Break-up
“Look at my feet.” Forever Friend holds his feet up so that I can see both soles. He sits across from me on the other bed in the room, wearing nothing but his underwear. I don’t notice anything particularly strange about his feet from my bed, so I get up to examine them more closely.
“Blisters!” He points at two small white blisters that have formed on the balls of his feet, one on his left foot, one on the right. It seems that my attempts to walk Forever Friend out of the soles of his shoes worked to some extent. As we get our stuff together to get ready to check out, I notice that Forever Friend’s mood seems more somber today than it was yesterday. He mentions the need to find work again once more, this time with a little more anxiety in his voice. I can only wonder if he’s feeling any regrets about tromping around the city with no apparent aim in mind the day before.
We go downstairs and decide to eat at the same restaurant where we ate the previous night’s dinner. I order a triangle shaped buscuit stuffied with shredded spiced potatoes. Forever Friend asks me what I want to drink , and I tell him a bowl of porridge would be fine. A minute later, the waitress brings me an ice cold bottle of beer, already opened. The word for porridge is “zhou,” and the word for beer or alcohol is “jiu,” easy to confuse if one is not careful. Still, I don’t want to drink beer at 8am. I order a bowl of porridge for myself and we eat in silence.
After breakfast we head out into the street, the Sun’s rays just beginning to wash over the city. I tell Forever Friend that I have a plan to visit the large mosque near the city’s south square, Little Tian’anmen. Afterwards I’ll go to to see the Asian Pyramids at Xi Xia Wang Ling. As I tell Forever Friend my plan, it seems as if he is contemplating something to say to me. We get to the main road, and he stops and puts out his hand.
“Sorry. I really have to find a job today. If you come back to Yinchuan please make sure to give me a call. My number will never change.” Just like that we shake hands. I turn South towards the square, and he continues to walk straight in search of a job.
“I hope you remember me,” he says.
People Market
Heading off towards the direction of Little Tian’anmen, my attention is diverted by a street to the south of the square filled with people. Thinking it must be some kind of market, I walk over towards the crowd to see what everyone is doing there. The street is filled with Chinese lounging around on chairs, motorcycles, the curbside, unused carts and wagons, etc. Some of them are sitting inside restaurants along the sidewalk eating their breakfasts of noodles and porridge, or smoking cigarette after cigarette while they play mahjong. It seems to be a scene of ultimate boredom and nothing-to-do, and yet it’s not even ten o’clock in the morning.
I stop in front of one of the restaurants to have a look at the crowd idling in 
the middle of the street. As I try to make sense of the entire scene, I notice a head turn in my direction. Another one follows the first head’s gaze, then another, then another, then another. Before I know it, I can feel that I am being stared at by all sides and all angles. It’s at moments like these that I have to bring out the friendliest person in me. I wave to one of the men who stares at me with dull morning eyes, trying to get him to smile. Then I open my mouth to speak, and the crowds come in even closer to take a peek.
“Where are you from?” one of the men asks.
“USA. What about you guys?” I ask.
“China,” he laughs. They all laugh. The circle around me closes in tighter. I notice that the people behind me in the restaurant are also standing up, looking at me over my shoulders.
“I mean where in China?”
“Gansu Province. Langzhou City,” the man seems to be friendly enough. Turns out a lot of them are from Langzhou.
I have to admit that I’m a little nervous. It’s been a while since I’ve been surrounded by so many Chinese people just staring me. I don’t have to say anything. They’ll continue to stare, whether or not I talk. I wonder how long I can keep their attention. I put my bag down to talk for a couple of minutes. One guy taps me on the shoulder from behind and uses sign language of some sort to tell me to be careful of my bag. He wags his finger in my face as if to say, “be careful.” I laugh and say there’s nothing important inside.
The first guy from Langzhou tells me that they are gathering here waiting for work. What kind of work, they don’t know. Still, they sit here and wait for the work to come to them. The bosses with labor projects know where to find the labor. They come here, to the people market. If someone needs some men for a construction project, SWOOP, come to the people market and get some workers. If there is a well that needs to be dug, SWOOP, come by the people market with some shovels. Need a cook? SWOOP, the people market is full of chefs who can handle butcher’s knives. Need the sidewalk repaved? SWOOP…
After a couple of minutes, the restaurant owner comes out and tries half-heartedly to get the crowds off of his doorstep. They take a couple of steps back to give me breathing room. I’m a little tired of being surrounded at this point, and as much as I wonder what a labor boss would make of me should he find me here amongst the crowds of workers, I decide to pick up my bag and leave the people market behind. The men go back to idling and sitting, waiting for THE MAN to come.
