China Reflection

Luther Burbank

Luther Burbank most likely would never have been able to locate the city ofLangfang^W on a map of China.  As a lifelong botanist and horticulturalist, Mr. Burbank spent a good deal of his time in the garden in his modest Californian home.  Asian explorer he was not.  Amongst other creations, Mr. Burbank is credited with developing more than “800 strains of plants” inluding the creation of:

• 113 plums and prunes
• 11 plumcots
• 4 grapes
• 10 cherries
• 2 figs
• 1 almond
• 8 peaches
• the Idaho potato (favored by McDonald’s)
• 11 quinces….and many many more

*(Above information taken directly from Wikipedia)

Luther Burbank couldn’t speak a word of Chinese.  He may be the most famous botanist and horticulturalist you’ve never heard of (unless you happen to be studying a horticulture/botany, or you come from his hometown of Lancaster, Massachusetts).  According to historical documents,my own personal research, and intuition, he never once traveled to China.  Still, it is because of China, and more specifically because of my recent trip to the nearby city of Langfang in Hebei Province that I am now aware of Mr. Burbank’s agricultural prowress, innovation, and ingenuity.  It took Langfang to introduce me to this pillar of modern civilization.

Oriental University City

Langfang is about halfway between Beijing and Tianjin, two of China’s urban monsters.  When my good friend, Simon, and I were planning our visit to Langfang, we once again received strange looks of confusion from our Chinese friends.  We were spurred onwards towards Langfang by the comments, “nothing to see there,” “don’t waste your time,” and “why are you going there?”  Going to a place that is not recommended by Chinese always turns out to be the best recommendation because of the surprises that await us upon arrival.

Prior to leaving for Langfang, I did a bit of research on the web.  I discovered that located in the city center was China’s longest pedestrian street.  There was also a selection of parks located throughout the city center.  Just on the outskirts of the city one could also visit “Oriental University City,” a collection of recently constructed universities (founded in 2000).

As we pulled into the university area, Simon and I were immediately greeted by a long avenue that was made to look like Paris’ Champs de L’Eysee.  In the middle of the avenue was a small replica of L’Arc de Triomphe.  Simon’s eyes widened.  He gasped twice, and was at a loss for words as his head moved in the direction of the Arc while we passed it, his face pressing up against the glass.  I knew we would have to get out and document this avenue.  Tears formed in his eyes, his mouth agape, the only sound coming out of his joyous expression were ecstatic grunts.  

As soon as we exited the bus, we were thrust into Homer’s “Odyssey,” crashing upon the shores of an Island of Sirens.  The proportion of female students to male students was astounding, and…it seemed they were all smiling.  I stopped one of them, a young girl from Shijiazhuang (Hebei’s capital), and asked her how far Oriental City was from central Langfang.

“It’s a little far to walk.  Maybe about 10km.  Do you need help?  I’m very happy to help you.  I really don’t mind.  Can I help you?”  I took down her number, and told her that maybe we would contact her later. We passed more sirens, the Sun beating down on us as we pulled out our umbrellas to shade ourselves from the hottest part of the day that was yet to come.

“Hello,” a long-legged Siren giggled to us as she walked in the opposite direction.  I waved with a smile and said, “hello,” tempted for the slightest of moments to give up my goal of documenting the landmarks of Oriental University City.  Pressing on, we continued to walk along the avenue.

At the head of the long boulevard was an immense brick monument with statues of children reading–another ode to education.  The message on the monument was plain and simple, and filled with hope for the future:  “for our children to enter the great hall of higher education.”  The weather was getting hotter and hotter.  We walked under the shade of the nearby trees lining the boulevard.  It was then that we noticed the plaques.

