Hai Yuan: Journey to Ningxia, Part 2

“Han or Hui?”  Mr. Ma asks me again.  I think to myself for a couple more seconds before answering.

“Well, I’m in Hai Yuan now.  So I guess I’m a Hui today.”  I say it again, convincing myself of my own non-ethnicity–”I’m Hui.”  He scratches the character down for “Hui minority” in the notebook.  On this day I have switched tribes.  My history has changed.  It’s at this point that I remember the Muslim cap that Forever Friend gave to me in Yinchuan.  I decide to show it to Mr. Ma.

“That’s great!”  he says, enthusiastically.  “You should put that thing on!”  I put it on as instructed, and he begins laughing.  His family wakes from their sleep and starts laughing, too.  Feeling slightly uncomfortable and yet slightly accepted into the fold at the same time, I leave the hat on for a few minutes.

“You should definitely wear that when we go outside,” he says.  We’ll see.

After finishing the check-in process, I decide to give it another shop locating a map for Hai Yuan.  There’s nothing really specific that I want to or need to do in this town today.  I have this amorphous goal to listen to and experience the elusive Hua Er singing style, but my heart is not set on it.  Again, I don’t have any clue of what I would be listening for anyway.  I’m just going to go where this day takes me.   Turning to Mr. Ma, my new ethnic brother, I ask him if he knows of a place where I can locate a local map.

“Hmmmm…a map.”  He says.  His mouth twitches as he squints his eyes.  “Well, we could go next door.  There is a building with lots of shops in it.  They might have a map there.”  I notice that he has already said we and can only assume that he’ll be coming with me on the search for the map.

“Listen, Mr. Ma, you don’t have to come with me…it’s ok.  I don’t want to interrupt your schedule.”  I am being sarcastic, but he doesn’t catch on.  So far, I’ve only seen one other guest.

“Are you kidding me?” he says.  “I’m bored out of my mind.  If you weren’t here I’d just sleep the whole day.  Let’s go.”  I take my Muslim cap off and put in in my bag before exiting the building.

Performance in the Little Town Square

As Mr. Ma and I walk through the multi-level shopping mall next to his small hotel, two things quickly become apparent:  1) the search for a map is fruitless, and 2) this town does not get many foreigners.  When we do arrive at the book and map section of the mall, the lady behind the counter pulls out the same book of detailed Ningxia maps that I saw in the bookstore early in the day.  No maps specifically for Hai Yuan.  The saleswoman stares at me with a look of disbelief on her face.  The customers stare at me.  The eyes in the back of my neck see children pointing and snickering.  It’s all honest and harmless, but I’m once again reminded of what it’s like to enter the environment where few foreigners dare to tread.  Enjoy it.

“Well…what’s next on your plan?  Where to go from here?”  Mr. Ma asks me.  Is he asking himself, too? 

It’s at this point I decide to go for the gold.  “Do you know of anyone who sings Hua Er?  Or any place I could hear it?”

He seems stumped by this question at first. “Hua er….hua er…wait a sec…yeah.  I know a guy.  He works in the tourism bureau next to the square.  Let’s go see if he’s around.”  This could be it.  We exit the building, taking the stares with us.

As we leave the shopping mall, I am stunned at the site of a crowd of onlookers crowded around the entrance.  They stand in a circle, and all eyes look to the space in the middle.  They watch and laugh as none other than Devil Monkey and his fabulous family of simians entertain.  Devil Monkey stands in the center of the circle holding the monkeys on gigantic leashes that are looped around their necks.  The crowd watches and applauds as the monkeys ride on bicycles, jump through hoops, do summersaults, and clamber up young childrens’ bodies.  Devil Monkey smiles, his disheveled hair lopping here and there as he soaks up the attention.  So this is what happens.  We watch for a few minutes.  I notice that after some time my presence is beginning to draw the attention away from Devil Monkey and his family.  Its seems that White Man attracts the crowds as much as the monkeys do.  So as not to distract the crowd from tipping Devil Monkey, I tell Mr. Ma that it’s time to go and bid farewell to my fellow entertainer.

Just as in Zhongwei where I left the desert for Hell, Mr. Ma and I leave a performace of monkeys to a practicing choir in the town’s square.  We have to walk through the square in order to walk into the government office buildings where the tourism bureau is.  Today is July 1st, the official birthday of the Communist Party.  Tonight there many groups will sing and perform in the square in order to celebrate the formation and endurance of the all encompassing Party.  As we near the square, we pause to watch the choir practice one of the many patriotic songs that will be sung in the evening.  Everyone is dressed in crisp white shirts.  Their faces glisten in the Sun.  I expect angels’ wings to sprout at any moment.  They belt out their tunes and float in the air.  The Chairman would be proud.

The Bureau

One man sits inside the spacious office of the Hai Yuan tourism bureau.  He is busy with paperwork, but he gets up to greet Mr. Ma and myself as soon as we enter the office.  We shake hands and he pours me a cup of tea with wolfberries.  Mr. Ma and I sit down on the large piece of wooden furniture in the office while the man talks with me for a bit about what I’m doing and why I came to Hai Yuan.

“Well, I kind of want to hear Hua Er,” I tell him, not letting go of my quest. 

He furrows his brow and thinks to himself for a moment.

“Hua er.  There is a guy who is can sing it very well…but unfortunately, he left for Beijing yesterday.  He’ll be performing Hua er there.  He’s pretty famous,” he says.