The Silent Mosque
I’m not sure what it is that compels me to go to the mosque near the South 
Square, Yinchuan’s biggest, but I know that I want to go there before leaving the city. It could possibly be the fact that I told Forever Friend of my desire to go to the mosque, and I don’t want to be true to my word. On another level, I’ve always been interested in Islam and Arabic. The two just seem so foreign to me…so far away.
When I get to the mosque, there is not a soul inside besides the gatekeeper, and about 4 or five caretakers who work and live inside the mosque. The women who are sweeping the grounds inside all have their heads covered with scarves in accordance with Hui custom. I buy a ticket at the door and enter the mosque, unsure of where I can go. There is no guide, and no one shows me the way. When I enter mosques my mind immediately turns to Mecca, and I start to think about this distant place on Earth that I will never be able to enter, forever closed to me because I don’t believe in Islam. When doors are closed to me, it piques my curiousity and interest. I want to know more about this religion. I want to know why I cannot go there. When I enter the mosque, I am looking through a window, peeking through the curtains at a preview to a play the night before the performance.
As I walk around the interior courtyard of the gigantic mosque admiring its green turrents and spires that end in the points of crescent moons, I can’t help but notice how blue the sky is here in Yinchuan. The great domes of the mosque contrast beautifully with the blue sky in the background. I enter one of the hallways inside the mosque. It’s filled with pictures of the mosque’s head Imam, an elderly man with a short white beard, spectacles, and the ubiquitous cap that covers his head. Making my way through the hallway I notice that every picture is just about the same. Various Islamic leaders or Islamic groups from different parts of China and other foreign countries have made visited this mosque in Yinchuan over the years. Each picture has a group of visiting Muslims, or a person of importance pictured with the head Imam.
As I exit to leave the mosque I notice that the Imam in the pictures has arrived. He is talking heatedly with who appear to be building contractors. He points to the outside of the hall that I was just inside and tells them about some problem with the the wall, or something that he wants fixated to the outside of the wall. I stand at a distance of maybe 10 to 15 meters away watching them discuss, so I do not hear clearly what they are talking about and can only guess. Part of me wants to interrupt their conversation so that I can introduce myself to the mosque’s Imam, but I have no idea what I want to say to him. In the end, I decide to just let them talk about business and leave. I exit the great mosque for my next destination in Yinchuan, the West Xia Tombs.
Supertaxi and the Pyramids of the East
The day before, while exiting Yinchun train station, the tourist advertisement that most attracted my attention was the one displaying the words, “Pyramids of the East.” I’ve never been to the Pyramids in Egypt, so I have nothing to compare these pyramids to. Still, the advertisement intrigued me. I thought I’d go and see them for myself. I had no idea why they were there, but I have since decided that pyramids are, for some reason or another, pretty cool. They make me think of alien movies.
I take a bus to the station where a traveler can apparently catch another bus directly to the site of the pyramids. Unfortunately, upon arrival the attendant informs me that there will be no more buses today. The only other people waiting at the bus station is a group of three Chinese tourists from Chongqing, China’s most populous city. They are negotiating with a taxi driver about the prices it will cost to go see the pyramids and other tourist spots in Yinchuan. As soon as I arrive, the taxi driver perks up and is all smiles.
I like the driver immediately. I know he wants money, he knows I know he wants money. Still, he seems like an authentic guy who really loves his town. With a deep and husky voice, a face shaped like an arrow, and the cut body of a B-movie action hero, he shows me the brochure that introduces Yinchuan’s tourist spots: the pyramids of the East, the lake in the desert, China’s desert Hollywood, and a cave featuring heiroglyphic paintings. I stick to my guns and tell the driver that I only want to go and see the pyramids today. He talks with the family from Chongqing. We discuss prices, and it sounds reasonable to me. At the same time, I don’t want to force the family to go someplace they don’t want to. They seem hesitant to ride in the taxi.
