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 Dalian^W.” 

“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.

I don’t even call the Taxman or Boss Lady.  It’s a rainy day, and I don’t want to make the two of them get out of bed and “see me off” at the bus station.  I can’t deal with another sack of processed food to weigh me down on my journey to Exhaust Pipe City.  Plus, the evening before  ended so perfectly.  The last vision I want to cradle in my imagination of the two of them is the hazy dream image of the previous evening.  Seeing them again would be like waking up and starting over.  Make a clean cut.  I decide to leave the pile of snacks that Policewoman Qu had given me the day before.  I want to lighten my load for the road.  Cut the fat out of my sack. 

When I leave my room with the red curtains behind, I can hear the sound of light drizzle outside.  Up until this point, I’ve known more rain in the previous two days of travel in Liaoning than I have in the previous hundred days in Beijing.  There will be more rain to come on this day.

Exhaust Pipe City

 When I arrive at Zhuanghe bus station, it could be any small bus station anywhere in China.  I immediately get the feeling that I don’t want to spend the night here as soon as I arrive at the station.  It just has a dirty feeling to it.  Something repels me, like evil inside.  I go to the ticket counter and buy a late afternoon ticket for Dalian^W, which is about 2 hours away by bus.  The current time is just around 10am.  My bus for Dalian leaves after 5pm.  I figure I need to spend some time in Zhuanghe.  I need to see SOMETHING here, or meet SOMEONE.  There has to be a reason for coming here. 

As always, one of the first things I do is to buy a local map.  After purchasing it at the small convenience store behind the information counter, I open it up and immediately begin to look for the green spots that denote public parks and tourist areas.  There’s one spot that catches my eye, Black Island.  I’m curious about this island…perhaps a park devoted to Tintin?  There are other islands and spots on the map, one named Clam Island. 

While looking at the map, I feel a man watching me.  Actually, I hear him first.  He’s jingling his keys around in his pockets.  Black taxi driver for sure.  I’ve met enough of these guys to know one when I see one.  His hair is cut short, his sunglasses are propped up on his forehead above his eyes, and he has a tan face that I do not trust.  Still, he’s the first driver to approach me, and I don’t want to waste time looking for drivers.  His name is Mr. Zhou.  He hands me his business card.  It reads:  Mr. Zhou.  Your Friendly Driver!

To Clam Island

The car is sleek and black.  On the dashboard is one of those fragrance bottles that gives the interior a woman’s scent.  The seats are covered with fake fur, making me feel gaudy and oste.  We drive in silence at first.  I tell Friendly Driver Zhou to go in the direction of Black Island.  It’s only after my instruction that I realize I’ve made the cardinal error of not discussing prices prior to sitting in his car. Damn.  This guy’s got me if he wants me.  I know nothing about the distances or prices here.  I don’t know if these island’s have tickets at their entrances or not.  I ask him about Black Island.

“Yessir.  Black Island.  You’ll like that place….a must see!  There’s wreckage from a Qing Dynasty ship there.  Pretty cool…”  There’s wreckage in your pants, I think to myself.  I don’t know what it is…something about this guy…

“So,” I venture, “What’s the price for going there?”

“That?  Oh…120rmb.”  Silence.  I don’t want to spend that much money for the transportation.

“Hmmmm….what about Clam Island?”

Friendly Driver raises his eyebrows, his glasses move on his head.  The wreckage in his pants settles a little further toward the accelerator, along with gravity. 

“Nothing to see there….just an island.  Just opened up…pretty boring…”  Silence.

“So, what’s the price for going there?” 

“40rmb.”

“Ok, I’ll take it…let’s go there.”  To me, it’s all the same.  An island is an island, and I’m not much of an island man.  I can take it or leave it.  A man is an island, and I’ve got myself floating in the sea.  Indolent clouds sloth apathetically overhead, reflecting the black ocean water that we approach…or is it the sea that reflects the clouds?  I never was a student of meteorology.

The Faceoff

Friendly Driver takes his hands off the wheel and points ahead and to the right.

“There it is, Hoss,” he says.

Clam Island.  I turn my head and look out the window to see a gigantic lump of Earth Turd that has somehow stolen the right to be called Clam Island.  The sight of the island depresses me.  It seems appropriate that the sky is overcast.  I cannot imagine a blue sky behind the Earth Turd.  The middle of the island is discolored and scarred orange after being blasted in the past by dynamite.  The rocks have been quarried out, and its face is slashed like a celebrity missing his nose after a plastic surgery gone awry.  We approach the turnoff for the island and make a right.  Our car goes down a straight and narrow buttcrack of a spit that leads diretctly to the middle of the island.  On both sides of the buttcrack road are pools of black sludge, left behind by the high tide.  I see sideways’ crabs scurrying in and out of their dirty little holes in the sludge.  Sometimes a suicidal sideways’ crab makes a break for it across the road.  One or two are inevitably smashed by Friendly Driver’s vehicle.  The Earth Turd approaches, looming overhead.  I’ll spend a good part of my afternoon here. 

We arrive at the spot where each visitor unbelievably had to buy a 10rmb ticket in order to enter the island.  I pay the money for the island, and then I prepare to pay the Friendly Driver.

“All right…here’s 30 for you now…I’ll give you the remaining 10 when I make my round of Clam Island.  Or do you want to come with me while I walk around?  You’re welcome to.”

Friendly Driver seems to misunderstand, “Wait…no, no no….it’s 40 each way.  Altogether it’s 80 both ways.  You give me the 40 now.”

“Sorry…that’s not what you said.  You said 40.  You didn’t say 80.  I can only give you 30 now.  I’ll give you the 10 when I get back.”  I get out of the car and put my backpack on.

“Wait….nuh nuh nuh nuh….That’s not the deal.  Give me my 40 now.  You can’t just walk off like that!”  His voice gets louder.  There’s no one else around on the island except for the people who just took my ticket money, and they’ve already gone back in their little shack.

