(to go to Chinese Traffic - Huaiyin Blues click here)
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A Brief Contemplation Before China….
I have said this before in other journals, but in this situation, it is again very apt - that it's strange how leaving is like dying. Whenever I leave a country for what I know will be a long period of time, there is always this profound sense of reviewing and reflection that occurs. Over the last week I have had a number of instances here, where, in sitting, or in the middle of sleep, I vividly remember something that happened, and have an entirely new view of it, as if in recall, I am suddenly able to see what occurred with the clarity of a stranger.
For instance, the other night, I woke up suddenly at about midnight thinking about my mother and father, and feeling a powerful feeling of things left unsaid. But I could not figure out what it was that I would be telling them - I just felt like I needed to tell them something, something that they needed to know. And though the rational part of my mind was saying, "Come on Roger, get real - if anyone has said as much as they could to let his mother and father know how he felt about them, it's you...what else could you say?" And yet I still had this feeling of things left unsaid.
And then I remembered back to one of the nights I visited with Dad, and we'd drunk a couple of bottles of wine, and yacked each others heads of about everything, from Saddam Hussein to our respective sex lives. And then Dad said something that set a seed of sadness in my heart. He said something about how, whenever we get together, we talk so much, yet rarely say much that’s really meaningful. And he said something like, '...and I'm trying to be closer to you - that's why I invite you to come with me to things..." Anyway, we were both pretty drunk, and went right on to a vigorous debate about world politics, and the moment was lost, as many moments do tend to become lost after a couple of bottles of wine.
It was not until I said goodbye, and gave him a big hug beside my car, and felt the surge of affection within that I remembered what he had said. And I tried to think of what it was that I could possibly say that could turn a light onto the incredible love I have for him, to draw him closer, and make him understand, but there were no words. It was the usual stuff we always said as we pottered about the inevitable leaving. "...Thanks for the wine...yeah, drive carefully...I'll be okay...the garden's looking good...yes, have a tomato...." and so on.
And then I drove away with a powerful feeling of insufficiency - a stronger version of the same feeling of insufficiency I feel whenever I say goodbye to anyone I love. And as I was driving away, I thought, 'I might never see him again, and there is so much for me to tell him...'. And I kept going to turn back, to try to articulate what I felt, but I never did because I knew that even if I did, I would not know what to say - there were no words for the feeling I have for him.
And I felt the same frustration when I left my mother at the door of her house, where I had been staying - the incredible insufficiency of words, yet the same compelling need to say something. And though I was a little disappointed with the banalities we kept to, I can only thank god that they exist, because without their well worn grooves, saying goodbye would have been impossible.
And that's what I woke up with the other night, in my room here in Daqing. It seems as if there is a need inside me to always be trying to express how I feel, which drives me to distraction sometimes. So I lay there and tried to figure it out. And after an hour of meditating on it, I saw that really, there is nothing for my mother, my father and I to say - there is nothing we can say which, in the face of the depth of how we feel for each other, would not, in the end, have sounded trite.
I realized that in a good and loving relationship between people, it is the seemingly small, insignificant things that end up becoming the most meaningful. The brief touches, well worn clichés, and silly babble that we do, that ends up forming the most meaningful part of the ongoing ritual of the relationship. And though on their own they seem meaningless, in totality, they end up being the voice of the body and soul of the relationship.
And in the end, they are really all there is to be said. Beside them, I think that any further grand declaration of love would only sound pretentious and self conscious. And that made me feel much better, because I finally realized there is nothing more I can say - that both my mother and father knew how I felt anyway, because I'm sure they both felt similar feelings. And in the end, what are we all going to say that hasn't been said before, in so many other, more spontaneous ways. In the end, a whole history and love can be spoken more eloquently with a simple hug, or a good laugh together, or an interesting conversation, or even just a simple 'good morning' or 'good night'.
And What About China?
Well, one thing I'm realizing is how much our media has misled us about the quality of life here. The impression our media gives us is of a country laboring under the thumb of a ubiquitous government, where enterprise and individuality is squashed, where people are very careful about what they say, whispered conversations in doorways, always looking over the shoulder for the secret police. Well, it's not like that at all. In fact, I would say that the presence of police is 20 times more noticeable in Australia than here, and freedom to speak, as far as I know (and I do have to remember that I've only been here for 12 days), is unfettered. And the people here have an innocence of heart, and joy in the little things that is refreshing, though I fear that, as China pick up pace and becomes the world power it will certainly become, much that is good will perhaps be lost. but we'll see.
The Chinese people are a strange combination of sensitive awareness, inquisitive friendliness, and outright belligerence, which creates many surprises. In general, and over all, they seem an impossible mix of opposites. They are extremely conscious of conforming with a social 'norm', yet most are highly eccentric and idiosyncratic individuals. They are obsessed with orderliness and rightness, yet there is a gentle and persistent chaos in everything, from the way they drive, to the way they do business. They can be so very affectionate, considerate and kind in the way they treat each other, yet also so cruel and brutally unfeeling it is shocking. They have wonderful laughs, and face splitting grins that light you up, yet they can be extremely un-humorous if some subtle social convention is unknowingly flouted.
