Hai Yuan: Journey to Ningxia, A Thousand Songs of Hua Er

Dinner and Sunset

“We should have some ‘bao zi’ to eat.  They’re pretty good in the restaurant beneath the hotel,” Mr. Ma tells me, rubbing his stomach.

I’ve had plenty of “bao zi” during my almost 4 years in China.  It’s a kind of steamed bun filled with pork, beef, or vegetables.  The bao zi in the shop that we go to is sure to not serve any pork bao zi since most of the people in Hai Yuan are Hui Minority and do not eat pork.  Usually when I eat baozi, they are not so large.  The ones in Hai Yuan, however, are roughly the same size as babies’ heads.  They are stuffed with beef and are absolutely delicious.  Mr. Ma and I split a portion.  It’s more than enough to fill me up.

“Put on the hat!  Put on the hat!”  Mr. Ma is giddy again and urges me to put on the Muslim hat given to me by Forever Friend in Yinchuan.  We exit the restaurant and mosey our way towards the town square where many people are gathering in the soft light as the Sun sets.  They gather to watch the various acts for tonight’s celebration of the Party’s birthday.  Wearing my muslim hat and local sunglasses, I try my best to blend in with the crowd, but find it impossible.  I just want to sink into the masses and enjoy watching the preparation for tonights’ performances.  Sinking in is not to be, however.  Immediately, people begin to crowd around me, stare, and ask questions.  I’m surrounded, once again, on all sides. 

“Where are you from?”

“Are you Hui?”

“Why did you come to Hai Yuan?”

“You’re the first American I’ve met.  Can we be friends?”

“Hello?”

“What do you think about Beijing?”

“What do you do for work?”

“Hello?”

“How old are you?”

“Is it far from Beijing to Hai Yuan?”

“Can I speak English with you?”

“Hello?”

I take my time answering the questions to the best of my ability and decide to have fun with this scene rather than be overwhelmed by it…and it is extremely easy to be overwhelmed by a crowd.  I’m reminded by the performance of monkeys that I watched earlier in the day as Mr. Ma and I headed out to make our rounds of the town’s mosques.  It seems funny to me that the crowds kept such distance with the little monkeys, but they practically breathe down my neck here.  No side of me is protected from the crowd.  I am aware that there is a person directly behind me, staring at the nape of my neck.  I quickly turn around and point at him, as if to say, “gotcha.”  The crowd laughs.  It’s easy to entertain.  They pull in even closer.  The heat and smell off of their bodies closes in around me.  Nothing about them is menacing, but my personal space has diminished down to almost nothing.  When I turn to talk with someone, I inadvertently brush against another person in the crowd.  I decide to pick one person to talk with, focusing on a young high school student, blocking everyone else out.

“You’re in high school right?” I ask him.

“That’s right,” he answers.

His friends start to giggle.  “His English is really good,” they snicker.

“Can you speak English?” I ask him.

“A little bit,” he says.  “Welcome to Hai Yuan.  You know, I’d like to go to school in Beijing.”  His friends are beside themselves with laughter at this point.  Yes, words are coming out of his mouth.  He tells me that he wants to study engineering there.  He writes his e-mail on a little slip of paper.  The crowd watches as he hands it to me. 

At this point, I begin to realize that the crowd is willing to watch me all evening if possible.  Those who get bored watching me standing there answering questions wander off into the square.  As they wander off to go wherever it is they are going, others wander over to join in the staring contest so that the number of people around me hovers constantly around 20 to 30 people at any given time.  I decide that I need to take a breather and have my own space for a bit.  I pull myself away from the crowd to find Mr. Ma sitting near the stairs.

“I’m going to take a little walk up the road.  You mentioned a park to me earlier that’s up in that direction.  I’ll be back in the evening for the singing.”

Leaving Mr. Ma and the crowd behind, I quicken my pace and take off my hat.  It stills feel strange to wear it.  Although he signed me in as a Hui minority, I know I’m not Muslim and still feel as if I’m not being politically correct by wearing it.  At the same time, I don’t even know how to say “politically correct” in Chinese…do they even have this word? 