“Listen…I’ve got principles.  You need to be clear when you state a price.  You said 40.  I’ll call you when I get back and give you 10.  I’ve got your card.”  I hold up his business card.  When he sees it, suddenly his face turns purple, and he actually starts to drive after me over the pebbles and rubble.  He doesn’t have to drive fast as I’m in no hurry.  It’s at this moment that I realize that he might actually have intentions to fight me.  For some reason, however, I don’t worry.  I can’t even trust his anger.

“No!  Give me back my card!  I will NOT come and pick you up.  Give me back my card.  Give it back to meeeeeeeeee!”

“Look buddy, this is not YOUR card anymore.  YOU gave it to ME, remember?  How am I going to promote your business without your card?”  This last question is a bit overboard, I admit. 

“There’s no WAY I’m picking you up!”  He yells, and then pulls a U-turn and drives back towards the buttcrack road.  I’m left by myself on the island with no idea how to get back to the bus station.  There are no other cars here, and it’s at least a 20 minute walk to the main road.   The dust is still settling from his car as I watch him pull away.  The black vehicle gets smaller and smaller until it disappears as it makes a left turn back on the main road.  Silence and dust.

Time to find some clams.

The Immortal is ageless.  Seconds, minutes, hours, years–they mean nothing to him.  Time tumbles by like husks of sunflower seeds scattering across the ground–dispersed casually in all directions by a gust of wind.  It  simply goes where it will, sometimes brushing against the young Immortal’s leg to remind him that it is still running on and on.  Mostly, Time keeps itself distant from the Immortal.  In addition to Time, the year of his birth is also something that he never gives much thought to–far, far away…farther, it seems even, than the bright Father Sun blazing in the sky. 

The Father Sun.  Once long ago the Father Sun was not a Sun at all but the Jade Emperor, ruling belevolently over all that he surveyed.  That was long before the birth, even of the Immortal.  Now the Jade Emperor is in the sky.  He warms the planet with his rays of light, fending off the beasts while maintaining the balance of the seasons.

Although the Immortal is ageless, he is young for an Immortal.  Despite being older than any human on Earth he looks like a boy, no older than 15 years old.  Like a boy, the Immortal enjoys mischief.  He looks to make some now.

The boy Immortal stands quietly with his back against a tree, resting in its shade.  In his right hand he holds a wooden bow.  He grips it and looks up quietly at the leaves of the tree rustling in the breeze.  Is it a ginko tree?  He’s not sure, he cannot remember.  It smells like one anyway.  Specks of light from the Father Sun filter through the trees umbrella of leaves.  Even under this tree, no one is free from His gaze.  The boy Immortal doesn’t care.  He wants to have fun.  A timeless existence needs some excitement. 

He reaches behind his back and feels for the quiver of arrows resting weightlessly on his centuries old shoulders.  There are 7 arrows in the quiver.  He fingers them with his uncalloused hands.  He is an immortal, so farmwork is beneath him.  One day he will have to save his strength and concentration to save the People.  Fumbling with the 7 arrows in his quiver, his fingers eventually settle on one.  He grabs the goose feathers at the arrows base and turns around silently to survey the scene behind him. 

The day is dusty and dry.  There is not much to see–a couple of small huts covered with reed leaves to keep out the rain and Father Sun.  A couple of whisps of clouds blow in the distance.  On the horizen Mout K’un L’un looms, its peak glistening white with crystal snow.  Its said that there is a spirit who lives within the mountain.  The boy Immortal has never seen the spirit for himself, and he has impeccable eyes.  Save for the couple farmers tending to their rice paddies, the presence of human activity is nonexistent–a calm and perfect day.  The boy Immortal’s incredibly keen eyes notices a rustling motion coming from behind the farther hut in the blink of an eye.  He grins when the rustling is followed by a small head protruding tentatively from behind the structure.  Without a sound, he raises his bow vertically, pulls the arrow out of it’s quiver, closes his left eye for concentration, and keeps the string of his bow taut so as to target the body for the kill.  Time comes back to him for an instant and he counts out loud.

“One.”

Only one second.

Thwip!

The arrow flies from its quiver and pierces the throat of its victim, an aged chicken.  Its final crow is cut off by the blood spurting out its mouth.  The farmer in in the field looks over to see the source of the sound, the death-throes of the chicken already kicking in as its 3-toed claws scratch the ground.  The boy Immortal giggles nervously and runs in the opposite direction to hide once more.  The year is 2057 BC.  Father Sun shines down upon all.

The Mistake

The sunlight reflects off the waters of the Beijing-Hangzhou Grand Canal.  Small waves from the passing boats lap the sides of the walls.  A mother sits and sells cabbages next to the canal’s banks.  She breastfeeds her child, the lactating nipple dripping milk down the side of the baby’s mouth.  Another man pulls his donkey cart on the road alongside the canal.  The back of the cart is filled with corn and a man sleeping atop the pile.  He is so serene and calm on top of that heap of corn, as if he, too, was once wrenched off of a gigantic stalk.  Children with shaved heads run along the banks of the canal, making faces at the strangers who have taken boats for hundreds of kilometers, from cities that the children have never even heard of.

The year is 1692.  It is the 32nd year of emperor Kangxi’s reign.  The Chinese empire is thriving in many respects, and the emperor himself has shown a spirit of openmindedness towards new ideas and things foreign.  They call him a “Great Uniter” in some parts, doing his best to bridge the seemingly unbridgeable gaps amongst China’s 4 great races.  Only this year, Kangxi took another unprecedented step towards modern thinking issuing the Edict of Toleration on March 22, spurring on more feelings of goodwill from the empire towards the Roman Catholic Church .  There is a spirit of hope and a general feeling of prosperity beginning to grow.  Commerce thrives along the Grand Canal’s edge.  As they make their way from Hangzhou to Beijing, the city of Dezhou^W provides an excellent one to two day respite for traders, merchants, and missionairies.

