Shamian Island: Lost In Time

Perhaps it’s the absence of direct sunshine, the oblique, halfhearted way the frail light falls that makes this island seem ephemeral as a bubble, seem to float in and out of focus like a mirage on the opaque waters of the vast Pearl River Delta.

You have to cross a bridge to get there, a solid concrete arch over the slow khaki- colored canal separating the island from the ancient, crowded alleys of Guanghzhou alongside it.  Many of the city’s over 10 million bustling inhabitants trade in much the same way as their ancestors did centuries before them; dwarfed by shoulder high sacks of dried starfish, seahorses and enormous brown rolls of papery cinnamon thick and long as a man’s arm.

Behind us hawkers on the pedestrian bridge above the sprawling modern day traffic nightmare hunch over their foul-smelling claws, horns, and other gruesome paraphernalia. Ahead an abrupt and astonishing colonial sanctuary of sorts.

Once over the bridge we turn sharp left along a narrow paved road that circumnavigates the entire island. Now the sounds are different. I hear voices in leisurely conversation, sharp heels clicking on pavement, birds singing in the gnarled branches of ancient Banyan trees lining the street, a remarkable slow peace seems to hold the place. It’s uncannily hushed, compared to the chaos across the bridge.

But then, this island has a history of setting itself apart. After the notorious Opium wars in 1859 this sand mass was split in two giving 4/5ths to the British and a mere 1/5^th to the French.

During that colonial period the island cut itself off from the mainland at 10pm sharp every night, a security measure to keep its cluster of European traders safe and separate from the churning masses of the mainland.

Once we deposit our luggage at the Guangdong Victory Hotel – an old colonial-style outpost that has had some glorious ups and sincerely shabby downs -- I waste no time. I’m out on that street, this time on foot in flat sandals. I follow the canal on its way to its final surge into the Pearl River itself.

There are some empty restaurants with empty chairs spilling out onto silent jungle-like gardens hung with rows of red lanterns hinting at busier more festive evenings. Even in China, particularly here on this somewhat un-Chinese outpost, this is the quiet time between meals. It is late afternoon and the blear of sun represents scant opposition to the oncoming night.

My plan is not a plan. I simply weave my way up and down random side streets leading off the river road. In places the quiet is broken by the surprising cacophony of school children at play in a street otherwise deserted.

I round a corner coming to what I imagine is the shady green center of the island; a series of picturesque formal gardens. Things hot up here a bit. People stroll by at an island pace and everywhere I turn brides in white seem to appear. They are posing everywhere, dainty and perfect as china dolls and surrounded by attentive entourages of photographers and family.

Further down the road I come to a major bridal hub, photographers and brides are streaming out of the main door. Through the windows I catch glimpses of serious pre-wedding tête-à-têtes, brides and grooms sitting stiffly across the tables from glamorous young wedding consultants, between them piles of hard covered catalogues. A part of me thinks it wonderfully odd that this tiny island, full of remnants of European colonialism, should be so popular a background for well heeled Chinese bridal couples whose history and traditions could not be more different.

Back on the Pearl River, right up near the White Swan Hotel, famed as the preferred accommodation for Americans adopting Chinese babies, I turn left again and follow the river. Its getting dark and the multi-storied buildings across the water light up in bright ripples of changing color.

I come across one of many recreational areas, cement tiled but broken by the green sweep of some very old trees. I hear music, old fashioned sounding music, loud but distorted. Couples, men and women, women and women, straight-arm formally in the fading light. Red lanterns bob overhead.

Such a strange place Shamian Island, quaint and old fashioned. If it weren’t for the very contemporary animation of the school children I would think it belonged mainly to the couples who earnestly dip and sway on this outdoor dance floor. I try to imagine the couples that must have danced here a hundred years ago. What is the same, what persists and what is different.