Walking up the hill, I’m relieved at the feeling and sight of the Sun going down.  Now I can partially hide my whiteness and foreigness in the darkness, blending in with the night.  At a distance no one will know where I am from.  They’ll see me walking and think that I am just one of them.  Why would an American come here?  Walking up the hill away from the town square, I pass groups of people heading towards the square for the festivities.  The Sun is going down and the sunset itself is a beautiful orange.  It has been a while since I have seen such a nice sunset in Beijing.  The farther I get from the town square, the darker and quieter it becomes.  I start to realize just how far I am from Beijing.

Better than a Hua Er

As the Sun slides behind the houses and arid land in the backdrop, I continue to walk away from the center of town.  A woman walks towards the gate of her house and spots me, making eye contact with me.  I put my hands together in prayer, bow my head, and say, “salaam,” just as Mr. Ma instructed me to do.  She wears a blue hat covering her hair in the Hui style.  Her face lights up in a smile, and she reaches her arm out to me, motioning me to approach her.

“Ah.  Salaam.” she says, enthusiastically.  “Come, come.  Come to my home.”

At first I balk for a second or two, wondering if I should go into her house.  She approaches the wall to her house and unlocks the gate, leaving it open.  She is waiting for me to enter.  I look left and right.  There are no people watching.  It feels safe, but still a little strange.  I haven’t even told her my name, and she is inviting me into her house.  This woman can’t possibly be dangerous.  I walk over to the gate towards her and enter through the doorway of her home.  She shuts it behind her.  Slam!

“Ah.  This is my home.  It’s not very much.  My name is Mrs. Xie (pronounced “Shay”).  Nice to meet you.”

I shake her hand.  She has a sweet smile.  She seems to be in her 40s.  Most of her hair is tucked underneath her blue cap, so it’s hard to tell how long it is.  the area within the wall is made up of a small courtyard.  On the left is a small mud and brick home, separated by a wall in the middle.  The front part of the facade of the house has been newly built with bricks.  It fades into a mud wall.  The new and old mix.  In the middle of the courtyard is a garden with some vegetables.  There is corn and cabbage mostly.  On the other side of the courtyard are two more smaller buildings.  They are made of mud and earth packed together and seem dark inside.  A small cat scurries in front of my feet and hides in its home, a tiny kitten inside of its tiny cubby hole.  The air is still except for our voices.  I can’t hear the performers practicing their patriotic songs anymore.

Mrs. Xie invites me into her house.  The room where whe sleeps has a huge bed that looks as if it can sleep many.  Underneath the bed is a whole where one can make a fire, heating up the area where one sleeps in the wintertime.  There is no one else in the house or the courtyard at this time.  I wonder about her husband and her family.  Mrs. Xie invites me to sit down and gives me a cup of hot water to drink.  Then she starts talking about her children.

“My daughter is studying in Yinchuan now.  She’s studying animation.  She really likes animation.  I wish she could improve her English, though.  Her English isn’t so good.  Would you give her a call sometime?  Here, let me give you her number…”  She searches for a pen and writes down her daughter’s number in my notebook.

“You have to promise to call her.  She would be so surprised to hear from someone from…where are you from?”

“America…the US.”

“Oh…I forgot.  I want to give you something.”  She turns around and rummages through a box, pulling out a stash of Muslim hats.  Some are white, while others are pattern with intracately hand woven blue and gold designs.

“Please take one.  For good luck.  To remember me by.”

I try to tell her that I already have one of these hats, but it’s no use.  She won’t relax until I choose one.  Taking one of the blue ones, I place it on my head.

“Looks good on you.  Oh, my daughter will be so surprised.”  Once again, I feel like an impostor wearing the Muslim hat.