A boat filled mostly with Dragon Well Tea from the prosperous city of Hangzhou pulls up to the  embankment.  Merchants and sailors get off the small vessel with hungry stomachs.

Hopefully this boat will be a good sell, Jia Jiancai thinks to himself as he sees the tea-sellers get off the boat.  The old man has been waiting for this boat patiently.  It moves slowly towards the canal’s gradual embankment and departure point.  He thinks of the sell and his pregnant wife at home, due to give birth any day.  Grabbing his baskets of grilled chicken he walks towards the boat.  Normally, he would be the one to be overseeing the baking of the chicken, and others would do the selling for him.  However, two of his sellers have recently come down with smallpox as a result of the epidemic and have not been able to work for him in the past 2 weeks.  For the time being, he is stretched thin for workers.  Only he and the newly arrived apprentice and accountant, Wang Xiaoer, remain for the time being.  His business is in a slight lull, and he needs this sale. 

When he is within spitting distance of the exiting passengers, someone bumps into him from behind.  Losing his balance, Jia Jiancai trips and falls on his face, losing half of his baked chicken in the canal’s murky waters!  As he rises onto his feet to dust the dirt from his face and recover his other chickens he looks up to see that the man who has bumped into him is none other than Mr.  Zhao, one of his fiercest chicken-selling competitors, and a dirty one at that.  Mr. Zhao turns around to look at Jia Jiancai and cackles a sinister grin.

“Sorry, old man, didn’t see you there.”

Jia Jiancai raises his fist at Mr. Zhao.  “Zhao, you bastard!” he yells.  At the same time he curses Mr. Zhao, a hungry street urchin stealthily snatches 2 baked chickens from Jia Jiancai’s basket.  Jia Jiancai turns his head to see the street urchin escaping from sight.  Already overwhelmed at the day’s turn of bad luck, he simply watches the thief escape, content to stroke his beard as the hot Sun’s rays cause his forehead to perspire with sweat.

As Jia Jiancai lethargically makes his way back to his base of operations, or the “chicken’s nest” as he calls it, he thinks about how to turn his fortune around in his favor.  Perhaps I should get out of the chicken business? Perhaps not….maybe only a rough patch….only a rough patch….

When he makes his way toward the “nest,” he crosses the small stream he knows so well, past the hundreds of live chickens, only to see Wang Xiaoer sleeping next to the batch of chickens that he started to bake in the morning!  “Young Wang” (as he is referred to) still has his hand grasping the prong used to remove the chickens from the pot, as if he dozed off in mid action.

“Wang!  Wang!  Get up you lazy fool!”  With the last word, Jia Jiancai kicks the stool  out from under Young Wang.  He lands on the ground with a slight “thump,” opens his eyes in a daze and turns around.  His hand still grasps the chicken prong.  He reaches for the pot and burns his hand on it’s surface.  Only then does he realize that it is Jia Jiancai who has kicked the stool out from under him.

“I’m sorry sir.  I’m sorry.  I must have konked out.  The weather…it’s just too hot.  I’m not used to this sun.”  Young Wang braces himself for punishment.  I’m an acountant.  I should be handling money, not chickens, he thinks to himself, once again regretting having to work with the filthy fowl.  Despite his aversion to the birds, he has always admired Mr. Jia’s dedication to his craft. 

Jia Jiancai says nothing.  He carefully removes the top of the pot and looks at its contents.  The fire below the pot is very low.  The meat inside must be overcooked, surely no one will by this at the price of five tokens we usually charge, Jia thinks, regretfully.  They decide to sell the overly-simmered chickens at a reduced rate.  Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse.

“Very well, we’ll wrap this batch as usual and sell it at a discounted rate.  In order to make up for the destruction of these chickens, I’ll ask you to come with me in the afternoon at the height of the Sun’s power.  I know you have trouble with the heat, but it is a price you must pay.  We all make mistakes ‘Young Wang,’ but I don’t want to make another one by wasting all that Mother Nature has provided us.  Another tea shipment should be coming in this afternoon.  We have no time to waste.”

“Yes sir,” Young Wang replies.  Jia Jiancai and his apprentice Young Wang wordlessly begin wrapping the overcooked braised chickens in reed leaves.  Sweating under the mid-afternoon Sun, they work without rest, put the chickens into four baskets and make their way over the creek towards the Grand Canal.  When they arrive, they set up next to Enemy Zhao, who leisurely rests underneath the shade of a makeshift umbrella he has propped up for himself out of reed leaves on branches.

“Ah.  I see you brought your tail along with you this time, Jia,” Enemy Zhao sneers, pointing at Young Wang.   He sits back on his haunches, counting the morning’s earnings.

“At least my tail remains loyal to me.  Where has yours gone, oh Great One?  Young Zhu, was his name, wasn’t it?” Jia Jiancai smiles at his quip.

“Shut your mouth!  Zhu was a thief.  I beat him heartily so he will not forget my wraith.  At least he wasn’t lazy!” Enemy Zhao points to Wang Xiaoer with a snicker.  Jia Jiancai holds Young Wang back, sensing the apprentice’s anger.

The afternoon is hot and tense with the Sun seemingly mocking the men of chicken.  It’s orb slides ever so slowly across the sky.  Minutes flow by like honey.  There is no breeze.  The sellers keep their eyes peeled towards the South, the direction of their business.  Young Wang begins to fall into slumber once more, only to be whacked on the thy by Mr. Jia.  When he is not using his hand to wake up Young Wang, he swats flies away from the chicken, more than usual on this day.

“I see the flies like your pile more than mi….” Enemy Zhao’s voice trails off.  In the distance, the second tea boat approaches, much larger than the one in the morning.  Within minutes, the boat moors itself on the embankment and the hungry traders are on their way towards the chickens.

“5 coins, 5 coins!” Enemy Zhao yells out.

