China Reflection

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

“Where are you from?”  I ask him.

“Henan.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Not bad.  Where you headed today?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good luck,” he answers.

Return to Zhongwei

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next message I send back is in English:

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

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

Lunch

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

“Are you from America?” he asks me.

“Yes.  What about you?”  I ask.

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

“Are you a Christian?”  he asks me.

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

“We’re both Christians,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, water is 2 RMB, right?”  I ask.

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

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

To Wuhai

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

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

“We?”…

Break-up

“Look at my feet.”  Forever Friend holds his feet up so that I can see both soles.  He sits across from me on the other bed in the room, wearing nothing but his underwear.  I don’t notice anything particularly strange about his feet from my bed, so I get up to examine them more closely.

“Blisters!”  He points at two small white blisters that have formed on the balls of his feet, one on his left foot, one on the right.  It seems that my attempts to walk Forever Friend out of the soles of his shoes worked to some extent.  As we get our stuff together to get ready to check out, I notice that Forever Friend’s mood seems more somber today than it was yesterday.  He mentions the need to find work again once more, this time with a little more anxiety in his voice.  I can only wonder if he’s feeling any regrets about tromping around the city with no apparent aim in mind the day before.

We go downstairs and decide to eat at the same restaurant where we ate the previous night’s dinner.  I order a triangle shaped buscuit stuffied with shredded spiced potatoes.  Forever Friend asks me what I want to drink , and I tell him a bowl of porridge would be fine.  A minute later, the waitress  brings me an ice cold bottle of beer, already opened.  The word for porridge is “zhou,” and the word for beer or alcohol is “jiu,” easy to confuse if one is not careful.  Still, I don’t want to drink beer at 8am.  I order a bowl of porridge for myself and we eat in silence.

After breakfast we head out into the street, the Sun’s rays just beginning to wash over the city.  I tell Forever Friend that I have a plan to visit the large mosque near the city’s south square, Little Tian’anmen.  Afterwards I’ll go to to see the Asian Pyramids at Xi Xia Wang Ling.  As I tell Forever Friend my plan, it seems as if he is contemplating something to say to me.  We get to the main road, and he stops and puts out his hand.

“Sorry.  I really have to find a job today.  If you come back to Yinchuan please make sure to give me a call.  My number will never change.”  Just like that we shake hands.  I turn South towards the square, and he continues to walk straight in search of a job.

“I hope you remember me,” he says.

People Market

Heading off towards the direction of Little Tian’anmen, my attention is diverted by a street to the south of the square filled with people.  Thinking it must be some kind of market, I walk over towards the crowd to see what everyone is doing there.  The street is filled with Chinese lounging around on chairs, motorcycles, the curbside, unused carts and wagons, etc.  Some of them are sitting inside restaurants along the sidewalk eating their breakfasts of noodles and porridge, or smoking cigarette after cigarette while they play mahjong.  It seems to be a scene of ultimate boredom and nothing-to-do, and yet it’s not even ten o’clock in the morning.

I stop in front of  one of the restaurants to have a look at the crowd idling in the middle of the street.  As I try to make sense of the entire scene, I notice a head turn in my direction.  Another one follows the first head’s gaze, then another, then another, then another.  Before I know it, I can feel that I am being stared at by all sides and all angles.  It’s at moments like these that I have to bring out the friendliest person in me.  I wave to one of the men who stares at me with dull morning eyes, trying to get him to smile.  Then I open my mouth to speak, and the crowds come in even closer to take a peek.

“Where are you from?” one of the men asks.

“USA. What about you guys?” I ask.

“China,” he laughs.  They all laugh.  The circle around me closes in tighter.  I notice that the people behind me in the restaurant are also standing up, looking at me over my shoulders.

“I mean where in China?”

“Gansu Province.  Langzhou City,” the man seems to be friendly enough.  Turns out a lot of them are from Langzhou.

I have to admit that I’m a little nervous.  It’s been a while since I’ve been surrounded by so many Chinese people just staring me.  I don’t have to say anything.  They’ll continue to stare, whether or not I talk.  I wonder how long I can keep their attention.  I put my bag down to talk for a couple of minutes.  One guy taps me on the shoulder from behind and uses sign language of some sort to tell me to be careful of my bag.  He wags his finger in my face as if to say, “be careful.”  I laugh and say there’s nothing important inside.