“Look, you guys don’t go to the pyramids if you don’t want to. Don’t change your plans because of me.”
Just when I think that the family is going to join us to the pyramids, they 
pull out, opting instead to visit the Ningxia history museum. Looks like it will be just the taxi driver and myself today. The price goes up but is still reasonable, and I don’t mind paying this guy some cash. He likes talking, and he’s fun to listen to. I compliment him on his biceps and he strikes a pose for me, flexing his muscles before we get into his car.
“Little Horse, you can call me ‘Little Horse,’” says the driver. I’m older than him by one year, so therefore calling him “Little” is no problem. And like a horse, grazing in a pasture, his mouth and lips enjoy their exercise.
“You’re from where? America? Which basketball team is near your hometown? I’m crazy about the NBA. Yeah, I think that the US has the best basketball. Ah. I really like that kind of culture. You know, the black culture. How long have you been in China? I really like hearing about foreigners travel stories in China. Actually, it’s one of my hobbies to collect travel stories. You think you could send me yours? I have a space on the internet where I like to post other people’s travel stories or travel pictures. Maybe you could send me. You know, I don’t have a lot of opportunities to travel myself, so I just live through other people’s stories. You’re a pretty nice guy. Talkative. Couple weeks ago I took this European guy in my taxi. Where was he from again? Hmmmm…Can’t remember. Anyway, he was a quiet guy. Didn’t like to talk much. Seemed serious. But nice guy. He had two girls with him. They were pretty, too. I’m Hui, by the way, not Han Chinese. Ah? You want to hear a song…Ok, here’s one for you….”
Small Horse sings with a smile on his face. He reminds me of a deep-voiced student I once taught in Nanjing named Louis. Both of them have the same sort of crinkle when they smile, or the kind of look where they try desperately to stifle a smile but are helpless to stop it from forming on their faces. I listen to his voice. It’s not hua er, he tells me, but it’s a good song because he enjoys singing it. The time blows through the windows of the taxi, and before I know it, we’ve arrived at the site of the Pyramids of the East.
“Well, maybe I’ll see you around. Remember to send me your pictures and stories if you can.” I shake hands with him and walk past the hawkers selling Ningxia cowboy hats, purchasing my entrance ticket.
Built in 1038 by the first ruler of the Tangut empire, Li Yuanhao, the 
Western Xia Tombs still retain the eerie alien feeling that I associate with pyramids. They are arranged to mirror the same formation as celestrial bodies. There are 9 imperial tombs, and over 200 other smaller tombs. When I arrive at the first tomb, I look at it standing there in a giant lump, still housing the body of some former empire’s leader. The Tangut empire itself was wiped out during the invasion of the Mongols, but their pyramids managed to surive. I look at the gigantic dirt pyramid sitting there in front of me in an enormous heap, a mammoth anthill, a dirt haystack, an incubating alien space pod. This is the ode to death. In the distance, probably about 15 km away I can see other tombs dotting the sparse countryside. The area is dry is a flat plain. It’s the kind of plain that leads up to a mountain range in the backdrop. In my mind I see dark clouds forming behind the pyramid in front of me. Lightning streaks across the sky. Sacrifices are made to the ancestors. Centuries rush by, an army of Mongolian savages ravishes the already ravished landscape and wipes out the Tangut empire. Inexplicably the pyramids are left standing, weathered by the elements and neglect, but still impressive with age, like an old man’s beard. Clumps of their dirt have fallen off, and there are some weeds growing on the sides and rooftops, but they still appear ominous and reek of mystery, history, and loneliness. The blue sky in the background comes back into existence, expunging the possessed dark clouds from my mind. It’s hot. I’m alone. I look around–only me, the other tourists, and the dirt pyramids of the East…the only corpses are the ones in my brain. I open my umbrella and sheild myself from the Sun and the spirit of death.
When I get back to the parking lot, Small Horse is still there. He has been waiting for me the whole time. Ecstatic at my reappearance, he jumps off the hood of his car and approaches me.
“Hey, your countryman is in that bus. Help me translate. I want to take you guys back to the city. I’ll make it cheap for you, I promise.” He leads me to the bus where the only other person is an American male of my age. The American wears wiry glasses and reads a guidebook.