“3 coins, 3 coins!” yell Young Wang and Jia Jiancai in unison.

“Are you mad?  I knew something was wrong with your chicken…selling turned meat are you!” Enemy Zhao’s temper flares up, only to be silenced by the first approaching customer, a young man with a budding moustache.  Jia Jiancai notices a slight black eye as well, perhaps evidence of a recent scuffle.

“Fine…I’ll match my price with yours!  3 coins, 3 coins!”  Enemy Zhao says to the young man with the black eye.  The young man turns to Zhao’s chicken, then to Jia’s, rubbing his chin as if contemplating something deep.  Then he leans down and smells Mr. Jia’s chicken.  He stands up and gives Mr. Jia 3 coins.

“I’ll take one,” he says.  He unwraps the chicken and bites into it.  Jia Jiancai and Young Wang await anxiously his reaction.  Surely, he will spit it out, overcooked as it is.  But the young man with the black eye continues to eat the chicken voraciously.  He looks up at Jia Jiancai.

“This…” he starts between bites, hardly taking the time to chew, “this is the best chicken I’ve ever had in my life.”  And with Young Wang’s “mistake,” the legacy of Jia Jiancai’s Dezhou Braised Chicken begins. 

The Dreamer

Huang Ming wipes his face with a napkin, finishing off the last succulent bite of another lunch of Dezhou Braised Chicken.  The year is 2010.  He walks to the lobby of the Sun-Moon Mansion, his creation, his mind-child come to realization.  Observing the shiny reflective floors he admires the small fountain in the middle of the lobby.  The design in the center is a tribute to Father Sun, His rays spreading out in all directions.   He listens to the quiet trickle of the water intermingle with the voices of the friendly staff conversing at the reception desk behind him.  The hotel staff manager, Ms. Song walks by.  A nice young girl from Jilin^W Province, Ms. Song has worked as staff manager in the Sun-Moon Mansion’s hotel for the past year.  Her English is excellent, and he’s received only compliments about her service.  Huang Ming, middle-aged but still handsome enough to catch the eye of young ladies, is the man that China has dubbed “The Solar King.”  He  steps outside of the building to survey his work and wait.  Today he will be showing a group of investors from Hebei Province products around the Sun-Moon Mansion, which lies in the heart of Dezhou’s Solar Valley. 

“Sun-Moon Mansion, the world solar landmark and headquarters of Himin Group, is also the very construction where 2010 International Solar Cities Congress (ISCC) will be held.  The total area of the building is 75,000 square meters, it adopts the technologies of water heating, BIPV, cooling, ceiling radiation, PV on-grid power generation, solar swimming pool, and cross-seasonal energy storage” (Himin Solar Energy Group Introduction brochure).  

Dezhou City, Shandong Province, “with legends of ‘Hou Yi’ shooting the sun and Kua Fu racing with the sun, has the long-term relation with the sun, benefited from the sun, and builds the largest industrial base of solar energy utilization in the world,” (Dezhou Solar City Magazine, March 2010).  The power of Father Sun is awesome and everywhere on this day in the ”Solar City.”  Huang Ming walks across the wooden bridge which spans the length of the man-made pond in front of the Sun-Moon Mansion.  Shaped like a sundial, the mansion looks magnificent covered with its solar panels.  He loosens his tie one notch, the weathe being hot.  A car pulls up to the hotel’s entrance.  A mother and father step out of the vehicle, the young daughter sitting in the back of the car.  Huang Ming looks at the girl sitting in the backseat and notices the blue ribbon in her hair, not unlike the kind that his daughter used to wear when she was about the same age as this girl.  His daughter, now studying in Europe, looked up at him with her beautiful eyes, so young and innocent:

“13 years ago, the serious energy shortage problem aroused an ordinary father’s anxious concern to the living environment of his daughter’s in hte future.  He decided to maintain the blue sky and white clouds for his daughter, and since then he began to pave a way in devoloping sustainable solar energy.  The father is Board Chairman of Himin Solar Energy Group, Mr. Huang Ming” (Himin Company’s Brochure Magazine). 

Was it really only 13 years ago?  Huang Ming considers the number, so arbitrary in his mind.  The time moves to fast.  He stares down at the pond with its green waters and yellow fish, as yellow as the Sun and thinks about his daughter, his wife, his Solar Empire. 

“Mr. Huang, they’re here,” awakening from his reverie he looks up to see Ms. Song waving at him, beckoning him inside.  He re-enters the Sun-Moon Mansion to meet his guests.

The group is a small one from the city of Baoding^W in Hebei Province.  The company’s head, Mr. Wang grasps Mr. Huang’s hand in his, and they exchange business cards.  The Solar King leads the group from the hotel section of the Sun-Moon Mansion to the product display and company’s products building.  From here on out, Huang Ming is on autopilot, firing off numbers as he walks as fluid as the water flowing from the fountain in his lobby.

“During the past 10 years, our company has created 8122 numbers, namely, the traveling route of the ten-thousand-kilo scientific generalization movement reaches to over 80 million kilometers, equal to 2,000 circuits around the Earth.”

The group from Hebei nods in unison.  The Solar King continues.

“The total amount in expanding solar energy adds up to more than 10 million square meters, equal to 7-8 years’ expansion quantity of EU and 16 years’ quantity of North Ameri….excuse me for a moment.”  Huang Ming’s thought process is thrown off for a minute.  One of the guides of the company’s museum section stands near the gift shop waving at Mr. Huang.  Two foreigners stand next to her with mouths open wide and grins as bright as daylight spread across their faces.  One is tall and handsome, bearing a striking resemblance to Nicholas Cage.  The other one is short witha goatee and reminds the Solar King of a younger Tom Cruise.

“Excuse me, Mr. Huang,” the girl starts, “these two foreigners want to take a picture with you.  I’m sorry.”

The Solar King looks at his group, “I’m sorry, this will only be a moment.”  He walks over to the two foreigners.