All along the both sides of the boulevard were plaques dedicated to historical figures.  These plaques were dark in color, possibly meant to look as if they were made of copper.  They were almost unnoticeable.  Every 50 feet, there would be a new plaque dedicated to some historical figure.  The plaques already seemed to be rusting with age (despite only being erected in the past decade).  History’s pillars of civilization flanked us on both sides, silently watching us with their immobile eyes, their gazes bearing down on us.  Others looked upwards or off to the side shyly, or as if they were contemplating some epiphany that had just come to them in a dream.  We walked along and read the names.  These were some of the people who the designers of Oriental University City had decided needed to be remembered in the hearts and minds of China’s youth as the “cornerstones of civiliaztion”:

• Copernicus
• Anthony Van Leeuwenhoek
• Mohammed
• Magellan
• Plato
• Constantine the Great
• Cai Lun
• Ghengis Khan
• Columbus
• Leonhard Euler
• Cromwell
• James Watt
• George Washington
• Shakespeare
• Jean Jacques Rousseau
• Edward Jenner
• Mozart
• Thomas Malthos
• Hegel
• Edison
• Luther Burbank

 Luther Burbank?  Edward Jenner?   Thomas Malthos?  Who the hell were these guys and what were they doing in Langfang?  And did all the students here know who they were?  The plaques seemed neglected and almost lonely lining the street towards the two monuments.  Some of them were rusting with age (despite only being erected in the past decade).  There were even a couple of them that appeared to have been stolen.  I could only wonder whose names had been on the missing plaques, now stowed secretly in some student’s dormitory,  having been lured there by the allure of the Siren’s song.  Oscar Mayer?  R.T.H. Laennec?  Giacomo Rizzolati?  It seemed history was a random grab bag of figures set up here in no particular order, and anyone was game to pop up in Langfang.  (This comment is by no means intended to take away from the great historical contributions attributed to these figures).  I jotted down some of the names and resolved to brush up on my history as soon as I returned to Beijing, putting an asterisk next to Luther Burbank’s name…the lonely gardener.  Something about his name struck me, like a hiccup in my soul.  I felt like I owed it to his memory to know him.  He was put on this spot for a reason.  I kept repeating his name, trying not to remember it, and then almost instantly forgetting it, mangling his name to “Arthur Bramble,” or “Lester Brambrich,” etc.  Simon shook his head and spoke with an ironic tone.

“This guy means nothing to me.  I will treat him as air.”  Well said, I thought, knowing that it was an offhand compliment. We need air to breathe.  Deep down I knew that he also agreed that these pillars of civilization needed to be recalled and remembered, and he couldn’t help but have a secret sense of respect for Mr. Burbank and his neighbors on the avenue.  A fellow Swiss, Leonhard  Euler, attracted his attention the same way Mr. Burbank attracted mine.

 Discovery

Oriental University City and its Avenue of Civilization were only the beginning of our trip to Langfang, a two day journey filled with surprise and discovery.   Simon and I would later take a bus 10km into the city center and visit Century Square, established and built by CPP (China Petroleum Pipeline).  We stood in the square and observed the monstrous monument shaped like a globe being grasped by robotic arms .  A friendly little man named Liu Gui Chun spoke with us while he watched his son ride around in the park on a unicycle.  He told us of Langfang’s population boom after CPP located their offices and 20,000 jobs to the city in 1973.  While I spoke with him about CPP’s development in Langfang, Simon chatted with a round young boy on rollerblades about Chinese pizza vs. Italian pizza.     We decided to give the boy the English name “Origus” after a famous chain of pizza buffet restaurants.   In the evening, inspired by the conversation with the roly-poly boy, we would actually eat in an Origus Pizza buffet restaurant. 

We walked along the longest pedestrian street in China, its buildings’ facades modeled after European architecture, as if the Romans had returned to invade.  It seemed every building was lined with columns, and at the end of some sections there would be large European fountains, currently dry and out of use.  Along the way to Origus we discovered one of the longest continuous sections of red light districts I have ever seen in the north of China.  Scantily clad women came out to greet us and tried to beckon us inside, one even saying, “make free love now” in English.  These red light districts have all but been wiped out in Beijing and Tianjin, in a cleansing purge leading up to the Olympics.  They surprisingly manage to survive and thrive in nearby Langfang, giving the city’s night scene a raunchier texture from the two powerhorses.  I wondered if any of these women had studied botany and knew of Mr. Burbank, but I neglected to ask them myself for fear of insulting their intelligence. 

On our second day we journeyed to the city’s northwestern suburbs and explored its lush Nature Park before returning to Beijing.  Due to the park’s size, we decided to rent a small vehicle about the size of a golf cart, rather than tour the park on foot.  The vehicle’s top speed was only a bit faster than my own walking speed.  Dubbing it, “The Green Dragon,” we pressed pedal to the metal and proceeded through the park, the trees, the manmade lakes, the inflatable balls on the lakes, the rickety-bridges, and the young families posing for pictures amidst the greenery until we came upon a lovely grassy knoll filled with statues of white stone elephants for a rest.