The first guy from Langzhou tells me that they are gathering here waiting for work.  What kind of work, they don’t know.  Still, they sit here and wait for the work to come to them.  The bosses with labor projects know where to find the labor.  They come here, to the people market.  If someone needs some men for a construction project, SWOOP, come to the people market and get some workers.  If there is a well that needs to be dug, SWOOP, come by the people market with some shovels.  Need a cook?  SWOOP, the people market is full of chefs who can handle butcher’s knives.  Need the sidewalk repaved? SWOOP… 

After a couple of minutes, the restaurant owner comes out and tries half-heartedly to get the crowds off of his doorstep.  They take a couple of steps back to give me breathing room.  I’m a little tired of being surrounded at this point, and as much as I wonder what a labor boss would make of me should he find me here amongst the crowds of workers, I decide to pick up my bag and leave the people market behind.  The men go back to idling and sitting, waiting for THE MAN to come.

The Silent Mosque

I’m not sure what it is that compels me to go to the mosque near the South Square, Yinchuan’s biggest, but I know that I want to go there before leaving the city.  It could possibly be the fact that I told Forever Friend of my desire to go to the mosque, and I don’t want to be true to my word.  On another level, I’ve always been interested in Islam and Arabic.  The two just seem so foreign to me…so far away.

When I get to the mosque, there is not a soul inside besides the gatekeeper, and about 4 or five caretakers who work and live inside the mosque.  The women who are sweeping the grounds inside all have their heads covered with scarves in accordance with Hui custom.  I buy a ticket at the door and enter the mosque, unsure of where I can go.  There is no guide, and no one shows me the way.  When I enter mosques my mind immediately turns to Mecca, and I start to think about this distant place on Earth that I will never be able to enter, forever closed to me because I don’t believe in Islam.  When doors are closed to me, it piques my curiousity and interest.  I want to know more about this religion.  I want to know why I cannot go there.  When I enter the mosque, I am looking through a window, peeking through the curtains at a preview to a play the night before the performance.

As I walk around the interior courtyard of the gigantic mosque admiring its green turrents and spires that end in the points of crescent moons, I can’t help but notice how blue the sky is here in Yinchuan.  The great domes of the mosque contrast beautifully with the blue sky in the background.  I enter one of the hallways inside the mosque.  It’s filled with pictures of the mosque’s head Imam, an elderly man with a short white beard, spectacles, and the ubiquitous cap that covers his head.  Making my way through the hallway I notice that every picture is just about the same.  Various Islamic leaders or Islamic groups from different parts of China and other foreign countries have made visited this mosque in Yinchuan over the years.  Each picture has a group of visiting Muslims, or a person of importance pictured with the head Imam.

As I exit to leave the mosque I notice that the Imam in the pictures has arrived.  He is talking heatedly with who appear to be building contractors.  He points to the outside of the hall that I was just inside and tells them about some problem with the the wall, or something that he wants fixated to the outside of the wall.  I stand at a distance of maybe 10 to 15 meters away watching them discuss, so I do not hear clearly what they are talking about and can only guess.  Part of me wants to interrupt their conversation so that I can introduce myself to the mosque’s Imam, but I have no idea what I want to say to him.  In the end, I decide to just let them talk about business and leave.  I exit the great mosque for my next destination in Yinchuan, the West Xia Tombs.

Supertaxi and the Pyramids of the East

The day before, while exiting Yinchun train station, the tourist advertisement that most attracted my attention was the one displaying the words, “Pyramids of the East.”  I’ve never been to the Pyramids in Egypt, so I have nothing to compare these pyramids to.  Still, the advertisement intrigued me.  I thought I’d go and see them for myself.  I had no idea why they were there, but I have since decided that pyramids are, for some reason or another, pretty cool.  They make me think of alien movies.

I take a bus to the station where a traveler can apparently catch another bus directly to the site of the pyramids.  Unfortunately, upon arrival the attendant informs me that there will be no more buses today.  The only other people waiting at the bus station is a group of three Chinese tourists from Chongqing, China’s most populous city.  They are negotiating with a taxi driver about the prices it will cost to go see the pyramids and other tourist spots in Yinchuan.  As soon as I arrive, the taxi driver perks up and is all smiles.

I like the driver immediately.  I know he wants money, he knows I know he wants money.  Still, he seems like an authentic guy who really loves his town.  With a deep and husky voice, a face shaped like an arrow, and the cut body of a B-movie action hero, he shows me the brochure that introduces Yinchuan’s tourist spots:  the pyramids of the East, the lake in the desert, China’s desert Hollywood, and a cave featuring heiroglyphic paintings.  I stick to my guns and tell the driver that I only want to go and see the pyramids today.  He talks with the family from Chongqing.  We discuss prices, and it sounds reasonable to me.  At the same time, I don’t want to force the family to go someplace they don’t want to.  They seem hesitant to ride in the taxi. 

