River Town_ Two Years On The Yangtze Part 7

"When I finished university," she said, "I was sent to the remote countryside. It was near the Wu River, almost to Guizhou. I was a peasant. You must remember that my home was Chongqing; I was not from the countryside. I was not a peasant. But I could not go back to my home. For three years I was a peasant, and then for three years I taught in a country school. Middle school. I taught the students to read.

"You cannot imagine those times. Jiang Qing"-she hissed the name, the way I'd heard other Chinese say it-"Jiang Qing, Mao's wife, she said no need to learn, no reason to learn the ABCs. No ABCs!" And she repeated it a few times, her voice rising angrily-no ABCs, no ABCs, no ABCs. She seemed to realize that it sounded almost silly to be crying and saying that, but there was no other way to express what it was like to have been an educated city woman in the countryside, a teacher with nothing to teach. Even now there was no way to tell us what it was like to be fifty-three years old and still burn with the memory of time wasted like that. Adam and I stood there in silence. I thought that I should say something, and finally I asked her how today had been different from the services when Mao died in 1976.

"At that time, every danwei danwei had a committee in charge of mourning," she said: "We wore white, we made wreaths, and for a week there was mourning. Everybody worked for the funeral. Students, teachers, workers, peasants-everybody worked. Everything was stopped. This time it is very different." had a committee in charge of mourning," she said: "We wore white, we made wreaths, and for a week there was mourning. Everybody worked for the funeral. Students, teachers, workers, peasants-everybody worked. Everything was stopped. This time it is very different."

She swept the air with her arm, gesturing out to the teaching building, the city, the boats on the rivers. "This," she said, "is cheap."

She spat out the word, and then she wiped her eyes and went inside the building. I had seen more emotion from her in five minutes than I usually saw in weeks of Fuling conversations. I pa.s.sed her in the street the next day and she smiled but said nothing, the same way she always had in the past. Over the next year and a half we never had another serious conversation.

FOR THE FIRST SIX WEEKS of term, all of the third-year students returned to their hometowns to do practice teaching, and I only had four hours of cla.s.s a week. They were first-year speaking cla.s.ses and the preparation work was not difficult. My job took perhaps five hours a week. of term, all of the third-year students returned to their hometowns to do practice teaching, and I only had four hours of cla.s.s a week. They were first-year speaking cla.s.ses and the preparation work was not difficult. My job took perhaps five hours a week.

By now Adam and I were spending less time together, although usually we met for a meal at least once a day. We had always been concerned about relying too much on each other, which was a common pattern for Peace Corps volunteers in China. Living as a foreigner in a small town in Sichuan was often difficult, and the temptation was to withdraw into the foreign community-even if it was a community of only two.

This was an easy way to miss whatever the town had to offer, and it was also an easy way to ruin a friendship. Somehow, most of the Peace Corps pairings worked out, but there were a few that didn't, sometimes spectacularly. Occasionally volunteers could hardly speak to each other after a year. This wasn't what either Adam or I wanted from our experience in Fuling, and so that was our balancing act-to be friends without the claustrophobia, to support without leaning.

Probably it helped that in certain respects we were similar. Adam was from Minnesota; I was from Missouri; both of us had gone to university on the East Coast. Our parents taught in colleges. We had lived overseas before. Each of us was independent-that was crucial. And each of us had an a.n.a.lytical turn of mind, which was often how we dealt with Fuling, talking with each other as we tried to figure out why things happened the way they did.

