China Reflection

Morning

“I stayed up all night praying.  Didn’t sleep at all,” Paul says to me when we meet in the hotel lobby in the morning.  He seems wide awake and full of energy.

“You prayed all night?”  I ask him.

“All night,” he says.  “And you know what…” he pauses, “a miracle happened…My friend asked me to pray for her.  She’s been having some trouble recently, and asked me to pray for her.  I did.  And something good happened.”

I’m glad that Paul is so full of light and energy today.  He is like a box of Rice Krispies with his ’snap,crackle, and pop’ attitude.  I don’t have time to find out what the “good thing” is that happened to Paul’s friend.  Jacky and Amanda walk into the lobby to greet me.  The students are waiting for me.  I don’t know where I’m going.

The teacher

We get into the Jesusmobile and drive through the town.  It’s not a huge town, but there’s really no such thing as a tiny village anymore.  There are thousands of people here, and the towns and areas that used to be grasslands are being mined for the coal that lies beneath the surface.  Amanda’s parents’ grassland where they previously took their sheep to graze has been purchased by the government so that it can be mined.  This is progress.

We take a right underneath a dusty bridge and head past the restaurant where we’ll be eating lunch later.  I’m told that we’ll have fish from the Yellow River, which runs beside the town.  But first thing’s first…time for me to be a teacher again.

When we pull up to the school, nothing particular stands out to me about the building at first.  It has 3 stories stacked on top of one another.  I hear the voices of kids chanting and repeating what teachers are saying.  There’s a courtyard in front of the school with dry, flat, colorless landscaping.  It seems utterly ordinary.  There is a propaganda poster in front of the school that reads, “Dedication today will lead to tomorrow’s success.”  This is just what I was hoping for…an ordinary, typical, Chinese elementary school.

The school’s principal comes out to greet us as we pull out in front of the office building.  Amanda used to be a teacher at this school.  They greet one another, and then introduce Paul, Jacky, and myself.  Luckily, the students are in class now; otherwise, I’m sure I’d be mobbed by a crowd.  Our coming here is a big event.  The principal leads us into her office.  As we walk through the hallway on the way to the office, I notice an unusal amount of calligraphy displays on the wall.  She reminds me that Wuhai is famous for its calligraphers.  Apparently, there’s a calligraphy museum located in the center of town.  After entering the principal’s office, we sit down on the huge couch while she pours tea for us.  As she picks up the gigantic red thermos, she explains what’s to come:

“So, we thought we’d combine a few classes together into one large auditorium for you to teach them.  This way, more students will get to talk with you at a time,” she says.  The water trickles out of the thermos as steam rises from the cups.

“Ok.  About how many students will I be talking with this morning?” I ask her, anticipating the number that will come out of her lips.

“About 200 or so,” she says.  200…not a bad number.  I have an idea of the lesson that I will give to the students.  I have a stock, “first day lesson,” that seems to work well for kids the first time we meet.  It involves writing one’s name vertically, and then saying introducing something interesting about oneself from each of the letters.  So, my name, “J-e-f-f-r-e-y” and introduction might go something like this:

J: I lived in Japan for one year.

E: I used to be an English teacher.

F: I have 6 people in my Family.

F: I lived in France when I was 2.

…and on and on.  I’m certain that whenever I do this activitity with students that not all of them understand what I’m saying; however, understanding is not the point.  The point is to get them interested in English as something that can be fun and useful.  The point is to get them speaking with each other.  After I finish doing my own name, I model introducing myself to a student or another teacher, and then tell them that they should try and do the same introduction with their name and at least 3 friends.  In a class of 200 students, there are sure to be some students who understand just about everything that I am saying.  They spread the word, the class gets active, the world comes together…everyone is happy and doing something.  This approach is a lot different from the Chinese approach of rote memorization and drilling vocabulary into students.  I’m not about to do that on a one-time visit to a school.  I want as much interaction as possible, so I take my own approach to teaching.  I know it’s not perfect, but it’s active, and it appeals to the students…and it’s fun!  Learning a language should be fun.  That’s what I’ve always thought, anyway.