But on the whole, I have to say, I like the Chinese people very much. I like their self dependence, their pride, their mischief and their incredible resilience. I have to say, I can even see sense in their apparent coldness and cruelty, which, like any negative human quality, it is all too often only seen by its extreme manifestations.
Anyway, I'm trying to learn Mandarin, but my sieve-like brain seems incapable of remembering Chinese words that seem to be all vowels and wooshing noises to my limited sensibilities. I have realized that I still depend on the solid nails of a the firm consonants of English to define the words to the walls of my brain. Also, in Chinese, it's the tones that are very important to the meaning of the words - it's like, every word has a melody of tones that must also be remembered, as well as the word itself, so for an English speaker, who is used to only having to remember the form of the word, remembering the 'melody also is very difficult. It's like, in English, if a sentence were a song, we only have to remember the lyrics, and to say the lyrics in a sentence makes it understandable. But in Chinese, you have to remember not only the lyrics, but also the melody of each sentence.
But I am learning slowly, and my new Chinese friends, who come and visit me every day, get a lot of amusement at some of the strange meanings I come up with by speaking the words with the wrong melody. For instance, the other day, I was practicing saying, "I want some dumplings." The Chinese word for dumpling is like 'jiousu'. But I said it with the wrong tones, and it came out sounding like, "I want a bad lady". They burst out laughing and told me that if I was to go into a restaurant asking for dumplings that way, they would probably throw me out and yell at me to try the brothel around the corner.
But still, I'm slowly getting there. So far, I have managed to be able to go shopping using a grand total of seven words. And they are (oh I am so proud when they fall so expertly from my mouth):
"Ni how..." (hello)
"Bu yow..." (no thank you)
"Hao..." (good)
"Bu hao..." (not good)
"She sheh.." (thank you)
"Dway..." (yes)
"Bu dway..." (no)...well, actually, like Thai, it's 'no yes', because, like Thai, who say 'mai chai', there is no word for 'no' in Chinese - I must say, I love 'no yes' - it's so profoundly tactful.
Often, in an absent minded moment (ah, how many there have been in this strange life of mine), I'll catch myself saying "Ni how" (hallo) when I'm supposed to be saying "Bu yow" (no thank you).
In the main, I manage quite well, mainly because everybody in the shops is so amused by this foreigner with his mangled Chinese and too much money. They all start rubbing their hands together when they see me, and the prices all go up, and big smiles appear on their faces. But I don't care - I'm obscenely rich in this country, so I don't mind spreading a bit around. The average wage is about 900 Yuan a month. And even at twice the price, food is absurdly cheap here, (3 Yuan for a large lunch) and quite simply, it's wonderful. Best food I've ever had in my life, and so varied. So with a wide variety of hand gestures and mute miming, coupled with my seven words of Chinese, I get around okay.
But I can't tell you how strange it is to be living in a country where, not only is there no-one who speaks English, but they have had so little contact with foreigners in Daqing that they can't understand why you don't speak Chinese. So, unlike the Thai people, who all understand when an English person babbles at them - they have a modicum of English that makes things quite easy - the Chinese just talk louder Chinese at you, thinking that if they lift the volume, maybe this babbling idiot will understand.
And everywhere one goes, also unlike Thailand, in China, there are absolutely no signs in English. And because all the apartment buildings are built to strict regulation design, they all look the same, so any one part of Daqing looks exactly like the other - so it's easy to become lost, even for me, who normally has a strong sense of direction.
For example, the first morning I awoke in Daqing, I was so entranced by what I saw, that I walked out of the hotel and got lost. I'll begin at the beginning ...
For some reason, I had not been able to sleep beyond 12.30 am, so I lay about for a while, and then got up at 1.30, unable to sleep any more. I pottered about unpacking until I felt tired again at about 3 am, and then slept again until 4 am when the sky began to pale.
I woke up to the sound of Chinese voices passing by outside my window, and sat up in bed in an alien place, wondering where I was. I looked out the window to see an old woman dressed in pastel colored pajama's running backwards down the middle of the road, her head held high, and her arms pistoning in time with her leisurely rearwards trot.
'Strange', I thought, then saw another woman coming the other way, also in loose fitting pajama's, and also running backwards.
'Even more interesting' I thought, 'Here I am in the Northern hemisphere where the water spirals down the toilet bowl in the opposite direction to the South, and I notice that this reverse phenomenon applies to people also.'
Though it was only 5 am by now, the wide road between my window and the building across the way was filling with people, some walking vigorously, some just ambling in the pallid dawn light, while a troupe of old people did formation Tai Chi exercises on the path. It was a very happening scene. Then an elderly man and a very young boy appeared, both goose-stepping like storm troopers in mufti, the man instructing the boy loudly, showing him how to kick his arms and legs high into the air.
But as I watched all the people passing, I kept wondering what was missing in this wonderful sunlit morning. There was something about the quiet of the morning that was too complete. All I could hear were people's voices, and the pitter patter of their feet. for some reason there are no cars at that time, so the wide roads were full of people in a holiday spirit. But this feeling remained that there was something missing from this scene.
'It must be because there are no cars,' I thought, 'That's why it's so quiet.'