But we spent most of our time together doing what the Chinese call chui niu chui niu-"blowing the bull." We told old stories and talked sports; we joked around and created our own mythology of Fuling, composed of the places and people we saw every day: Rat Girl, Jackson, Left Eye, Copy Girl, the Club, the Karaoke Boat, the Hepat.i.tis B Barber Shop. None of it would have made sense to anybody else, like our language itself. Really we had four languages: Chinese; Special English, which we used when speaking slowly with the students; Normal English, for the rare times when we happened to go someplace where there were other waiguoren; waiguoren; and Fuling English, which was what we spoke when we were together. Fuling English consisted of a combination of slang from our previous lives, references to the local mythology, and a sort of pidgin Chinese: certain useful Chinese words and phrases, spoken without tones, and often corrupted with an English "s" at the end (there are no plurals in Chinese and words never end in an "s" sound). In our Fuling English, and Fuling English, which was what we spoke when we were together. Fuling English consisted of a combination of slang from our previous lives, references to the local mythology, and a sort of pidgin Chinese: certain useful Chinese words and phrases, spoken without tones, and often corrupted with an English "s" at the end (there are no plurals in Chinese and words never end in an "s" sound). In our Fuling English, guanxi guanxi meant "relationship" meant "relationship" xiaojies xiaojies were "young women" were "young women" mafan mafan was "trouble." When you spent that much time with a person it was inevitable that you developed your own language-and part of that language was that there were many things that didn't have to be said at all. was "trouble." When you spent that much time with a person it was inevitable that you developed your own language-and part of that language was that there were many things that didn't have to be said at all.

The need for s.p.a.ce was one of those unspoken understandings, and during the start of the second semester we began to drift into more independent lives. I focused on studying Chinese, and I also started to spend more time in the city, which was slowly becoming less intimidating. I realized that the key was finding places I went to regularly-it was no good just to wander around downtown Fuling, because that way I attracted too much attention and the pa.s.sersby shouted at me. It was better to go to the same places at the same times every week, and then the people became accustomed to me and it was easier to have conversations.

Often I stopped by the South Mountain Gate Park, where there was a photographer named Ke Xianlong who was interesting to talk with. He was a dialect speaker but he was very patient, and three or four times a week I'd talk with him and then make my way up to the w.a.n.gzhou Park at the top of Fuling City.

The park had a nice teahouse where I'd sip tea and study my textbook. There was a friendly xiaojie xiaojie named Song Furong who worked there, along with some other girls whose names I never learned, and we'd kid each other and they'd teach me words I shouldn't know. I always used the words innocently, as if I had no idea what I was saying, and the named Song Furong who worked there, along with some other girls whose names I never learned, and we'd kid each other and they'd teach me words I shouldn't know. I always used the words innocently, as if I had no idea what I was saying, and the xiaojies xiaojies would cover their mouths and howl with laughter. would cover their mouths and howl with laughter.

I started to realize that in a place like Fuling it actually wasn't so difficult to learn spoken Chinese once you had the foundation. Virtually n.o.body knew English, and there was so much curiosity about waiguoren waiguoren that people constantly approached me, and once we started talking there seemed no limit to their interest and patience. The most important part of my study routine was simply making myself available-I sat in the teahouse with my textbook, and whoever was walking past would stop to see what the that people constantly approached me, and once we started talking there seemed no limit to their interest and patience. The most important part of my study routine was simply making myself available-I sat in the teahouse with my textbook, and whoever was walking past would stop to see what the waiguoren waiguoren was reading. We'd start talking and if it was a good conversation it would last for thirty minutes, and then somebody else would stop. I'd spend three hours there, the was reading. We'd start talking and if it was a good conversation it would last for thirty minutes, and then somebody else would stop. I'd spend three hours there, the xiaojies xiaojies refilling my cup whenever it cooled, and in that time I'd have conversations with more than a dozen people. The city was teaching me Chinese. refilling my cup whenever it cooled, and in that time I'd have conversations with more than a dozen people. The city was teaching me Chinese.

Above the teahouse was a karaoke bar where they had prost.i.tutes, and sometimes young men would walk past me on their way upstairs. Often they were drunk, moving in packs with their beepers and cigarettes, and sometimes they'd stop to talk. Usually I could tell they just wanted to give the waiguoren waiguoren a hard time and I'd pretend I didn't understand, and they'd laugh and move on. Song Furong thought that was funny, and after the young men had left we'd talk about why I hadn't liked them. That was something else I realized that semester: One of the benefits of being a a hard time and I'd pretend I didn't understand, and they'd laugh and move on. Song Furong thought that was funny, and after the young men had left we'd talk about why I hadn't liked them. That was something else I realized that semester: One of the benefits of being a waiguoren waiguoren was that n.o.body could tell how much you knew. was that n.o.body could tell how much you knew.

