China Reflection

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. 

A map.  I have to find a map.  This is the first order of business to attend to whenever I arrive in a new location.  I like to get my bearings as soon as possible, and the best way to do this is to purchase a map.  It’s my new hobby to collect maps of the places I visit.  I love maps.  They have structure where I do not, and they are the keys that open the doorways to the secrets that cities hide.  When I buy maps, I immediately study them, looking first for the green spots that mark where the city’s parks are.  If I have no idea of where to go or what to do when I get to a city, a park is always a good choice.  There’s always someone doing something interesting in a park in China.  All I need is a map to find that someone.  Sometimes, “someone” finds me first.

As I exit the train I walk past the various ads on the walls that depict Yinchuan’s tourist spots.  There’s a kind of Universal City in the desert.  I guess it’s a gigantic movie set where lots of movies and television shows have been produced.  From the photo, it already appears to me to be a little bit campy, and I decide it’s not my cup of tea.  I can only imagine getting shuttled around from movie set to movie set.  That’s not what I came here for.  Another picture shows some cave paintings and markings.  Hmmm…Might be interesting.  The one that draws my attention the most is the picture of gigantic dirt pyramids, tombs outsided of the city limits that portray themselves as the ”Pyramids of the East.”  I take all of this in as I walk towards the exit of the train station, wondering if I’ll end up going to any of these places.  I didn’t do any research about Yinchuan before my arrival.  In fact I didn’t come to Yinchuan to visit Yinchuan, but rather as a stopover point on my way to Zhong Wei, the vague destination point with the even more vague motive of hearing “huar er,” a style of singing that is particular to this province.

After exiting the station I’m greeted by black taxis, regular taxis, hotel managers, and tourist agencies.  One tourist agency guy comes up to me and hands me a card with pictures describing Yinchuan’s sightseeing spots.  I take him off guard by giving him a big handshake.

“Ah, a fellow tour guy!  I work for a tour company, too!  Great to see you!”  Usually when I want to brush off someone I tend to be overly friendly.  May as well have fun when turning someone down.  No need to get ugly about any of it.  It’s all part of the experience.  He laughs and I tell him which company I work for.  I next ask him to help me locate a map of Yinchuan City.  He has no idea, but sends me over to a small stand where a girl is selling drinks.  I walk over and ask her if she sells maps or not.  She doesn’t.  Luckily, a woman overhears our conversation.  She walks in our direction and pulls out a fat stack of Yinchuan maps.  Convenient.  I buy one and thank her and the girl.  The tour guy is already talking with another bewildered Chinese traveler.

A ticket.  I’ve got to get a ticket.  Once again, I know that Yinchuan is not my destination, so I’ve got to make the decision just how long I want to stay in the city.  I decide that one night should be enough.  I re-enter the station and stand in line waiting to buy a ticket for Zhong Wei, the city that was recommended to me by the grey hair.  After making the purchase for a departure of after 5pm the following day, it’s time to explore this city that I know nothing about.

Lamb Fat

Taking the bus into the city, I look at my map and decide to get off at the drum tower.  As with most Chinese cities that have a drum tower, it seems to be the center of the old town.  There’s a walking street nearby, and there’s sure to be some good food not too far off.  I want to get into what locals are eating as quickly as possible.  Besides meeting new people, eating new foods are another major attraction of travel.  I think back to what my Beijing friends told me about Ningxia:

“Lamb shish kabobs….that’s what they eat there.  Lamb.  Mutton.  Meat.  No pig meat!  You can’t even say the word ‘pig’ around them.  They’ll beat you!”  I was informed and warned by The Entertainer prior to leaving Beijing.  So, I’m on a search for mutton. 