On the bus back to Beijing, I couldn’t help shaking my head and thinking to myself, they just don’t know…they just don’t know.  Everyplace has something to see.  Everyplace has someone or something you can learn about.  If we had listened to all of those naysayers who said that there was nothing in Langfang, we would have missed its true face.  Like scientists and explorers we were lovers of “truth for the very love of truth itself, wherever it may lead” (Luther Burbank, quoted from Great Quotations by George Seldes).   The truth just happened to lead us to Langfang this time.  From the Avenue of Civilization in Oriental University City to the CPP monument in Century Square, from the red lights of China’s longest pedestrian street to the aging white stones of the elephant sculptures in the Nature Park, I knew that our journey to Langfang was not in vain but a journey of discovery and truth.  As we rode back through the town, I felt exhausted with all the new names, information, and scenes that my brain had processed during our short stay in this nowhere city.  Suddenly, I was drifting in and out of consciousness, dozing off to visions of Royal Walnuts, carefully cultivated technicolor daisies, and other Burbank creations.  I found myself in a space/time warp, first in Lancaster, Massachussets, then Santa Rosa, California, and finally Langfang, Hebei.  I was nurturing flowers in a sun hat with the same amount of care one would take to nurture a small child, a plumcot’s juice dripping  from my mouth and sweat glistening on my brow.  In a moment of interstate wake-dream, I swore I saw a vision of Luther Burbank, the “Wizard of Plant Life, a pillar of civilization, winking at me in gratitude as our bus pulled onto the highway, away from history and towards the garden of the future.

“Eh?  Hello?  Is anyone there?” a voice from outside asks. 

I sit in Chinareflection’s office on a small brown stool.  My accordian is on my lap, and I’ve been practicing for the past hour.  In front of me is my music book with the notes for “William Tell,” a piece that I was just starting to get the hang of.  The book sits on the two person couch in the office.  Behind the couch are pictures of past English corners, my diabolo friends, my parents’ visit to China, practicing the nunchakus, hiking on the Great Wall…all of our attempts to spruce up the small box of an office that we have moved into in order to give it character, personality, and warmth.  Anything to cover up those lifeless walls.

Damn!  Why can’t I just practice my accordian in peace?  When I practice a musical instrument I don’t do it for other people to hear and enjoy, usually.  I’m a little selfish this way.  Plus, I get self conscious when other people stare at me while I play.  Practicing musical instruments is my own way of “tuning out” and relaxing, like reading a book.  No one wants to be disturbed when they are reading or writing. 

I sigh to myself and decide to be polite and say “hello” to the visitor at the door.  It’s Lu Yao (English name “Chloe”) a 19 year old girl from Liaoning^W Province.  She lives in a small dorm room in the courtyard where our office is located.  I invite her inside the tiny office to sit down, reluctantly putting my accordian behind a couple of stools in the corner.  At first I do not sit down, possibly trying to send the message that I want her to go?  She smiles and looks in my direction.  Her eyes, constantly twitch back and forth, never focusing directly on me due to her partial blindness.

“I’m sorry, you want to go home?” she asks innocently.  I realize that I am still standing, as if ready to leave.

“No. It’s alright.  Have a seat.” A change begins to come over me.  I feel more relaxed and less rushed and decide to take my time with Lu Yao.  She is so sweet and genuinely polite–one of the most well-mannered 19 year olds I have ever met, and this includes 19 year olds of any nationality. She practically bows down to a person when she greets them, something I almost never see in China.   She sits down on the soft couch, hugging one of the green pillows to her lap and I decide to relax and focus solely on her and the conversation that ensues.  Outside the night is black.  The room is white under the fluorescent lights.  No one else disturbs us and we’re free to let the conversation flow.

