old man

t Is colossal. Gargantuan. I've never seen anything like it, and - what is even more astonishing - I've never even heard of Chongqing, reputedly the world's largest city, with a population of 30 million since its boundaries were redrawn. I'm here because I want to catch a boat through the Three Gorges before the new Sanxia project floods them forever in AD2002.

I'd spent the day heading east by bus through Sichuan, China's most densely populated province. It was very photogenic, with lush green countryside full of paddy fields, bamboo copses and country roads swarming with blue-clad peasants. But gradually, small, picturesque, red-earthern hamlets became large, dreary, grey-brick villages and, as dusk fell, the hazy sun disappeared behind thick sulphurous smog. Then, without warning, we were on dual carriageways crossing bridges high above the muddy Yangtze, its leaden banks lined with armies of dismal tower-blocks and filthy factories pumping effluent into the polluted river below.

Stiff and sore after the long journey, an hour later I get off to find myself surrounded by seas of humanity swilling round soaring flyovers. Arm outstretched hopelessly, I stand trying to flag down packed, battered buses as they groan past, belching suffocating fumes. Soon I give up and, nerves snapping, fight my way down teeming concrete canyons to a roundabout where I manage to hail an antiquated taxi. Determined to reward myself for the duration of this nightmare, I order it to the legendary Renmin Hotel. The taxi putters through frantically honking traffic for all of 200 metres before turning into peaceful, secluded gardens, where palm avenues festooned with Chinese lanterns lead to steps at the foot of an immense palace. Inspired by - and almost as big as - the Temple of Heaven in Beijing's Forbidden City, the Renmin Hotel (whose main hall alone seats 4000 people) has dozens of 20-metre maroon columns supporting an enormous, 65-metre dome and wings with gigantic pagoda roofs.

Deciding to escape Chongqing as soon as possible, as I check in I ask reception to try and phone the port about scheduled passenger boats through the Three Gorges. To my amazement they not only get through immediately but are told there are berths still available for next morning's 6am Tung Fang Hong No. 41 (both unheard of events in western China). Without even seeing my room, I chase after my taxi, and within minutes we are juddering through the warm spring evening and neon-lit streets which wind down to the harbour. Unbelievably - I'd expected to have to wait days, or have to take a foreigner-only luxury boat - within the hour I've collected my second-class ticket in the half-empty Red is East terminal.

Chongqing was opened as a treaty port in 1890, but few foreigners made it to this isolated outpost. In 1938, after the Japanese invaded China, it became the Kuomintang's war-time capital and refugees flooded in from all over the country. A year later Edgar Snow arrived to find a city living in fear of Japanese air raids, and described how Japanese bombers waited for moonlit nights, when, from their base in Hankow, they followed the gleaming Yangtze up to its confluence with the Jialing, which identified Chongqing in a way no blackout could obscure. Nevertheless, the raids didn't stop it taking off economically and now, with countless dilapidated mills and smoky chimneys spewing pollution over its sprawling hills, it is south- west China's chief industrial city. Ironically, its name (given by Song Dynasty's Emperor Zhao Dun in 1190) means 'repeated good luck', though, cursed by summer temperatures reaching 45C, it doesn't have much of that.

At dawn, another taxi takes me down to the river. It is a great sight, with ant-like streams pouring across long pontoons over the river's shallow sandy banks to innumerable craft moored midstream. I battle through to the Tung Fang Hong No 41, a green and white, four- deck ship in Berth No .8, and collapse exhausted into one of the three unoccupied berths in my cabin. Though it has no porthole and is cramped and airless, it is comfortable, with clean white bedlinen, table reading lamps and the inevitable Chinese thermos flasks. When I awake hours later, mercifully Chongqing has disappeared and the Yangtze is flowing through attractive, verdant hills dotted with banana plantations and yellow terraced fields.

