China Reflection

My friend, Liu Yi, asks me to join him to go to a section of the Great Wall that I’ve never been to before called Huang Hua Great Wall.   We drive there in a car that he rented on the previous day.  Besides myself and Liu Yi, the other two people who join us are Zhang Yue, and Guo Tao.  Zhang Yue is a beautiful young girl with a face that turns bright red like a tomato in the Sun.  Guo Tao is 20 years old from Yunnan Province.  His eyes are different from most Chinese and have the consistency and color of milk chocolate.  I know all 3 of them from a tea shop I like to go to once or twice a week called “Zheng Yun Tea House.”  This is the first time that I meet them outside of the shop.  Breakthrough. 

Liu Yi is a policeman and a regular that I know from the tea house.  The shop is named for its owner, Zheng Yun, and it fits snuggly into a small space on Jiu Gulou Street.  When newcomers walk in, Zheng Yun always welcomes them with a smile and offers them to drink tea with him for free.  I have purchased cakes of Pu’er tea (from Yunnan^W Province in Southwest China) as gifts and for myself, but I have never once paid to sit and drink with him.  He always refuses to take money for the tea that I drink, and he has never once asked me to make a purchase.  Still, I buy at least one bag a month, so as to keep me awake while I work in the office.  The shop itself only has one table, but what a table it is!  It’s made of baby-bottom smooth wood, with the stools underneath shining under the interior lights.  If there is a big crowd in the shop, Zheng Yun pulls out handmade stools for guests to sit on, making us feel as if we are in his living room, rather than in a tea shop.  Like the diabolo grounds where I meet with my old friends, this tea shop is another spot that creates a world within my world.  It’s a place where the silence between conversations is pregnant with philosophy.

I first met Liu Yi before the Olympics when I was still in search of a visa at the time.  During our first encounter I was a bit wary that he might want to search me and ask to look at my passport and visa.  Authorities were a bit touchy concerning foreigners at that time.  My worries disappeared immediately when he began to speak his broken but easily understood English to me.  I’ve also encountered Zhang Yue a number of times.  Sometimes when I enter the shop, she is pouring the tea instead of Zheng Yun or Guo Tao.  Guo Tao is Zheng Yun’s younger cousin and has only been in Beijing for a few months.  This visit to Huang Hua Great Wall is the first time for both of them to get there.  As for Liu Yi and myself, we’ve been to the Great Wall more times than the number of fingers we have on our hands.  Each time I go is like  clearing the dust from eyes.

When we arrive at the Wall, Liu Yi parks his tiny, steaming rental car next to the gate where we have to purchase tickets.  We walk our way over a bridge that leads to a path up to the Wall.  The ascent upwards is quick and dusty, ending at a small iron ladder that we have to climb to scale the side of the Wall.  After a few rungs of the ladder, we’re over and in–the invading American amidst a group of Pu’er drinking friends.

There aren’t many people on the Wall today.  This section is not the most popular, but the scenery is gorgeous.  Every section of the Great Wall that I’ve been to has its own particular beauty.  Like a good book of short stories, I’m always a little winded when I finish one section, but I know that the next one I read will be ever bit as good.  My backpack is full of nectarines, buscuits, cucumbers, and water that I bought for the hike today.  I take one nectarine out of my pocket and begin to stuff it into my mouth, transferring the weight from my back to my mouth, and then from my mouth to my stomach.  Offering my backpack’s contents to Zhang Yue, she agrees to eat one of my cucumbers.

The sun is hot as we make our descent up the steps.  The only shade that we receive is when we enter the towers that occur about every 10 minutes.  Liu Yi and Zhang Yue are having a hard time on the ascent.  Liu Yi is a smoker, and Zhang Yue breathlessly pants, her face turning tomato red as we ascend.  Guo Tao bounds forward, his youth showing from the spring in his step.  I don’t feel tired, but my neck and back already have that sticky sweaty feeling.  The sweat begins to absorb the dust from the Great Wall every time we enter one of the towers.  Walking upwards doesn’t bother me so much as treacherous descents do. 

After about 4 towers we notice there is only one group of people in front of us at the steepest incline of the day.  They are coming back down, and we encounter them at the beginning of the waterfall of steps that face us ahead.  There are 3 westerners and one Chinese.

“I think you could go back.  It’s very steep.  Maybe dangerous,” the Chinese guy says to me.

