China Reflection

Wizard of Oz

Returning from the desert, I decide to go directly to Hell.  After saying goodbye to Dirk Lee and purchasing a ticket for Hai Yuan County (apparently the birthplace of hua er, the singing style I want to hear) departing Zhongwei the following morning, it’s finally time to explore Zhongwei’s “High Temple” and the secrets it holds within.

Taking a bus to the Zhongwei’s drum tower, I make my way through the back streets of Zhongwei towards the High Temple and come upon a glistening tiled road.  It’s empty and the Sun bakes the surface.  The road is a kind of a wide pedestrian street or public square lined on both sides by street lamps that are lit up at night.  The surface of the street seems to be smooth and made of polished granite.  It’s the kind of surface that is perfect for rollerblading, if that is your thing.  On the first night that I came to Zhongwei I saw this street, and it was filled with children running around, children on skateboards, old folks sitting around shooting the breeze, young lovers holding hands, and others rollerblading.  This afternoon, besides myself, there is not a soul on the glistening Yellow Brick Road.  The eerie silence that occurs directly after the tornado deposits Dorothy’s house in Oz, crushing the Wicked Witch to death, pervades the atmosphere.  There are no munchkins.  There is no wizard.  There is only Him.  At the end of the glistening street, standing stoically with his overcoat magically blowing open on this windless day, there is a mammoth statue of Mao Ze Dong, towering over all that he sees.  On the plaque in front of him it reads:

“The Great Marxist thinker, the great revolutionary, military strategist and philospher–Chairman Mao.”

Behind his shoulder I can see where I want to go, the High Temple.  All is quiet and hot, the kind of heat that comes off the sidewalk and makes a buzzing sound in my ears.  I share a couple of moments with the Chairmain, with whom I also share a birthday.  At this moment I completely understand and share my friend Simon’s affinity towards statues.  It brings me peace to be there with the Chairman.  No one disturbs us.  Satan and his Hell seem far from this place.  How little we know.

The Gateway

Entering the gate to the high temple, it is not immediately apparent to me that evil lies within it’s belly.  The temple itself is beautiful and ornate.  As I walk around to examine the intricately painted walls and turrets, I am extremely impressed at how well preserved the structure is for having being built during the Ming Dynasty^W.  With over 250 rooms inside the temple, I take my time walking around it’s base.  There are other visitors in the floors above me who have just ascended the staircase to the rooftop.  It is at the point where one can climb to the roof that I feel the cold and dank air seeping out from behind a corner.  Curious at the slight drop in temperature and moldy smell, I decide to investigate further.  There, standing at the entrance to the temple’s catacombs is a young chinese man, about my age.  He seems like he is debating some question in his mind.  He shifts back and forth from one foot to another, gripping his cellphone in one hand.  His skin has turned pale.

“I’m glad you came.  I was scared.  I don’t want to go in by myself.”  I shake hands with the frightened young man and ask him what’s inside the darkness.

“This is the gateway to Hell,” he says.  “Will you go in with me?”

Beneath the Depths

The young man is from Harbin^W in Dongbei Province^W.  I’ll call him “Angel.”  Like Dirk Lee, Angel is also here on business and will have to stay in Zhongwei for one week.  Today is his first day in town.  He tells me he has been standing in front of the doorway to the gateway to Hell for the past few minutes, trying to get up his nerve to face his fear and enter the darkness.  Like me, he is also 29 years old.  He shows me the sign in front of the gateway that describes the secrets of High Temple’s bowels. 

According to the notice, underneath High Temple’s majestic and holy turrets lies the largest display depicting the 18 levels of Buddhist Hell and Torment.  I have seen displays of Buddhist Hell before, most recently when I visited a cave open to tourists outside of Beijing’s outskirts with my friend, Simon.  We entered the cave with a group of Chinese tourists and a guide, walking through the clammy depths for about 20 minutes until we arrived at a precipice that led to a stairwell down to Hell.  The guide told us that the tour would end at the top of these stairs, but we were free to venture down to view the display of Buddhist Hell if we wanted to.  Just like the great botoanist, Luther Burbank^W, Simon and I had nothing to fear, for we were both infidels (and still are).  We were the only ones in the group to walk down the stairs.  Were the other members of the tour group afraid like Angel, or were they just tired and did not want to walk back up the stairs?  Whatever the answer, Angel was clearly afraid of venturing in alone.

