Seven. 
The surface of this one is tinted grey, like the clouds overhead. There are a couple of small streaks of white in this one. It caught my eye, nubbing out of the sand. I rub my thumb over its ridged edge and fit it in the palm of my hand. There are some grains of sand still clinging to it. If I could drill a small hole in the part of the shell where it curves inwards at is thickest point to meet the bottom section of the shell, it would make a nice finishing piece to a necklace, maybe the only piece. I put the clam shell in my pocket with the other six shells. Searching for more.
The beach is pretty silent and dismal. It’s a tourist spot that is waiting, waiting, for the tourists to come. In China they always come. There are not many people here on Clam Island on this day, but there are a few on a terrace up ahead. Next to the terrace is a small restaurant, probably with overpriced and oversalted food. I hear the voices of a school group behind me, coming down the stairs. I turn my head to look at them. At the bottom of the stairs is the Chinese character , “fo,” meaning “Buddhism. I doubt that this is a holy Buddhist site. The symbol was probably carved there in red in order to attract more visitors. It’s impossible just to have a quiet island in China. One has to put some spiritual significance into the island in order to get the tourists to come. I pick up a skipping stone and skip it. I love skipping stones. Getting the stone to skip twice is easy enough. Three times is the key. I walk along the dank beach and listen to the waves, searching for perfect skipping stones and other clam shells to pick up. The island is not bad. Time for lunch.
Eraserhead and Tanman
I go to the only restaurant on the island and plop myself down at a round table that is much 
bigger than it needs to be. The wind is blowing the cellaphane covering on top of the table. I put an ashtray in a strategic location so as to keep the covering from blowing away. One of the waitresses comes over to me and gives me a menu and I order a big bowl of noodles. I feel like a tiny king on his huge throne. There are so many empty tables surrounding my table, along with empty chairs. On the terrace above mine, the seats are starting to fill in with the school group visiting the island. In the corner of my eye I see the blue and white of their uniforms that form into a middle school collage.
One of the waitresses comes over to take my order. She has straight bangs. The left and right sides of her bangs are longer than the middle, kind of making her head look like a sort of helmet. I order a bowl of noodles and sit back with my bag of clams, watching the grey surf in front of my eyes, trying my best to look cool and purposeful, alone on my throne.
The bowl of noodles comes to me a few minutes later. Standing behind me I hear a voice.
“Hey man,” it’s the Tanman. He leans against the wall smoking a cigarette. “Where yuh from, brother?”
“US.”
“US? Cool. Never been there before. What the heck yuh doing in Zhuanghe?”
Good question.
“Just wanted to visit Clam Island before heading down to DalianW.”
“Sounds good, sounds good…no one comes out here.” He puffs cigarette smoke in the air.
The cook, Eraserhead, walks over to the conversation. There are old grease burns on his young arms. He lights up a cigarette using Tanman’s cigarette.
“So….” I start. “Are the two of you Buddhist? I see that there’s a temple next door.” I gesture over to the temple.
Sluuuuuuurp! The noodles aren’t so great. There’s not much to eat out here, though.
“Nah…it’s just gettin’ started here anyway. Not many people come out here. You live in Beijing?” Eraserhead points at me with his cigarette. His belly is like a deflated basketball.
“I do…ever been there?”
“Coupla times. City’s pretty big. Whatcha’ do there?”
“Work in a travel company.”
“Travel eh? Guess you can go lots of places for free then, huh?” Eraserhead seems more interested in this conversation as we discuss travel. I can imagine him desperately trying to find the exit of Clam Island.
Sluuuuuuuuuurp! Oily and salty. Little chunks of beef.
“Not really. I paid to come here.”
Hitchhiker
After finishing my meal and Q & A with Eraserhead and Tanman, I decide it’s time to leave Clam
Island. Because I have a sense of dignity, I send a message to Friendlydriver. I know he won’t come and pick me up, but I have principles, and I know I owe him 10 rmb, even if he believes I owe him 50 rmb.
I text: Friendlydriver, I’m leaving Clam Island. If you want to come and pick me up, please give me a call. I still owe you 10 rmb.
I walk up the hill to the smell of the gas that’s used in the kitchen below. Diesel. This island wants to be developed. I can feel the Chinese spirit of entrepreneurship trying its best to eek it’s way to Clam Island, but it’s turdness has done a successful job of turning away the investors. I walk past a statue of an angel. There’s nothing written below her form as she stands there and spreads out her arms. There should be a sign here, but it’s unfinished, waiting for that investor’s touch. I feel almost sorry for this lonely angel on Clam Island. She wants to be beautiful, but everything about the statue just fills me with bleakness. Void. Landfill.
I’ve got to get off this island.
I walk around the island away from Nameless Angel, and there before me lies the long buttcrack road that leads back to the main highway. Not being picturesque at all, I don’t even take a moment to enjoy the view. It’s a long straightaway that goes to the main road, and there are no buses coming out here. No cars. No motorcycles. Wasteland. I could die here. I could die anywhere. It could happen at any moment. I think this thought at least once per week, especially if I’m not busy. Press on. Stepping across the dirt and gravel, I gradually move away from the Turd and towards Buttcrack Road.