When I get off the bus, I have the strange feeling that I’m in a small town in the American Midwest.  At first I’m not sure what it is that gives me this feeling.  Across from where I stand is a beautiful Chinese structure called the Ning Garden.  There are elderly people sitting around playing Chinese chess.  Others are quietly standing in the shade on this cloudless day shielding themselves from the brilliant Yinchuan Sun.  Off to my left, I can see the drum tower.  Perhaps at one time it was put into use for ceremonies and time-keeping purposes.  Now it seems more like a centerpiece for a small traffic circle.  Everything around me is typically Chinese.  Still, there’s something about it that makes me think…Missouri.   Compared to Beijing, everything seems to be moving in slow motion here.  The cars aren’t driving as fast, they’re not honking their horns, people aren’t yelling and squabbling in the streets…everything just feels a bit more relaxed or deflated here in the center of Yinchuan.  In Beijing it’s all traffic horns and throat clearing.  In Yinchuan it’s corn husks and and blue skies.

I walk over to a group of old men who seem casually engaged in their own corn husk conversation.  One of the guys eyes me the entire time, a friendly eye.  I ask him where I can get some Yinchuan specialty lunch.  He never says a word to me.  Instead he just puts his right arm over my shoulder and flaps his hand in the direction of a restaurant across the street.  In silence he leads me to the restaurant, smiling the whole time.  The black whiskers on his cheeks complement the shades he is wearing.  He leads me to the front door of the restaurant.  It feels like the center of town.  I’m reminded of my hometown of Lexington, Virginia and the restaurant called “The Southern Town.”  It’s located on Main Street and is the only restaurant in town with a gigantic neon sign, built before there was a city ordinance banning neon signs in the city.  This restaurant in Yinchuan doesn’t have a neon sign, but it still retains that “center of town” feeling.  I’m on Main Street in Missouri, but it’s not Missouri…it’s Lexington, Virginia in Yinchuan, Ningxia.

It’s true.  Everyone in the restaurant is eating mutton of some sort.  There are not too many customers in the place, and the air conditioner is on full blast.  I decide that I’ve got to get the mutton.  I order it, along with a kind of local buscuit/pancake, and a green vegetable that is served cold.  Additionally, I decide to try the local beer, “Xi Xia” beer, which is named after the “Pyramids of the East.”  It tastes a lot like the beer in Beijing.  After some minutes, my plate of lamb fat arrives.  It’s lightly salted, and accompanied by a small dish of vinegar.  It’s soft and grey, each piece bordered on the edge by an even softer and whiter portion of grissle.  At first I decide to cut off the grissle in an attempt to be healthy.  It’s difficult to make the separation using only chopsticks.  Eventually, I decide to eat a few pieces whole, without separating the grissle from the meat.  Damn, that’s good!  I leave some on the plate.  Alternating between bites of fatty lamb, some kind of greenery, the onion pancake, and sips of beer, my belly is filled to its breaking point.  Traveling in China is not a good way to lose weight.

The Swimmer in the Desert

It’s time to walk.  I know that I’ll only be in Yinchuan for a day and a half, so I want to see as much of it as possible.  I have a feeling that I won’t be returning for a long time.  I make a complete loop around the Drum Tower, all the while studying my map, locating the green spots that designate the various urban parks throughout the city.  Just about every town or city that I’ve been to in China has a “People’s Park.”  It seems like a good destination for me.  The feeling of Missouri creeps up behing my ears again as I head back to the Ning Garden.  The Sun is hot, and I decide to get on the next bus that comes in my direction.  I’ll take it for a few minutes to a destination and then walk from there.  After a couple of minutes, a bus turns up (I can’t remember the number), and I board it quickly, having no idea where I am going.  Although I still don’t have a clear sense of direction in Yinchuan, it quickly becomes apparent that this bus is going back to the train station.  That’s not a destination point for me this afternoon.  I pick a random stop in No Man’s Land between Yinchuan’s Old and New towns and get off to wait for a bus that will take me directly back to Drum Tower, exactly where I just came from.  I don’t have to wait long, and before I know it I’m heading back in the same direction I just came from.

Sitting in front of me are two young kids who continue to turn their heads halfway around to look at me.  I know that they want to talk to me.  I notice that the taller boy on the right holds an English certificate in his hand for passing a summer English course.  The boy on the left is thinner, paler, and shorter than the other boy.  He picks up his courage and desides to talk to me directly.  I’m surprised by his English level.  Even in Yinchuan English is King.