“Sure, let’s go in,” I say.  We walk into Hell, which is completely dark, except for the faint christmas lights and exit lights that line the walls and ceilings.  Walking down the corridor, I become more and more impressed with the underground labrynth of High Temple’s catacombs.  They are quite extensive and keep a relatively cool temperature.  After a few steps we come to the first chamber, which is labeled, “Hell of Flames.”  As soon as we enter this room, a red light turns on automatically and Angel and I are faced with a scene of torture in which a poor soul has his feet burned by hot pokers.  Holding the hot pokers are black demons, giggling with relish and justification.  He lies strapped to a bed of hot coals.  Accompanying the red light is the sound of recorded screaming.  Angel and I stand there for a couple of seconds, silently watching this frozen stasis of torture before moving on to the next Hell, the “Hell of Dismemberment by Sawing.”  Once again, we are faced by a scene of giddy demons who hold another unfortunate sinner, forever captive due to his crimes in life.  He hangs by the arms while two demons voraciously grab opposite ends of the saw and begin to cut him in two, starting from his crotch.  Crude blood is painted on his body as it spatters the demon’s legs, bathing them in his sin.

Angel and I walk from room to room, faced each time with another scene of horror and gore.  There is the “Hell of Tongue Ripping,” the “Hell of Torso-severing,” the “Hell of Eye Gouging,” the “Hell of Maggots,” etc.  Apparently, each of the separate Hells is specialized for particular sins.  Cold-blooded murderers are thown into the “Hell of Pounding,”  peeping toms go to the “Hell of Eye Gouging,” people with evil hearts are approrpriately put into the “Hell of Heart Gouging.”  As we slowly make our way through the 18 levels of Hell, I begin to wonder if there are perhaps other, easier and more relaxed levels of Hell for those lesser sins?  These ones seem pretty heavy.  They aren’t, however, Hells that I am personally accquainted with.  Where’s the “Hell of perpetual ‘My Heart Will Go On’,” a Hell seemingly reserved for me, as this Celine Dion song is ubiquitous and never-ending all over China?  And what about the “Hell of having to drink grain alcohol with grown adults at business dinners?”  Something I’m all too familiar with at this point.  Let’s not forget the “Hell of having to construct a mobile project and balance it just correctly so that the margin of error for the balance is less thatn .09 percent.” This was a personal Hell that seemed painstakingly impossible, frustrating, and useless to me at the time I had to do it while attending an Indiana University physics and science course.  Still, the “lesser Hells” don’t seem to make there way here amongst the big boys.  Angel and I continue our walk.

Twice during our lonely walk through the chambers of Hell, our tour is interrupted by another kind of display, the road to salvation.  In between two of the chambers, we notice a large cluster of Christmas lights and a box in front of the lights.  Just as we pass in front of the box, more lights automatically illuminate the wall behind the box, showing a set of stairs leading upwards.  The light is golden, and the stairway is flanked on both sides by kind Buddhas striking calm and inviting poses.  They seem much more benevolent than the bloodthirsty demons torturing the sinners in the 18 chambers of Hell.  As I admire the display for the road to salvation, I look more carefully at the box and notice that there is a slot there big enough for one to put money in.  Oh.  So that’s how you get out of Hell.  Neither Angel nor myself put money in the box to salvation.  Little do we realize how much our seemingly innocent neglect will affect the outside world.

Pandora’s Box

Exiting Hell without getting lost is not an easy thing to do, but Angel and I manage to escape.  We simply follow the green exit signs which thankfully really do lead us upward to the light.  Angel seems relieved to be back on the surface again.  The color returns to his cheeks and he doesn’t grip his cellphone so tightly.  He tells me that he needs to message his wife.  They are still newly weds, and this is his first time away for a business trip.

“Before getting married I always thought going on business trip would be great.  Now I just want to stay at home and spend time with my wife,” he tells me while punching away a message on his phone at the same time.  We walk up to the top of the stairs to view the turrets and and the view of the town.  As I make my way up the stairs, I turn around and notice that it’s easy to spot Chairman Mao’s statue in the distance.  He still seems larger than life from up here.  On the other side of the High Temple I can see Zhong We’s train station that I only arrived at the day before.  The town is small and compact.  All of the most important places are within walking distance.  Walking around the side of the temple, I hear screams coming from the shady side.  Thinking perhaps someone has been injured, I rush to investigate.  What I discover is almost as disturbing in an entirely different way.