I don’t tell them any of my plan for the activity.  We just talk for a while, all in Chinese, about the students and the school, etc.  Amanda and the principal catch up with one another.  After we empty our glasses, it’s time to go upstairs and put on the teaching show for the youth of China.

The principal leads us out of her office and out the front doorway of the school.  We walk across the parking lot and square that’s in front of the school.  Our objective is to get to the building across the square.  It’s not a long way to go, but…I’ve already been discovered.  The students start running over to look at me.

“FOREIGNER!  FOREIGNER!”  I’m not sure which of the kids is yelling this, but it’s the first word that I hear.

“Hello?  How are you?”

“What’s my name?”

“Where are you from?”

“Who’s he?”

“FOREIGNER! FOREIGNER!”

I smile through it all and soak it up.  It’s time to be a rock star again.  The kids chase me, but I keep my pace slow and steady.  If I started running now I’d never escape them all.  The principal doesn’t even seem to notice them.  She leads the way up the stairs of the dusty building that we enter.  It’s dusty not because of its oldness, but rather because of its newness.  It seems like it was just finished the day before.  The odors of sawdust and construction fill the building and blow in and out with the breeze.  We walk up the stairs to the second floor.  Just before we reach the top of the stairs, the principal turns to us and says good luck.  There they are…200 children sitting quietly waiting for me.  My audience, my fans.  It’s good to be a teacher.

Class Dismissed

When I start off, there are two girls who sit in front of the class who ask if it’s ok to give me a hug. 

“Of course, why not?”  They hug me.  I worry for a second that every single child will want a hug now, but it doesn’t happen.  The class starts out slowly, and the students are relatively attentive, listening to me when I talk.  In a class this big, there are always one or two students who stick out and can answer the tougher quetions.  Anyone can be king for a day, anyone can entertain a class of Inner Mongolians for one or two periods.  The “newness” effect stays with the kids for about the same amount of time that it takes for the class to run its course.  I go though my self-introduction and then have the kids do their own introductions with each other.  The part of the class where they talk with one another is always my favorite part.  I roam around the room to help people think of words that begin with the letters in their names so that they can complete the activity.  There’s sort of a controlled chaos atmosphere in the classroom, but most of the kids are taking part in the task at hand, asking me questions, speaking with their classmates, etc.

After the teaching part of the class finishes, the students ask me to sing them a song.  I tell the I’ll sing one for them if they first sing one for me.  They discuss with each other, some of them yell out songs names.  Finally, the same two girls who gave me a hug when I walked into the room offer to lead the class in a song.  It’s a revolutionary song.  I don’t understand all of the words, but I can tell that it’s a song that goes well with marching.  The kids sing in unison, yelling the song out in orders, more like a drill seargant barking at soldiers.  I sing them “God Bless My Underwear,” sung to the tune of “God Bless America.”  It’s one of my favorite songs to sing when put in this situation.  It’s just the right length for a song, and no one will get the joke except for me. 

Lunch

“You must be so tired,” the principal says to me after finishing up with the second round of kids. 

“Serving the people invigorates me!” I say, throwing back some propaganda as a joke.  I’m actually not tired at all.  It’s been a long time since I was a “teacher.”  I used to do this sort of thing everyday.  It’s like pulling a comfortable couch out of the attic to sit on for a while, dusty, but still familiar.

After finishing the two classes, taking pictures, and, yes, signing autographs, the principal tells us she would like to take us out to lunch.  Joining us for lunch will be another English teacher, the school’s music teacher, and the physical education teacher.  They are already waiting for us at the restaurant, so we’ve no time to waste.

The restaurant is around the corner from the school, and I’m once again reminded that we’ll be eating fish directly from the Yellow River.  Amanda, Jacky, and I get back in the Jesusmobile after saying goodbye to the kids who are now also on their lunch break.