“Where are you from?” he asks.

“America,” I say.

“I went to San Francisco when I was 2.  My uncle was working there then.  My whole family went.  I can’t remember it, though.”  I ask him to tell me about San Francisco, but all the memories are unclear to him, so foreign.  Who remembers anything from when they are 2 years old?  I ask him where he is going today.

“We have our end of term test this afternoon for three days.”  I learn that he is 16 years old, despite looking only as old as 12 or 13.  The growth spurt hasn’t hit yet.  Maybe it never will.  He seems to be a really nice kid.

“Do you like Ningxia?” he asks.

“Yes, the people are very nice,” I say. 

The bus passes over a tributary of the Yellow River.  The water is the color thick apple cider.  He asks me if I want to join him to go swimming in a couple of days at a pool in the city.  I have no idea where I’ll be at that time, but I probably won’t be in Yinchuan.  I just tell him that I’ll think about it.  Who knows?  Maybe I’ll end up back in Yichuan.

When we reach the Drum Tower (for the 2nd time today), I ask him for his e-mail and we snap a photo together.  He tells me that I’m his first “foreign friend.”  After giving me his phone number and reminding me to call him for a swim on Thursday, he shakes my hand and we part ways.  I assume he is going off to prepare for his exam.  He walks off in one direction, and I head for a pedestrian street behind the Ning Garden.  In order to avoid the Sun’s rays during the hottest part of the day I buy a yoghurt and sit underneath a gigantic umbrella next to the drink stand and slowly begin to sip it’s froth.  My forehead perspires with sweat.  It’s not nearly as hot as Beijing weather, but the Sun is more intense.  There’s no pollution to sheild me from its rays.  I slowly slurp the fizzy froth of Yinchuan, savoring every bit of it’s bubbly frigidity.

The Forever Friend

After enjoying a slight respite with my yoghurt underneath a gigantic umbrella, I decide to walk towards People’s Park.  Crossing through the Ning Garden again, I see a gigantic tower off in the distance.  I guess that it should take me about 40 minutes to walk to the tower.  This is good.  Now I have a physical goal in sight.  I’m not just idly walking anymore.  I’m not sure what the tower is off in the distance.  I’ll find out when I get there.

As I cross the street, I notice another young man in glasses crossing the street towards my direction.  He carries two bags over both shoulders, and his face is a little red from perspiring under the bags’ weight.  His cheeks still seem to retain their boyish youth, puffing out a little bit.  I guess it’s only been a few weeks since he began shaving.  On his head he wears a Muslim cap, representing that he is of the Hui Minority, one of China’s 56 ethnic minorities, and the one that is most dominant in Ningxia Province.  He looks like a young salesman or student, fresh out of the Ningxia countryside.  He looks lost, like he is searching for someone or something.  Could this be his big day?  I wait for the light to change and he passes me and catches my eye…a friendly enough eye.  Why not say hello?

“Ni hao,” I say, raising my hand in that damnable friendly neighborhood way of mine.  If only I could keep my mouth shut at times.  The young salesman jumps on my greeting and changes directions to walk with me.

“Do you mind if I walk with you?  Your Chinese is really good.  I just came up from the Southern part of Ningxia.  Looking for a job.  Maybe we could spend the day together?”  He asks me this question in a way that makes it difficult for me to answer.  As if he already knows that we will spend the day together.  Damn.  This guy is a salesman!  I just keep thinking to myself, keep your mind on the tower, keep your mind on the tower.  This is the only day that I have in Yinchuan.  I travel for myself by a reason–so that the only person I have to consult with regards to how I design my day is myself.  I don’t want to have to wait for another person, ask someone where to he wants to eat, or go to a tourist spot just because my traveling companion wants to go there.  I am really in the mood to walk now that I’ve spent most of the time eating lamb fat, getting lost on buses with the Desert Swimmer, and drinking yoghurt in the street.  I don’t want to be rude to this guy.  I don’t know how to be rude.  At the same time, I know that I really just feel like walking and walking and walking today, and I can tell by his tomato red face covered in sweat that walking is not his cup of tea.  Still, as we walk, he continues to follow me.