I had finished the language lessons about catching trains and saying goodbye, and now my new textbook dealt with Chinese history and politics. It was a Chinese-published book with a Chinese political agenda, which made the cla.s.ses much more interesting, because the vocabulary was useful and I could watch the way my tutors reacted to the material. One chapter featured a political debate between two fictional American students of Chinese, one of whom asked how it was possible that China could be a democratic country when it was led by only one party. The other American student, named John, answered: Why can't a country led by a single party achieve a high level of democracy? The Chinese Communist Party represents the interests of every group, and the Chinese people enjoy wide-ranging democratic rights.

When we reviewed that lesson one day in cla.s.s, Teacher Kong paused and ran his finger over the paragraph. "Some people," he said, "would not agree with that."

I said that I didn't know much about it, although most Americans had their own opinions about Chinese politics.

"What do most Americans think?" he asked.

"Most Americans think that China is not a democratic country."

I wouldn't have said that to any of my students, or anybody on the street, but it was different with Teacher Kong. I knew he wasn't a dissident-and indeed he would join the Communist Party himself the next year-but he was slow to judge and he could listen to ideas without either flatly accepting or refuting them. In Fuling those were rare qualities.

"Our China is different from America, I think," he said. "The education level in America is higher. Most of the Chinese are peasants, and if they chose our leaders directly it would be dangerous, because anybody could lie to them, or trick them. China isn't ready for that yet. But that's just my opinion-I don't know if it's correct or not."

He appeared to be slightly uncomfortable with the subject and I didn't pursue it. And in truth I wasn't certain about my own notion of democracy, which had broadened considerably since my arrival in China. Part of this was because the Chinese government also claimed the word, which made me consider how it was sometimes abused in America. Teacher Kong's remark was cynical, but at the same time there was a strain of idealism in the way he looked at American-style democracy, because he didn't realize that in fact the poor and uneducated rarely bothered to vote in the United States. Sometimes that was how I felt about democracy-regardless of whether it was the Chinese or the American government claiming to be empowered by the common man, part of it was dishonest wordplay. But even at my most cynical I recognized that there was an enormous difference in the degree of dishonesty.

Living in Fuling taught me that democracy is as much a matter of tolerance as of choice. After talking with Teacher Kong, I thought about my own partic.i.p.ation in America's system, and I realized just how shallow my involvement had been. I had never cast a vote that truly made a difference, and I never would; elections are not decided by a single tally. Nor had I ever played a major role in organizing a demonstration, and I had yet to react to an injustice by writing letters or alerting the press. Essentially, this was the extent of my role in American democracy: casting meaningless votes and accepting the results. But still I didn't feel particularly powerless, because I knew that my role resulted from my own decisions, and I could always increase my involvement if something struck me as intolerable. In the past I had simply chosen not to be involved, and this choice was just as democratic as any positive act.

Many of these democratic options had been made extremely difficult in Fuling, where the price of dissent was high. Or at least I a.s.sumed that it was, because I had read about Chinese dissidents; I certainly didn't meet very many in Fuling. It was far more common to meet people like Teacher Kong, who seemed uninspired by the notion of democracy. Of course, such citizens were the natural by-product of a system like China's, but this worked both ways: the Chinese system could also be seen as the natural creation of people who had little faith in their own power. As to which had come first, the people or the system, that was hard to say. But it was striking that while most Fuling residents were completely disengaged from public affairs, there wasn't a strong sense of powerlessness that accompanied this condition. Rather they didn't seem to care very much, and it wasn't much different from the way I felt in America. In the end, Fuling struck me as a sort of democracy-perhaps a Democracy with Chinese Characteristics-because the vast majority of the citizens quietly tolerated the government. And the longer I lived there, the more I was inclined to see this as the silent consent of people who had chosen not to exercise other options.

The week after my cla.s.s with Teacher Kong, I reviewed the same chapter in my textbook with Teacher Liao. When we came to John's response, I asked her what she thought.

"That's correct," she said. "China is a democratic country."

