TheBanyanTree: The Unwritten Stories - #1

[Pat M]

I am attending some memoir classes and have started to write again. I have
so many stories in my head that I hadn't the time to write while living in
China. This is one of them. If anyone has the inclination, any constructive
criticism would be appreciated. Thanks!  ...Pat

*
First Night in China, July 2007*



My stomached churned as I edged into consciousness. Where was I? I opened my
eyes and tried to orient myself. China! I was in a simply-appointed hotel
room in smoggy Taiyuan, the capital city of Shanxi province, having arrived
from Canada only hours earlier. Brightly colored lights zigzagged across my
vision. Could this be the start of a migraine – I’d never had one before –
or was I going insane?  Had something I’d eaten triggered this? I envisioned
the many plates and bowls of Chinese fare I’d sampled not long before bed,
none of which were familiar. In fact, I had no idea what I’d eaten. And what
had I been thinking coming to China without knowing how to use chopsticks
anyway?  How uninformed I’d been to believe knives and forks would be
available.



I closed my eyes again, but the hum of the air conditioner irritated me and
I rose to turn it off, noting the small kettle and cups my friends and I had
used to drink boiling water before they left me for the night.  Back in
Canada, Mao and Joyce had been surprised that Canadians drink cold water.
“In China, we drink boiling water,” they’d informed me. “Cold water is bad
for the body.”



Because I’d known nothing of my friends’ living conditions and whether their
homes were large enough to host overnight guests, I’d insisted I stay in a
hotel for the first few nights. My friends had booked me into a hotel used
by the military, where they felt I would be safe.  I was sure I was the only
woman in the place and possibly the only Caucasian to ever stay there
judging by the soldiers’ stares as my friends accompanied me to my
room.  Finding
it hadn’t been easy as the hotel was in the midst of renovations and getting
there was so convoluted I wasn’t sure I’d be able to find my way back to the
lobby or outside if an emergency arose.



Vulnerable, that’s what I was, a single female in a hotel filled entirely
with armed military men.  I’d forgotten to ask for my friends’ phone numbers
and had no way of contacting them if I had a problem, and I was certain no
one in the entire place could speak any English. Who goes to a foreign
country without at least a little knowledge of the local language? I could
say Ni hao (hello) and Zai jian (goodbye) but that was about it.



I peered at myself in the mirror. The undulating lines had almost receded
and I could see dark circles under my bloodshot eyes. I’d been on the go for
a couple of days with only a few hours sleep and I was so tired I felt ill.



“Go back to bed,” my mind ordered. “Let go of your fears and get some sleep.
You’re going to need it.”



Beneath a thin white cotton sheet, I drew in some deep breaths; I didn’t
know how I was going to cope the next day unless I got some rest. I tried a
mantra, “Inhale calm; exhale worry," until I finally dozed.



A few hours later I got up and went to the window. The curtains weren’t wide
enough to cover it, and I looked out the gap to the sleeping city and the
anonymous cement high rises as far as the eye could see. Even in the dim
light, a yellow haze coated everything. I knew there were tens of thousands
of people in the apartments around me but I felt so alone.



I returned to bed, tossed and turned, slept and awoke over and over again.
Finally, before the alarm, I stumbled into the bathroom for a shower.  I was
toweling dry when the phone rang. It was Mao.



"We'll be coming for you in 45 minutes," she said. “We’ll go to Wutai Shan
today.”



We’d discussed the Buddhist temples of Wutai Shan as a possible destination
the previous evening, but my friends had been unwilling to commit to a
definite plan. Imagine that, me without a plan—a foreign concept for a
foreign land.



When booking my flight to China two months earlier, I’d discovered something
interesting about the Chinese: they don’t plan ahead. No matter how many
times I’d written to suggest we decide on our itinerary before my arrival,
my friends simply would not be pinned down.



We had two weeks to fill. Were all of our travel plans going to be
spur-of-the-moment? Was this a life lesson on spontaneity?  Me, who begins
packing three weeks in advance of a trip and has every destination and
detail planned well in advance was going to have to do things the Chinese
way; it wouldn’t be easy.



“How long will we stay?”



“One night.”



“I’ve got so much stuff. Is there somewhere I can leave it?”



“You can leave it at my husband’s parents’ place.”



Quickly, I sorted some clothes and toiletries into a smaller more manageable
knapsack. I didn't need to take much, but this simple task took much longer
than it should have; my mind was foggy and decisions weren’t easy.



If the truth were known, I would have preferred to rest up for a day before
starting our travels, but I wanted to be as accommodating as possible. After
all, Mao’s husband had taken time off work to accompany us and it made no
sense for him to stay at home for a day waiting for me to feel better.



Mao, her husband and Joyce arrived at my door. En route to the lobby, we
passed several rooms with open doors. Some of the soldiers inside moved to
their doorways to watch me.



While Joyce helped me check out, Mao’s husband took my heavy luggage and
disappeared outside.



“He’s taking it to his parents’ apartment,” Mao told me. “They live very
close.”



“Great! Thanks!”



An hour later, we sat on a crowded bus leaving the city. Unfortunately, I
sat over the wheel well and there was no comfortable place to rest my feet.
My bent knees nearly touched my chin.  Before long, my rear end began to
ache from the hard wooden seat. Exhaust leaked into the bus and I began to
feel queasy. I slid the window down a few inches and tried to inhale fresh
air, but there was none. Taiyuan is a coal-mining and steel-manufacturing
center. It’s an ugly, heavily-polluted city. No wonder my friends had been
so in awe of the natural beauty of the Kootenays where I’d met them nearly a
year earlier.



Although the bus trip to Wutai Shan would take five hours, the bus didn’t
have a rest room so I was glad some three hours later when the bus finally
stopped so we could go to the toilet. Nearly everyone got off the bus and I
followed Mao and Joyce to a short cement wall with a large open pit behind
it.  A heavy plank spanned the hole, and we joined a long line of women who
waited for their turn. It was July and hot; the trench was nearly full of
feces and urine, and the stink nearly bowled me over. To minimize the
stench, I breathed through my mouth.



There was no privacy as one-by-one each woman walked onto the board,
crouched, did their business and then left. (The Chinese are experts at
crouching and can sit that way for hours at a time.) As I waited, I kept my
gaze averted.



My friends used the pit before me, and I saw Mao gag and cover her mouth as
she headed back to the bus.



Then it was my turn.



“When in China, do as in China,” I muttered to myself. Besides, I had no
choice.



Bravely, as if this were commonplace, I made my way onto the board and
crouched as best I could. I waited. Nothing happened. A quick glance at the
ten or so Chinese women in the lineup behind me revealed that everyone was
watching me as if I were the most fascinating creature they’d ever seen.  My
cheeks began to burn, and something strange happened. With everyone’s eyes
riveted on me, I simply could not go. I stood quickly and scrambled to hoist
my pants before I exposed myself. Shrugging and shaking my head, I headed to
the back of the line.



Finally, when everyone had left, I was able to empty my bursting bladder. A
lone white woman, a woman out of her element, made her way back to the
idling bus, which waited just for her.  I certainly had a lot to learn about
life in China.

xxxxx