“Oh, it’s ok.  I don’t know how much further we’ll go.  Maybe we’ll just see the view at the top,” I respond.  Guo Tao literally runs past me and bolts up the stairs.  His legs are pistons powering an engine.

“That friend of yours is crazy,” says one of the Westerners.  I can tell by his accent that he is american.  He gives me his business card and tells me that he is in the tourism business.  We exchange information.  Networking on the Great Wall.  We chit chat a few minutes about places of interest to visit in Beijing, and then I trudge after Guo Tao to get to the view at the top.

Guo Tao waits for me at the top of the steepest incline that we need to climb for the day and the view is spectacular and about as clear a day as one can hope for in and around dusty Beijing.  We can see villages below, as well as the road that we drove up on.  Liu Yi and Zhang Yue make their way up after us.  In front of us I can see the Wall make a treacherous hairpin turn downhill towards a a small village and pathway before it starts shooting back up again.  How the hell did they make this damn thing?  My instinct tells me not to go past this hairpin.  I am a little afraid of heights…but then, isn’t everyone a little afraid of heights.  We decide to walk it anyway.

Right before the hairpin turn, the Wall is smooth and easy sailing, like a runway before take-off, or a bowling alley on top of tree tops.  I make my way ahead of everyone else because I know that I will be the slowest to descend.  I’m just like that.  Making the hairpin turn, I creep to the precipice and beginning of the descent, leaning over the top as I would lean over the edge of a waterfall.  The steps look okay at first, but it they are also incredibly steep.  Additionally, there is quite a bit of loose rubble along the way, making it easy to slip if one rushes.

“It’s safe to walk,” Guo Tao yells back to Zhang Yue and Liu Yi.  They come forth and we start the descent.

We make our way slowly down the steps, bit by bit.  There is nowhere to hide from the Sun, and it beats down incessantly on the ever growing bald spot on the top of my head.  I walk foot over foot down the steps.  Sometimes there are parts where there are no steps, only portions of steps and small rocks.  I brace myself along the Wall, going hand over hand.  My eyes catch something moving on the wall.  A small lizard peeks his head out of a cravasse and looks at me for an instant, as if to say, you idiot, what the hell are you doing here?  He easily scampers his way away from me and over the side through a small hole, sticking his tongue out to make fun of me.

“Hey Jeffrey, catch!” Guo Tao yells.  I turn around quickly, maybe too quickly, and look.  Guo Tao has picked a small fruit off a tree’s branch.  From where, I don’t know.  He tosses it down at me just to watch it bounce.  The green fruit bounces its way down the steep steps like a rubber bouncy ball, the kind I used to by in quarter machines when I was a kid.  As I watch the fruit bounce towards me, my depth perception is slightly thrown off balance, and I feel a slightly nautious as I contemplate whether or not to try and catch it.  If I try, maybe I’ll misjudge it’s bounce and velocity and get thrown off balance.  My body tumbles down the steps of the Wall, my brains being bash inside of my head as I slip on a stone, fumbling the bouncing green fruit between my fingers.  My head fills with blood…I’ll never walk again….These images go through my head in that flash of an instant that it takes for the fruit to whiz past me.  Instead, I half-heartedly pretend to try to catch the fruit in order to appear like I’m having fun.  Just thinking about playing games on this descent sends me into a slight panic.  The fruit bounces past me harmlessly, and I can continue to concentrate on staying alive while we make our way down to the small village at the bottom.

After some time we come to a part of the Wall that has been cut off.  There is a complete drop off of about 5 or 6 feet.  In order to continue our descent, we’ll have to actually climb this part, not walk it.  Normally, I feel more comfortable doing steeper descents walking forward, so that I can see where I am going.  This part of the descent will be impossibly to do this way.  We’ll have to turn our backs towards the abyss this time.  It’s not a long drop off, it’s just that if one were to slip, injury would be certain.  The only uncertainty is the severity of the injury.  My fingertips sweat again.

Liu Yi goes first.  It’s a completely blind descent, and it only takes him about 10 to 15 seconds, but he has to feel his way down towards stable footing, unable to see what is below him.  Watching him going down, I wonder how I can do this.  Guo Tao goes next and easily makes his way down like a mountain goat.  Zhang Yue looks at me and motions for me to go first.  I pass my backpack to Liu Yi below me and then turn my back to the unknown.  I decide to start off by getting down on all fours and backing my legs over the small drop off.  I feel like I’m moving my legs over the top of a skyscraper.  It’s all mental, I know, but I’m helpless in my mind.  Then I freeze. I don’t want to move.  I see myself not going up, not going down, just staying in this spot for eternity, burning up like a raisin in the Sun.  I stand up on the ledge again and shake my head, motioning for Zhang Yue to go first.  I need to get another breath.  I watch Zhang Yue make her way down the drop off.  Liu Yi and Guo Tao guide her feet with their words.