“Oh, hey, foreigner.” he says. Small Horse is so happy now that he can communicate with both of us.
“This driver has been trying to get me to take his taxi for the past 10 minutes, I think,” the American, Ethan, says to me. As I talk with Ethan, Small Horse and the driver of the bus talk with each other. I overhear their conversation at the same time we are talking.
“I can’t understand anything they’re saying,” the bus driver says to Small Horse.
“Yeah, but look at them talk. Foreigners definitely have the best facial expressions.”
Despite Small Horse’s protests, Ethan and I opt to take the public bus back into town. Small Horse is a good sport, though, and manages to smile throughout our rejection, feigning disappointment and hanging his head like a kid who just lost a little league baseball game. Turns out Ethan is just traveling through Ningxia during his vacation. He works as a history teacher in an international school in the southern city of Shenzhen. He seems like a nice enough guy. He informs me that he only recently found his first Chinese girlfriend, so he’s been trying to make renewed efforts at learning Chinese. He is staying in the soul-less new town in the outskirts of the city. The buildings are large, vacuous, and cardboard, lacking any sort of character. He’s on his way to the drum tower in the center of the old town. As the bus heads towards town, I decide that it’s still way too early for me to go to the train station. I tell the bus attendant to drop me off at the stop nearest the Ningxia history museum near the people’s square. I get off without exchanging numbers with Ethan. He’s a nice guy, but I know that there are things that he wants to see, and there are things that I know I want to see. Somehow we both know to let each other go our own separate ways.
The Saggy Buttocks of Yinchuan
The new town of Yinchuan feels like a small boy trying to wear his father’s pants. He wants to be a big boy, but the pants just won’t stay up around his waist regardless of how tight he makes the belt. Punch an extra hole in the belt, make it tighter. It just doesn’t matter. His legs simply aren’t long enough, and the pants sag around his buttocks. He has to be careful of tripping over the bottom of the pants, and they drag along in the dust. His hands constantly grasp the belt so as to keep his pants from falling down, exposing his ass to the world.
After passing through the streets that are too wide and the buildings that are 
too empty, I wonder why anyone would want to live in the new town of Yinchuan? I miss the closeness and activity of the old town. Here it feels like a ghostworld. Exiting the bus, I see the People’s Square of Yinchuan across the street. Next to the square is the Ningxia history museum. Beside the history museum is the city’s new public library. Everything looks new and clean to me. Not one soul enters the history museum. It is as a gigantic lego structure, spectators afraid to touch it for fear of it collapsing. It’s too perfect. As I approach the museum to enter, something about it’s looming presence also reminds me of the gigantic dirt pyramid that was looming before me only an hour before. Quiet. Gigantic. Mysterious. I walk to the nearest door and try to open it. It doesn’t budge. No sound comes from the museum’s interior. No one approaches me to tell me which door to enter. Slowly, I walk around the perimeter of the museum, trying every door that I see. They are all locked. It’s Monday afternoon. I guess the family from Chongqing should have come with me to the pyramids instead. Still no one approaches me.
Deciding that it’s still too early to go to the train station I instead enter the adjacent public library. The building is huge as well. I enter the cafe section and buy a cold drink and decide to study for a few minutes. Sitting in the library, studying Chinese, I am reminded of my travels in the US. Once again, I think of the American Midwest–some small town in Missouri or Nebraska. I am driving across our great country and I need to stop for a couple of hours for a rest. Out of all the places to take a break in a small town, none is better than a local park or public library. Take a load off and read a book. This is what I did. This is what I do. I stay in the library for more than an hour, reading and studying Chinese from one of the books on the desk nearby my seat. The book is about life lessons and morals. I read a story about a young man who arrives at a fork in the road. There is a man at the fork. He informs the young man that one direction leads to Heaven, the other leads to Hell. However, there is a catch. He cannot tell him the answer, and once one starts down one road he cannot turn back. After telling him the situation, the other man leaves and walks down one of the roads. The young man decides to wait for other travelers to arrive. They press forward and choose one or the other road. When he yells at them to ask them to give him some clue of what is ahead, they are already well out of ear’s reach and cannot answer his question. The years go by, and the young man ages into an old man. He gets to the point where his body gives out, and even if he wanted to, he could not walk forward on either of the two roads. His beard is long, his hair is grey, and his bones are brittle. He will die as he lived, waiting at the fork in the road. No time to spend life wasted in indecision. When you get to a crossroads, cross it. I get up from my chair, rested and enlightened, and press forward. Time to get out of Yinchuan.
