China Reflection

Devil Monkey sits outside of the bus station.  He wears the same camaflouge outfit that I saw him in the first time that I encountered him on the streets of Zhongwei.  One of his monkeys rests on his shoulder while the other two sit on the ground, their heads perked up.  It seems that we’re traveling the same route.  I decide to break the ice and have a chat.  Take the Devil out of the Monkey and put the man back in the suit.

“Where are you from?”  I ask him.

“Henan.”

“Ah, I know Henan.  I’ve been to Jiao Zuo.  It’s a nice town,” I say, making conversation.

“You’re Chinese isn’t bad.  How long have you been here?”

“4 years.  How long have you been doing your monkey act for?”

The monkey on his shoulder hops off and walks around on the ground.  Two of Devil Monkey’s friends, co-workers?, sit on the ground.  One of them pets the oldest of the 3 monkeys.

“I’ve been doing this for a few years now.  Going from town to town.  Not a bad way to see the country, eh?”  he asks.

“Not bad.  Where you headed today?”

“Back to Yinchuan.  From there, not sure where I’ll go yet.”  He scratches his head.

“How often do you get back home?”  I ask him.

“About once a year, during the Spring Festival.”  He pauses.  “What are you doing here, anyway?  Hai Yuan isn’t much.”

“I just took a week off of work.  I work in a travel agency.  Came here to hear Hua Er.  Do you know this kind of singing?” I ask.

“No, never heard of it.  Hua Er.  Nope…hey…do they have guys like me in the States?”  he asks.

“Haven’t seen many guys walking around with monkeys.  Probably not allowed.  Some people might have a problem with you pulling these monkeys around.  But if you want to give it a shot, you can call the travel agency I work with.  Why not?” I say, joking.

“Too far for me.  I wouldn’t know anything about the States.  You’ve got a black president now, right?”

“Yep.  That’s right.  Obama.”  I look at my watch.  The bus’ll be coming soon.

“Hey, I’ve gotta’ get going.  Good luck, man,” I say.

“Good luck,” he answers.

Return to Zhongwei

When I get on the bus, there are seats enough for everyone.  Across the aisle from my seat is an old Hui Man with a long beard.  He and his wife both cover their heads, his with a white cap, she with a kind of scarf.  He has a bad cough.  His sunglasses are flat, huge, and round.  They are the kind that reflect everything projected towards them.  He has a bad cough and chews on his lip.

During the ride, the young guy sitting next to me pulls out a cigarette and starts to fumble with it in his hand.  I know that he wants to smoke it, but he doesn’t take his lighter out yet.  He’s sitting so close to me, so if he starts smoking, the smoke will blow into my face.  The bus stops and the old couple gets off at a small crossroads between two villages.  One girl boards the bus and sits in the seat next to the window where the old man was sitting.  They guy next to me continues to fumble with his cigarette.  I really don’t want smoke in my face on a bus.

“You’re not really going to smoke that are you?”  I say with a smile.

“Uh…yeah…what?” He’s uncertain.  Did I say that?

“I have an allergy to cigarette smoke.  Sorry.”  I make this line up, hoping that he’ll catch on.

“Oh, ok.”  He puts the cigarette in his breast pocket.  Success…or so I think.  A couple of minutes later, he moves across the very narrow aisle and sits next to the girl, pulls out the cigarette and lights up.  He’s only about a foot further away from me now.  The smoke comes into my face.

I look away from the man out the window and remember my promise to Mrs. Xie the night before.  I’m supposed to send her daughter a message on my phone.  Looking up her number, I type a message in Chinese that reads:

“Hi, last night I met your mother in Hai Yuan.  I’m from America.  She’s so hospitable.”

A couple of minutes later, her daughter replies to me:

“Sorry, you must be mistaken.  My mother doesn’t know any Americans.”

Of course she doesn’t believe me.  The likelihood of an American traveling to Hai Yuan is very slim, not to mention the likelihood of an American being inside of her house talking with her mother.  I decide to send another message.  This time I write in Chinese and in English, and I mention her mother’s full name, telling her that I met her mother by chance the evening before.  This message is sure to convince her.  The response I get is not what I expect:

“Who are you?  Why are you in  Hai Yuan?  And how do you casually know my mother?  Don’t tell me that you just ‘bumped into her’ cause I won’t believe you.  Who told you my mother’s name!?”

After seeing this message I’m reminded of the evening before when her mother believed that I thought she was trying to trick me when she told me her age.  Something’s up with this family…sometime, somewhere, someone did something to them that made them lose their trust in people.  There is spite and hurt in her message, like a trapped animal.  I can’t believe that she is so guarded and suspicious.  It never occurred to me.

The next message I send back is in English:

“If you don’t believe me, that’s ok.  But I really did meet your mother, and she is very nice.  You can ask her.  If I am ever back in Hai Yuan again, I hope to see her once more.  Good luck with your studies.”