"But some Chinese think it's a problem that there's only one party, don't they?" I asked.

"No," she said. "All of us support the Communist Party. And we have elections all the time-we had one recently. China is a democratic country."

"Do you think that China has any Capitalist Characteristics?" I asked, because this was something else that Teacher Kong and I had discussed. We had talked about the way capitalism was taking hold as Chinese state-owned enterprises were privatized, and how the reforms allowed people to own private businesses. But everything was different with Teacher Liao-the language was the same, but its political parameters shifted dramatically whenever I changed between my two teachers.

"China has no Capitalist Characteristics," she said flatly. "It is Socialism with Chinese Characteristics."

It was pointless to argue with Teacher Liao, at least with regard to politics, where she strictly followed the government line. And it was remarkable how far this line stretched; in Fuling bookstores you could buy a copy of the Const.i.tution of the People's Republic of China, which included Article 35, Section II: Citizens of the People's Republic of China enjoy freedom of speech, of the press, of a.s.sembly, of a.s.sociation, of procession, and of demonstration.

That was almost as good as the slave-owning American revolutionaries writing about equality. My favorite part of the Chinese Const.i.tution was Article 32, Section 1: The People's Republic of China may grant asylum to foreigners who request it for political reasons.

Newspapers were the same way, and anybody in Fuling who wanted real news relied on either the Voice of America, itself a propaganda organ, or xiaodao xiaoxi xiaodao xiaoxi, which translated as "small alley news," or word of mouth. It seemed incredible that in a modernizing country of China's size many people turned to rumor as the most reliable source for information about current events. To me, this was the most substantial political distinction between America and China-even though much of what America believed about itself was also fraudulent, at least the press and publishers could express unorthodox views. It wasn't until I went to China that I realized a person could become homesick for conspiracy theories.

At the start of the spring semester, an English-speaking teacher from another department asked if he could borrow some literature books, and I invited him to stop by my apartment. I showed him my small collection-Hemingway, Jack London, Mark Twain, a Norton Anthology. I also had some political books about China, which he examined carefully.

"Those books all criticize China," I said. "I don't know if they are true or not, but probably you wouldn't like them."

His eyes lit up. He was a tiny man with thick gla.s.ses and a jutting jaw, and he took my copy of China Wakes China Wakes and looked at the back cover. "In China we can't get books like this," he said. and looked at the back cover. "In China we can't get books like this," he said.

"That book is very negative," I said. "It was written by two reporters for the New York Times New York Times. Some of it is about the student protests in 1989."

"Can I borrow it?" he asked.

I saw no harm in that and I gave him the book. I asked him how he usually found out about things that were forbidden, and he mentioned the small alley news. Recently the foreign press had carried reports of ethnic unrest in the far-western province of Xinjiang, and out of curiosity I asked if he had heard anything.

"I've heard that there are some problems there," he said. "Or actually, they said on the television that there are no problems there. But if there were no problems, why would they say so on the television? So I knew there must be something wrong. But I don't know exactly what is happening."

I gave him a recent copy of Newsweek Newsweek that included an article about Xinjiang, and he took his book and left. Over the semester he came periodically to borrow my books, although he never said much about what he thought of them. He was a shy, quiet man who never seemed comfortable talking with me, and it was the same way with a couple of young English teachers who occasionally stopped by my apartment. I sensed that these men were searching for friendship, but something seemed to be holding them back. Perhaps it was their own uncertainty, but more likely it was the warnings of the college; I never learned for sure. To me they were nothing more than shadowy figures who seemed to be groping for something that couldn't be found in Fuling. that included an article about Xinjiang, and he took his book and left. Over the semester he came periodically to borrow my books, although he never said much about what he thought of them. He was a shy, quiet man who never seemed comfortable talking with me, and it was the same way with a couple of young English teachers who occasionally stopped by my apartment. I sensed that these men were searching for friendship, but something seemed to be holding them back. Perhaps it was their own uncertainty, but more likely it was the warnings of the college; I never learned for sure. To me they were nothing more than shadowy figures who seemed to be groping for something that couldn't be found in Fuling.