“Move your foot to the right.  There’s a good stone there.  Ok. Ok. Good.”  She makes her way down easily.  She’s the second most nervous person here.  Now it’s up to me, the big chicken.  I wonder, should I enter a state of panic, would I still be able to understand and think in Chinese?

I turn around again.  The view in front of me is the empty descent that we have made so far.  I can still see the top of the hairpin where we have come from.  Maybe I should just walk back that way.  No.  It’s just a little drop off.  Just a little thing.  Fingers sweating again.  Damn.  I stick my right leg out behind me blindly, piercing the clear blue sky with my fear.  Liu Yi directs me to the nearest rock.

“Ok. Just move your foot a little bit over to the right.  Ok.  Right there.”  My foot fumbles around like a coal miner in winter trying to light  a match to warm a stove.  My leg finds the stone jutting out, and I press down on it, expecting it to give way so that I can fall into the chasm that my brain tells me is right below me.  The stone doesn’t move.  It sticks.  I grab onto the ledge with my sweaty fingers.  The dust sticks to my hands like chalk.  My left foot finds another stone.  The Wall is still there.  My hands are still grabbing it.  My feet do not slip.  The chasm in my brain shrinks.  Before I know it, I’m standing next to my friends once again.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Liu Yi says.  They’ll never know.  They’ll never know.  Ahead of us is the small village.  The steepest part of the descent is over and done with.  We carefully make our way down towards the houses.  My knees are shaking slightly from the descent.  Going down is always tougher than coming up.  Our plan is to walk through the village, turn right, and then loop our way back to Liu Yi’s rental car.  Just before we get to the village, I notice that the green fruit that Guo Tao bounced at me before is lying in the middle of the pathway, its green color covered with a sheen of grey Great Wall dust.  My head no longer dizzy, I reach over and pick up the small fruit.  I place it in my pocket, saving my new friend from the treacherous beauty of Huang Hua Great Wall.

“Why do you want to go to Baoding?  There’s nothing to see there.”

Exactly.  That’s exactly what I want to hear.  This is the type of remark that draws me to a place when I want to travel somewhere for a day trip or a weekend and escape Beijing’s hustle and bustle.  There’s nothing there…I find this impossible to believe.  Nothing.  That would really be quite a feat in this country.  Often in China when I go to a place where, according to other Chinese, there is nothing, I find I enjoy my time as much or even more than when I go to a place with something.  I don’t need to see temples, historical sites, or places of astounding beauty in order to have a good time.  Those things help, of course, but they are often accompanied by tourist traps and overrun with people.  I just need to go to a place I have never been before so that I can explore.  I have been to many nothing places and Nowheresvilles in China, and I have fond memories of them all, along with the people I met there:

I have eaten with a school teacher who bore a striking resemblence to Elvis in a small town called Gao An.

I have traveled on a bus with a live duck in my lap going from Zhang Shu to Ji An.

I have stayed in a former student’s home in the small village of Lu Tian.  Her mother awoke in the morning to cut wood for the fire that she used to cook our breakfast.

I have visited the tree that the villagers in Bo Ai, Henan, consider to be a sort of God protector of their community.

I have tasted the freshly picked oranges and dried meat of Ganzhou while talking with a woman 100 years of age in the small hamlet of Lingtan.

I have walked the 90 odd kilometer stretch of road between Yichun and Yifeng and lived to tell the tale.

I have viewed the fossils in Changzhou’s Dinosaur Park.

All these things I have done.  None of these abovementioned places are in any guidebook, or if they are, they are probably not mentioned as places to spend one’s time.  The thing I like about places like these–the Yifengs, the Bo Ais, the Ganzhous–is the fact that they are all Pandora’s boxes.  I never know what I’m going to get.  I usually cannot find any literature or information about these places on the internet, so everything that comes to me when I visit is unexpected, and the feeling of discovery and surprise never dies.  Still, it perplexes Chinese when they hear about my travel plans to go to these small towns.  It would be like a Chinese tourist choosing to visit Wild Rose, North Dakota instead of Chicago on their visit to the U.S.