The Neighborhood

Our new office at #79 Gulou West Street sits directly opposite the old office at #118 Gulou West Street.  Although the 2 locations are so close in proximity to one another, the difference in feeling and atmosphere seems worlds apart.  When we moved from #118 to #79 I felt a slight tinge of sentimentality for leaving the place that had served as Chinareflection’s home for almost one year.  The feeling didn’t last for long.  As we moved out, the new renters came by to watch and asked me how much we paid in rent, so as to make sure the landlord hadn’t cheated them.  When Lynn and I first found CR’s original office we thought it a brilliant location for our endeavors.  Upon first inspection, the streetside location seemed ideal, especially with the fact that it was located directly next to a bus stop.  The space itself was extremely dirty and left abandoned by its previous tenants who had operated a brothel/hairdresser there.   With musty curtains dripping off the walls and hair on the floor, upon first inspection the inside of the shop seemed more like the set of a recent fire or horror picture.  We would transform the interior into something functional, comfortable, even liveable.  Behind our office we could look into Mr. and Mrs. Niu’s (our neighbors) small house.  Sometimes if I came at just the right time, I could even look into Mr. Niu’s kitchen as he was cooking his lunch.  We would be separated by two screen windows at the back wall of our office, and a passageway wide enough for one person to pass through.  If the windows were open the smells of his homecooked dumplings wafted into our space, their fragrances curling under our chins and hooking our noses, pulling us forward out of or seats.  I drooled because of those smells.  Sometimes, they would make dinner for us, knocking on the window and opening it up, handing us plates full of dumplings through the curtans.

On one occasion when I was exploring the neighborhood around #118 Gulou West Street, I stumbled upon the courtyard across the street at #79 quite by accident.  I decided to wander in and see what was inside the courtyard and was surprised by what I found.  For one thing, the space was enormous by Beijing’s standards.  Behind the small gate was one large courtyard surrounded by low level grey buildings on four sides.  Some of these offices were empty, others were in use.  There was one small training school that specialized in teaching Mongolian script.  Beside it was the main office for a technological training school.  They had a large classroom that dominated the first courtyard.  Behind the first courtyard was a second courtyard, also surrounded on four sides by small buildings, all of them quiet.  In one office there were some people playing Scrabble.  It turned out they were the only active Scrabble club in Beijing.  The whole purpose of their business was to promote and organize scrabble tournaments.  The most interesting independent office was back in the first courtyard, however.  There was a small sign that read, “Heart’s Eye Theater” in Chinese.   I later learned that this theater belonged to a nonprofit organization called “Hong Dan Dan,” an organization that  scheduled outings and activities for members of the blind community, including showing movies for the blind.  Movies for the blind?  This was something different.  This was something new.  This courtyard was like a pocket universe.  This was our neighborhood.  Innovation.

As months passed, it was too much to hope for the world in our neighborhood to stop evolving.  The courtyard changed its faced, some businesses leaving, others staying, and new ones arriving.  The scrabble people are nowhere to be seen now.  The school for Mongolian script has disappeared.  In their places, new business have taken over, like flowers growing over tombstones.  Directly next to our new office at #79 is a young man working for a nonprofit that’s primary function is to disseminate AIDS education information in rural areas.  In the second courtyard there is a small classroom that teaches art and sculpture classes.  There’s also a photography studio as well.  The technological school has stayed in its place, as has Hong Dan Dan, the “Mind’s Eye Theater.”  Every Saturday morning they show movies to a roomful of blind people.  One person with normal vision sits next to the screen with a microphone and explains what is happening in the film.  The room is always packed and all seats are taken. 

It was on one of these Saturday mornings when I first met Lu Yao.  She lives in the Hong Dan Dan headquarters, right next to the kitchen.  She works as a radio broadcaster, and studies English in her spare time, even translating an English textbook into braille.  When she was a child Lu Yao developed a brain tumor that has since affected her sight.  She says that when she looks at me, she can see my general outline if it’s bright outside, but she cannot see any definition.  According to her, it’s as if she is looking through about 30 sheets of cellophane.

Trust

“Lu Yao, when you meet someone for the first time, do you usually trust them?”  I think back to the previous weekend’s English corner.  Pinno, a valued member of the Chinareflection family prepared a survey asking all those who participated various questions concerning trusting others.