The screams come from some girls directly next to this beautiful and ancient temple, less than 50 meters away.  I am relieved to find that they are not screams of terror, but screams of excitement and joy instead.  There are two girls riding on an amusument park ride.  It’s not a roller coaster, but one of those rides that circles around and around vertically, while at the same time rotating the seats as a merry-go-round would.  The ride is within a large steel circle and makes it’s participants swing back and forth, back and forth.  Each time they swing back and forth, they swing higher and higher until they eventually are being fully rotated upside down in one direction, and then backwards in the opposite direction.  Although this ride is directly next to the temple, I didn’t notice it until after exiting Hell.  Did I unleash this ugly amusement park ride from pandora’s box and carelessly juxtapose it next to this ancient temple, spoiling the view for future visitors?  I wonder if I should go back to Hell and toss in a coin.  Maybe when I come out, the ugly ride will have disappeared.  The girls go back and forth, back and forth, screaming and laughing.  Coins and earrings fall to the ground.  Do they even know that there is an ancient temple right next door?  That Hell is waiting for them?  I watch them finish their ride, knowing that I would immediately vomit if I sat in their place.  They wobble out of their seats and search the ground for the belongings that fell out of their pockets.   Angel finds me watching the girls as they dizzily leave the park below and exit the mysterious amusement park ride.

In the evening Angel treats me to a dinner.  During dinner we are mostly silent.  The lights in the restaurant go out 3 times while we eat.  Customers make a fit.  I should have paid the coin.  I should have paid the coin.  Is Angel contemplating the same sin?  Does he feel guilty for not putting the money in the slot to the road to salvation?  I look over at him as I scoop a spoonful of porridge into my mouth.  He is looking down.  At first I think he might be praying.  It turns out he’s just sending his wife another message on his cellphone.  We hardly speak at all for the rest of the meal. 

After dinner, I walk Angel back towards the High Temple.  His hotel is near the train station.  We part from each other without even exchanging phone numbers in accordance with keeping with the sinner’s vow.  I meander my way back towards my hotel and walk along the road.  The temperature is cooler now that the Sun is down…almost as cool as when we were underneath the temple.  Strolling down the main avenue, I don’t have any real destination in mind.  I just want to walk off my stomach a little bit.  As I pass the temple, it’s then that I see the Monkey Devil  He is short and gangly, with straggly hair shooting out in all directions.  His face is wrinkled and he wears army clothes.  He walks with a big stride, a stride bigger than his legs, a John Wayne stride, a stride that says he is a man who won’t be messed with.  Two monkeys trail him from behind.  One is on his shoulders.  In one hand he holds leashes to which all three monkeys are connected.  Each of the leashes is connected to a collar which is affixed around the monkeys’ necks.  The two walking behind the Monkey Devil are older.  One is clearly male, and other is female, her mammory glands sag along the road lathargically.  The monkey on Monkey Devil’s back is just a baby.  From time to time, Monkey Devil yanks the older monkeys along, urging them to walk faster, choking their necks.  He holds a whip in his other hand but doesn’t use it.  Not yet.  Not now.  I look at the Devil Monkey and he looks at me, trying to make out my face in the darkness.  He sends me a blank stare, but doesn’t slow down his pace and continues to an unknown destination.  After he passes, I stop to watch the small procession with curiousity, wondering what other oddities await me in Hai Yuan County the next day.  Pandora’s box has been unleashed.

After four years of living in foreign lands, I awaken in the morning to the shocking realization that I have momentarily forgotten a portion of the lyrics to the Star Spangled Banner, my country’s national anthem.  I am in the shower singing to myself when it hits me…

“Oh, say can you see, by the dawn’s early light.  What so proudly we hailed….”  and then what?  My God.  It’s not that  I have forgotten the lyrics themselves.  It’s just that I can’t seem to remember the exact order.  Is the next line, “throught the perilious fight?”  No.  That can’t be right.  It can’t rhyme that quickly, can it?  Ah, yes, “at the twilight’s last gleaming.”  It comes back to me. 

Although only for a minute or two, I am surprised and a little frightened by this momentary loss of memory.  What does it mean?  Is my brain so crammed with new Chinese words and phrases that I don’t have enough room to store my country’s national anthem?  Am I losing my memory with age?  Have I become un-American?  Have I lost my national identity?

