch-flavoured design of many of its on-site hotels. As well as being the elusive home of what I later discovered is the town bar, the Windmill Village maintains 11 impressive trails of varying length and difficulty. The welcome booklet promises to, "Help you take your skiing to the next level." Perhaps tuition involves throwing beginners off the mountainside, but luckily I didn't have to find out as I had inadvertently spent my first morning on a nursery slope.
On the way back down the mountain, Yabuli's charming and occasionally baffling idiosyncrasies seem oddly lovable – even the early morning squawk of the guesthouse rooster brings back fond memories. The public bus chugs back to town across the snow-drenched plains I had seen from the mountaintop and, under freezing blue skies, horse drawn carts pull peasants towards clusters of steaming chimney stacks.
The bus conductor – who doubled as a hotel agent and a train ticket tout on the ride in – is sad to inform me that today's Beijing train is fully booked. I opt instead for the three-hour 'bullet' ride back to Harbin but end up accidentally getting on the slow train. Four hours later, having survived the scrutiny of the PLA soldiers who shared my carriage, I disembark and immediately head for the nearest stack of steaming chimneys. Hey, it's still -25°C out there.