We pull up to a dusty courtyard where one of the meanest and ugliest dogs greets us as we get out of the car.  Jacky laughs.

“Crazy dog,” he says.

The dog continues to bark at me.  I feel an urge to throw something at it or taunt it.  It’s neck is tied to the end of a chain which is connected to the tree in the center of the courtyard.  We have a staring contest for a few seconds.  The mutt barks at me, unable to jump on me and do whatever it is he wants to do.  I stamp my foot down, causing the dust to unsettle, and the dog runs back a few steps in fear, still yapping his yap.  I’m getting hungry.

“Jeffrey…come on in,” Amanda yells to me, coming out of a hanging curtain meant to keep flies out of the room in which we’ll be eating.  She ushers me into the room, which is already filled with the other guests for the lunch.  The music teacher is the first one to shake my hand.  He has a huge belly, and his face reminds me of Santa Clause without the beard.  He wears a shirt with horizontal stripes on it, eccentuating his belly.  Beside him is the physical education teacher.  Also stocky in structure, he is built like a firehydrant.  There is another young girl standing next to Amanda.  She is quiet like a mouse and I ask her if she is also one of Amanda’s old students.  Giggling, Amanda tells me that she is the school’s other English teacher.  She looks so young, 15 or 16 years old I would have guessed. 

I remember this part of the meal because at this time we have not yet opened the grain alcohol.  There is a salad and the fish has already arrived, fried and crispy.  I like it when they prepare fish this way in China because  I don’t have to worry about the bones.  When I eat a crispy fried fish whole, I can just crunch the bones up in my teeth.  This makes the consuming of the fish much more convenient and much less dangerous.  We sit around the round table, waiting for the rest of the dishes to arrive.  I sit facing the door, as is Chinese custom when there is a guest.  The food arrives dish by dish…and then comes the grain alcohol.  Oh no…another spiral into madness.  The time is only just past noon.   At the same time the bottle arrives through the door, my heart leaps out of my body and walks out the door.  I know that we will finish this bottle off.  I’m already anticipating getting that first taste out of my mouth–that first sip of toilet water.  After that, the grain alcohol just feels hot and I don’t notice the taste so much.  Soon I’ll start to like it.

“Cccccrrraaak.” The music teacher twists open the bottle of grain alcohol.  Now it’s just us…teachers and children and foreigners around the table.  The food is in piled up, and the silence commences.  The physical education instructor pours glasses of the grain alcohol for all the adults at the table.  I can’t get away from this glass.  I have to drink with each person.  Inside I’m holding my breath; outside I try to keep a semblance of calm.  I’ve usually don’t get out of hand with this stuff, but I definitely have let it get the better of me and my friends in the past.  When I first came to China I wasn’t familiar the alcohol (called baijiu) has bested me from time to time.  I remember abandonding my friend in a barbershop after losing a bout with baijiu.  Brandon Pusey had come to visit me from the US after we traveled in Vietnam for a while.  We spent some winter weeks in Yichun in Jiangxi Province and decided to have a night of darts, baijiu, and peanuts in my apartment.  After finishing up the bottle, he decided he needed to go out in the cold and get a haircut.

“Don’t leave me in the barbershop, Jeffrey…you have to tell them how to cut it.”  I can still remember his cries of “No….Wait” as I left him giggling in the barber’s chair when I abandoned him.  He returned to my apartment with a shaved head.

Baijiu 1: Foreigners 0

The meal commences with a toast given by the physical education teacher. 

“Welcome to our school!  Welcome to Wuhai!  We always appreciate visitors and hope you can return in the future!”  He reaches his glass to me and lowers to a level lower than my own glass.  The alcohol looks like water.

Clink!  Down the hatch with the first toast.  My throat is on fire.  I’m going to eat too much this meal.  I can feel it already.  The conversations start to mix with each other after the first toast, and everyone relaxes a little bit, their faces already beginning to flush.  It’s at meals like this one where I can really take in the drinking culture.  People don’t just drink casually.  No one drinks alone.  Everyone is always toasting with someone else.  To drink by oneself is self-destructive…because the next toast is only seconds away from the previous one.