I saw you in a vision
At 5:30 in the afternoon, the train for Zhongwei chugs slowly away from Yinchuan. I’m on it, and my mind is in a reverie. I sit in the car as evening comes, reading a book next to my Chinese traveling companions. Around 6:30 in the evening, my favorite part of the day arrives. As the Sun begins to go down, I the rays of the Sun aren’t so hot anymore. I like to call it a soft light. In a soft light, anything can look beautiful–a dirt field in the distance, a mosque along the side of the road, railroad workers carrying heavy sacks filled with who-knows-what, a mole on the cheek of the woman who sits across from me. The young boy of 22 opposite me talks and talks, a smile on his face. He is going home after a work stint of laying track for the summer in Zhongning, another small city halfway between Yinchuan and Zhongwei. He is taking the train to its final destination of Xi’an, home of the Terra Cotta Warriors. He smiles the smile of an innocent kid heading home, but his muscles are more developed than mine, his fingers rougher after doing hard labour ever since turning 16. When he boarded the train a middle-aged man was sitting in his seat. At first he refused to get up for the boy, but the boy persisted, showing him his ticket that clearly proved it was his seat. I hardly say a word on this leg of the journey, instead content to read my book and imagine what awaits me in Zhongwei.
I know that there is a temple in Zhongwei, and I have imagined it. When the Grey Hair first told me about Zhongwei, it felt like a dream. He described a place of music and song, sitting by a river or tributary to a river, walking along and eating mutton outside in the clear, desert, starry night. There is a temple there, he told me. It’s called, “Gao” Temple, which means “High” temple. In my mind’s eye I see the temple in the night, looming before me, inside only stillness and solitude. The sky behind the stars is black and clear. The stars themselves are bright, holding the void of the night in its place, keeping the blackness from crashing down. Behind the temple is the Moon, the night air is crisp and filled with song. The Moon reflects its light on the temple’s rooftops. Not a soul inside stirs.
After arriving in Zhongwei I already know that I like it more than Yinchuan. Directly in front of the station is a large square with children playing, dancing, people singing. It has the feeling of a small town. I get more stares. Immediately, I decide to buy map. I ask a couple of old folks where I can find a map. They don’t know. A high school girl overhears me and tells me that she’ll take me to a bookstore where I can purchase one. Her two friends giggle as she speaks English to me, but she doesn’t seem to mind. We pass buy hoardes of people sitting outside snacking on sticks of mutton and drinking beer. After 5 minutes we arrive at a bookstore and the shop owner sells me a map. He seems jovial enough, and he recommends some places near Zhongwei that I should go.
“You should visit ‘Sha Puo Tou’ and see the real desert. Really something.” he says.
“Thanks. I’ll probably go there tomorrow. What I really want to do is listen to Hua Er though,” I say, taking my chances, wondering if maybe he can sing the elusive song.
“Hmmm…not many people can sing that anymore.” He crinkles his brow, thinking to himself. “If you want to hear hua er you might need to go to Hai Yuan county. That’s where it comes from.”
Hai Yuan County. I’ve never heard of it. Sounds good.
The high school girl and her friends leave. I thank the shopowner for his suggestion and walk out into Zhongwei, back towards the square. The sky is getting darker and darker. People are still eating sticks of mutton by the water, the barbecue smoke attacks my nostrils. I decide to walk on a side street to make a loop before finding a hotel. It’s then that I realize that I am walking in front of the High Temple. And just like that, the Grey Hair’s vision comes to life. Despite the fact that there is no song, the vision comes out of the picture and I can touch it, feel it. Electric. I walk next to the outer walls of the temple. It stands before me, looming next to me like a monolith, like the pyramids of the afternoon, like the perfect history museum in Yinchuan. Stillness and solitude. The sky behind the stars is black and clear. The stars themselves are bright, holding the void of the night in its place, keeping the blackness from crashing down. Behind the temple is the Moon, the night air is crisp and filled with silence. The Moon reflects its light on the temple’s rooftops. Not a soul inside stirs.
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