A few minutes later the reply comes.  She starts to ease up on the defensive and believe me, telling me she has a test coming up soon.  There is still a tinge of shock and awe that an American was in her house the evening before.  It’s a good thing I left a photo with her mother.

Lunch

By the time we arrive in Zhongwei, my stomach is growling.  I take a bus from the station back to the center of town near where I stayed the night before going to Hai Yuan.  On the bus, a young Chinese couple eyes me from time to time.  Both of them have friendly faces, both are wearing round spectacles.  The man approaches me, moving past a lady holding onto the back of a seat to support herself.

“Are you from America?” he asks me.

“Yes.  What about you?”  I ask.

“China,” he laughs.  “From Lanzhou in Gansu Province.”  Lanzhou is a place I’ve always wanted to visit.  One of the best Chinese teachers I’ve ever had is from there.  She currently studies in Boston, MA, one of the only students of mine that I taught in Yichun to make it for further study in the U.S.

“Are you a Christian?”  he asks me.

“No…I guess I’m Jewish…but I don’t believe in God.”  I’m never sure how to express this correctly.  I like affiliating myself with Judaism, but at the same time I know that I am a non-believer, “an infidel,” as Luther Burbank would say.  However, I can be Jewish if I want to…my mother is Jewish (also an infidel?–I’ll have to ask her), and my father’s father was Jewish (my father is a dyed-in-the-wool atheist).  Yesterday I was Hui.  Today I’m a Jew.  That’s the way the way the world is.

“We’re both Christians,” he says.

“Are there lots of Christians in Lanzhou?” I ask him.

“There are a lot who go to our church.  Maybe 200 or so whenever we go.”

“How many churches are there in Lanzhou?” I ask.  I’m really curious about this sort of thing.  Unfortunately, the couple needs to get off the bus at the next stop.  Possibly this conversation is the one that leads me to Gansu at some point in the future.  Another grey hair.

After the couple exits the bus, I ride for another 5 minutes until we arrive at the drum tower.  Walking past the drum tower, I find a side street and a small restaurant to have my lunch at.  Ordering a small bowl of noodles, I decide to sit outside, as the restaurant itself is too hot.  Next to the umbrella that I sit under, there is a small drink cooler.  No one else sits outside on the street, although there are other tables.  After my noodles come, I start to slurp them down in silence.  A guy approaches the front of the restaurant and opens up the cooler to purchase a drink.  He pulls out a bottle of water and waits for the waitress inside to come out so that he can pay.  I look up at him.

“That’ll be 2 RMB,” I say with a smile.

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out 2 RMB and gives it to me directly.  After that he turns and walks away, opening up his bottle of water.  I look back inside the restaurant to see if the waitress has noticed.  She has her back to me and is fanning herself with a menu.  I could pocket this 2 RMB easily but decide to inform the waitress of what just happened.  I call out to her.

“Hey, water is 2 RMB, right?”  I ask.

“Uh-huh.  You can pull one out of the cooler.”  She says, not getting up.

I stand up and walk over to her.  “No, a guy just bought a bottle.  Here’s your money.”  I give it to her.  She laughs as she takes the money, and I can’t help cracking a smile, either.

To Wuhai

After lunch it’s on to Inner Mongolia, specifically, Wuhai.  I don’t know anything about Wuhai except for the fact that my hero, Amanda, lives there.  I’m going there specifically to see her and her town…no other reason.  In the afternoon, I wait for the train at the Zhongwei station and buy some food for the ride.  I’ll eat on the train, as it’s arrival time is late in the evening, after 10pm.  I don’t want to eat too much, so I just buy some canned porridge, some bread, and some fruit.  The pack of people lined up to get on the train stand in a large clump around the exit of the station.  It’s the kind of clump one can find anywhere at any station in China.  The train will be delayed for a few minutes.  I put my baggies of snacks down, along with my backpack.  I’m ready to go.  Taking out my phone, I send a message to Amanda and tell her that I’m on the platform waiting for the train.

“Ok.  We will meet you when you arrive.  Have safe journey.”

“We?”…

Dinner and Sunset

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

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

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

“Where are you from?”

“Are you Hui?”

“Why did you come to Hai Yuan?”

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

“Hello?”

“What do you think about Beijing?”

“What do you do for work?”

“Hello?”

“How old are you?”

“Is it far from Beijing to Hai Yuan?”

“Can I speak English with you?”

“Hello?”

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

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

“That’s right,” he answers.

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

“Can you speak English?” I ask him.

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

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

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

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

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

Better than a Hua Er

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“America…the US.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ok. No problem.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Performance in the Little Town Square

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Bureau

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s go see some mosques,” I say.

Mosques

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What they look like

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

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

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

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

“Let’s take a rest,” he says.