“What do you think of Wuhai?” the music instructor asks me.

“Amanda tells us that you are in the tourism industry.  I have a friend in the US.  I can’t remember which city, though…New Jersey?” the principal is asking me or telling me.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.  This fish is awesome.  Man, look at the music instructor’s belly!  How did he fit it into that shirt?

The music instructor seems to be reading my mind.  He rises for another toast.  Clink!  Down the hatch.  Not so painful anymore.  That teacher is so quiet.  She’s not really a teacher is she?  So young. 

“Jacky…what do you think about this meal?  Pretty good, huh?”

The principal stands up to toast Amanda and myself.

“Today was a wonderful day for Wuhai…for our school…an international day!  Ha ha ha.  Amanda, you’re always bringing good fortune back to us.  We miss you at our school, but we’re glad that you could bring Jeffrey back with you.  Jeffrey….welcome to Wuhai, and thanks for an excellent class!”

Clink!  Down the hatch.  Butter.

The toasts are coming in droves now.  We probably drink 4 more.  The stuff is strong, and it’s sloshing around in my belly.  I suddenly miss the crazy dog in the courtyard.  I continue to stuff my face with the food, but nothing can overcome the taste of the baijiu that is running through me.  Luckily, I know that the end is coming…until.

“A song!  A song!  Sing a song!”

It’s come to that point of the meal where people start to request singing.  This always seems to happen when out for a celebration…but I’m ok with it.  I like singing.  So I decide to bless them with a song that I wrote in high school about a super hero I created, called “Slash-Eyeball.”  It’s an utterly immature and ludicrous song, nonsensical in meaning.  I purposely slur the words and make them unintelligable so that none of the people who can speak English are able to understand the lyrics.  Although they can’t understand the words, the listeners beat on the table with their chopsticks, keeping in time to the rather groovy melody that I created more than a decade earlier.  Afterwards, the erupt in applause.  My song is followed by the music teacher and the physical education teacher.  One of them sings an Inner Mongolian song, the other a song I happen to like called “Camel’s Bell.”  By now, everyone’s faces are flushed, the room is heated with our sweat, and those who are smokers have lit up.  There are bones on the table and Mongolian tunes in the air.  There’s not one hint of the grey hair…and yet, he returns in the evening.

Zoo

After a rest in the afternoon, I head out with Jacky on his electric bicycle to visit a nearby park.  In the park there is an abandoned zoo with depressed monkeys, a forlorn bear, and lathargic birds.  We walk around the park talking about this and that.  Just as I suspected, Jacky’s father, Jesus/Paul has dabbled in quite a few things throughout the years.  He was a policeman, a bookstore owner, a bible salesman, and a fur trader.  All of these things add up to whatever it is he does now.  Jacky and I walk from the cages as the grey sky looms over us.  We stare at a bear, it’s uneven patches of unhealthy fur aching to be fed with nature.

“Do you think money or life is more important?” Jacky asks me.

“Well…you need money to live…in most places.  But money isn’t life.  I don’t know.  Money can’t buy everything.”  I say. 

“Are you rich?” Jacky asks me point-blank.

I’m a little bowled over by this question and don’t know how to answer.  “Well, I’m lucky…I’ve never really had to worry about money that much.  I’m not poor, that’s for sure.  I’m not rolling in money, though.  Comfortable,” I say.

We walk over to the birds and continue the jutted conversation of a 29 year old American and a teenaged kid from Inner Mongolia.

“Why did you want to become a Christian?” I ask Jacky.

He looks at the birds and tosses a little pebble into the cage.  “My dad says that we can’t trust people.  We just have to trust Jesus.  What he says is the truth.  People will always lie to you, but Jesus won’t lie to us.”

Creepy.  Can’t help thinking it.  But if he and his father are happy with this belief, then I am happy for them.  He gets a phone call.  It’s Paul.  We have to go back to the hotel.  Dinner is coming.