There’s something about the way that he speaks Chinese that really bothers me.  Whenever I say something, he’s almost too quick to compliment my Chinese with a, “Yes!,” or “that’s right,” or, “mmmm—-hmmmm.”  I feel like I’m being made fun of and patronized.  It’s just the tone of his voice, and I’m probably reading into it to much.  Why does this 19 year old kid continue to mock me?  What does he want?  I keep smiling, but I’m thinking, go away…please, just let me be.  Slowly, his tone of voice begins to press into the back of my throat, and I feel I’m reaching the edge of myself.  Nothing he says sounds authentic to me anymore.  Is this guy really going to follow me around for the entire day?  We continue to walk block by block towards the tower.  I’m still unaccepting of the fact that he is continuing to follow me.  Suddenly he says something that catches me off guard.

“Do you think we could be friends forever?”  What?  How can someone ask that question?  I really have no idea how to respond to this question.  I know he’s just an innocent 19 year old kid that doesn’t know how to express himself to a foreigner, and he’s just a bit too excited, but still…friends forever?  I cannot remember my exact response to the question, but he finally begins to sense that I’m a bit annoyed.  We talk about some other topic, and then he brings it back around to the “friends forever,” topic.

“So, when I asked if we could be friends, it felt like you didn’t want to be friends?  Why not?  I just hope that you won’t forget me.  You’re the first foreign friend that I’ve ever had, and I just want you to remember me when you think about Yinchuan,” he says, laying on the guilt.  This is my chance to get rid of him.

“It just seems like what your saying is not real.  Like you want something,” I say.

“I just don’t want you to forget about me.  I just want to make friends.”  I feel like I’m in middle school again.  He changes the subject and starts talking about English.

“I really wish you could stay in Yinchuan and teach me English, but it’s a shame you have to go back to Beijing and work.  I want to try to learn English.”

My nerves begin to calm a little bit.  I realize I’m overreacting and decide that, short of having a blowout, I’m not going to get rid of this guy.  I assure him that there is no chance that I’ll be able to forget him so long as I live.  Slowly, I begin to understand that the Forever Friend is really going to stay by my side for the entire day.  I can’t take it upon myself to lie to him and pretend I have an appointment or train to catch.  I decide to do the next best thing and be as proactive about the Forever Friend as possible.  If he’s going to spend the day with me, he’s going to have to earn it.  I will walk him all over this damn city.  Now, in addition to the still far off tower, I decide that I want to see as many spots in the city as possible to see if I can shake the Forever Friend or not.  He’ll earn his time, oh yes he will.

The Tower

As we get nearer the tower, Forever Friend is clearly suffering under the weight of his two bags.  I am sweating a little, but still feel fresh as a daisy.  Walking is my thing.  Having my own load to carry, I can’t offer to help him.  I will play out my day in Yinchuan as if I am on my own and enjoy it no matter who is with me.  I really don’t want to get in the way of him finding a job.  He tells me that he’ll begin studying at an Islamic university in Yinchuan at the end of the summer, but until that time he wants to find a part-time job to help pay for meals, accommodation, etc.  He says any job will do:  a security guard (he reminds me of the young security guards scattered all over the country), a waiter, a karaoke bar attendant, hotel staff, he’s not picky. 

We walk past vacant buildings of recent constructions until we reach a small lake that borders the tower.  We just have to walk around the perimeter of the lake underneath the cloudless sky in order to reach the tower.  I open my umbrella and sheild my white skin from the Sun’s rays.  Forever Friend sweats it out.  His bags are filled with clothes and books for studying Arabic.  He tells me that he doesn’t know why, but most young men in his hometown tend to study Arabic in their spare time when they are young.  He would like to go to Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, Dubai, or another Arabic speaking country to do business after graduating.  His desire to study Arabic is another reason why he would like the job of security guard…he figures security guards have nothing to do, so he can spend the time studying instead.