“Hey, Solar King!” the tall one waves at Mr. Huang and shakes his hand.  He says his name is Simon.

“Nice to meet you, where are you from?” asks Mr. Huang.

“Switzerland,” Simon says.

The Swissman’s words send a shot to Huang Ming’s heart, striking at his weak spot.  “Ah.  My daughter was studying there.  Great place.  What about you?”  Huang Ming looks at the shorter foreigner.  He says his name is Jeffrey.

“I’m from the US.  Have you been?”

“A few times, yes.”

“Well, you seem to be busy, don’t want to take up too much of your time,” Jeffrey says.  The three of them stand together, the Solar King in the middle.  The guide takes Jeffrey’s camera as they pose for a photo. The American stands on his right side, the Swissman on his left.  Huang Ming puts his arms around both of their waists.  The two friends from afar put their arms over his shoulder in an expression of affinity and admiration.  In the background, there is a picture of a young female angel with the words of the company’s motto:  For Generations’ blue sky and white clouds.

The Hero

“One.”

Only one second.

Thwip.

The seventh Sun falls to the Earth.  As it falls, it transforms from a Sun into a crow.  Hou Yi, the Immortal, no longer a “boy” stands atop K’un L’un Mountain.  The land is scorched.  Fires rage in the distance.  Wild beasts run amok and consume men’s flesh.  Vultures soar in the air in their search for carrion.  Their search is easy. 

The change in the sky happened months, maybe years ago.  Hou Yi has trouble keeping track of Time.  One day everything seemed normal, Father Sun shining in the sky, overlooking the Earth with His kindness.  The next day there were ten Suns in the sky.  Said to be the 9 sons of the Jade King transformed into Suns to circle the heavens in a ritual to be repeated day after day, eon after eon.  They were never to be together, forever separated.  The 9 Suns tired of their rituals.  They grew bored of being alone.  They no longer listened to Father Sun.  In retaliation of His rules, they gathered together to scorch the Earth at once, to create their own mischief.

“One,”

Only one second.

Thwip.

Hou Yi’s arrow strikes the 8th Sun.  It falls from the sky.  Crows’ feathers rain down from the heavens as it plummets to Earth.  Two more to go.

“One,”

Only one second.

Thwip.

A fiery explosion bursts overhead.  The 9th Sun is shot.  Enough is enough.  Hou Yi thinks to himself.  Time for an ending.  With steady hand and heavy concentration, Hou Yi takes aim at the 10th Sun, the Father Sun, the Jade King.  Steady.  Steady.

“One,”

“Cease!”  Bursting forth from K’un L’un Mountain, the fiery Chicken Spirit flies out to block Hou Yi’s view.

“Oh Hou Yi, great Immortal, stay thine arrow!  For if you strike at the Jade King, disaster worse than that of the 10 Suns will bear itself on the Earth.”  The fiery Chicken Spirit’s eyes blaze.

“He did not control his sons!  It is in my power to take Him from the sky.”  Hou Yi keeps his bow raised.

“Hou Yi, while it may be in your power, remember you are a hero, endowed with the five moralities of culture, military strength, courage, benevolence, and trust.  Hou Yi, the people trust you to spare this final Sun.  Lower thine bow, Hou Yi.  Lower thine bow!  The People need the father Sun.  Strike Him not!”

The moment is tense.  Hou Yi considers Time for once in his head, playing with it.  He feels the seconds stand still.  The temperature begins to drop as the last crow dies after its fall.  Hou Yi looks down at the Earth below him as the wild beasts run and hide from Father Sun, His strength returned to Him.  The Man Immortal slides his arrow back into his quiver.

“Very well,” he says to the fiery Chicken Spirit.  Hou Yi looks out across the horizen, opening his arms to the heavens, “For the Blue Sky and White Cloud of Later Generations.”

Note:  As their are many versions of the Hou Yi legend, the writer has taken liberties with the story as well.  Additionally, the writer would like to apologize for neglecting to include the King of the Sulu Kingdom in this blog.  The Sulu Kingdom refers to the Phillippines.  In the year 1417 the Eastern King of the Sulu Kingdom passed through Dezhou and died of illness.  Emperor Yongle constructed a temple dedicated to him.

The body of the Confederate army’s greatest general appears to be in perfect health for a man his age.  In the morning he attends to his many laborious duties and even goes to Sunday mass, ever the faithful believer.  When it comes time to eat, however, there is no energy left in the old warhorse.  He feels faint.  The blood rushes to his head.  He sits down in his armchair and exhales a breath. 

The doctors say that the condition is serious.  General Lee is suffering from congestion of the brain, and his time is not long.  He will never ride his favorite horse, Traveler, again.  Soon, they will be buried, side by side–the steed and his master entombed in marble silence for the remainder of eternity.

“Strike up the tent.”

These are the last words that General Robert E. Lee, Saint of the South, utters.  He passes away silently on Wednesday October 12.  The marble statue of his body at rest slumbers peacefully in Lee Chapel.  To touch it is to touch ice.

The Weeping Swissman

The tears on Simon’s cheek freeze immediately as soon as the Siberian wind squeezes them out of his face.  The air in the north of China in Heilongjiang^W Province is dry and unforgiving, especially at night.  The temperature is well below zero, and it’s not even the coldest month of the year.  Everywhere in the city one may catch site of intricate ice sculptures–at the train station, lining the roads, on the way to the infamous Harbin Tiger Park–everywhere. 

The crowning achievements of Harbin’s ice sculptures can be found during  its Ice Sculpture Festival, held every year in the dead of winter (official start date of January 5th).  Participants and sculptors from China and across the globe come to add their own bit of culture and architecture to the ice paradise, making one feel as if he is in a scene amidst “The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe.”  After entering the manmade Ice fairyland across the river from the train station, one can find examples of some of the world’s greatest monuments, architectual masterpieces, and historical artifacts.  All are lit up with Christmas lighting.  All are made of ice.   