Teacher Liao was different-she had no patience for the foreign view of China. In some ways I couldn't blame her; the American press tended to portray a China that was overwhelmingly negative and Beijing-centered. And yet like any waiguoren waiguoren in China, I knew that I had access to a great deal of information that was unavailable to the Chinese, and as a result I often felt as if I understood the political situation better than the locals. It was impossible to avoid this type of arrogance, even though I realized that it was misleading and condescending, and I was careful not to voice my opinions openly. But Teacher Liao obviously noticed my skepticism about the material we studied, and I, in turn, sensed her suspicion of what I had been taught in America. She liked that I was learning Chinese fairly quickly, and I could see that she respected my efforts to study the language. But as my Chinese improved we began to see each other more clearly, and soon there was no avoiding the central issue in our relationship: that I was a in China, I knew that I had access to a great deal of information that was unavailable to the Chinese, and as a result I often felt as if I understood the political situation better than the locals. It was impossible to avoid this type of arrogance, even though I realized that it was misleading and condescending, and I was careful not to voice my opinions openly. But Teacher Liao obviously noticed my skepticism about the material we studied, and I, in turn, sensed her suspicion of what I had been taught in America. She liked that I was learning Chinese fairly quickly, and I could see that she respected my efforts to study the language. But as my Chinese improved we began to see each other more clearly, and soon there was no avoiding the central issue in our relationship: that I was a waiguoren waiguoren and she was Chinese. and she was Chinese.

During the spring semester our relationship grew increasingly unhealthy, fueled by the political and historical lessons in my book, and often there was a definite tension as we prodded each other carefully. When the textbook discussed the Opium Wars, she quietly pointed out that America had also benefited from the unequal treaties that were forced upon the Chinese, and she lingered over the description of the waiguoren waiguoren looting and burning the Summer Palace. During our review of the chapter on science and technology, she was careful to note that although the American experts had said there were no major oil reserves in China, native scientists had discovered the vast Daqing fields after Liberation. This pleased Teacher Liao immensely-she pointed out that the Chinese were now self-sufficient in oil, whereas America had to rely on the Middle East. looting and burning the Summer Palace. During our review of the chapter on science and technology, she was careful to note that although the American experts had said there were no major oil reserves in China, native scientists had discovered the vast Daqing fields after Liberation. This pleased Teacher Liao immensely-she pointed out that the Chinese were now self-sufficient in oil, whereas America had to rely on the Middle East.

I had never been a patriot, and certainly I had never been patriotic about oil, but things were different now-I was a waiguoren waiguoren, and I was developing a waiguoren waiguoren's sensitivity to any sort of slight. The second time Teacher Liao bragged about China's oil self-sufficiency, I noted that China had actually become a net oil importer in 1995. Although Teacher Liao distrusted my sources (Newsweek), I could see that she was annoyed by the readiness and precision of my statistics. And I pointed out that Americans don't worry much about being self-sufficient in things like oil, because we have good relations with many countries and have never made an effort to close ourselves to the outside world. More sensible voices sounded in my head-what about Pat Buchanan? America First? the anti-Chinese laws in the nineteenth century?-but balance was not my goal. I was fighting fire with fire, and I responded to propaganda with more of the same.

Those were our Opium Wars-quiet and meaningless battles over Chinese and American history, fueled by indirect remarks and careful innuendo. The same thing was happening in Adam's cla.s.ses, and sometimes we discussed the best way to react when Teacher Liao started to needle us about the unequal treaties or the loss of Hong Kong. It was difficult because she always had the advantage; the book was on her side, and so was the language. In Chinese, the Korean War is known as the "War of Resistance Against the Americans and in Support of the Koreans," and it is difficult to discuss a war with that name and make the Americans look good. And the Chinese use personal p.r.o.nouns when they speak of national affairs-it's "our China" and "your America." I found this to be a small but critical quirk in the language; every political discussion quickly became polarized, and every aspect of America-both its successes and its failures-became my personal affair.