It doesn't last long. Within an hour, grubby tugs pushing heavily laden lighters are battling upstream towards banks lined with the darkest, most satanic-looking towns I'd ever seen. These included Fuling (which 2,000 years ago, was the Kingdom of Ba's political centre); Fengdu (formerly known as the City of Ghosts, with such ghoulish landmarks as Ghost Torturing Pass, Last Glance at Home Tower, and Nothing-to-be-done Bridge); and Zhongxian, which, during the Warring States period (475-221BC), supposedly got its name from a loyal general who severed his own head rather than surrender three Ba cities to his enemies. Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face. Nevertheless, despite their romantic history and intriguing names, they are now black, industrial slums - like something out of a Lowry painting - with ducts discharging poisonous slime from antediluvian foundries into the scum-flecked river below.

But, a little while later, at least we stop briefly at the Shibaozhai (Precious Stone Fortress). Built during the reign of Emperor Qianlong (1736-96), and climbing up a 30-metre-high rock called Jade Seal Hill, this 12 storey Lanruodian temple is an impressive red wooden pavilion whose tall orange gates are decorated with lions and dragons. In the rear hall of Ganyu Palace, at the top, is the Rice Flowing Hole. Legend maintains that, long ago, enough husked rice flowed up through the small hole to satisfy the monks' daily needs, until one day a greedy brother, thinking he could become rich, chiselled a bigger hole, and the rice flow ceased forever.

Some time after we cast off from Shibaozhai, I withdraw to the second-class lounge overlooking the prow, tired of tramping round bleak, windswept decks and watching rain-splattered barges. In the lounge, I get talking to a distinctive-looking couple. They are Chinese, but could almost be American tourists. He is elderly and balding, with horn-rimmed glasses and tobacco-stained teeth, wearing a neat blue pullover, clean white shirt and sandals. She's a thin, sharp, cerebral woman, with a severe face, humourless smile and no eyebrows. Dressed in a smart grey trouser-suit, she looks alarmingly like Mao's forbidding wife, Chang Ch'ing.

"Allow introduce self, please," he said. "Professor Qing, Director Chongqing Geology Institute. This my wife, who Deputy Editor Chinese Journal Family Planning. Sorry, she not speak English."

Soon he is telling me all about himself. It was his umpteenth journey through the Gorges, as his work involved studying the Yangtze's rock formation for petroleum deposits, but the first for his wife, who was on her way to a conference in Yichang. During the 1960's they had both been forced to work as farm labourers, and so had little truck with the Cultural Revolution. But, surprisingly, the Professor defends Deng Xiaoping over Tiananmen Square. "At first, sympathise with students, but they go too far," he said. "We huge country, easily break up." Now he is very proud of China. "Things very good," he said. "Between 1990-1996, 11% annual growth GNP, world's fastest after Equatorial Guinea. And 40 years ago, world's 6th biggest coal producer, but in 1999 produce 1,397 million tons - today China No 1, OK!"

"Keen on statistics, aren't you?" I smiled.

"Yes," he laughed, "like all scientist!"

At dusk, I retire to my cabin until the evening meal. Then, instead of eating in the pricey second-class dining-room, I make my way to the ordinary restaurant at the stern. It isn't a pretty sight. Snake-like queues besiege packed galleys where slovenly, bad- tempered cooks dole out bowls of sludge-like rice, onions and liver. Seated at overflowing tables, and watched by hundreds of incredulous, gawping eyes, I gobbled my food down before escaping back to the second class lounge. However, as I like being in the open, later on I return to the stern, which was the only place to escape the piercing wind. To my surprise the restaurant has become a disco, complete with flashing strobe lights and couples fox-trotting stiffly round the floor. It is my birthday and, outside, the clear moonless sky is riddled with stars. Not far away, a passenger ship seems to speed towards us as we are swept downstream by the raging current, and I catch a glimpse of a multitude of faces thronging decks ablaze with light before we race apart into the night.