When we reach the tower on the other side of the lake, I learn that it is a Buddhist tower and has a history reaching back hundreds of years.  It’s a beautiful tower and it feels neglected over in the corner of the city.  Quiet.  Dust town.  Missouri.  Beside the tower is a sort of family amusement park where people can pay money to fish in a pond.  After catching the fish cooks can barbecue what one catches.  I go to buy 2 tickets for the tower, but Forever Friend tells me he cannot enter because he is a Muslim.  I only buy one ticket and enter the tower.  It took a long time to get here, so I’m going to take my time.  Forever Friend waits outside, exhausted.  I enter the dusty tower’s surrounding monastery.

Inside the temple, I take my time to walk around the tower.  Unfortunately, one cannot enter the tower.  I climb the stairs to the bottom of the tower and look out over the city in the distance.  We’re really quite far out there.  The center of the city seems far away.  Another American walks by.  He’s wearing a shirt that says “San Francisco” on it.  I ask where he’s from.

“San Francisco,” he says.

A Chinese girl walks with him.  Probably his girlfriend.  I let them walk past me, enjoying these moments of solitude by the tower.  A few minutes later I decide to slowly make my way back to the front gate and Forever Friend.  A monk slowly walks in the other direction, wearing the brown monk’s robes that most Chinese monks dress themselves in.  I ask him if it is possible to stay in the temple for the evening.  He thinks so, but is not sure.  I contemplate not exiting the temple and just staying here for the night.  What would Forever Friend think about that?  However, the monk suggests that I find a hotel.  I thank him for his suggestion and then walk to the front gate.  Forever Friend gets up immediately, apparently his spirit and energy getting a lift from my reappearance.

People’s Park

Forever Friend’s burst of energy is not long-lived.  As we leave the tower behind us and begin to walk along the dusty road, I declare that my next destination is People’s Park.  A taxi approaches us to offer us a ride, but I refuse.  I want to walk.  I see the look of defeat edging into Forever Friend’s eyes.  He follows me anyway.

Our walking styles are different.  According to my map, we are definitely headed in the direction of People’s Park.  Still, Forever Friend continues to ask directions every 5 minutes just to make sure we have not veered off course.  We are really quite a ways from the park, and it should take us about an hour to get there.  He looks over at me.

“Hey, do you think that we could get a cheap hotel room and rest for a couple of hours?” he asks me.  I turn on the optimism and act overly energetic.

“Rest?  Now?  We’ve barely seen anything.  If you want to get a room you can, but I’m not resting until the evening.  I’ve got to see this city.”  He gives in and continues to walk with me.

Every now and then we pass a hotel or a karaoke bar, and I suggest that he should go and ask them if they are hiring for employees or not.  He shakes his head and says he is too shy to ask them himself.  I tell him that I’ll ask for him if he wants.  Forever Friend doesn’t take the bait.

When we do arrive at the park, Forever Friend and I sit down in the grass and rest for a few minutes.  As we sit down in the grass I realize that I’m no longer bothered by him anymore.  He’s just a kid, really.  This is his first time to get out in the city, and I’m like his introduction to the world.  He opens up his bag to search for something.  Something inside surprises him.

“Ah? What’s this?”  he pulls out two containers of instant noodles, along with two bottles of yoghurt.  “My mom must’ve put this in my bag when I wasn’t looking.  I wondered why it was so heavy.  Here.”  he gives me a bottle.  Afterwards he continues to search inside his bag for something.

“Listen.  I’ve been wondering how to make you remember me.  Been thinking of the perfect gift.  The only thing I could think to give you is this…”  he reaches inside of his bag and pulls out a Muslim cap similar to the one that he is wearing.  “Here,” he says as he gives me the cap.  “When you wear it, now you’ll think of me.”

Little Tian’anmen

After resting in the park and drinking another yoghurt, we get back into the walking rhythm, making our way back towards the Drum Tower (for the 3rd time today).  I think I’ve got Forever Friend’s rhythm down now, and he’s adjusting to mine.  Still, there’s no denying that he is completely exhuasted.  We decide to check into a hotel where he can rest, and I can continue to walk to the South Square not too far from the hotel.  We agree to meet later in the evening for dinner.  I’ll be sure to take my sweet time and give Forever Friend a rest and take advantage of my liberty.  After checking in to the hotel, I’m back out in the street walking to the South Square that is labeled on the map.