Beanland and Grog

Two years ago while teaching in Jiangxi^W I taught a class on patriotism vs. nationalism.  This lesson was one of my personal favorites.  I taught it during the week of China’s National Day, October 1st.  I structured the class first by giving them some new words,  such as ”nationalism,” “patriotism,” :”citizen,” and “traitor,” etc.  Most of my lessons were structured this way.  I would begin the class by providing them with some new vocabulary and new expressions, etc.  Then we would do some sort of activity using the new expressions.  Sometimes we would read a current news event that incorporated the new language within its text.  Often, I would design a sort of role-play activity to give my students an opportunity to use new language in simulated scenarios.

After giving my students the new language and vocabulary, I immediately gave them an article from “The China Daily” English newspaper that discussed what it meant to be a true patriot.  During the time that my students read over this article (of which I changed some of the language in order to make it easier for them to uderstand), I drew a map on the board of two fictitious countries bordering one another.  The small country was named “Grog.”  Bordering it immediately to the north was a gigantic country named “Beanland.”  I drew the map on the board silently, not addressing its presence at all.  After taking a few minutes to discuss some issues in the article, I handed the front half of the classroom a slip of paper with the following words:

You are a Citizen of Beanland:

“You love your country.  Beanland is a prosperous and industrial country with high class education, a powerful military, and a strong economy.  The people of your country are kind, and your government is generous.  Along Beanland’s southern border is the country of Grog.  Grog is a poor country rich in natural resources, but lacking in economic, military, and educational strength.  In order to build friendship and trade ties with Grog, many of Beanland’s government emmissaries, along with Beanland’s police and military have begun to relocate to Grog in hopes of making Grog a more stable country.  You love your government and hope its message for peace and stability are carried throughout the world.”

To the other half of the class, I handed out a note with the following words:

You are a citizen of Grog:

You love your country.  Although economically poor and militarily weak, Grog is a peaceful country.  The citizens and government here live in harmony with one another.  Grog is rich in natural resources, and agriculture is the main industry.  To the north of Grog is the country of Beanland.  Recently, Beanland has become a major threat to your country.  More and more of Beanland’s government agencies and military have become moving into Grog, slowly filling government positions, taking over industries, and possessing the land.  Beanland is an industrious nation and wants to take advantage of  Grog’s resources.  Many of Grog’s police have been replaced by policemen and military from Beanland.  Some of Grog’s leaders and citizens have been thrown in prison with no explanation.  You feel your country is slowly being taken over.  This has to stop!  You love your country too much.”

As the students in the front and back of the class read their slips of paper, I erased the border separating Beanland and Grog, mergining them into one country called “Beangrog.”  After giving the students ample time to read their papers, I collected all papers and made a proclamation:

“In 3 weeks, the two countries of Beanland and Grog will be unified into one large country called “Beangrog.”  This country will be strong and powerful.  The new government will consist of only the most highly educated citizens.  This is a perfect future, and both countries will be stronger because of this decision.”

I then told students that if they were citizens from Beanland they were to find citizens of Grog to discuss this issue, and vice versa.  I informed them that any citizen who agreed with this decision was a true patriot and loved his “new” country, but anyone who disagreed with the decision was a traitor and should be brought to me, the central government, where they would be put into prison.  What ensued was somewhat of a controlled chaos.  Students gathered in groups explaining why, “I support this decision because….” or, “I object to this decision because….” etc (some of the English expressions for the day).  Whenever it was discovered that someone disagreed with the decision to unify the two countries into one, they were brought to me, where I “locked” them in prison (I simply made them stand on the stage at the front of the class).  The person who rooted these “traitors” out was given a hearty handshake and a promised seat at the top tiers of government authority. 

Inevitably, most of the people who disagreed with the decision were citizens of the weaker, bullied country of Grog.  Most citizens of Beanland thought that their own country’s government was kind and charitable, and they didn’t want to listen to the lies spread from Grog’s citizens.  However, after listening to Grog’s citizens, a few citizens of Beanland also disagreed with the decision.  They were thrown into prison without due course.  More often than not, many citizens of Grog also agreed with, or pretended to agree with unification for fear of persecution (I made sure to make a big deal of catching “traitors,” screaming out loud at them as they were thrown into “prison”).