“Look, you guys don’t go to the pyramids if you don’t want to.  Don’t change your plans because of me.”

Just when I think that the family is going to join us to the pyramids, they pull out, opting instead to visit the Ningxia history museum.  Looks like it will be just the taxi driver and myself today.  The price goes up but is still reasonable, and I don’t mind paying this guy some cash.  He likes talking, and he’s fun to listen to.  I compliment him on his biceps and he strikes a pose for me, flexing his muscles before we get into his car. 

“Little Horse, you can call me ‘Little Horse,’” says the driver.  I’m older than him by one year, so therefore calling him “Little” is no problem.  And like a horse, grazing in a pasture, his mouth and lips enjoy their exercise.

“You’re from where?  America?  Which basketball team is near your hometown?  I’m crazy about the NBA.  Yeah, I think that the US has the best basketball.  Ah.  I really like that kind of culture.  You know, the black culture.  How long have you been in China?  I really like hearing about foreigners travel stories in China.  Actually, it’s one of my hobbies to collect travel stories.  You think you could send me yours?  I have a space on the internet where I like to post other people’s travel stories or travel pictures.  Maybe you could send me.  You know, I don’t have a lot of opportunities to travel myself, so I just live through other people’s stories.  You’re a pretty nice guy.  Talkative.  Couple weeks ago I took this European guy in my taxi.  Where was he from again?  Hmmmm…Can’t remember.  Anyway, he was a quiet guy.  Didn’t like to talk much.  Seemed serious.  But nice guy.  He had two girls with him.  They were pretty, too.  I’m Hui, by the way, not Han Chinese.  Ah?  You want to hear a song…Ok, here’s one for you….”

Small Horse sings with a smile on his face.  He reminds me of a deep-voiced student I once taught in Nanjing named Louis.  Both of them have the same sort of crinkle when they smile, or the kind of look where they try desperately to stifle a smile but are helpless to stop it from forming on their faces.  I listen to his voice.  It’s not hua er, he tells me, but it’s a good song because he enjoys singing it.  The time blows through the windows of the taxi, and before I know it, we’ve arrived at the site of the Pyramids of the East.

“Well, maybe I’ll see you around.  Remember to send me your pictures and stories if you can.”  I shake hands with him and walk past the hawkers selling Ningxia cowboy hats, purchasing my entrance ticket.

Built in 1038 by the first ruler of the Tangut empire, Li Yuanhao, the Western Xia Tombs still retain the eerie alien feeling that I associate with pyramids.  They are arranged to mirror the same formation as celestrial bodies.   There are 9 imperial tombs, and over 200 other smaller tombs.  When I arrive at the first tomb, I look at it standing there in a giant lump, still housing the body of some former empire’s leader.  The Tangut empire itself was wiped out during the invasion of the Mongols, but their pyramids managed to surive.  I look at the gigantic dirt pyramid sitting there in front of me in an enormous heap, a mammoth anthill, a dirt haystack, an incubating alien space pod.  This is the ode to death.  In the distance, probably about 15 km away I can see other tombs dotting the sparse countryside.  The area is dry is a flat plain.  It’s the kind of plain that leads up to a mountain range in the backdrop.  In my mind I see dark clouds forming behind the pyramid in front of me.  Lightning streaks across the sky.  Sacrifices are made to the ancestors.  Centuries rush by, an army of Mongolian savages ravishes the already ravished landscape and wipes out  the Tangut empire.  Inexplicably the pyramids are left standing, weathered by the elements and neglect, but still impressive with age, like an old man’s beard.  Clumps of their dirt have fallen off, and there are some weeds growing on the sides and rooftops, but they still appear ominous and reek of mystery, history, and loneliness.  The blue sky in the background comes back into existence, expunging the possessed dark clouds from my mind.  It’s hot.  I’m alone.  I look around–only me, the other tourists, and the dirt pyramids of the East…the only corpses are the ones in my brain.  I open my umbrella and sheild myself from the Sun and the spirit of death.

When I get back to the parking lot, Small Horse is still there.  He has been waiting for me the whole time.  Ecstatic at my reappearance, he jumps off the hood of his car and approaches me.

“Hey, your countryman is in that bus.  Help me translate.  I want to take you guys back to the city.  I’ll make it cheap for you, I promise.”  He leads me to the bus where the only other person is an American male of my age.  The American wears wiry glasses and reads a guidebook.