When I arrive there, I am surprised to find a miniature version of Tian’anmen Square waiting for me.  There’s the picture of Mao, the stands behind him, even the same message written beside his picture.  The square itself is filled with people, and I feel like an ant in a model city.  Suddenly I notice a familiar sound.

Whhhhhhrrrr…zzzzzzz….whrrrrrrr….zzzzzzz…..Diabolo!

Over in one area of Little Tian’anmen is a small group of elderly diabolo enthusiasts!  Even in Yinchuan, a world away from Beijing, the diabolo survives and thrives.  Walking up to one of the older man, I engage him in conversation asking him if he is from Yinchuan.  He smiles and says he is.  Just like that, I’m invited into their circle to joing them with the diabolo.  I take the sticks in my hand and begin to whirr the diabolo around and around, it’s speed picks up and begins making the sound that hypnotizes me back to my friends in Beijing.  This diabolo is old and cracked, but it still gets the job done.  The smiles around me continue, and I’m grateful at the time that I put into my diabolo training in Beijing.  Because of my friends in Beijing, I can converse with these Yinchuan folks in two languages, one Chinese, the other “diabolo.”  I play with them for a while, telling them about Beijing, and the people I play diabolo with.  The Sun is already gone, and the night air is considerably cooler than the afternoon.  I tell them I have to get back.  Forever Friend is waiting.

Evening

I treat Forever Friend to a dinner of noodles.  He is well rested and hungry.  I don’t want him treating me to a meal.  He hasn’t even found a job yet.  We go to a restaurant around the corner where a cute waitress serves us.  She has a smile in her eyes, accompanied by a question mark.  I order a beer along with my noodles.  Forever Friend tells me that he cannot drink because of his religion.

“I think it’s kind of unbelievable that you are drinking,” he says.

As we eat, the waitress talks with Forever Friend.  He asks her if they need any waiters or staff in the restaurant, but unfortunately, they are not looking at this time.  Then she asks him about me and the US.  She wants to go to the US and study abroad.  Forever Friend wants to go abroad one day as well.  She wants to find a job in tourism, possibly like the one I have.  Forever Friend wants to make it big in trade, doing something where he can use his Arabic.  They talk about the types of tests they need to pass, the financial plans they need to take, the sacrifices they need to make.  The road ahead is a difficult one for them, and it all starts in this restaurant, at this table, in this conversation.  It’s the kind of conversation that people have when they are young and unafraid of the challenges that lie ahead.  Anything can be conquered.  I watch them talk with each other and suddenly feel that I am watching Youth grow.  Forever Friend and the waitress are just buds, not yet ready to blossom.  Their entire futures are in front of them, yet they are so uncertain.  They have big plans to ”get out” and go see the great wide open spaces of the world.  From our dirty little table with puddles of noodle broth that accumlate every time I slurp, I transform into an old wise man watching the center of the world revolve around the future youth of China.  Will their goals be achieved?  Will they ever leave Yinchuan?  Will they go abroad one day?  Will they be successful in whatever it is they hope to do?  I am a portal to the outside world to these two.  Tomorrow I will be gone.  I will disappear, like a spectre from another world.  My presence tonight, the presence of this 29 year old American wanderer, sparks the fire that ignites a world of possibilities between the Forever Friend and the waitress.  There is a world out there.  In fact it’s not out THERE anymore…it’s sitting right HERE in this restaurant, eating food at THIS table.  Big talk of universities and jobs and futures in other countries ensue.  The 19 year olds have the world on a string, and everything seems real and tangible.  I sit at the table slurping up noodles.  It may be the only night that I ever spend in Yinchuan.  I may never see the Forever Friend and the waitress again.  No one can predict the unpredictable.  Still, I have the feeling that on this night came into existence some kind of direction, some kind of order, some kind of map to the lives of these 2 youths in the noodle shop of downtown Yinchuan.  Where the map leads is up to them to decide.