My heart doesn’t sink.  I’m in Hai Yuan.  Whether or not I hear the elusive music is beside the point.  It’s the search for it that makes it fun.  I ask him what else there is to see or do in Hai Yuan.  He reaches under the table that we are sitting at and pulls out a brochure that illustrates and describes Hai Yuan’s tourism sites.  It’s a small green pamplet that reads, “The hometown of Hua Er, Hai Yuan, Welcomes You!.”  On the cover, there are some people dressed in traditional Hui minority costumes standing on a verdant mountain overlooking a small lake.  Opening up the booklet, there are some other pictures of a famous mosque near the area, as well as some photos of some Hua Er festivals, traditional Hui foods, and archaeologists digging up ancient dwellings.  On the back of the booklet there is a page dedicated to the 1920 earthquake that devastated the area.  Pictured at the top of the page there is a tree that has been split in two due to the earthquake’s force.  Underneath the tree is a small photo of many lumps of dirt in a plain.  These lumps are the “10,000 graves” for the people who died in the 1920 earthquake.  This site is located not far from Mr. Ma’s hotel.  10,000 people lie resting underneath the Earth not far from where I will be sleeping tonight.

“So what do you want to do?” asks Mr. Ma.

“Let’s go see some mosques,” I say.

Mosques

Mr. Ma and I walk out past the square where another group of boys is practicing for the Party’s birthday.  All of them wear red ties and smile at me when I walk by.  One of them speaks English to me and asks where I’m from.

“Put on the hat!  Put on the hat!”  Mr. Ma says to me, giggling to himself.  I can’t believe I’m doing this.  I reach into my bag for the Muslim hat as instructed and put it on.  Mr. Ma teaches me how to say, “Hello,” in Arabic (Salaam), and I do so.  I don’t know if the boys quite know what to make of me.

For the next hour Mr. Ma takes me on a grand tour of 4 of the towns many mosques.  As we go from one mosque to the next, I have to keep on reminding myself of the fact that Hai Yuan is not that large…there are just a lot of mosques.  In a way it reminds me a bit of Lexington, Virginia and Rockbridge County.  There are churches specked all across the county, and I always wonder how and where they find the people to attend these churches. 

The first mosque that we go to is quite small.  Outside, there are some teenage boys standing in front of the mosque.  Mr. Ma tells me that they can speak Arabic, as they are studying the language now.  I immediately think back to Yinchuan and Forever Friend.  The people here do not speak Arabic as a language to communicate, but rather a common prayer language.  Standing there talking with the young boys, I feel like an impostor wearing my Muslim hat.  I am not a Muslim, and if I was in America dressed like this in front of a mosque, people would think I was poking fun at the religion.  In Hai Yuan, however, Mr. Ma makes me feel welcome and wants me to wear the hat.  He knows that I am not a Muslim, but he doesn’t seem to care.  He’s just happy to show off his town.  He’s just happy to do something today.

We go from mosque to mosque and I’m surprised at the differences in their structures and upkeep.  They all seem to have that same green dome ending in the crescent moon shape.  I notice that all of the mosques seem relatively empty when we go to visit.  Mr. Ma tells me that they are usually empty except during prayer times.

“If you want to pray, you have to wash everything.  You wash your hands, your face, your feet, your body.  When we wash, we don’t take the water directly out of the faucet.  First you pour the water into a small pot and from that you pour the water onto your hands or body to wash.”

Mr. Ma takes me into the washroom where the cleansing takes place.  Inside there is one solitary practioner washing himself, pouring the water from the golden colored pot on the sink into his hands.  I consider joining him in the process, but wonder if it is the right thing to do or not.  If I was in a church or a temple, I feel like I could just jump right in…but for some reason I have this notion that I am more restricted in this religion.  Mr. Ma is encouraging, though, and I’m sure it wouldn’t be a problem.  Still, I decide just to watch and observe.

After visiting the fourth temple, Mr. Ma has an idea.

“You know, from here we’re not too far from the 10,000 graves.  Would you be interested in seeing that?”

“Let’s go,” I say.  What do 10,000 graves look like?

What they look like

We get in a three wheeled taxi that takes us down Hai Yuan’s dusty backstreets.  The taxi wobbles back and forth on the uneven road, and I feel like I have been transported to a sandy past.  I can only imagine what an earthquake would do to this city’s structures and old roads.  Again, Hai Yuan is not very large, and we arrive at the grave site within 5 minutes.  After paying the driver, Mr. Ma and I get out of the car.

“It’s only a short walk to the hotel from here.  We can just stroll from this point,” he says.  Mr. Ma looks sleepy.  I wonder if he has sacrificed his afternoon nap for me…or his afternoon prayer.  He breathes heavily as we scamper up the embankment.  It’s not a high ridge.  As soon as we scale it, we are faced with an English and Chinese marker to note the catastrophe that occurred here in 1920.

We walk up the embankment to the side of the road.  The gravesite is directly next to the dusty street, and if there was no marker at the gravesite, it would be impossible to know what was there.  One would just think it an empty lot with odd topography.  The lot itself is quite large.  It is entirely clear except for various shrubs that have started growing over the lumps.  The lumps themselves, the graves of the fallen, roll gently over the field.  It seems that time has begun to wear them down.  There is only one gravestone for all of the 10,000 people that have been buried here.  They all lie together underneath the rolling field in the dusty town.  Mr. Ma and I don’t say a word to one another.  Squinting in the sunlight, the air feels stiff and solid…unbreakable.  I feel eons away from the crushing movement of the Earth that wiped out 10,000 people in a matter of seconds.  The silence is deafening.  The dead sleep undisturbed.

The Sun is hot.  Mr. Ma is tired.  I am, too.

“Let’s take a rest,” he says.