At 11am, with our searchlights' powerful beams holding the embankments in a vice-like grip, we tie up at Wanxian. In 1926 the town was bombarded by two British gunboats, after the local warlord took to commandeering foreign vessels to transport his troops (the so- called 'Wanxian Incident'). Now, in the dark, it looks very atmospheric, with overloaded porters staggering up never-ending flights of steps to twisting alleys high above. Nonetheless, afraid of being left behind - Red is East ships are notorious for departing unexpectedly - I don't linger ashore. Anyway, the ship is due to leave shortly before reaching the Three Gorges at dawn.

I sleep fitfully until, dreaming of raised voices, I jolt awake in my cabin and am momentarily disorientated until I realise that the voices are real and they belong to the captain, whose loudhailer is angrily ordering tardy tugs out the way, and the Professor, who is pounding at my door. "Wake up, wake up, miss scenery!" he cries. My alarm clock, which hasn't gone off, says 8am. Cursing, I throw on my clothes and run along to the second class lounge. It is broad daylight, and the Professor is peering through rain-soaked windows at towering black canyons so tall they blot out the sky. "Sorry disturb," he says, "but know you want see gorges, and already miss first."

We hurry outside for a better view. It is stupendous. The river has dramatically narrowed, and rocky pinnacles rise to strangely formed, mist-smothered peaks. "This second one, called Wu - or Witches - Gorge," the Professor shouts above the howling gale, with all the enthusiasm of one who takes the greatest delight in imparting knowledge. "It smallest, but here cliffs 900 metres high. Look, there Chaoyun Feng [Facing Clouds Peak], Juhe Feng [Assembled Cranes Peak], and Denglong Feng [Climbing Dragon Peak]!"

Not long afterwards, we pass through Xiling, the Third Gorge. "This 76 kilometre long, and most dangerous one!" yells the Professor as, outside again, we hang on rails to avoid being blown overboard. "Captain must pay attention, current very treacherous!" He gestures to eddying whirlpools and rapids shooting through jagged rocks on both sides of the river, which is so narrow two ships could hardly pass each other. After he retreats into the second class lounge, I stay for what seems like hours. I am quite mesmerised - when not having to take snap-shots for the Professor and his wife, who repeatedly rush out with their old-fashioned, toy-like camera and pose woodenly before fleeing back into the warmth. Finally, soaked, frozen but exhilarated, I rejoin them, and listen with fascination as the Professor points out gorges with extraordinary names, eg Military Books and Precious Sword, and Ox Liver and Horse Lung, as well as explaining the geology (karst limestone).

Then, just as I am getting used to the Three Gorges, they recede, the river widens, and the mythical-sounding mountains peter out into featureless foothills. I am still feeling a palpable sense of loss when, not long afterwards, forests of pylons and cranes appear on the horizon and we arrive at Yichang locks. They are right at the foot of mammoth, 70-metre-high Gezhouba Dam which, part of world's largest, most controversial hydroelectric project, will soon drown 4000 villages, displace 4,500,000 people and create an artificial lake 550km long. For a while the Professor and I stand silently at the starboard rail, staring at crowds lining the decks of a large passenger ship as it inches through the lock opposite, occasionally craning our heads at the vertical cement cliffs hanging precipitously overhead. "Awful, isn't it?" I say at last, appalled at how the once- mighty Yangtze has been so brutally tamed and trussed. "Especially for you geologists."

"Yes," he replies, sadly surveying the concrete jungle of weirs and sluice gates. Suddenly he brightens. "But, you know, dam stop Yangtze break banks - and two years ago it flood 21 million hectares - not to mention supply 14 billion kilowatt-hour electricity annually!" Then we were through Yichang's locks, and China's vast plains stretched endlessly east into the gloom.

How to get there

KLM fly Glasgow to Beijing via Amsterdam for #446 return; China Airways fly Beijing to Chongquing Where to stay A second class berth from Chongquing to Yichang costs #42 Other info The China National Tourist Office is at - Glentworth Street, London.

Tel: 0207 935 9787 www.

leisureplanet.com is a good web resource surfchina.com is a more general site with links to hotels and airlines

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