In response, Adam and I learned to attack Teacher Liao's soft spots. It was always effective to mention innocently how rich Hong Kong had become under British rule, and we knew that we could get a rise out of her by talking about Premier Li Peng. He wasn't popular in China-in particular, many Chinese intellectuals hated him, because of his old-style conservatism and because he had supported the use of violence in quelling the Tiananmen Square protests. And it was no secret that the foreign press criticized him mercilessly. One day there was a lull in cla.s.s and I brought up the subject, just to see how Teacher Liao would react.

"What do the Chinese people think of Li Peng?" I asked.

"All of us like Li Peng," she said quickly. Invariably her responses were like that-all or nothing, white or black.

I nodded and continued, "He had some guanxi guanxi with Zhou Enlai, didn't he?" with Zhou Enlai, didn't he?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know how to say it-I read in a history book that Li Peng didn't have parents." I was trying to say "orphan" in a roundabout way I was hoping to get to nepotism. "How do you say it if a child doesn't have parents?" I asked.

"Sishengzi?" she said.

"Right," I said. "I read that Li Peng was a sishengzi sishengzi, and Zhou Enlai took care of him."

Her reaction was immediate.

"Budui!" she said angrily. "That's foreign luanshou! luanshou! That's That's waiguoren waiguoren talking noise! It's not true! I know you read that in your foreign newspapers, but it's completely false!" talking noise! It's not true! I know you read that in your foreign newspapers, but it's completely false!"

It was the first time I'd seen her openly angry, and I had never imagined that Li Peng's adoption was such a touchy subject. I asked her to write that word, sishengzi sishengzi, and she scratched it hard on my notebook, her face red. The three characters translated literally as "personal child." I grabbed my dictionary and looked it up: "illegitimate child; b.a.s.t.a.r.d." I had been saying that Li Peng was Zhou Enlai's b.a.s.t.a.r.d son.

"Uhm," I said, "that's not the right word. Sorry."

I picked up the dictionary again and fumbled through it until I found the correct term: gu'er gu'er. I apologized again for the mistake and she seemed relieved; yes, she said, Li Peng had been adopted by Zhou Enlai. I left it at that-I was embarra.s.sed to have pushed her so far, even if it had been partly unintentional. The next cla.s.s she asked me pointedly why the American government helped its athletes take performance-enhancing drugs, and we went around again, this time with me on the defensive. And so it went every other week, our Opium Wars raging as the countdown to Hong Kong's return drew closer and closer.

ONE DAY IN LATE MARCH, I was studying Chinese at my desk when I saw a lizard skittering across the ceiling. He was dull green with bulging black eyes, and he moved in jerks and starts, like a film missing every third frame.

He was the first one I'd seen since October. On warm autumn nights the apartment had been full of them, slipping across the ceiling in search of mosquitoes. Light startled them; often I'd walk into a room, flip the switch, and three or four would fall off the ceiling. They always landed flatly, their webbed feet slapping against the concrete floor. The March lizard was a small one, and he crept slowly around the doorway and disappeared.

The peach trees on Raise the Flag Mountain showed tiny white buds. Flowers on campus were beginning to bloom, and every few days we had rain. The sand banks and rocky islands in the rivers were steadily shrinking. The White Crane Ridge disappeared.

For two days the winter fog faded and the sun shone more brightly than it had in months. I went running in a short-sleeved shirt. Peasants in the fields were wading behind oxen, plowing the mud. Rice-planting season was here.

And then the cold returned as suddenly as it had left. The fog came back and settled thick above the rivers. Some of the flowers died. The buds on Raise the Flag Mountain paused. The peasants kept plowing. In the stairway outside of my apartment, I found a dead lizard, his dusty eyes gray and dull.

A FEW DAYS LATER I took a long hike up the Wu River. I packed my tent and sleeping bag, along with my camping stove. I put a compa.s.s in my pocket. Recently my younger sister Angela had sent me an old paperback copy of Ted Williams's baseball autobiography, which I brought as well. I hoisted the pack onto my shoulders and walked out the side gate of the college. I took a long hike up the Wu River. I packed my tent and sleeping bag, along with my camping stove. I put a compa.s.s in my pocket. Recently my younger sister Angela had sent me an old paperback copy of Ted Williams's baseball autobiography, which I brought as well. I hoisted the pack onto my shoulders and walked out the side gate of the college.