Has Been

I have to say that I cheated a little bit before visiting Baoding.  In my spare time before the trip, I asked friends and strangers about the city.  What is there to see there?  What can I do?  Are there any specialties there?  Additionally, I looked up some information on Baoding in my spare time to see if I could find anything.  Despite my Chinese friends saying  there was nothing to see there, I actually found quite a bit of information.   I basically learned that Baoding’s glory days are in the past, mostly back in the Ming and Qing Dynasties^W.  It was ravaged by the Mongols in the 13th century and occupied by invading Japanese forces during WWII.  As for its specialties, I was told repeatedly that the Baoding “donkey buscuits” were the best.  As far as historical sites went, the only one that really interested me was the Lotus Garden and Academy, suggested by my friend Lao Zhang.  Without much else to go on, I prepared to set out on my Baoding adventure with my good friend and fellow explorer from Switzerland, Simon (now a reoccuring character on our youtube channel).  This was going to be a wonderful trip.  I knew it was going to be a wonderful trip because the expectations were so low.  Baoding couldn’t be as bad as all of my Chinese friends had said it would be, could it?  Regardless of the warnings from my friends (even some who were from Baoding told me to “be careful” of thieves) Simon and I would take the plunge into the abyss together.  As the two of us left for the city of days gone by, my sixth sense told me that not something, but someone, would be waiting for us at the heart of Baoding.  Sure enough, someone was waiting for us.  But who….?

Bank Robber

We arrive in Baoding a bit later than originally planned.  This is due to the fact that the bus we board from Beijing only takes us around the periphery of the city, and not actually through the city itself.  I should mention that our tickets clearly read, “Baoding,” so the bus should stop in Baoding, but this isn’t the case.  Apparently, the bus station that we leave from in Beijing still sells the tickets to Baoding even if none of the buses actually go to Baoding City.  The young man (whom I will call “Bank Robber” because of the way he intimidates those passengers who for some reason at first refuse to pay the fare) tells us that he will “arrange something” for us after we pass the city so that we can get a bus going the opposite direction back into the city.  I’m not sure what he will arrange, but apparently the ride that should only take a little over an hour ends up taking more than two hours.  Bank Robber chews his gum, speaks politely and quickly to us, and then yells at the other passengers who try to get out of purchasing a ticket.  He takes his job seriously and is all business.  I have no gripe with Bank Robber, and I never will.  After about half an hour of passing Baoding’s city limits, he tells us to prepare our bags so that we can get off the bus.  There is no station in site.  We’re on some country road surrounded by flat fields full of potatoes.  From time to time we pass people selling a kind of buscuit snack made in portable chimneys that I have never seen before.  As we exit the bus, we give Bank Robber another 5RMB for the next bus we will take–the bus that is speeding along in the other direction on the same road.  I have had to use the restroom for the past 40 minutes, but it’s apparent that there will be no time for me to relieve myself during the time it takes to switch buses.  Bank Robber says something to the 2nd bus driver who stares at me with a queer expression on his face.  The switch happens so quickly.  The pressure builds between my legs.  No relief is in sight.  I have no time to thank Bank Robber.  We’ll probably never meet again.   He is not the one.  But who….?

Chucky

After reaching Baoding’s city center, it’s apparent that we are a world away from Beijing.  I can feel the stares from locals as they turn their heads to see the two foreigners walking the backstreets of their city.  As it nears lunchtime, we decide to try the famous Baoding donkey buscuits from a local street vendor.  She chops up the meat for us and places it inside the buns.  The meat itself seems to be combined with a sort of gellatinous fat that adds to the texture and taste.  I bite into my buscuite, and a little squirt of grease dribbles out onto the ground, barely missing my only pair of pants that I brought along for the journey.  Not bad at all. Besides the increased stares and “hellos,” we notice there are a remarkable number of street vendors and places to buy snack food in random locations.  In Beijing there are also street vendors, but Baoding has a noticeably higher concentration of vendors in a smaller area, making me think that this aspect of intangible culture is slowly disappearing in the country’s capital, while it still thrives in cities like Baoding.  Simon and I decide to try as much of the new street food as possible.  After walking past Baoding’s major Buddhist temple we turn left on one of the city’s main streets.  This area seems to be the center of the city.  There is the temple, a small drum tower, the Lotus Garden, the former seat of government for Zhili^W (now Hebei Province), and the Catholic Church.  Simon and I decide to first ignore these sites and walk down another little street filled with snack foods.  On the way, we pass two Chinese selling a kind of sweet cake typical of Southern China.  Since we’ve never tried before, we decide to give it a shot.  As it turns out, these two Chinese are deaf and dumb, so we have to communicate through writing.  As we write our messages back and forth, a crowd gathers to see watch the spectacle.  Both of the street vendors are extrmely polite and very patient, ignoring the gathering crowd, paying full attention to Simon and myself.  It’s as if we’re in a silent collage amidst of a whirlwind of of chaos.  No one in the crowd speaks; everyone watches as Simon writes his next word on a scrap piece of paper.