Lu Yao’s eyes continue to dart back and forth as she thinks about the answer.  “Yes. Most of the time, I think I trust people.  It’s like a mirror,” she holds her hand up to her face.  “If you smile at a person, they’ll smile at you.  If you aren’t happy, or don’t trust them, maybe they won’t trust you,” she pauses.  “But sometimes, things are different then our imagination…we are good to someone and they are not to us.  Maybe I don’t know the society well enough.”

Something about Lu Yao’s answer brings out the teacher instinct in me.  “That thing you said about the mirror.  It’s like anything, really.  Being a teacher, too.  When I was teaching I would always hear teachers say, ‘oh, my students are so bad. They never listen.’  But I seldom ever heard them ask, ‘why? Why don’t they listen?’  Students should respect their teachers, but it can’t be automatic.  A teacher should respect his students, too.  If you’re good to your students, most of the time, they’ll be good to you, too.  But a teacher needs to take responsibility and time to put the work into it.”

Lu Yao cuts in, shaking her head, “This is why Chinese education is so bad sometimes.  We are too traditional.  We must not question the teacher no matter what….” she pauses. “How do you say, ‘do you understand?’ in English?”

I tell her, but then I add, “I never ask people that question.  I always ask, ‘is that clear?’  If I ask, ‘do you understand?’ it means that the problem is with the student or the listener to understand.  If I ask, ‘is that clear?’ it means the problem is with the person talking or asking the question.  Some people might feel stupid if they say, ‘I don’t understand.’  I never say this sentence in Chinese….Is that clear?”

She laughs.  We continue talking for a few minutes, switching subjects to talk about travel.

“I want to…recommend….our ‘bei’.  How do you say ‘bei?”  she asks.

“North,” I say.

“Norss….Norss….Noooorrth.”  She repeats the word again and again after me.  Excellent student.

“And ‘nan?’”  she asks.

“South.” I say.

We repeat this pattern through the four directions until she gets all four down in her memory.  Then she continues with her recommendation.

“I want to recommend our North.  In the South there was the snow storm…”

“The blizzard, yes.”  I cut in.

“Blii….Bli…ah…too hard.  Yes.  The snow.  Last year, a big snow.  Then there was also the earthquake in Sichuan.  Next to the sea there are big storms in the South.  And in the mountains there are floods.  In Liaoning in the North, where I am from, it is very dry.  We don’t have any of these bad things.  Also, the seasons are like they are supposed to be.  In the Summer it’s hot, in the Spring the flowers come out, the Winter is cold, and Fall is beautiful.  I think it’s a wonderful place.  Do you underst…..Is that clear?” she asks me, laughing as she corrects herself.

“Clear,” I respond.  The silence of a finished conversation begins to creep up behind me.  I turn around and notice that the pitcher we used at an English corner a few weeks prior is still filled with water and wilting flower tea leaves.  Disgusting, I need to wash that.

“I guess you will go home,” she says, standing up, almost reading my mind.

“Yes, first I’ll wash this pitcher.  Can I use your kitchen?”

“No problem,” she says.  She leads me out into the dark, and I direct her around a large puddle that she cannot see.  I want to protect her at this moment, help her if I can.  I feel like she is my student for some reason.  Such a nice girl.  Feeling her way along the wall towards the kitchen, she locates the light switch and turns it on for me.  I begin to wash the pitcher, pouring its flowers into the sink.  A putrid smell comes out as I pour.  Lu Yao goes into her room while I wash.  Some of the flower petals stick to the sides of the pitcher, and I have to use my fingernails to scratch them off.  Lu Yao comes back in to get something from the kitchen.

“In your country what do people think about saving water?  There is less and less of it now.”  She listens to the water in the sink run as I, now self consciously, continue to wash.

“We know we should save it, but most people just talk about it and don’t actually do it.  We teach kids about saving energy and water at school, and then we go home, turn on the air conditioner, the TV, the dishwasher, and all the lights in the house.  But…at least we know, right?”  The pitcher is clean now.  I feel like I’m drawing out this evening as long as it can go at this point.  What started out as being disturbed amidst my practice has turned into a worthwhile conversation, and I almost feel bad for being annoyed at the beginning.

We turn out the lights in the kitchen and I walk Lu Yao to her dorm room 2 feet away.  Standing there for a second, I want to say something intelligent.  Or maybe I just want her to know that it was nice talking with her.  I want her to know that it’ll be alright, that it’s okay to keep trusting people, and I do trust her.  She’s a good person.  She helps give me a sense of responsibility for what I’m doing here in China.