After some minutes, I stopped the exercise and made everyone, except for the “traitors,” sit down in their seats.  I informed the class that the traitors would be executed, after saying their final words.  Each of them made some sort of patriotic declaration towards his/her country, and then was ”executed” on the spot.

After the last execution I pulled out both slips of paper and read them to the class.  Beanland’s citizens finally got to hear the story through Grog’s eyes.  Grog’s citizens finally understood why Beanlanders felt the way they did.  My students were a little confused.  I was the only true “traitor” in the class because I had provided them with conflicting realities.  Which one was to be believed?  Beanland’s story, or Grog’s? 

One World, Many Voices

In George Orwell’s “Notes on Nationalism,” he writes that there is a marked difference between nationalism and patriotism.  “Patriotism,” he writes, “is a devotion to a particular place and particular way of life, which one believes to be the best in the world but has no wish to force on other people.”  On the other hand, Nationalism, “is inseperable from desire for power…NOT for himself, but for the nation or other unit in which he has chosen to sink his own individuality.” 

I have read articles concerning the rise of Nationlist sentiments here amongst China’s youth, but I’m not about to make any sweeping generalities.  According to the Washington Post’s article published just before the Olympics, “China’s nationlism today is shaped in its pride in its history as well as its century of humiliation at the hands of the West and Japan” (April 28, 2008).  My students would often remind me of Japan’s invasion of China and many of today’s television shows seem to be caught in a constant timewarp of the War of Resistance against Japan, as well as Mao and his glory days during The Long March^W.  Often, it seems that nationlist sentiments act as a sort of “societal glue” (Washington Post), keeping the harmonious rise at a relative level of stability.  How would you keep the most populous country in the world from stumbling into constant chaos?

I feel that there are certain words I could say in a Chinese classroom regarding national issues that would inevitably ignite a heated emotional and unified response from almost all of the students.  Throughout my two years of teaching English in Jiangxi, I often heard the phrase, “unity is power,” or “strength in unity,” echoed over and over again.  It was in the diary entries I read, the stories they wrote, the dramas they performed, and the speeches they gave.  One world, one dream, the official Olympics’ slogan, has become the slogan for the new harmonious China.  Could the same be said for an American classroom?  Could I ignite patriotic, or nationlish fervor amongst my students?  Is there that sense of unity?  I’m not sure.  We’re so used to having our policies attacked and criticized from the rest of the world, that we’ve just taken it as second nature now.   In addition to being able to swallow criticism from foreign media, we also have plenty of self-criticism as well (something that I believe is perfectly fine and healthy).  I don’t know that we would get such a unified response in a classroom of 30 students.  Everyone has to have his or her say, and each one is different from the next.  One world, many voices?  Would that be our slogan for our Olympics?

Patriot Acts

Regardless of whether or not I can remember my country’s national anthem while I’m taking a shower in the morning, there is something inseperably American about the way I think, and there’s nothing I can do to change this fact.  It’s something that I’ve had instilled in me from as far back as I can remember.  It’s that little voice in my head that asks, “why?,” or “really?” when I see something in the news, or hear something that everyone else agrees with that seems relatively clear cut.  I wouldn’t exactly call it cynicism.  No.  I’m definitely not a cynic, and I’m not a big fan of conspiracy theories.  I just know that the world is not such a simple place, and there’s always more than one side of a story to listen to.  When I open the newspaper or turn on the television and see the news, there’s some part of my brain that also wants to hear the stories that the newspaper chooses not to write about, the voices that the journalist doesn’t quote in his article, the images that we don’t see on the television.  I’ll never truly know the whole story, and this fact just makes me want to do my own investigating.  It makes living life such an adventure of discovery.  This yearning to know as much as I can about the world is a thirst that I can never truly quench because there are too many stories out there that I will never be able to hear.  It’s part of the reason I chose to come to China…to hear the stories for myself, rather than read about them in a newspaper or textbook.