We cross the road and head towards a smaller side street where steam rises from the pots and pans filled with Baoding delights.  As we walk towards the end of the street, we notice a strange site…there is a middle-aged Westerner getting up from his chair walking towards his bicycle.  With thinning hair that probably used to be blonde, he comes over to greet us with a firm handshake.  I can’t remember his name for the life of me, but I’ll just call him, “Chucky,” because it seems to fit him.  He tells us about Baoding, noting that, “it has its merits.”  He prefers Baoding to the hectic pace of life that comes with living in a place like Beijing.  He tells us about Baoding’s “merits” :  the Church, the park, the old seat of government, the donkey meat.  Afterwards he mentions a good hotel that’s not too expensive and recommends it as a place to stay.  Chucky is from Tennessee and has been in Baoding for the past couple of years teaching in a local college.  He gives me the feeling that he’s comfortable in his role here.  Chucky knows these streets, this is his town, he walks the Earth with the confidence that a guy might have on a lazy Sunday morning heading to his favorite coffee shop on the corner.  He looks at his watch.  There are things to do and appointments to keep.  Chucky is a friendly enough guy.  As he meanders off in down the street on his bicycle, I know that he is not the one.  But who…?

Andy Du

After our encounter with Chucky, Simon and I decide to take a look at the Catholic church in the city’s center.  It’s a small grey structure with an English sign in front of it that is falling apart.  Surrounded by commerce, street vendors, shoe stores, and passersby, it’s hard to imagine that this church gets much of a congregation.  We enter the gates and notice a statue of Petrus.  As we read the introduction and stand outside the doorway to the church, I can feel a pair of eyes observing me. A smiling young man on my left observes us with anticipation.  Hardly able to contain himself with joy at the sight of two foreigners coming to visit his beloved Baoding, the young man introduces himself to us only as “Andy Du.”  He bursts forth a kind of radiance and innocence;  everything that comes our way from Andy Du is a ray of sunshine.  Giggling with delight as a child would upon opening up a much anticipated Christmas gift, I know that Andy Du is the one.  We follow him inside the church.  He is beside himself with joy.  As we walk to the front of the Church and observe the catholic symbolism one can find in any catholic church in the world, Andy Du asks us to take a couple of photos with him and his wife, Nana, at the front of the church.  Andy Du and his wife both volunteer at the Catholic church in their spare time.  His main business is as a wedding coordinator and planner in Baoding City.  He organizes the events and activities that take place before and after the weddings.  In order to show us a sample of his work, he pulls out his camera and shows us some photos of the day before’s wedding events.  There are many pictures of a Chinese man dressed as Charlie Chaplin, performing physical comedy in front of a wedding party.  Every time Andy Du sees a picture of Charlie, he cannot contain himself.  Giggles of delight bubble up from within, and he points with one finger at the camera’s screen and says, “Charlie,” repeatedly.  Each time he sees Charlie on his camera screen, it’s as if he is seeing the performance again for the first time.

After some minutes, Andy Du offers to introduce us to the head priest at the church.  He runs to the church’s offices to search for the priest.  After a couple of minutes, he returns, giggling like a victorious schoolboy once more.  Accompanying him is the head priest, smiling the gentle smile that all priests should.  I ask him about the church’s congregation, and if there is a large audience when he preaches.  He says that the number of the congregation has been steadily increasing.  He attributes this increase to the current state of society. 

“People have nothing to turn to.  They have a whole in their soul.  They are lonely and they need something to give them strength.”  Andy Du listens intently, nodding his head.  Charlie Chaplin has left the room.

After the priest leaves, Andy Du has the brilliant idea to let us stay in his home for the evening.  Simon and I exchange glances.  We are not sure what we’re getting into.  If I had come to Baoding alone, I would immediately agree; however, I have to keep Simon in mind.  I don’t know if he would like a homestay or not.  Andy Du is insistent.