“See you next time,” she says with a smile.

I smile back, “Next time.  Sweet dreams.” 

Professor Wang is not a professor.  He is not a teacher.  He doesn’t tutor small children on the weekends, nor does he coach little league soccer in his spare time.  Professor Wang isn’t even legally employed.   He doesn’t pay an income tax, but he still mysteriously has an income.  I trust Professor Wang with my life; he has never let me down.  Solid as a rock and squat like a roadside fire hydrant, he always gets me where I need to go without so much as a scratch.

Black Taxi

I first met Professor Wang through a complete stranger who gave me the professor’s phone number.  Back when I was studying Chinese at Beijing Language and Culture University, Simon (from Switzerland) asked me about organizing transportation to visit Jinshanling and Simatai, two of my favorite portions of the ”Wild Great Wall.”  There would be about 8 of us altogether, so I decided to look for a car that could seat that many.  In front of my school’s gates there would often be cars sitting idly by, waiting to pick up students for a fee.  These were not licensed taxis.  They were simply people who had cars, willing to work as unlicensed taxis (called “black taxis”)in order to make a living.  These black taxis can be found almost anywhere and everywhere in China.  When I lived in Nanjing for half a year, the area I resided was overrun by black taxi drivers hanging out in front of bus stops and university gates, waiting like vultures to nab students as their prey.  I made it a vow of mine never to use these black taxis while I was in Nanjing.  For one, the cars were just so tiny.  Another reason was that they would often be parked in the road right where the buses would unload passengers, causing the buses to swerve and let their passengers out in the middle of the road rather than next to the actual stop.  My own personal struggle with the black taxi drivers has since softened after moving to Beijing, and I have more of  a love/hate feeling towards them–love the driver, hate the phenomenon.  Best to choose one driver and stick with him for good, and let him grow on me like a mushroom.  Professor Wang is my mushroom (he’s shaped like one, too). 

When Simon told me to locate a car to take 8 people to Jinshanling, I thought I’d try the black taxi route for an adventure.  I went to the front gate of the university where I was living at the time and made contact with the first black taxi driver I saw.  He was a young man, squatting on top of a concrete barrier, perfectly balanced like a monkey on a tree branch.  I told him that I would need a sizeable car.  He indicated his car, but it only seated four passengers.  When I asked him if he knew of any other drivers who had large capacity vehicles, he wrote down the number of his friend, Mr. Wang.  That’s when my relationship with the professor began.

The Reflector

Professor Wang drives a long white van that can comfortably seat 8 people, 9 people if the last person is a child or has the same body shape and structure of the professor.  The vehicle is 11 years old and still holds together relatively well.  The windows on both sides are tinted the same shade as Professor Wang’s sunglasses, making the interior temperature on a hot summer’s day a few degrees cooler and more pleasant.  Professor Wang didn’t always drive such a huge vehicle.

“In the beginning when I started this work, about 20 years ago, I just had a motorcycle.  At that time there were hardly any cars in Beijing.  You really had to be somebody to have a car.  I would taxi people around on the back of my motorbike.  Didn’t make a lot of money.  This van (the Reflector) can fit a lot more passengers in the back.”

I’ve ridden in the Reflector about 5 times.  Although I’m not an automotive expert, it seems that, just like Professor Wang’s body, the van could use a perpetual tune-up.  It’s not that the Reflector is an unsafe vehicle by any means.  It’s just that on 2 out of the 4 occasions that I’ve had the chance to ride in the Reflector, there have been minor mishaps along the way.  The very first time that I rode in the Reflector (with the 7 other people going to Jinshanling), we had a flat tire about halfway there.  There’s nothing wrong with a flat tire.  It was rather exciting, to tell the truth.  And the Professor…oh, the Professor…he was amazing.  I think the flat tire delayed us for less than 10 minutes.  With the speed of an Olympic hurtler and the grace of a Russian ballet dancer, Professor Wang was out of the driver’s seat and onto his hands and knees fixing the flat in a flash.