But there was something else, something missing that I couldn't put my finger on. I went into the bathroom, had a cold shower (no hot water till night-time), then came out to the window again, and stood watching the people once again, and then it hit me.
No birds. Not one bird, no sound of birds.
I went over to another window in my lounge room, opened it, and listened, and looked into all the surrounding trees - still no birds. Here it was, dawn, and no birds. I had never been anywhere in my whole life where I had not heard, or seen or been conscious of birds somewhere at least, until I came here. And though I have been here for 12 days now, I have still not seen one bird, other than the chickens in cages in the markets. No sparrows, no crows, no finches or even doves. Birds are gone from this place, and I still don't know why.
And then, in the soft light of the morning, the music began - slightly distorted and reverberating against the buildings - the playschool scales of sentimental Chinese songs pinned to 4/4 time and waltzes, one song after another. I looked at my watch - what is it, 5.30 in the morning, and they're playing music somewhere? What a magnificent way to begin the day.
This I had to see.
Considering the little sleep I'd had, I felt okay, and the dawning sun was now riding above the trees on the other side of the road, so I decided to go out for a run. So out I trotted, a tall, and very pale, exhausted and puffy faced foreigner in army shorts and t shirt, plodding through an early morning dream - a wide open road among hundreds of picture perfect, rosy cheeked Chinese, all immaculately turned out in their cotton skirts, slacks and silken pajama's, stretching, moving through tai chi poses, swinging their arms, karate kicking trees and fences, walking backwards and....dancing...
Dancing?
I found the music I had heard before, blaring out from a small public address set up in the square in front of an office building. Around the two speakers, twirling and spinning together in the early morning sun, were about 15 couples, older people, average age 60 years, waltzing the morning away like it was midnight on a cruise ship. Precise little steps, holding each other correctly, heads held up and looking beyond each other with such blissful looks on their face as they span forward, then back, then around, then forward again. The innocence of their early morning joy, the earnestness of it, the serene beauty of this scene wrapped me up in a blanket and melted me on the spot.
You must remember that I had just come from Australia, where early mornings are usually redolent with befuddled resentment, fueled by hasty cups of coffee and screaming traffic, the desperate sweat of joggers, throwing down breakfast in front of the radio, blitting and blatting disaster and complaints, and millions of cars on constipated roads, struggling to work with all the other barely wakened and lonely human beings who never say good morning, and wonder why they feel so lonely and depressed.
So here I was in a strange new kind of morning, standing in a gentle morning sun, among uncharacteristic celebration of a new day - wondering at the fathers marching mock goosestep with their children, old couples dancing in the street, all with such blissful unselfconsciousness.
And then, as I was running down towards another road, I saw this guy in a suit, he was running, in an odd loping run, with his shoes going clunk, clunk on the pavement, and his arms pistoning wildly. I though he was running for a bus, but he just kept on running, so I fell in behind him to see where he was going - and he just kept on running. He was getting his morning exercise dressed in a full suit - dark pinstripe. I turned off at the next crossing and he was still running up the road, like some kind of manic cartoon character. I kept thinking I had seen that run before. Then I realized - my ex-girlfriend Marisa (she was Chinese) used to run like that on the rare occasions we used to run together - her feet going clunk clunk and her arms pistoning back and forth.
Must be genetic.
And as I kept on running, I felt like I’d woken up in a Leunig cartoon, (for non-Australians, Michael Leunig is a much loved Aussie cartoonist who specializes in scenes of innocent madness) and as exhausted as I was, I felt like crying with the mad, lunatic joy of it all.
But this is the way the Chinese begin every day here - at 5 am the whole city is like a big holiday camp in which another day is being celebrated.
And now to the point of this long story.
Given my newly arrived and disoriented state, it is understandable that, in rushing out from the hotel to run through this glorious new day in Daqing, turning this way and then that, passing old men swapping gossip, whole orchestra's of violins and strange stringed things that sounded like rattling tins, and choruses of voices singing and hissing in happy pentatonic scales - I simply forgot where I was. And I forgot how to get back to where I had been - wherever that was, for I did not even know the name of the hotel.
Put simply, I got lost.
It was only then that I realized that I had wandered out of the hotel without money, identification, or a phrase book - nor did I know the Chinese word for "Help", or even "Taxi!", or even "Oh my god, I'm lost and nobody knows what I'm saying, nor do they care!!"
Put simply, I had never been so profoundly lost in my whole lost life.
So, in line with the creed I have followed all my life, that being, when in doubt, just keep on running and trust in the inherent order within any chaotic situation to appear in its own time, I kept running. I ran and I ran, past the orchestra's, through parks of gossiping people, around streets of apartments that looked just like the apartments in the street before, through gardens where old men and women tended the vegetables, or sat enjoying the sun. For about 2 hours I ran, and luckily for me, there had been a strange string band, with a twangy instrument I remembered had been playing near my hotel. I heard it again from behind a block of apartments - I made my way for it, and found my hotel. And just as I appeared around the corner, the orchestra stopped. If I had have been a few minutes later, I would not have heard that orchestra guiding me home.
Thank god for synchronicity.