“You must stay in my home.  It is my duty.  There’s no question about it.”

After having a wordless conversation of eye contact with Simon, we agree to stay with Andy Du, the savior of Baoding.  We tell Andy Du that we’ll return to the church in the evening after seeing some of the other nearby sites, most notably the Lotus Garden.  We shake hands and leave our catholic sanctuary.  Andy Du is again giggling, channeling the spirit of Charlie Chaplin once more.  

The Last Supper

After Simon and I do our siteseeing, we return to the catholic church to meet with Andy Du.  He is behind the church in the parking lot, playing basketball with about 6 to 7 youngsters, possibly slowly steering them towards the path of the Lord?  He invites Simon and myself to jump in for a pick-up game.  Simon and I are on opposite teams so as to even out the average height.  As with most basketball matches that I have participated in during my time in China, this basketball match doesn’t seem to have any rules.  Traveling and double dribbling do not apply, there is no “make it, take it,” and one does not have to dribble out behind the 3 point line if the other team’s ball hits the rim.  Still, it’s fun, and we manage to work up an appetite, sweating with Andy Du and the choirboys.    We work up an appetite.

Originally, Andy Du planned to cook dinner with Nana and have us eat traditional Baoding specialities in his home.  However, a teacher at the Catholic church had to cancel his spirituality class for the evening, and Andy Du will fill in as a substitute.  Because of this fact, we Andy Du tells us that we will not be staying at his house for the evening; instead, he books us a room in the Catholic church’s dormitories.  To Simon and myself, staying in a Catholic church for the evening is just as much an adventure as it is to stay in someone’s house.  Andy Du looks at his watch and tells us that we need to get going to the restaurant. 

According to Andy Du, we will be eating in Baoding’s “oldest” and most traditional restaurant.  There to greet us at the door are three young girls with Pippy Longstocking hairstyles, wearing wallflower costumes.  Andy Du introduces us to the restaurant’s owner who is wearing an earpiece and microphone.  He shakes our hands with a gigantic smile, puts one arm around my shoulder, and leads us to a row of small boats that are resting in a shallow moat towards the back wall.  We board one of the boats.  This is where we will dine for the evening.  The owner is a busy man, and he wishes us a pleasant meal.  Andy Du proceeds to order Baoding beer, a kind of berry juice, tea, and 7 dishes for the three of us to split:   fish cupcakes (local specialty), jellied donkey meat, pork in a spicy broth, a salad, an egglplant dish, carmelized taro, and another dish of donkey meat along with small buscuits.  He orders by far too much food for us to share.  Simon excuses himself to go to the restroom and discreetly pays the bill; however, Andy Du has already made an agreement with the owner of the restaurant not to accept our money.  All of our attempts to pay for the bill prove futile.  His overwhelming  hospitablity suffocates any attempts we make.

After dinner, Simon and I go on a walk while Andy Du heads to his spirituality class that he must substitute for in the evening.  The two of us join the tail end of the class, hoping that we can sneak in without being noticed.  However, in the Catholic church in Baoding, it’s impossibly to be anonymous; we are greeted by a standing ovation.  I’m suprised to see a roomful of about 15 to 20 people of all ages gathered together listening to this youthful 25 year old giving advice about how to find “peace, calm, and tranquility” in this day and age.

“We all must face hardships and pain.  Sometimes it seems impossible to find light.  My hope is that we can all search for some type of happiness in this lifetime; search for it and find it.  Each one of us needs it, and each one of us can support one another.”

Earlier in the evening at dinnertime, Andy Du told both Simon and myself about his own soul searching.  According to his own self description, he was a “bad egg,” someone who would get into fights with anyone, turning to violence for no reason–a kind of modern day rebel without a cause.  He rolled up his sleeve and showed us multiple cigarette burns that he had given to himself when he was seventeen.  Slowly, he through the guidance of the then residing head priest (who currently lives in Germany), he found his path and calling, completely changing his lifestyle to become the exuberant young man Simon and I were lucky enough to bump into.

The roomful of followers and lost souls bow their heads together in unison as Andy Du says his prayer with his eyes shut.  It’s easy to see from the look of concentration on his face that he means every word that he says.  It seems to me that the words he speaks come from a place deep inside, a place that he has cultured with time, grace, and patience.  I glance at my surroundings.  There is the sign of the cross at the front of the room.  We are surrounded by Catholic symbolism, transcribed with Chinese characters.  The room is a world unto itself.  Young and old are gathered together, some holding hands, others clasping their hands together infront of them.  All of them are looking for some sort of answer from this young man, Andy Du.  It amazes me that so many in such a small room look to him.  He might not even be half the age of some of his audience members.  Once the prayer is finished, a roomful of eyes appears where before there were none.  Sound returns to the room, and I’m drawn to the face of a young girl, endearing and full of life.  She smiles the entire time I talk with her–a smile of innocence and curiousity.