Hua Er

Paul takes us to a Peking Duck restaurant for dinner.

“I thought you’d like this.  I know you’re going back to Beijing tomorrow, but I like Peking duck anyway. ”

“Of course.  Thanks.”

I’m told that we’ll wait to eat for a bit, as there are other guests who are coming.  We’re ushered upstairs to a private room, and luckily there’s no baijiu waiting for us.  In the private room is a guy whose name is Frank.  He tells me that he’s also a Christian and that he’s met this famous pastor who preaches to the TV mega-revivals that I always flipped through when I was a kid looking for cartoons on Saturdays and Sundays.  He’s been to the US and visited many churches there as well…even to Virginia.  Seems like a friendly enough guy.

After a few minutes of waiting, the other four guests arrive.  There is a couple with their small child.  The man, David, is also a Christian and training to be a pastor.  He is with his wife and daughter.  All 3 of them are Christians.  They’ve brought with them Lily, one of the thinnest and most delicate Chinese girls I’ve ever seen.  Her hair is in wavy curls that cascade in a waterfall over her shoulders onto her orange dress.  She is also an English teacher, but is not a Christian…not yet.

As they arrive, the food does as well.  Paul orders beers instead of baijiu.  Before we start eating, we join hands so that David can lead us in a prayer.  Lily…innocent Lily…looks around and then looks down with everyone else as David prays.

“Jesus…we thank you for this food and for bringing us friends from near and afar.  We give grace to you for this meal and for this day.  Amen.”

Lily asks,”Is that how it is?  Every meal?  Each prayer is like that?”  Her eyes are wide and curious like a deer’s.  I have the feeling that she is on the path to being converted.

The meal is good.  It’s a mixture of Beijing duck and some dishes that I’ve never had before…there’s a mashed potato dish that is new to me that is excellent, with some cilantro in it as well.  Frank talks with me more about Christianity and China.

“It’s getting more and more here.  The young people have nothing to believe in anymore,” he says.  “You know, I just felt so welcome when I went back to the States.  The people in the Church community were so friendly to me.  It was different there of course…I mean, not so much to do, but it definitely felt…well, it was amazing to go to these sermons where everyone was praying together…really something…why did you come to Inner Mongolia anyway?” he asks me, changing the subject.

“Well, I originally wasn’t going to come here.  I was going to Ningxia at first.  And on the train I met Amanda.  When she got off the train I told her that I would come back and meet her in Wuhai…I wanted to see it for myself.”

“Why didn’t you take the airplane to Yinchuan?  Much faster,” Paul says.

“If I had taken the airplane I never would have met Amanda,” I laugh.  Good answer.

“But why did you go to Ningxia?” Frank asks again.

“Well…it’s kind of a strange reason…” I tell them about the grey hair and Beihai park and my unfulfilled quest to hear hua er. 

“Hua er?” Paul asks.  “You know…Lily can sing Hua Er.  Would you like to hear it?”  Silence.  It’s going to happen.  She’s going to sing hua er.

“I would love to hear Hua Er,” I say.  “Can you sing something?” I ask Lily.

“Ah…I only know a little bit,” she says modestly.  “But I can try to remember.”  She stands up, her hands at her side.  Her orange dress is frozen in the light.  The lights themselves seem to dim.  No one speaks.  The room is waiting for her to sing.  This is the reason I came on my trip…to hear this song…to fulfill the Grey Hair’s prophesy.  Lily looks off into space and seems to be focusing on a point in the wall behind our heads.  The door beside that we entered in from opens up and in floats the Grey Hair.   The Grey Hair 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 face’s 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.  The Grey Hair turns its head ever slowly as Lily begins to break the silence with her breathing…he is enchanted by her dress, her hair, her innocence.  All of us sit there, waiting–the Christian family, Frank, Amanda, Jacky, Jesus, and me.  We all wait for Lily to sing the Grey Hair’s song.  We wait.  She sings.

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.