“Oh, hey, foreigner.” he says.  Small Horse is so happy now that he can communicate with both of us.

“This driver has been trying to get me to take his taxi for the past 10 minutes, I think,” the American, Ethan, says to me.  As I talk with Ethan, Small Horse and the driver of the bus talk with each other.  I overhear their conversation at the same time we are talking.

“I can’t understand anything they’re saying,” the bus driver says to Small Horse.

“Yeah, but look at them talk.  Foreigners definitely have the best facial expressions.”

Despite Small Horse’s protests, Ethan and I opt to take the public bus back into town.  Small Horse is a good sport, though, and manages to smile throughout our rejection, feigning disappointment and hanging his head like a kid who just lost a little league baseball game.  Turns out Ethan is just traveling through Ningxia during his vacation.  He works as a history teacher in an international school in the southern city of Shenzhen.  He seems like a nice enough guy.  He informs me that he only recently found his first Chinese girlfriend, so he’s been trying to make renewed efforts at learning Chinese.  He is staying in the soul-less new town in the outskirts of the city.  The buildings are large, vacuous, and cardboard, lacking any sort of character.  He’s on his way to the drum tower in the center of the old town.  As the bus heads towards town, I decide that it’s still way too early for me to go to the train station.  I tell the bus attendant to drop me off at the stop nearest the Ningxia history museum near the people’s square.  I get off without exchanging numbers with Ethan.  He’s a nice guy, but I know that there are things that he wants to see, and there are things that I know I want to see.  Somehow we both know to let each other go our own separate ways.

 The Saggy Buttocks of Yinchuan

The new town of Yinchuan feels like a small boy trying to wear his father’s pants.  He wants to be a big boy, but the pants just won’t stay up around his waist regardless of how tight he makes the belt.  Punch an extra hole in the belt, make it tighter.  It just doesn’t matter.  His legs simply aren’t long enough, and the pants sag around his buttocks.  He has to be careful of tripping over the bottom of the pants, and they drag along in the dust.  His hands constantly grasp the belt so as to keep his pants from falling down, exposing his ass to the world.

After passing through the streets that are too wide and the buildings that are too empty, I wonder why anyone would want to live in the new town of Yinchuan?  I miss the closeness and activity of the old town.  Here it feels like a ghostworld.  Exiting the bus, I see the People’s Square of Yinchuan across the street.  Next to the square is the Ningxia history museum.  Beside the history museum is the city’s new public library.  Everything looks new and clean to me.  Not one soul enters the history museum.  It is as a gigantic lego structure, spectators afraid to touch it for fear of it collapsing.  It’s too perfect.  As I approach the museum to enter, something about it’s looming presence also reminds me of the gigantic dirt pyramid that was looming before me only an hour before.  Quiet.  Gigantic.  Mysterious.  I walk to the nearest door and try to open it.  It doesn’t budge.  No sound comes from the museum’s interior.  No one approaches me to tell me which door to enter.  Slowly, I walk around the perimeter of the museum, trying every door that I see.  They are all locked.  It’s Monday afternoon.  I guess the family from Chongqing should have come with me to the pyramids instead.  Still no one approaches me.

Deciding that it’s still too early to go to the train station I instead enter the adjacent public library.  The building is huge as well.  I enter the cafe section and buy a cold drink and decide to study for a few minutes.  Sitting in the library, studying Chinese, I am reminded of my travels in the US.  Once again, I think of the American Midwest–some small town in Missouri or Nebraska.  I am driving across our great country and I need to stop for a couple of hours for a rest.  Out of all the places to take a break in a small town, none is better than a local park or public library.  Take a load off and read a book.  This is what I did.  This is what I do.  I stay in the library for more than an hour, reading and studying Chinese from one of the books on the desk nearby my seat.  The book is about life lessons and morals.  I read a story about a young man who arrives at a fork in the road.   There is a man at the fork.  He informs the young man that one direction leads to Heaven, the other leads to Hell.  However, there is a catch.  He cannot tell him the answer, and once one starts down one road he cannot turn back.  After telling him the situation, the other man leaves and walks down one of the roads.  The young man decides to wait for other travelers to arrive.  They press forward and choose one or the other road.  When he yells at them to ask them to give him some clue of what is ahead, they are already well out of ear’s reach and cannot answer his question.  The years go by, and the young man ages into an old man.  He gets to the point where his body gives out, and even if he wanted to, he could not walk forward on either of the two roads.  His beard is long, his hair is grey, and his bones are brittle.  He will die as he lived, waiting at the fork in the road.  No time to spend life wasted in indecision.  When you get to a crossroads, cross it.  I get up from my chair, rested and enlightened, and press forward.  Time to get out of Yinchuan.

