Though separated by centuries and countries, Sun Yat-sen and George Washington have some things in common.

Both were revolutionaries enshrined as national ``fathers.'' Washington, if you believe the countless plaques dotting historic sites along the United States' eastern seaboard, spent a night in virtually every 18th-century inn and home; Sun also apparently lived, slept, sipped tea or plotted revolution in myriad locales throughout the mainland, Hong Kong and Southeast Asia.

This came to mind during a recent mainland day trip and river boat tour organized by China Travel Service that included a museum dedicated to Sun and his ``boyhood home'' in Guangdong province's Cuiheng village, 25 kilometers outside Zhongshan and 37 km from Macau.

Unfortunately, repairs are being made to the stately two-story house, which Sun designed but spent relatively little time in. His sister actually built the place in 1911.

Thus we were limited to exploring the museum and a next-door neighbor's property, where young Sun used to tend water buffalo.

His wealthy neighbor was described by our gregarious and knowledgable guide, David Pan, as ``Mr Lu, a bean curd king.'' Neighbor Lu's former home, complete with original portraits of his two wives and himself, was gorgeous and well-appointed, and in addition to being a curd king he apparently was also, perhaps in keeping with the fashion of the day, something of a junkie.

Among the elaborately carved wooden dragon chairs, canopied beds, ancestral shrines and scatterings of gorgeous china dishes, two ornate opium pipes were also reverently displayed under glass. The opium theme was discreetly repeated elsewhere on site. Under a mature banyan tree were life-size marble statues of an attentive young Sun and an unidentified, equally rapt girl listening to an elderly peasant, a pre-revolutionary activist, clad only in shorts with an opium pipe nestled on his lap.

The museum, a large, somewhat imposing structure at the end of a wide, shady, tree-lined path, is the finest of its type that I've seen on the mainland. It's extremely well-organized and almost overwhelmingly comprehensive, covering not only Sun's 60-year life, but also detailing grandparents, parents, siblings, his third wife, Soong Ching-ling (one of the celebrated ``Three Sisters,'' another of whom, Soong Mei-ling, married Chiang Kai-shek) and Sun's descendants.

It's also the only place on the mainland where I've seen what became the Taiwanese flag - the 12-pointed sun that symbolized the Kuomintang party. Displaying the symbol is verboten on the mainland, but in the Sun museum, two originals were carefully folded under glass like creations from a Chinese Betsy Ross, the patriotic US seamstress who, according to America's historical fable, lovingly handstitched the prototype of the American flag.

Our tour group began the day early, at 8am, with a sleepy 90-minute ferry ride from Hong Kong to Zhongshan where stern-faced PLA soldiers at the border rigidly scrutinized our travel documents. It was the first time either I or the photographer, a well-traveled fellow, had encountered PLA recruits doubling as border and customs clerks. He was also somewhat startled when they rummaged through his camera equipment and lectured him about bringing it all back and not selling it on the mainland.

``Why would I do that?'' he mused rhetorically. ``This is my job, my life.''

Zhongshan is a lovely, low-key, tree-lined town, complete with a relaxed pedestrian shopping mall sporting Portuguese-style facades, though the bucolic effect was briefly marred by the sight of local police strolling in twos and threes sporting light machine guns with banana clips sprouting from the chambers.

``Chinese New Year,'' explained tour guide Pan. ``Police are afraid people will make trouble.''

Prior to our exercise in rampant consumerism in Zhongshan's mall, where we splurged on a variety of teas and DVDs, we had spent some time perusing the opposite side of the coin at a somewhat shabby museum memorializing an enormous 1970s-era Cultural Revolution commune, Ming Zhong. The displays of primitive farming tools, the stark photos and Pan's commentary pulled no punches about the misery the comrades had endured for the sake of their lost vision of a new socialist world.

``Look at this man in rags,'' Pan said, pointing to a black-and-white photo of a scarecrow-like fellow gamely smiling for the camera. ``He got maybe one or two sets of clothes a year if he was lucky. He looks very happy here, but in fact he is not happy. He is very hungry.''

We found more serene surroundings cruising a tributary of the Pearl River in a catamaran to a papaya, star fruit and banana farming community that seemed to be entirely populated by the elderly and children.

``All the others have gone to the city where they can make more money,'' Pan explained as several old ladies tried to wheedle me into buying some bananas. There was also an enormous thriving wishing tree festooned with lightly weighted red cloths bearing the hopes of those who had paid 6 yuan (HK$5.60) to toss them into the branches. Compared to the ailing wreck of a wishing tree in Lam Tsuen, New Territories, this one was especially grand.

``Your wishes are gone with the wind,'' Pan waxed eloquently as I successfully anchored my cloth after three awkward attempts. ``Gone with the wind to be granted.''

I asked him about rows of small, identical posters crawling with Chinese script and sporting cross logos that were glued to the cement walls along a village footpath.

``They are advertisements to treat sexual diseases,'' he said brightly.

``Is that a big problem here?''

``Not if you go to the place that is advertised,'' he replied.

Our cruise also allowed us a water-level view of the bark and bamboo outhouses and summer sleeping quarters for the villagers, some of whom were bathing and splashing in the muddy, shallow depths as we passed.

``They have a special immunity from the pollution here,'' Pan explained as he effortlessly morphed from tour guide to amateur bacteriologist. ``You and I would get diarrhea, but this is `natural' pollution, not like factory pollution where you can get cancer.''

The tour also included a leisurely and sumptious Chinese banquet lunch at the four-star Fuwah Hotel. This one is preferred by Westerners, Pan said, because ``the shopping is safer in the evenings,'' while risk-taking Hong Kong shoppers generally opt for the Zhongshan International Hotel.

Pan, who grew up in Zhongshan, was a near non-stop font of information and trivia concerning his hometown, which, in addition to Sun Yat-sen and shopping, is also known for its toy factories.

``Twenty years ago, maybe 95 percent of the people here were farmers, now maybe 20 percent at most. Most others work in the factories. Fifteen years ago we had three streets. Now I don't know how many we have.

``That is one of the world's largest toy factories, 25,000 workers make the Barbie dolls. And that over there is a fantasy,'' he said, pointing to an enormous, partially completed and now abandoned construction site we passed by. ``It was supposed to be like a Chinese Disneyland, but the owner went bankrupt six or seven years ago.''

He was cheerfully frank about getting around Zhongshan. In addition to conventional taxis, there are also ``motorcycle taxis'' often driven recklessly by young men with a yen for speed and a quick yuan.

``They are very cheap but very dangerous,'' Pan cautioned. ``We joke that the motorcycle taxis won't take you to your destination, but they will take you to hell.''

justin.mitchell@singtaonewscorp.com