The first time I had ever heard of or considered coming to Harbin^W, China’s “Ice Capital” was three years ago during my time in the southern province of Jiangxi^W.  One of my co-workers at the time was a Romanian woman aged 40 years old named Diana.  She was engaged to a Chinese man from Harbin named Mr. Zhang.  I had heard Diana talk of Mr. Zhang and of Harbin for some time.  She told me that he was a retired ice scuptor who left his art because of his bad shoulder.  Diana brought it to my attention that Mr. Zhang would be visiting Jiangxi for one week and needed a place to stay.  I happily offered my spare room to him.  When he came, he immediately made himself at home shffling around the various rooms in his long underwear and bath slippers.  He cleaned the house, he made meals for me, at night we drank yoghurt or alcohol together.  When I was out of the house he would smoke in the living room.  One day I returned home to find him assembling more than 300 Chinese dumplings in my kitchen.  When I told him that these were far too many dumplings for us to eat, he told me not to worry, as he had already informed 3 of my students that they would be coming over to eat dinner at “our place.”  One week turned into two weeks.  Two weeks turned into four.  A month passed.  A month and a half.  When I left for a vacation to sunny Thailand, Mr. Zhang was still lounging in his long underwear and slippers.  That was the last vision I had of him in my mind’s eye.  That was the only impression I had of Harbin.  The “Ice Capital” of China would remain a mystery to me until this year.

The Prophet

During the last hours of Jesus Christ’s life, the prophet had to endure some of the most unbearable and torturous treatment known to man.  Betrayed after the last supper, he was beaten, flogged and made to bear the cross.  The story of his suffering and resurrection is one that is known throughout the West.  Jesus is said to have died for mankind’s sins.  In the New Testament he is referred to as the “Lamb of God” in John 1:29 and John 1:36.  This reference harkens back to ancient times when the lamb played an important role as a symbol of sacrifice for the Hebrews during Passover.  The blood of the lamb would be smeared over the doors of Jewish households in accordance with the Passover sacrificial rites.  The lamb became a symbol of innocence and purity.  Its blood washed away the sins of yesterday…

The Last Call

“The lamb is coming!  The lamb is coming!.”  The driver of the 25 passenger bus looks around at us with a sinister grin on his face.  My body prickles with anticipation at what comes next.  The other passengers on the bus get out of their seats as our bus comes to a halt.  Our bus is protected by metal wiring.  Outside the ground is still covered with snow–clean, white and pure.  The reason for the wiring on the windows and doors of the bus is apparent when a lion and tiger awaken from their mid-morning slumber only about 10 feet away from our vehicle.

Although we are in Harbin’s Siberian Tiger Park, the current enclosure that our bus has halted in does not hold many tigers.  In fact, the staff at the park have purposely put tigers and lions together in this particular enclosure in an attempt to spawn the practically sterile and circus-genetic freakshow felines referred to as “ligers.”  The park itself is huge, encompassing about 355 acres.  According to some statistics, there are more than 500 purebred Siberian tigers inside the park.  The idea is to prepare the tigers for being released into the wild.  In the past, the Siberian Tiger’s natural habitat was expansive covering much of Northern Asia, even reaching as far as Eastern portions of Iran.  Currently the population is very low as a result of interference from mankind.  The Harbin Siberian Tiger Park, however, is attempting to do its part as both a breeding ground and platform for being a re-introduction to the wild.  To re-introduce the tigers into the wild, however, the animals have to know the thrill of the hunt.  We see some bastardized version of this outside the barred windows of our bus.

The lion and tiger prick their ears up as our driver turns off the engine.  They know something is up.  The air is tense and quiet.  I can hear the creak of the bus as people shffle back and forth to get their cameras ready or warm their feet.  Suddenly, the fenced in entrance to our enclosure is opened, and another SUV rushes through the gate.  The vehicle is also covered with meshed wires and bits of chicken feathers caught between the wires.  When the vehicle is in front of us, it’s door opens for a split second, and a pair of human hands tosses a young, possibly 2 year old lamb out of the car.  The door slams closed, the lamb is off…for a split second.  In the time it takes for the lamb to realize that it is not inside of a vehicle anymore, the sunlight shines on his white hair and the female lion pounces on him.  There is no doubt as to the outcome of the contest.  The lioness is huge.  Her teeth are already suffocating the lamb.  What none of us are prepared for is the sound of the lamb’s cries…like a human baby.   I will hear them for the rest of my life.  The lioness is in no apparent rush to finish the job. 

“Have you seen enough?”  The driver turns to the passengers to make sure everyone is satisfied  with Nature’s course.  He seems to be enjoying the show…still with the same sinister smile on his face.  I can only imagine how many of these slaughters he has witnessed during the course of his life’s work as a bus driver in the park.  The bus is silent, and people are sitting back down again.  No one seems to want to continue to watch as the lioness plays with her dying prey.  The driver turns the ignition on, and we drive off leaving the lamb, the lioness, and our sins in the confines of the park.

 Uncle Joe

In 1898 Harbin and Russia were tied together in a deal forged in iron with the construction by the Russians of the China Eastern Railway.  The city is in such close proximity to  Russia, and the influences of China’s great neighbor to the North are easy to feel, especially when we walk along it’s “Russian Avenue” or Zhong Yang (literally meaning “Central”) Street.  Not far from this street is another one of Harbin’s symbols of Russian influence, the St. Sophia Russian Orthodox Church.  The city of Harbin was even occupied by Russia during the years 1945 and 1946. 