When I reach the road, everything is suddenly ok. There’s something that I enjoy about walking on lengthy, straight, narrow stretches of pavement. Not just walking, actually, but driving as well. I like places like Montana, or the Southwest, where one can drive for miles and miles without seeing another car, person, or even curve. I imagine Russia would be great. This road is one of those places. I can pretend the possibilities are limitless here, even though there’s no way to go but straight. “Infinity” roads such as this one save me a lot of wishy-wash. They go on and on, and I can pour on the speed. It doesn’t matter that I’m in China, the most populous country in the world. For the next 20 minutes, it’s just me and the buttcrack, just me and the road. The scene is bleak. Left and right are “fields” of grey sludge with crabs darting back and forth. Up ahead towards the left, I see a guy actually in the sludge. He’s pulling a net across the marsh, and it seems as if he has to use all his might just to lug it. I stop when I reach his bicycle and slowly watch him pull his net towards me. He looks up, but I can’t see the expression upon his face, but I imagine he is Sisyphus, forever doomed to walk through this sludge of crabs, dragging his net behind him for eternity. The pants that he wears are rolled up around his knees. It’s calming to watch the footprints form and slowly disappear behind him as he walks. When he reaches the wall of rocks that line the side of the road, he looks up, wipes his brow and drags the netting up the side of the wall.
“Crabs?” I ask.
“En,” he says.
Off again.
I look at my watch and note the time. It’s already after noon. If I were to try to walk to the bus station, it would take me more than a couple of hours, I think. Plus, I have no idea where the bus station is. When I took Friendly Driver I wasn’t planning to walk back, so I didn’t pay much attention to the direction we were going. Approaching the main road, I feel my mobile phone buzz.
“If you want to give me the money, you can meet me at the bus station.” Friendly Driver.
“Ok, I’ll let you know when I get there,” I respond.
Looks as if I still have a mission. Now to get to the bus station. I decide to walk left. Maybe I’ll find a bus going to the station. I walk for about two minutes along the road next to the coast and feel like a soldier who has been dropped by his regiment. I don’t have to walk for long. A minivan cruises by and slows its speed. A young man with a little beard on his chin sticks his head out of the window and speaks to me in clear English.
“Hey, where are you trying to get to?” he asks.
“I’m just trying to walk to the bus station. Is there a bus around here somewhere?”
“Not for a bit. You want to get in the car? We can drop you off at a bus stop and from there you can get a bus to the station.” When he says, “we,” I look in the driver’s seat and notice a girl who I guess is his girlfriend sitting in the passenger seat. They seem nice enough. I can’t imagine this couple wants to take me back to Clam Island. I follow my gut.
“Sure, thanks,” I walk to the minvan. Hitchhiking has never been so easy.
There are some things one can just feel without asking. I know that this guy isn’t going to ask me to give him anything. He just wants to help out for a few minutes and is curious. I also know that this girl is his girlfriend. I can tell by the way she’s looking at ME.
“So, why is your English so good?” I ask the driver, who’s English name is Sean.
“I lived in Ireland for 7 years,” he said, “I was working in finance then.”
“Ireland, cool….” seems like the right thing to say. “Did you like it?” I think back to when I lived in Ireland and completed my student teaching in a two-room school house about one decade earlier. A decade later I look back at the experience fondly. During the time I was there, however, there were times I wanted to put a drain in the country so that the cynicism could slowly leak out into the ocean. Afterwards, the land would be awash with optimism and genuinely nice people and I would plug the hole back up. Still, I take the experience for what it is and will keep the Liams and Rorys and Sadies in my heart until the day that I die. I woudn’t change a thing about it, in retrospect.
Sean doesn’t even think for a moment about his Irish experience. He looks in the rearview mirror so that he can see me clearly.
“No, I hated it,” he says. “I was bored there.”
“But…you spent 7 years there. You must like SOMETHING about the country.” That’s the thing…even when you’re walking on the turd, there must be something redeeming about the turd itself. I went to Clam Island and I got my clams. They’re in my bag. I had a fight there. I was alive there. The farther and farther I get from Clam Island, the more endearing it will become to me. The same thing happened with Ireland. The same thing happened with Japan after I left. It’s very rare for me to hate a place or concentrate on the negative aspects after I leave that place, even if I didn’t like it while I was there. I can get nostalgic for the the telephone polls, if I really think about them long and hard enough. What about Sean?
“Not really,” he says. “I didn’t have many friends there. I didn’t like my job. It was no fun. It rains there all the time. No karaoke.”
“Ah…well, at least you made it back to Zhuanghe.” His girfriend laughs. I feel the phone in my pocket vibrate again. It’s Friendlydriver.
The message reads: Don’t worry about the 10rmb. Keep it to yourself. Have a good trip.
Sean and his girlfriend drop me off at a bus stop where it’s convenient to take a bus to the main bus station. No more missions in Zhuanghe. I’ve got its shells in my pocket. Years later, they’ll be filled when I turn my head to look again. I love the sludge.