The seeds of journey are set into motion by one long grey hair shooting out of an old man’s face.  It doesn’t have to be something significant or Earth-shattering that pulls me towards a particular destination.  I don’t need an excuse to travel–just a feeling, some time, and possibly an offhand suggestion at best.  For me, a journey can happen almost anywhere.  I don’t need to go to the ends of the Earth.  I can easily make discoveries around my own neighborhood, in and around central Beijing, or its suburbs.  The people are there.  I don’t know their stories, but they all have them.  Most of the time I’m perfectly satisfied to wander the city and let the stories come to me…most of the time.  Sometimes, however, something someone says or does prods me to get out of my own sphere of comfort and ignites my desire to search for the stories.  But what will I search for this time?  Only the long grey hair knows…

Meet you next to the bridge

When I told The Smooth Scholar about my possible desire and interest in learning how to play the gu qin^W he suggested that I come with him to Beihai Park on a Saturday morning.  Now that the weather had become more pleasant, there would be more people outside, including a group of musicians who gathered in the park every Saturday to play music starting at 9am.  We were to meet at a small bridge in between the Northern gate and the Western gate of the park.  I was excited about meeting with the Smooth Scholar for two reasons, one of them being the music itself, but the other reason being that it would be the first time to meet the Scholar outside of the diabolo grounds.  This change of venue symbolized a big step forward for me.  Besides diabolo, he was also inviting me to go with him to a musical event in another area.  I had the feeling that I was being let in on a little secret, or let into his world just a little bit more than I had been previously allowed.

Recently, the Smooth Scholar has really lived up to his name, proving himself as a person who truly enjoys studying.  One week, he suddenly became interested in learning English and requested that I teach him one new word per week.

“Anymore than that and I won’t be able to remember,” he said.  “It would be like the story of the monkey who picks up the corn.”  This story is an ancient Chinese story.  In it, there is a monkey who picks up an ear of corn as he makes his way back to his home.  In front of him, he sees a watermelon as well.  He wants to take the melon back home as well; however, the melon is too big to pick up with one hand.  In order to pick up the melon with both hands he puts the ear of corn under his armpit so that he can carry both.  After only a few steps, the ear of corn slips out, and all he’s left with is the watermelon.  After a few paces he finds a few bananas on the ground and wants them as well.  The cycle repeates itself over and over, the point being not to bite off more than one can chew, or to study one thing at a time.

The Smooth Scholar has proved to be an excellent student as well.  Previously, where he couldn’t speak a word of English, he now often sends me English messages on my mobile phone, such as “see you soon,” “have a good weekend,” and “good luck,” etc.  He’s even written the words “diabolo,” ”play,” and “sports” with a marker on his diabolos.  When I saw the English on his diabolo it gave me renewed hope for myself when I reach the above 65 mark.  If he can still learn, so can I. 

When I get to the small bridge, I search for a few moments amongst the crowd (almost entirely consisting of elderly people), until I find the Scholar waving at me, a smile on hiw wrinkled face, video camera in hand, and wearing a blue hat.  We chat for a few minutes about how we arrived, etc.  He points out the various instruments in the the small group of elderly musicians that is assembled in front of the crowd.  I see a few ”er hus,” one “yang qin,” a “pi pa,” a “die zi,” (chinese flute), a “sheng,” and a large three stringed intstrument that I am still not sure of the name.  After chatting for a few minutes, the musicians begin.  The crowd pushes in, finding shade away from the Sun, and everyone is silent, listening to the music that floats with the wind through the trees of Beihai Park.

Cometh the Hair

After a few numbers, I notice that I am being squished and squashed amongst Beijing’s elderly audience of traditional music lovers.  I decide to step back away from the crowd for a few minutes where I can still hear, but not see the music.  The temperature away from the crowd drops a degree or two and the wind picks up, refreshing my eyelids.  The Smooth Scholar stands on a raised rock, oblivious to the Sun’s heat.  He unflinchingly holds his video camera up to his face so that he can record the entire morning’s concert.  It’s at this moment when I am observing the Smooth Scholar that I notice that I, too, am being observed.  I glance over to my left, and there it is…the grey hair is approaching, wafting back and forth in the Spring to Summer breeze.