Although we did not visit it on this trip, there is even a Stalin Park in Harbin that was constructed in 1953 to commemerate the friendship between the two communist parties.  At that time, relations between the communist behemoths was healthy.  In an unusually upbeat moment during a conversation with then Chairman Mao Ze Dong, Uncle Joe remarks, “If we [China and Russia] continue to be friendly, peace can last not only 5-10 years, but 20-25 years and perhaps even longer.” (USC-UCLA Joint East Asian Studies Center)

Trinity

The General, the Prophet, Uncle Joe.  All three of them come together to meet in Harbin, City of Ice, City of Sacrifice, Russia’s little brother.  The salesgirl in the Russian trinket and souvenir shop holds the three of them in her hands and offers them to me, wanting me to dish out cash to buy them and take them away from the Cold, Hard, North.  She’s a cute girl with a nice smile.  We came in the store to look for gifts, but also  just to get out of the cold.  I look down at the Three in her hands and wonder what the Hell are they doing here.  They must be well-known figures to the people of Harbin.  The citizenry must be able to point to their successes and failures as models of how to live or not to live one’s own life.  In Harbin, Civil War history mixes with the New Testament, all under the watchful eye of a protecting Russian dictator.  Her hands are heavy with meaning.  Surely, she must know much about these Three.  I point down at the picture of Robert E. Lee and ask her to tell me what she knows about him.

“Who?  Santa Claus?” she asks.

The Discovery

On a recent trip to Handan^W, the former capital of the State of Zhao during China’s Warring States^W period, I came face to face with the Deal Maker.  My friend Simon and I had decided to travel to Handan, a dusty city in Hebei with its glory days far in the past.  This is the city where I purposely chose to spend my 30th birthday.  We had been talking about visiting for some time, always delaying the trip for some reason or another.  Now, here we were, in the proclaimed “proverb capital” of Northern China (due to the city’s ancient history, many Chinese proverbs and there stories originate in Handan).  Upon checking into a cheap hotel room, the staff turned on the television in front of our beds.  This action is synonomous with breathing–the tv must be turned on once the room is open.  As the hotel staff was pleased that our television worked properly, she gave me the remote and handed it to me with the utmost professionalism.  I was just about to turn off the television until I looked at the screen and made an uprecedented realization–I actually recognized and knew the Chinese actor on the television screen!  Although he was now dressed in a police uniform, there was no mistaking it…I was looking directly at the Deal Maker.

Jackson Hole, Wyoming

A few months back when I took a whirlwind tour of the US going through Seattle, Salt Lake City, Yellowstone, Jackson Hole, Las Vegas, and LA, the Deal Maker was one of our customers on the trip.  Always with a few days growth of whiskers on his face at the time, the Deal Maker dressed casually and looked like any other shmoe, if not a little more friendly.  This trip to the US was to be a family vacation with his wife and daughter.

“Our son is American,” his wife told me while we waited to change flights in the airport in Seoul.

I do not have a television in China, and so I do not watch any Chinese tv shows or movies.  I didn’t know that the Deal Maker was in fact Jiang Wu, a famous Chinese actor who has been in such films as “To Live,” “A Beautiful World,” “Shower,” and the police television drama playing on the screen across hotel rooms in Handan, amongst others.  He just seemed like a regular guy to me.  Taken out of their environment and scope of fame, that’s all celebrities are anyway–just regular guys and girls.  As someone completely ignorant of mainstream Chinese pop and film culture, I immediately liked Jiang Wu and found him to be an engaging guy.  He was also easy to travel with, andhe had a round smile as wide as Jack from “Nightmare Before Christmas,” (apologies for the extra cinema reference).  He kept this smile with him throughout the sites we visited, including Jackson Hole.

Jackson Hole is a place that brings back personal memories for me, as I spent many summers here during my youth, bicycling on the roads looking at the jagged mountains that loomed overhead.  I remember once hiking up what seemed to be the steepest ski slope I have ever seen with my sister, Kimberly, and my younger brother, Jonny.  We were trying to get to the road above.  As the slope approached the road, the incline became steeper and steeper.  I clearly remember grabbing at grassroots to pull myself up to the dirt road that criss-crossed along the slope.  This time, we would only be in Jackson Hole for a night, and most of the time would be spent not near the wilderness, but in the quaint, but very touristy “Western” town after making the drive from Yellostone National Park.  It seemed strange and almost dreamlike to return to a place of youthful family summers, but this time with a group of 15 Chinese tourists.

All of our guests marveled in awe at the elk antler archways which have become Jackson Hole’s symbol.

“Are those fake?” one of the guests asked me, pointing to the hundreds (if not thousands) of antlers that are collected by boy scouts every year when the elk shed them naturally in the Spring.  I assured him that they were the real deal.  Near Jackson Hole is one of the largest protected areas for elk.  While the Chinese pointed at, touched, and took pictures of the antler archway, a bearded man on a motorcycle crossed the road and came over to us.

“Hey dudes!” he said.  “Where you guys from?” he asked, a grin peeking through his white whiskers.

The members of our group became excited at the local savage straddling  his motorcycle waiting for pictures and contact with the Chinese world.  One by one they stood with him to take photos.  Harley Davidson culture and 5000 years of Chinese history merged instantly under the Sun.

“Yeah,” he said while he revved his motor for effect.  “I like the ladiessss!”  He put his arm around one of my customers and I thought for a brief instant that he would whisk her off in the distant Western landscape with her wrapped in his motorcycle muscles.

My boss came out of one of the many shops around the square that sell Western art.

“Jeffrey….come in here for a minute.  Need you for something.”  This is good.  A use for me.

I walked into one of the store that Zhao Jing walked out of.  The interior was filled with carpets made of animal skins, chandelier lights made of elk antlers, handmade wooden furniture, and what appeared to be antique revolvers.  Jiang Wu, his wife, and their daughter stood with one of the salesgirls in the store.  She was a young girl with a European accent who I later found out was from Romania.  They stood in front of a beautifully hand-carved rocking chair made of buckeye.

“Jeffrey, we want to buy this chair, but I don’t know what the girl is saying to me…”  Jiang Wu’s wife turned to me.