I headed south past the mouth of Mo Pan Valley and up the street through the Taiji medicine factory district. Everybody stopped to stare as I walked past; I heard laughter behind me. An old man paused on the side of the road, smiling. "Are you going home?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, and I waved to him and kept walking.

It was a gray, misty morning, with a cold wind blowing down the Wu River valley, but it felt good to have a full pack on my shoulders, and it felt good to be walking. I came to the Wu River Great Bridge, where the East River road swung west across the water, and I crossed the street, taking the footpath that ran above the river. All winter I had looked out my window at the steep green hills and the far bend of the Wu, hazy in the distance, and all winter I had been thinking: Someday in the spring I'll see what's beyond that bend.

The water was a chalky green and I followed the paths along the Wu's western bank. I pa.s.sed the first side valley with its broken Buddhist shrine tucked underneath low trees, and I walked through some small farms and came to the Fuling Liangtang ore factory, where they dug gravel out of the hills. A pale dust covered everything-the docks, the workers' dormitories, the ma.s.sive steel chutes that carried the rocks down from the hills. In the center of the complex was a sign:

Happy Happy Go to Work, Safe Safe Return Home

In Chinese you can double adjectives for emphasis, and that was a common propaganda message in factories and construction sites. It was always a pretty good indication that you should keep moving. There were lots of those signs across the Yangtze River, where they were blasting the h.e.l.l out of the mountains with dynamite to make a new highway to Chongqing.

The air in the ore factory tasted like dirt and jackhammers roared steadily. Workers-curious curious, surprised surprised-stared at me as I pa.s.sed. I climbed the torn hillside above the factory, the dust settling dry in my throat, and then the path swung west into another cross valley and I had entered the countryside.

The Wu was bordered by high white cliffs of limestone, and crops in the lower valley were terraced atop walls of rock. Wheat stood in neat rows, nearly ready for harvest, and the hills were sprinkled with the yellow of rapeseed coming into season. I walked alongside vegetable plots-radishes, onions, purple-flowered broad beans. Down along the valley floor were farmhouses, mud-walled with tile roofs, and a cow grazed beside a stand of bamboo. The noise of the factory was gone; I heard birds chirping, and occasionally a rooster crowed. Banana trees stood in the lowlands, their dead leaves rustling in the slight breeze.

I kept the river to my right and followed the paths that looked good as I made my way south. In the wider valleys, the peasants were plowing their paddies behind placid water buffalo, and they always stopped in astonishment when I walked past. The water buffalo stood thoughtfully while the peasants asked me where I had come from and where I was going. I had no clear destination in mind, which bothered them; their shouts echoed up through the valley: "Butong! Butong! That path doesn't go through! Come back!" I always heard the same thing but I kept walking, because one path always led to the next peasant home and from there another trail set off through the hills. That path doesn't go through! Come back!" I always heard the same thing but I kept walking, because one path always led to the next peasant home and from there another trail set off through the hills.

Here the water of the Wu looked even cleaner than in Fuling, a deep dull green that was torn into white strips by the rapids. The river traffic was light-the occasional ferry, a barge every half hour or so, some small sampans flitting along the banks. The little boats b.u.mped over the rapids and then settled calm in the deep water.

By noon I could feel a rhythm developing-the steady footsteps, the even swing of my pack-and I wondered what it would be like to keep going, to walk south into Guizhou and beyond, watching the hills change and listening to the accents become less and less intelligible. Even here it was difficult to communicate with the people; their dialect was much stronger than in the city and usually they were overcome with the shock of seeing a waiguoren waiguoren. It was hard to ask them for directions, because they always believed that I was hopelessly lost and they wanted to help me catch a boat back to Fuling. But I smiled and thanked them, heading off southward while their warnings rang in my ears.

Sometimes the white cliffs rose too steeply and I detoured away from the river, and then I used my compa.s.s and kept an eye on the deep airs.p.a.ce above the Wu. You could see it from miles away, because the hills fell away suddenly at the edge of the river valley, leaving an emptiness that hung like a shadow across the sky. And so even when the water was out of sight I followed the Wu's reflection along the horizon as it twisted south.

