The Gateway to Sichuan: Wanxian’s Strategic Beauty
Nestled along the Yangtze River’s sloping banks, Wanxian (modern-day Wanzhou) stood as one of the most picturesque towns in late 19th-century China. Though not yet an official treaty port, its commercial vitality was undeniable. British consular plans simmered, but for now, the only Western faces belonged to missionaries and postal workers. As the primary transit hub for Sichuanese merchants shipping goods downstream, Wanxian thrived on its “first-mover advantage.” The town’s terraced streets offered travelers a dramatic panorama—a prelude to the province’s rugged beauty.
My arrival here was eased by the hospitality of Father Clatt, a missionary who arranged my travel logistics with practiced efficiency. Three bearers were hired to rotate carrying my sedan chair (huagan), while three more shouldered luggage. A temporary servant completed the entourage—a necessity for the 400-mile overland trek to Chengdu. Such preparations mirrored a well-worn system: local hires ensured safety within their home districts, to be replaced as territories changed. Even the Wanxian magistrate played his part, dispatching soldiers as escorts—a customary, if not always welcome, courtesy for Western travelers.
The Road to Chengdu: Commerce and Curiosity
The 14-stage journey traced Sichuan’s agricultural heartland along routes frequented by Qing officials. Unlike most Westerners who opted for the Yangtze-to-Min River route, I chose the overland path—less traveled but rich with encounters. Innkeepers greeted me with the polite “serve the honored guest”, their curiosity outweighing any xenophobia. My bulldog, however, stole the show. Unfamiliar with the breed, villagers debated whether it was a dog or bear—a comic refrain underscoring cultural divides.
The landscape unfolded like a living scroll: terraced rice paddies mirrored English ornamental lakes, while bamboo groves framed temples and farmsteads. Yet modernity flickered beneath the surface. Farmers warmed themselves with coal-filled metal baskets worn under robes—a pragmatic twist on European hand-warmers. At Liangshan, locals disarmed with humor; at Dazhu, a rare comfortable inn offered respite. But the road also revealed untapped potential: surface-level coal mining operations hinted at industrial possibilities left unexploited.
Rivers and Ruins: The Qu River and Beyond
Crossing the Qu River (“White Water”) by narrow boat marked a pivotal juncture. This tributary of the Jialing River carved through northeastern Sichuan’s mountains, its 10-foot summer swells testifying to untamed hydrology. By the eighth day, we reached Shunqing Prefecture (modern Nanchong), where traditional industries faltered against foreign competition. Once-famed natural dyes from safflowers withered before Austrian synthetic imports; only silk production clung to relevance. Flood scars from years past—collapsed walls, water-stained streets—spoke of nature’s recurring interventions.
Nearby, the four-arched Yong’an Bridge ushered us into the Western Hills. Here, cliffside carvings narrated a dual heritage: tales of chaste widows mingled with tributes to long-gone magistrates. One inscription—”Better to suffer injustice than file a lawsuit”—epitomized Confucian disdain for legal strife. Such artifacts revealed how officialdom and folk values intertwined along Sichuan’s arteries.
Chengdu’s Paradox: Wealth and Bandits on the Plain
On February 26, after two weeks’ travel, Chengdu’s sprawl emerged—a city of jarring contrasts. Opulent merchant quarters abutted legions of beggars; one even offered to carry me on his back as a novel panhandling tactic. The famed “mountain bandits” (shandawang) made their appearance too: two pistol-wielding highwaymen (likely armed with unloaded relics) ambushed us near bamboo thickets. Our soldier escorts’ pursuit ended comically—the outlaws, weighed down by ceremonial swords, were swiftly captured. Their implausible excuse (“We found these weapons and were returning them!”) underscored the theater of Qing-era law enforcement.
Yet Chengdu pulsed with progress. Governor-general-led railway plans aimed to connect the city to Wanxian—a Chinese-funded endeavor bypassing the Yangtze’s deadly rapids. Public notices touted the project’s benefits, revealing elite enthusiasm for modernization. Even education reflected this duality: a provincial university blended Western science (taught by a British chemist) with classical Chinese learning, while silk factories hummed with imported machinery.
The Enigma of Tianyashi: Chengdu’s Ancient Monuments
Chengdu’s deepest mysteries lay in its archaeological oddities. Explorer Baber had documented an artificial mound—possibly a tomb—attributed to some forgotten prince. My investigation led to the half-buried “Stone of the Horizon” (tianyashi), a colossal stela with a 17-foot diameter barely protruding aboveground. Local lore warned against disturbing it, lest demons darken the skies. Nearby, the Dujiangyan irrigation system—a 2,300-year-old hydraulic marvel—stood as a testament to Li Bing’s engineering genius, its temples outshone only by the still-functioning canals that tamed the Min River.
Legacy of the Journey: Sichuan at the Crossroads
This 1890s odyssey captured Sichuan in flux. Traditional inns coexisted with railway dreams; bandits haunted roads walked by chemistry professors. The province’s agricultural wealth—evident in its thriving crops and silk—clashed with industrial stasis (those neglected coal seams). Yet the warm reception for foreigners like myself suggested openness rare in interior China. Today, as high-speed trains race past the Qu River and Chengdu’s startups flourish, those late-Qing contradictions—between isolation and global curiosity, between feudalism and reform—echo still. The bulldog may be gone, but the road from Wanxian remains a corridor through time.
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