National Day – Take 2

I e-mailed my kids probable China whereabouts October 6-8: “I’ll probably go to Yellow Mountain with Zoe and Bear–if they return from taking his sick mother to his hometown and they’re still in the mood. It’s not a life for a control freak, that’s for sure!”

Zoe’s text message came as I went to bed: “We will set out early for Yellow Mountain. 8:00 tomorrow.” At 7:45 next morning, my cell phone rang: “We’re at your gate. Mama, let’s go!”

They were amazed that Mark wasn’t going, tried in vain to call him in spite of my telling them he was away at Qingdao. We talked of Teletubbies (their son, Osito’s favorite, was “surely America’s #1 kid’s program?”), 20-year-old Mike’s reluctance to speak English (Zoe’s student, sitting beside me, playing the same pop song repeatedly on his cell phone), and what kind of jobs they might get when their green card comes for a move to Toronto or Vancouver. Zoe thinks she might teach English with her Chinese certificate. Bear said, “Wash dish! Wash dish!” awaited him. Zoe asked if he might be a taxi driver after he learned a couple of years of English.

We sped past slower cars around curves into the path of motorcycles and oncoming traffic. I candidly told her that Bear would have to learn North America’s rules or pay a lot in fines. She interpreted, as an oncoming driver cut in front of two lanes and brought us to a screeching halt. His “F__ you!” was quickly followed by Zoe’s “B___S___!” but neither of them joined me in wearing a seatbelt.

“Tell Bear, if he has a lady in his taxi in Canada, that she will probably be offended if he says that,” I offered.
This led to discussing what one should say to “let their feelings out.” Any phrases I suggested were met by Bear’s gleeful, “Then other driver say ‘F___ you!” Zoe asked if America had many songs with the “F-word” in them. I could only think of rap lyrics. She played “You’re beautiful,” and–sure enough–there it was. I had to listen closely to realize it was a Chinese copy-cat artist sounding like he was American. “It’s very popular in America. Just ask your son, Mama!” (I hope someone responds to this from the USA–it’s a song about what a guy thinks when he sees an appealing girl on a subway.)

We zoomed up a long pass; I could have been in Idaho, except for Chinese cement-and-curved roofs in forested valleys. On the flat in Anhui Province, we pulled into Nanping, and I read of “38-yuan admission for Movie Village, 300 ancient Ming and Qing Dynasty buildings interconnected by 72 narrow alleyways.” Bear got on his cell phone, and we greeted other Western tourists.

“Where are you from?” I asked.
“United States…Shawnee, Kansas.”
“Small world! I taught there several years, raised my kids in Kansas City.”
Zoe interrupted, “Time to go, Mama!”
My would-be KS friends toured the village Ang Lee chose for “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon,” and I followed Bear through its labrynth another route. His friend’s restored Ming Dynasty hotel-home had Nanping’s ubiquitous white walls and grey tiles with camphor wood cornices above windows. Lunch? No, I was directed to an upstairs bedroom with window open to corn drying in courtyards, shaded by swooping tile roofs from which hung hams and slabs of bacon. We later ate tasty soy beans, pork, chicken, potatoes, greens, and fish soup with Bear’s friend. His sweatshirt announced, “I’m the boss around here!” Customarily, his wife joined us, plucking what was left into her rice bowl, when she was certain we were Chu bao li (full). Not much change from the days of patriarchal Cheng and Li clans, I guessed.

Zoe slept. Bear, Mike, and I climbed ladder-stairs to an ancient tower, photographing cobbled walkways below. I wandered down, and Mike stuck like glue. We sketched and snapped pictures of carved doorways, startled chickens, and caught glimpses of the lives of Nanping’s 1,000 inhabitant’s common life. I escaped to nap, then returned to peaceful meanderings alone, half expecting Zhang Yimou’s “Ju Dou” characters to come flying over the roof tops or swooping into battle from Mt. Linli.

Art students sketched ancient corridors, pigs grunted behind ornate doorways, a museum-home’s courtyard beckoned me to Kuan Yin’s altar through a round entry, and a green hill top revealed ponds, gardens, and a stream where a woman washed clothes.

With each hypnotic step back in time, I shed earlier annoynances and smelled farm aromas, heard sounds familiar in childhood. It occurred to me that Dad would have turned 96 in two days, if here–three days on the side of the world where we slopped pigs, shucked corn, gathered eggs and salted hams to hang in the smokehouse.
Eventually, I found myself back at the tower, sketching, until sundown. It appeared that Bear’s friend did, indeed, have the one refurbished hotel in Nanping; and we were the only guests. Zoe speculated on opening another Babe English School there. Like ancestral Huizhou merchants, our Nanping host was sure there was money in the idea.

I declined an invitation to ride into Huangshan City to buy towels, not provided at the hotel. Sated by a simple supper and fulfilling day, I watched a round, golden moon glance off ancient rooftops until I slept.