Andy Du takes us to the main office of the church where we have a rest before retiring to our dormitory.  In the office, there is a large replica of  “The Last Supper” on the wall.  Underneath the replica a tuba rests.  The temptation to hear its voice too much to bear, I ask Andy Du to play me a little tune.  After a bit of friendly coaxing he picks it up and giggles to himself that same giddy giggle that Charlie Chaplin knows oh so well.  He picks up his  instrument.  Its golden sheen reflects the flourescent lights above, giving it a heavenly glow.  The scene is set:  Andy Du, the native Baodinger wedding coordinator is playing Beethoven’s 9th on a tuba while standing beneath “The Last Supper.”  It’s only about 15 seconds long, but as I see the soul of Baoding standing there in all of Jesus’ last hours of postprandial glory, I know with 100 percent certainty how to appropriately answer the queston, “why did you go to Baoding?”  I came to Baoding not because there was something to see; rather, I came to Baoding because there was someone to see, someone to meet, someone to talk with, someone to listen to.  Thank you for giving me an answer Andy Du, thank you for your time, and thank you for giving Baoding a face to remember.  Until we meet again, Andy Du…until we meet again…

This article is another look back on my two years spent in Jiangxi^W Province where I taught English at a small university in Yichun City^W.

The first time I visited the orphanage in Yichun City, the thing that struck me the most was not the fact that almost all of the orphans were girls.  Nor was I surprised at the ratio of caregivers to orphaned babies (about 20 or so babies in a room with 2 to 3 caregivers in all).  The thing that surprised me the most was that the orphanage was in the same complex as the retirement center for elderly whose families had abandoned them or could not care for them.  The two buildings were next to one another.  On the right was a one story, one room structure filled with unwanted babies.  On the left was a two storied complex inhabited by the elderly, many of whom were also abandoned by their own families.  When I looked at the two structures standing next to one another I had to wonder to myself, was it possible for a person to spend his whole life in this complex?  After being found in a public market, on a doorstep somewhere, in some lonely spot where no one could hear a baby crying, was it possible for a baby to grow up in this orphanage and die of old age in the building next door?

Find the Spot

Prior to my arrival in Yichun City, a wonderful South African couple had been living and teaching English at the University.  Their names were Jody and Michelle and their hearts could fill a room.  By the time of their departure, the entire duration of their stay in Yichun would add up to a total of 5 years.  They had seen Yichun’s roads paved and bridges built.  Yichun City had hosted the Farmers Olympics, an event in which farmers from all over the country converge to compete in farm-related sporting events.  They had watched their students grow into adults and find work in “the society,” and Michelle had even given birth to a lovely daughter named Bella.  I have to admit that if it wasn’t for Jody, I would have probably not decided to work in Yichun City.  At the time I was looking for work, I was still teaching English in Niigata, Japan^W.  My method for finding English teaching jobs was simply to search around on the net and see what was available.  I knew that I didn’t want to start out in a big city like Beijing or Shanghai.  I wanted to go someplace I had never heard from before.  I sent an e-mail to Yichun University and Jody responded.  Over the next few weeks, we kept up a correspondence.  He even gave my e-mail to some of my future students.  After receiving e-mails from these students and hearing how excited they were to meet me, I was hooked.  I felt as if I already had a home and an eager audience awaiting my arrival.  I had found the spot.