The hair, of course, is not alone.  Although it is long and could have a life of its own, it is also accompanied by a face.  The face is a bit paler than the faces of other Chinese faces that I am familiar with.  On the eyes of the face is a pair of large square-rimmed brown glasses.  The hair on the faces head is also grey flecked with black.  The mouth is a friendly mouth, widening into a grin.  Underneath the face are all the other things that should go along with it…a body, arms, legs, shoes, shirt, pants, etc.  But…I can’t take my eyes off of the long, grey, hair.  It haunts me, waving back and forth in the wind like a snake’s tongue.

“I think I’ve seen you here before,” Grey Hair says to me.  “You come to Beihai Park often?”

I tell him that I do, often running here in the mornings.

“You like traditional Chinese folk music?” he asks. 

“Yeah, I really do,” I answer back.  There are other people now watching the two of us converse.  I notice that the Smooth Scholar has also stepped down to join in the conversation.

“His Chinese is really good.  He also wants to learn the ’gu qin.’”  I brush off the compliment, trying my best at modesty.  It still feels good when someone compliments me, though.

“You know, if you really want to hear something different…if you really want to hear some Chinese folk music….” the Grey Hair approaches me as if he is going to whisper some secret.  “You should go to Ningxia^W.  I went there a few years back to a place called Zhongwei^W.  I was on my way to visit the desert scenery near there…called “Sha Po Tou.”  Really something else.  But the thing is, if you are in Ningxia, and you go to Zhongwei, you’ll be able to hear some singing that you’ve never heard before.  This kind of singing isn’t anything that the singers study professionally.  It’s passed down from generation to generation.  Called Hua Er.  You won’t hear anyone singing like that in Beijing, and you might not even hear anyone singing it anymore in Ningxia.  I went to Zhongwei to visit their Gao Miao Temple, and when I was walking near the river I happened to overhear some people singing.  It was like nothing I had ever heard before.  Very raw, very beautiful.  I just stayed there and listened to it for a while.  It’s hard to explain.  You should go to this place.  ”

I get Grey Hair to write down the name of the town he mentioned to me, Zhongwei.  The two Chinese characters, “zhong” and “wei,” are very easy to write down and remember.  It’s hard to believe that a place with such a simple name can have this secret immaterial culture aspect…but I trust the Grey Hair.  We talk for a few more minutes, about what I cannot remember.  I do remember that he tells me he is of the Hui minority, one of China’s many ethnic minorities.  The Hui are predominantly an Islamic people.  Ningxia is also referred to as the “Hui autonomous region.”

Ningxia.  I have heard of this province.  I knew of it before.  I wanted to go there.  Whenever I heard Han Chinese refer to Ningxia, they always talked about the Hui people, “the good Muslims” that live there.  I felt like they were introducing them as “our Muslims.”  I have seen Hui restaurants, and there are always pictures of people with long white (or grey) beards, wearing Islamic hats.  When I would menion the province to my friends, they would usually pause and say, “well, you can eat a lot of mutton there…and noodles…oh, and they have wolfberries there, too.”  I didn’t know what a wolfberry was.  The only thing that I knew now, is that I definitely wanted to go there.  The only thing that kept me from making me visit the province in the past was that I lacked the name of a particular place, the name of a particular person, or just the name of something to go for.  I felt like I needed an excuse, a mission.  I didn’t want to go blindly, just in search of the Hui People and the land.  I wanted something more…something romantic.  The Grey Hair gave me my romance, and my mission as well.  I would go to Ningxia to find a song.  I might not know it when I heard it, I certainly wouldn’t understand any of the lyrics, and maybe I wouldn’t even be successful in my search, but I would do my best to find this Hua Er somewhere amidst the wastelands, mosques, and fields of wolfberries.  I was going to Ningxia, and I had the Grey Hair to thank for it.