Am I un-American?  I certainly hope that my country does the “right thing,” and makes “responsible decisions,” and I hope that my nation remains a prosperous, peaceful, place to live.  I hope for the best for my country.  But I also hope “the best” for a country like China, or Sweden, or Burkina Faso^W.  Do I think America is “the greatest nation on Earth?”  In some aspects, probably.  However, every country has it’s own individual strenght, and the longer I spend abroad, the more and more I come to appreciate the strengths I find in my surroundings.  My education in America has taught me to ask questions (maybe I ask too many), even to question authority at times.  I’ve grown up with this way of thinking my entire life.  I’ll always be from America.  I can never change that.  I was born in Lexington, Virginia on December 26, 1979, sharing birthdays with Mao Ze Dong^W.  My view of the world has been strongly shaped by my upbringing in that small town in Virginia.  I can’t change that fact.  However, I also cannot avoid the fact that my view of the world has also been affected by more recent stories from my life abroad–stories from people who speak another language, share a separate history, and hold onto a different concept–stories far far away from where the stars and stripes of my star spangled banner are ”so gallantly streaming.”  All of these stories that skim the surface of my life, affect my life’s tune.  Some of these stories sink deep down to the bottom of the lake, affecting my dreams, adding a new harmony to my life’s own rich anthem.

During Chinese Lunar New Year it’s customary to visit family and friends over the course of the holiday.  I met with many friends during this year’s holiday, but the visit that sticks out most in my mind is the one I had with Lao Zhang.  Lao Zhang is a man who wears many hats and takes many titles:  teacher, philanthropist, calligrapher, poet, friend, folklorist, chemist.  After first meeting him in Ren Ding Hu Park while listening to the four fingered phantom of a man playing accordian for us, our paths have crossed from time to time.  I have visited him on numerous occassions.  We usually meet at the South entrance of the same park we first met each other.  Each time we meet each other, I can feel the excitement build for the conversation that is about to ensue, and each time I leave I always think our visits are too short.  Either that, or the time around us speeds up.  For every time I meet with Lao Zhang I walk away wiser for the journey that I take with him.  He has an uncanny ability to take with him as he leaves the present and turns back time with his words and mind.

I am in the sitting room of Lao Zhang’s house.  He and his wife are preparing dinner for the three of us.  For fear of my being bored, he tosses me something to look at and practice my Chinese while he cooks.  It’s a dusty old, blue notebook filled with handwritten Chinese entries.  When I ask him what it is he, turns his head and smiles.

“This is the journal I wrote in 1966 at the beginning of the Cultural Revolution.  I wrote an entry everyday during that time.”

I look down at the journal’s dusty cover.  It seems plain enough to me.  Leafing through the pages scrawled in unintelligible Chinese, I can only wonder at the content.  Here and there I catch a word.  I want to know this journal.  I want to know its journey. 

His wife comes out and I ask her to read to me the beginning of the journal.  I ask her to read slowly so that I can understand every word, every detail, every step of the way.  As she reads, I hear the sound of a crowd gathering. 

Train Station

The square in front of Beijing railway station is filled with students wearing red armbands.  They are the members of the Red Guard^W.  Tickets aren’t sold during these days.  After a proclamation by Mao Ze Dong^W that encouraging students to join the Red Guard and use public transportation for free, chaotic and crowded railroad stations have become commonplace all over China.  It’s first come, first serve, and you get a ticket for wherever you can go.  Students can travel anywhere they want for free.  But Lao Zhang isn’t a student at this time.  He iss a teacher.  He stands in the square with the ticket that he had snagged departing for Guangzhou^W, but with the rain beginning to fall and the square bursting with students from all over the country, it is clear to him that he isn’t getting on any train this day.   

“Circumstances have changed,” he writes.

Everything has changed.  Mao fever is in the air again, it is the beginning of the Cultural Revolution^W; the world has turned itself over and is standing on its head.  Masses of people are falling out of its pockets like coins on the pavement.  No one knows where to go, but everyone is going somewhere…at least students are.   Progress has stopped, or maybe its just starting.  Upheaval rules.

As a teacher, Lao Zhang finds himself out of place during this particular time.  Students were told to rise up, join the Red Guard, and strike down anything too bourgeousie.  They were supposed to go out, traveling freely, learning about the great country and join the revolution that had been started by Mao and the Communist Party.  As “punishment” for being a figure of authority during this time, Lao Zhang is ordered by students to relieve himself of his teaching responsibilities and instead spends a month sweeping up the school as a custodian.  Schools are empty of students.  Students can go anywhere they want.  The bell has rung its final toll.

Lao Zhang looks at the ticket in his hand and knows he is in for a journey.  He isn’t going to take a train anywhere.  He is going to walk this time.  He is going to walk a long, long way.  He is going to walk 38 days from Beijing to Yan'an^W, the endpoint of The Long March^W, and one of the revolutionary centers of Chinese Communism.