In late afternoon the sun shined weakly through the fog as I made my way down a steep path toward the banks of the river. I had no idea how far I'd gone-perhaps twelve miles, maybe fourteen. I met four people who had just returned on the last boat from Fuling, and they warned me that there wouldn't be another one until early tomorrow morning. I said that was fine. They asked where I had come from, and I told them I was an American teacher who worked in the city.

"How much money do you make?" asked a young man. He was dressed in a new sweater and he had just done some shopping in the city. His was a common question and I answered it truthfully, as I always did. I made one thousand yuan a month, which was almost 120 American dollars.

"Wah!" he said. "That's not enough! A waiguoren waiguoren should make more than that! Why don't you find another job?" should make more than that! Why don't you find another job?"

Everybody told me that wherever I went. One of the difficult aspects of being a Peace Corps volunteer was that the locals often thought you were a fool for accepting such low wages. The man shook his head and then his girlfriend stepped forward shyly, asking why I had come to this part of the country.

"It's spring and I like walking," I said. "And in Fuling I have no work to do."

This was even more ridiculous than my salary and they shook their heads. "You carry too many things," the woman said, tugging at my bag. That was also true and I was happy to see that the people in this remote place were as sensible as the ones I knew in Fuling. They waved goodbye and headed up the path, and I walked down through a narrow gorge to the Wu.

n.o.body else was down by the water. It was rocky along the bank, with a big slab of limestone where the docking ferries had worn a deep square groove. Higher up there was a gra.s.sy spot overlooking the river. I pitched my tent there and it was a good place for sleeping. There were no houses nearby and the cliffs rose sheer into the mist.

I sat on a rock at the water's edge, watching the river. I took out Ted Williams's book and started reading: I wanted to be the greatest hitter who ever lived. A man has to have his goals-for a day, for a lifetime-and that was mine, to have people say, "There goes Ted Williams, the greatest hitter who ever lived." Certainly n.o.body ever worked harder at it. It was the center of my heart, hitting a baseball.

It was a good book to read at the end of March on the banks of the Wu River. I finished half of it there on the rock, and then the mist grew heavier and the temperature dropped. A sampan drifted past and I sat motionless, so the pa.s.sengers couldn't see me in the growing darkness. They were husband and wife, like so many of the pairs that worked the small fishing boats. The woman stood sculling in the stern with the long oar while her husband worked the nets at the prow. They did not speak to each other. I wondered what that would be like, to be married to somebody and spend all day working together on a boat that was fifteen feet long. The couple on the sampan seemed to be handling it all right. They worked skillfully and all I could hear was the soft slipping sound of the oar and the quiet splashing as the man pulled the nets on board. It was too dark to see if they had had any luck. They drifted out of sight around the bend, heading downstream.

The rain started softly and I found a rock overhang that kept my stove dry. I arranged everything carefully and boiled the rest of the water I had been carrying. I cooked oatmeal and then noodles, and after eating I turned off the stove so the water would cool. Some of it I poured into my bottle and the rest I left to clean the bowls.

The rain was falling harder now and I made sure that the tent was satisfactory. I laid out my sleeping bag, and I put all of my gear inside the tent, checking the lines and stakes. Everything was fine. In Switzerland I had once camped in that tent for two months, and ever since that summer there was a specific way in which everything had to be done.

The water on the stove cooled and I used it to clean up. I thought about Ted Williams and wondered how he would like Sichuan. Probably not very well; he had fought on the wrong side in the War of Resistance Against the Americans and in Support of the Koreans, and during that war his plane had been shot down. But he was a h.e.l.l of a good fisherman and maybe the Wu River would appeal to that. It wasn't a bad place to be a waiguoren waiguoren once you were accustomed to things. once you were accustomed to things.

The rain came down hard after I got in the tent. I could hear the river running fast over the rocks. In the morning a rusted boat pulled up to the bank and for three yuan I rode it back to the East River dock. That was my first spring in Fuling.