She takes out a book and tells me that she wants to share some family photographs photographs with me.  Opening up the photos, I’m put in a time warp back into her past.  She shows me photos of her and her husband before their wedding.  He was a soldier.  His face is long and thin and reminds me of a WWII general thinking about his honey back home.  Reminds me a little of my Grandpa.  She sighs when she looks at the picture, and I wonder where her husband is again. 

She leafs through other pictures.  One is of a group of boys standing together in their school uniforms.  He holds the picture in her left palm, face up.  Her right hand carresses the photo, and her index finger touches the face of one of the boys.  The boy has the same facial expression as her husband.  It is obviously her son.  Mrs. Xie’s eyes become red, and I can see that she is about to cry.

“This is my son,” she says, her voice quivering.  “He died a year ago of illness.”  I’m not sure what to say.  The air stiffens.

“What about your daughter?” I ask.  Mrs. Xie sighs again, looking at her son’s photo.  She flips the pictures again to one of a girl posing for a photograph in the sun.  The girl is wearing a dark blue dress, and her skin is white and perfect, cheeks are full red, painted.  It’s her daughter.

“You should really call her.  Promise you’ll call her tomorrow.”

“Ok. No problem.”

“She’ll be so surprised that an American came here.  Are there many Hui in America?” she asks.

“Oh…well…I’m not actually Hui,” I tell her.

She pauses and seems to be contemplating some question.  Her eyes look down and when she next speaks, it seems hesitant.

“You’re…not…Hui?  Oh…I thought you were…I thought…” her voice trails off.

“No.  I’m not. I’m American, you know?  I thought you knew I wasn’t Hui.”

“Well…how did you know ‘salaam?’  Why did you say that to me?  I thought you were Hui.”  She seems perplexed.

I tell her that I had just seen other people doing the same greeting.  I tell her about Mr. Ma, but she is doesn’t seem to know him.  We continue to look through photos–photos of her when she was young, photos of her children, photos of her and her husband in the snow.  When she tells me her age, 44, I tell her that she doesn’t look 44.  I do this because it’s the polite thing to say.  Her reaction is unexpected, however.

“Why would I try to trick you?  You think I’m tricking you?  I can show you proof.  Do you want to see my identity card?”

I’m on the defensive now.  “No, no.  Not necessary.  I believe you.  You don’t need to show me.” 

It’s too late.  She is on the floor rummaging through boxes.  She pulls one out and dumps its contacts.  Out spills her identity card, her marriage certificate, her housing certificate…all of the proper governmental forms.  She opens them up and points to the date of her birth.

“See…I’m not tricking you.  44 years old,” she smiles almost defiantly. 

We talk for some time and I tell her my purpose in coming to Hai Yuan was originally to hear hua er.  It’s only after I say this that I realize that the reason I’m in Hai Yuan is not to hear music but to talk with her.  Being inside her courtyard, inside her house, sharing the pictures and memories with her is the reason I came here.  I have been telling everyone that I’ve been looking for hua er, but deep down what I’ve really been hoping for is connecting with one person, with a local, if possible…just to share some moments, some conversation, and some memories.  That’s enough.  The birth of the Communist Party seems so far away from this roomful of pictures and memories.  Mrs. Xie doesn’t seem to want to let me go, but I know that it’s getting late.  I know that Mrs. Xie is lonely.  I know that she misses her son.  I know that having me here in her house brings back some of that feeling and intensifies the loneliness.  There’s no way to escape it.  I am heavy with the emotion inside of this room, inside of her. She reminds me once again to call her daughter in the morning, telling me that she’ll be happy to hear from a foreign visitor.  I think to myself that I should give her something to remember me by.  Searching through my bag, I find a picture of myself, Simon, and Pauline from when we went to the botanical garden in Beijing.

“You can keep this photo and show it to your daughter in case she asks,” I say with a smile.  She puts a smile back on her face and holds the picture in both hands.  The hands, the smile, the picture…all of it sends a feeling back to me that is worth a thousand of Hua Er. 

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