Jody and Michelle often made visits to the orphanage in Yichun, checking to see that the orphans and caregivers had enought milk, appropriate cribs, winter clothes, etc.  Often going into his own pocket to provide these gifts, I was in constant awe and often inspired by their generousity.  As it turned out, many families from the U.S. had adopted orphans from Yichun City in the past.  It was due to Jody and Michelle’s hard work that this became possible.  I remember one particular couple from the States who were returning to Yichun for a heritage visit, as well as to meet their new child that they would be adopting.  They already had a 5 year old daughter who they had adopted from Yichun when she was too young to remember.  They would be making the trip back to Yichun to meet with the caregiver who looked after her during those early days.  Afterwards, they would go to Nanchang^W, Jiangxi’s capital to meet their new child for the first time.  I remember being with them when they visited the orphanage to see the caregiver who took care of their daughter during their earliest and most vulnerable time.  The air filled with tension and anticipation, awkwardness and excitement as we walked through the gate of the orphanage.  Accompanied by Jody and a group of his students, the couple arrived at the orphanage bearing gifts for the supervisors and the caregivers as well.  I’m not sure the couple’s daughter exactly knew how much the  moment meant to those around her (how do you explain these things to a 5 year old?), but the silence was thick,impenetrable, and full of weight at the exact time her parents handed her over to her previous caregiver so that they could embrace for a hug.  She stroked her hair and said something to her that was unintelligable to me at the time, speaking in a Yichun dialect that I couldn’t understand.  Some moments in life are forever weighted down with such a heaviness of gravity and emotion that I don’t think I can ever forget them.  I can’t get the image of that scene out of my head:  the American couple looking on in deafening silence as their daughter embraced her first caregiver, the students from our university standing around staring, the tears welling up in Jody’s eyes, the blue sky above.  In this spot, life was happening.

After Jody and Michelle’s departure, I realized that I was not them and could not do what they did.  I remember having the same realization after class one day when I tried to teach like Jody, be like Jody.  He was a good teacher, so I thought I should use his techniques.  It didn’t work.  I couldn’t be Jody.  I could only be myself.  It was after I made this discovery that I really began to come into my own and develop my own style of teaching.  With regards to the orphanage, I would often visit with my students.  However, when we visited it began to dawn on me that I looked forward to seeing the elderly residents who lived there as much as I looked forward to seeing the orphans.  I have discovered over time that I increasingly enjoy the company of old men and women by my side.  I enjoy listening to their stories, spending time with them, and trying to get a picture of a past unknown to my own experience.  I like making that connection.  I like the connection because I know that old folks don’t have ulterior motives most of the time, and I feel that the connection comes easily to me.  Many people believe that old folks have ”had their day,” but they still need someone to talk with and spend time with every bit as much as those orphans do.  This was especially true of the folks who lived next to the orphanage.  Every time I would visit the orphanage with my students, I was told by one old woman how her family had abandoned her there.  With tears in her eyes, she would thank us for coming to visit her.  She cried every time we visited.  There was another woman who was 100 years old and could not move from her bed.  Her feet had been bound as a young girl, and my student, Faith, had to scream into her ear in a Yichun dialect in order to be understood.

Whenever we visited the orphanage, I usually made it a point to bring a group of students with me so that there could be some interaction amongst my students and the elderly, as well as with the children who lived there.  On some visits, my students would prepare gifts.  On other visits, they had prepared songs to sing or dances to perform for the residents.  When my parents came to visit, I took them there and we sat down in their rooms as their guests.  I remember once around Christmas time we had a particularly long visit.  One of my quietest students, Buninuo (a name that she had created for herself), sang a portion of a Beijing opera for the group.  I was shocked.  Buninuo was one of the few students who had failed my oral English exam the previous semester.  Of course, Beijing opera has no relation with having a conversation in English, so I don’t know why I was surprised (incidentally, she made a great improvement in my class the the second time around).  As soon as she started singing, one older man jumped into the circle and began to sing with her.  There we were, gathered around my student and the older man.  Standing in the middle of the courtyard belting out tunes in Chinese, I’m sure they never even realized they were etching their way to a spot deep inside of my heart.

The future

We never know what images we will file away into the depths of our consciences.  What kinds of memories are we going to keep with us?  What kind of memories are going to be the ones that make that find the spots?  I wonder about that little girl returning to the orphanage.  Will she remember that moment when her Chinese caregiver held her in her arms again?  I think about the old woman who wailed her tears of abandonment each time we visited her in her room.  When will she find the spot that gives her peace?  I hear the voices of Buninuo and the old man singing in the middle of a circle of students and teachers, the young and elderly, Chinese and foreign.  Will they sing together again?  When I think about the orphanage in Yichun, sometimes I think about the despair that brought the people there.  Sometimes I think about the happy endings that a handful of the children may be leading in their new lives with their new families in a place far, far from Yichun.  Usually I think about the moments that were created while I was there.  It didn’t feel like an orphanage or retirement center when I visited.  It just felt like a place, a community that gathered together to share and check up on each other’s histories and stories, a spot where life happens still today.  A spot that I’ll return to someday in the future.