“No problem,” he said, not afraid to rumple his pants or get dust on his shiny black shoes.  Flexing his buttocks and aiming them towards the sky, the professor stooped over and began removing the tire’s carcass from the Reflector’s front left side.  It was as the rest of us weren’t even there.  The Professor and the Reflector were communicating on a level that I have never been able to do with regards to automobiles.  Thinking that we would be there for a while, I left for the nearest shop to buy some snacks for the hike we would have later that day.  Before I knew it, my Korean friend, Pebble, was texting me telling me to return to the car.  The Professor had already changed the tire! 

On the most recent trip to the Great Wall, the Reflector’s bones and inner organs were once again pushed to their breaking point.  Once again, I made this trip with Simon, this time only the two of us sitting in the belly of the behemoth as we rested ourselves in preparation for one of the most dangerous sections of the Great Wall at Jiankou.  Just as our own bodies would be tested and injured (Simon cut his finger) on the steep inclines of the mountains leading up to the Wall, the Reflector’s body would reveal injuries unbeknownst to us at the start of our journey.  As we sat in the row of seats directly behind Professor Wang, the morning’s drive seemed to be progressing along without any hitches.  With his eyes dead set on the road ahead and a sawed off baseball bat by his side, it seemed that nothing could impede our adventure.  The Reflector, however, had other plans in mind.

“POP! Chpp Chpp Chpp Chpp Chpp Chpp Chpp Chpp Chpp Chpp…”

I looked in Professor Wang’s rearview mirror.  The bags of flesh on his face disappeared almost instantly as he widened his eyes in surprise.  For a moment, I thought we might be goners.  I had never seen such an expression come across the Professor’s face…I didn’t even know his eyes could grow that large.  This fear, however, vanished quickly.  Almost instantly, the Professor’s face relaxed back into it’s silly putty gaze and my nerves calmed down once more.  Simon and I glanced at one another listening to the strange slapping sound coming from somewhere underneath the Reflector.  Thinking it was another flat tire, I was sure this would be no problem.  Except this time, there was a slight burning smell that accompanied the sound.  The Professor pulled the car over to the side of the road and got out to inspect.  It wasn’t the tire.

“Move back.  I need to look into the engine,” he said.  Smooth. All business. A god.  I was already satisfied with the day’s events.  If we didn’t see the Wall, it didn’t matter to me.  I was privileged enough to see Professor Wang in his “workshop,” (we were on the highway with cars whizzing past).  He lifted up the seat to inspect the Reflector’s engine and set to work.  His hands gathered grease everytime they plunged into the engine.  Workhorse.

“It’s no big deal,” he said.  “It’s just the power steering belt.  It snapped.  Let’s just sit here a couple of minutes, and then we’ll get going.  It’ll smell a little bit when we drive, but it doesn’t matter.  You can get back in the car.”

We sat there for a couple of minutes laughing about it.  After the broken belt had cooled down (I suppose that’s what we were waiting for), he turned the key in the ignition and started the Reflector back up.  With no power steering left, Professor Wang used his muscles to guide us to our destination.

The Man Behind the Machine

From conversations on the road to Jiankou: 

Professor Wang is married with one son.  His wife and son both have cars as well.  All three of them are in the black taxi business.

“My son’s car is better than mine.  Smaller, but newer.  Maybe you could give him a try once.” He takes a sip from his tea thermos.  “I don’t want my grandson to get into this business.  There’s no stability.  You never know when you’re going to get customers.  Economic crisis?  Yeah, it’s affected us, too.  Most of my business is from foreign students.  Probably 30 percent less than last year.  And the cops!  I’ve always gotta’ be on the lookout for the cops.  Technically we’re not supposed to be aloud to drive around customers.  They take a 20,000 RMB bite out of my ass if I get caught.”

It’s because of this fear of a fine that I refer to Professor Wang as “Professor” rather than “Driver.”  Should we ever get pulled over, he is not a driver driving for profit.  He’s simply our professor of contemporary Chinese history taking us on a field trip.  No harm in that.

Professor Wang doesn’t have many hobbies.  The only musical instrument he can play is the harmonica, but he hasn’t picked it up for years.  His life is the road.  He is in the habit of drinking Chinese grain alcohol every night with his dinner.  It almost cost him his life once.