I learned from the Romanian girl that the chair in the shop was not for sale as it had already been sold to another customer.  When I relayed the information to Jiang Wu and his wife, they asked if the shop had any other chairs like this one.  I could only imagine at the staggering price they would have to pay just to ship the chair back to China.  But I’m not the Deal Maker, and I don’t have the salary of a Chinese movie star to back up my deals.

Just then the owner of the shop, a Mr. John Bickner walked in the door with the stepping stride of  a young John Wayne.  He was a large man–not fat, but with an American build as thick as the oak tree handshake that he gave me.  He introduced himself to me, enveloping my hands into his gigantic fingers.  John Bickner was a man proud of his work.  He talked about the chair, and the wood and tree it came from, how he polished it himself, how long it took to get to this point.  He showed us some other wooden tables in the shop and told us about their wood.

“This one was a fine piece of buckeye…if you look over here at this redwood, you can see….I finished this piece about two years ago….” etc.

Jiang Wu, being the Deal Maker, pressed the point.  His wife as well.  Although John Bickner’s work was finessed and skilled, we didn’t have much time to look at all of it.  The Deal Maker wanted the chair.  John Bickner took his oak tree hand and put rubbed his granite jaw.  This chair had already been sold.  How to solve this issue?

“You know…”  John Bickner started slowly.  “I have some other chairs that aren’t exactly like this one, as well as some other works that you could have a look at if you’re interested…Come and meet me at my warehouse just outside of the square.  Did you guys drive a car here?”

I told him we did, and pointed to the 8-10 passenger van that we came in (we drove 2).  John Bickner then gave directions of how to get to his warehouse, drawing a crude map on the back of a napkin. 

“Meet you there in about 5 minutes,” he said as he glided out of the door with us following.

Deal Maker in the Warehouse

The drive to the warehouse was not far.  Jackson Hole is a small town, and it only took us a couple of minutes to get out of the “city center.”  The warehouse itself is at the end of a lovely dead-end street.  We parked the van at the end of the street and exit, and crossed over a small bridge which lead us across a crystal clear stream.  Needles from a nearby tree fell into the stream.  John Bickner was there waiting for us next to the warehouse.  There were tree stumps strewn about, as well oddly-shaped sections of trees which appear to be in the beginning stages of re-shaping and morphed into works of art.  I noticed 4 tractor trailors next to the warehouse, pointed to them and inquired as to their purpose.

“Oh…those.  Those are full of elk antlers.  Let me show you.”  He hopped up on the trailer and opened the doors.  Sure enough the inside was filled with elk antlers.

“Every year they grow to their full length and then the elk shed them naturally.  In the Spring time, the boyscouts go out and collect the antlers.  We have a big auction to buy them.  Those antlers in there are actually going to be shipped to South Korea and China so they can be used for medicine.”

Standing there in front of these trailors full of elk antlers, it never occured to me that the beginning part of the journey of certain types of Chinese medicine could be in a place as beautiful and far away from China as Jackson Hole, Wyoming.  And here was the start…right beside John Bickner’s residence and furniture warehouse.  The Deal Maker’s wife turned to me and tugged on my shoulder.

“Are these real or fake,” she said in a whisper.  I was about to translate the question when she stopped me.  “Don’t tell him I asked that question,” she said.

John Bickner pulled out one of the racks of antlers so that Jiang Wu and his wife could have a closer look.

“Jeffrey…do you think if we buy some of his furniture he would give us one of these racks of antlers?”  Jiang Wu’s wife looked at me through her sunglasses.

“No problem,” said John Bickner, cowboy hero of the West.  There was a pause before Jiang Wu’s wife asked once more.

“Do you think we could have 2 sets of elk antlers?”

I hesitated to ask this question, thinking I might have already pushed the button too much.  But these were my customers.  I had to do my duty.  I asked the question.  John Bickner also hesitated.  What could he have been thinking?  Who do these Chinese people think they are?  Are they going to buy anything, or just take elk antlers for free?  Of course, if I give away a couple of racks, maybe they’d be more willing to buy more….

“Yeah…sure thing.  I can do that,” he said.  The Deal Maker was pleased.

John Bickner dismounted his trailor and closed the door.  Maybe weeks later the contents would be shipped off towards Asia.  They would be sliced into pieces and put into packages, ready to be sold in a large wholesale Chinese medicine market in some city, maybe Guangzhou^W in the South.  Men with poor circulation would come in looking to by the antlers, sold and measured by the gram.  At this time, however, they would remain in John Bickner’s backyard, resting for thier future journey. 

For the following half hour, we were led about the warehouse and workshop.  John Bickner was proud of his work, and rightfully so.  He seemed to know each piece and tree as one would know old friends.  This was an exciting venture for me, as I find workshops and “works in progress” fascinating.  However, what we really wanted to find was “the chair” and it wasn’t there.  Not all hope was lost, however.  Jiang Wu and his wife stood in the warehouse admiring a long slab of Redwood tree.

“Jeffrey,” said Jiang Wu’s wife, “I love this tree.  Ask him if he could make a table out of this that could seat 12 people.  Also, we’d need 12 chairs made for the table of course.”

I translated to John Bickner.  He answered, “Sure.  That can be done.  It’s going to take some time, though.”  This was great.  Here it was, the deal.  And here I was helping to make the deal, supporting a local artisan as well as giving our customers what they wanted. 

We never found a chair that was to the liking of Jiang Wu or his wife.  John Bickner said he could have one done in about 6 to 8 weeks.  After that time, it would be shipped out to China.  He had quite a bit of work to do, preparing an awesome rocking chair, a redwood table for 12 people, along with 12 chairs to go along with the table.  The Deal Maker was happy, John Bickner was happy, a smile spread across my face.  In the span of those 15 to 20 minutes we were in John Bickner’s warehouse, I had done my part to support local business as well as international commerce and relations between China and the U.S.A.  The deal was done.  The chair has yet to arrive…the Deal Maker is waiting patiently even as you read this sentence…