I saw you in a vision

At 5:30 in the afternoon, the train for Zhongwei chugs slowly away from Yinchuan.  I’m on it, and my mind is in a reverie.  I sit in the car as evening comes, reading a book next to my Chinese traveling companions.  Around 6:30 in the evening, my favorite part of the day arrives.  As the Sun begins to go down, I the rays of the Sun aren’t so hot anymore.  I like to call it a soft light.  In a soft light, anything can look beautiful–a dirt field in the distance, a mosque along the side of the road, railroad workers carrying heavy sacks filled with who-knows-what, a mole on the cheek of the woman who sits across from me.  The young boy of 22 opposite me talks and talks, a smile on his face.  He is going home after a work stint of laying track for the summer in Zhongning, another small city halfway between Yinchuan and Zhongwei.  He is taking the train to its final destination of Xi’an, home of the Terra Cotta Warriors.  He smiles the smile of an innocent kid heading home, but his muscles are more developed than mine, his fingers rougher after doing hard labour ever since turning 16.  When he boarded the train a middle-aged man was sitting in his seat.  At first he refused to get up for the boy, but the boy persisted, showing him his ticket that clearly proved it was his seat.  I hardly say a word on this leg of the journey, instead content to read my book and imagine what awaits me in Zhongwei.

I know that there is a temple in Zhongwei, and I have imagined it.  When the Grey Hair first told me about Zhongwei, it felt like a dream.  He described a place of music and song, sitting by a river or tributary to a river, walking along and eating mutton outside in the clear, desert, starry night.  There is a temple there, he told me.  It’s called, “Gao” Temple, which means “High” temple.  In my mind’s eye I see the temple in the night, looming before me, inside only stillness and solitude.  The sky behind the stars is black and clear.  The stars themselves are bright, holding the void of the night in its place, keeping the blackness from crashing down.  Behind the temple is the Moon, the night air is crisp and filled with song.  The Moon reflects its light on the temple’s rooftops.  Not a soul inside stirs.

After arriving in Zhongwei I already know that I like it more than Yinchuan.  Directly in front of the station is a large square with children playing, dancing, people singing.  It has the feeling of a small town.  I get more stares.  Immediately, I decide to buy  map.  I ask a couple of old folks where I can find a map.  They don’t know.  A high school girl overhears me and tells me that she’ll take me to a bookstore where I can purchase one.  Her two friends giggle as she speaks English to me, but she doesn’t seem to mind.  We pass buy hoardes of people sitting outside snacking on sticks of mutton and drinking beer.  After 5 minutes we arrive at a bookstore and the shop owner sells me a map.  He seems jovial enough, and he recommends some places near Zhongwei that I should go.

“You should visit ‘Sha Puo Tou’ and see the real desert.  Really something.” he says.

“Thanks.  I’ll probably go there tomorrow.  What I really want to do is listen to Hua Er though,” I say, taking my chances, wondering if maybe he can sing the elusive song.

“Hmmm…not many people can sing that anymore.”  He crinkles his brow, thinking to himself.  “If you want to hear hua er  you might need to go to Hai Yuan county.  That’s where it comes from.”

Hai Yuan County.  I’ve never heard of it.  Sounds good.

The high school girl and her friends leave.  I thank the shopowner for his suggestion and walk out into Zhongwei, back towards the square.  The sky is getting darker and darker.  People are still eating sticks of mutton by the water, the barbecue smoke attacks my nostrils.  I decide to walk on a side street to make a loop before finding a hotel.  It’s then that I realize that I am walking in front of the High Temple.  And just like that, the Grey Hair’s vision comes to life.  Despite the fact that there is no song, the vision comes out of the picture and I can touch it, feel it.  Electric.  I walk next to the outer walls of the temple.  It stands before me, looming next to me like a monolith, like the pyramids of the afternoon, like the perfect history museum in Yinchuan.   Stillness and solitude.  The sky behind the stars is black and clear.  The stars themselves are bright, holding the void of the night in its place, keeping the blackness from crashing down.  Behind the temple is the Moon, the night air is crisp and filled with silence.  The Moon reflects its light on the temple’s rooftops.  Not a soul inside stirs.   

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.