“See my right arm?”  He shows us a long scar that was stitched up.  “Bout four years back I had a drinking episode.  Got a little sloppy.  I was on my way back from the can when I slipped on the damn floor, and slid towards a window.  My arm went right through the goddamn thing and busted the glass.  Made a nasty cut right through my arm.  Hurt like hell!  They took me to the hospital and put a tourniquet near my shoulder to stop me from bleeding to death.  Said they wouldn’t operate unless I could give them 20,000 RMB.  Well, I didn’t have that kind of money.  They must’ve had me in that tourniquet for hours before I could find a friend to loan me the money.  Damn near lost that arm.”  He shakes his head. “I was in the hospital for 2 weeks after the operation.  Once I got out I was driving customers again. With one good arm!”  He demonstrates how he would quickly switch gears with his right elbow, or perform all necessary actions with his left arm.

I ask him if he’s got any other scars to show me.  He tells me to feel the back of his head.  I do as I’m told.  As I feel under the swirly mess of black and grey hair behind the comb over, my fingers notice quite an indentation in the back right portion of his skull.  It almost feels like a small impression in a carpet due to having a paperweight rest in the same place for a prolonged period of time .  A small bird could lay an egg there.  A shiver goes down my spine.  Simon reaches over and rubs Professor Wang’s skull as well.

“When I was young I liked to fight.  I’d fight about anything.  Wanted to be real tough.  Friends liked to fight, too.  Had a buddy who was in the mafia.  Anyway, one time I got in this real mess of a fight with some guys.  Can’t remember what it was about.  We’re fighting, and then one of the guys comes up from behind and whacks me in the head with a metal pipe.  My head’s had this cave in it ever since,” he taps his head and chuckles to himself.  “No brain damage though.  And doesn’t mess with my driving, either.”   

On our way to Jiankou Great Wall, we pass many places that say “ecological village.”  They are places that visitors can stay for the night, pick their own fruits and vegetables, enjoy the suburban air.  They look like tourist traps.

“Dumbasses,” Professor Wang pipes in.  “Ecological.  They’ll ecologically con you out of your money is what.”  As we near the Great Wall, the number of countryside restaurants increases.  The Reflector chugs along; the Professor chuckles to himself.  “These places are con artists, too,” he says.  “You never see any of us eating there,” he points at himself with his thumb. “90 RMB for a kung pao chicken?  Come on!  Farmer’s food isn’t that good!”

The Professor has only driven to this portion of the Great Wall once, and he only gets lost once, driving to the end of a road in a village.  After the wrong turn, he has us back on course immediately and we arrive at the base of the mountain and vertical cliffs that lead to the mountain.  Simon and I exit the car and begin our hike, spending the following 5.5 hours walking up to and on the Wild Great Wall.  Professor Wang waits inside the Reflector, patiently and loyally.

In the afternoon we walk from Jiankou to the Mutianyu section of the Great Wall, opting to take the chairlift down so as to rest our weary legs.  I give Professor Wang a call asking him where he has parked.  He and the Reflector have avoided the parking fee by waiting outside the gate.  We walk past the stands of Great Wall kitcsh and memorabilia past the parking lot.  There, resting just outside the gate, like a sleeping beast is the Reflector.  Our aching bones lift our bodies into the seats behind Professor Wang for the final time of the journey.  The day’s newspaper is strewn in the back of the car, one of its sections crumpled underneath my feet.  He’s surely had enough time to read through the entire paper.  As we make our way past the ecological tricksters and fruit trees, I make a request for Professor Wang to sing a song.  After some urging, he gives in, clears his throat and sings the opening lines of an old favorite of his called “Camel Bell.”  The song is about seeing a friend off to war and carries with it a sad melody of longing, loss, and farewell.  With a voice that could make scratches upon smoke in the sky he belts the notes of the song out, almost having to yell in order to be heard over the sound of the wind rushing in through the windows.  The song makes me nostalgic, but for what I cannot tell.  Simon and I listen in silence.  We make our way back to Beijing, cutting in and out of traffic, weaving through its backstreet shortcuts that the Professor knows so well.  Before we realize it, the time comes to depart.  With an exchange of cash and a handshake solid as a rock, Professor Wang closes the door of the Reflector and disappears into Beijing’s mass of cars, the melody of his song haunting my mind while the aches and pains of China’s Great Wall continue to run through my body.