The Chinese people I was sharing a carriage with were very sweet: a husband and wife and a third woman who was travelling to meet her husband. They were very concerned I was eating properly and not catching cold. Via their attentions I began to feel quite glamorous as I saw myself through their eyes. The man pulled out quite a good camera and photos were taken.
Every aspect of my clothing was thoroughly inspected. In an inspired moment I had packed a fitted jacket which seemed to be an object of immense curiosity. Suddenly I see why. The majority of Chinese jackets hang straight from the shoulder to the knee. My leggings were often tested for the elasticity - lycra. And it seemed quite a joke to see how it snaps back into shape. Their own legs seem to be of cotton and nylon, Materials which do not stretch.
Everything I took out from my bag was examined with huge interest. I put a silk scarf on this particular morning and the wife unwrapped it from my neck to check the material and its origin. She carefully replaced it though.
Seeing the women's interest in fashion, I rashly took out a copy of Cosmopolitan. Rashly because I was forgetting this month's issue contained a long feature on 'EVERYTHING YOU WANT TO KNOW ABOUT SEX - ALL YOUR QUESTIONS ANSWERED!!!
An article on impotence contained a photo of the male member in its less interesting state and various phallic cartoons were spread throughout. The women avidly read through the fashion pages and then examined the rest. Their eyes went out on stalks and there were embarrassed giggles at the photo of the cute male bottom. The husband wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I felt suddenly as if I had introduced a brassy tart into the British Library Reading room.
A frisson ran through the carriage and the husband pointedly returned Cosmopolitan magazine to me. "That's it!" I thought, even now he is probably composing a memo subject the decadent west to head office.
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The train proceeded on its way in silence. I pulled out The Sunday Times Magazine (Link to times web site - http://www.the-times.co.uk) in a desperate attempt to look respectable and tried to read. A phrase from the guide book kept flitting through my mind. 'The Chinese do not like to see the naked body displayed in public...'
I glumly reminded myself that I had another a day and a half's journey in a carriage with three mortally offended Chinese.
A while later one of the women poked me in the arm and gestured she wanted to see the magazine. I handed her the Sunday Times. She was not pleased. I glanced at her husband who was sleeping soundly. I pulled out Cosmo again. Both she and her friend seized upon it and finally they and the husband spent a contented afternoon looking it over. Cosmopolitan lives up to its name I thought with relief.
Yi Wah Chung, the second lady in my carriage, examined my camera - a very ordinary Fuji and wrote down its details. She showed me what she had written and asked if it were correct. It was. Then came the question I dreaded. 'How much?'
It would be around £50.00 (Yuan 500.00). An expression of shock and intense bitterness crossed her face. Its probably a month's salary at least. I remember how I felt when I went stereo shopping and all the ones I really wanted were beyond my financial health.
"Look!" I wanted to say to her "I am not decadent and spoilt Cosmo woman plus accessories. It's not that easy in the West!"
Earlier she had been singing happily to the canned music piped over the speakers. I had considered playing her some of my tapes on the Sony Walkman brought especially for the journey. Now I decide against it and it remains buried in the bottom of my bag.
But there is an extraordinary medley of music available on this train. I was woken up yesterday by a Chinese version of Rasputin by Boney M. Rachmaninov's piano concertos are also popular but played badly with too much echo effect. A lot of Chinese music is three beats to the bar. Thus sometimes I felt I was waltzing throught the miraculously beautiful landscapes which unfolded before me.
The train reached its destination, Cheng-du, on time and fairly miraculously, I felt, given the erratic post, my friend met me on the station. He was flourishing in China, and had turned a short term teaching contract into a full career and this was his fifth year in the country.
With his customary generosity he allowed me to crash at his flat and organised a bike for me. I was to stay at Cheng-du for a ten days until I moved on to Xian and Beijing.
The next day we cycled to a beautiful monastery and gardens where we drank tea and recovered from a mad cycle to the CTS to find my train ticket to Xian. We had been sent from pillar to post in an ever increasing bureaucratic maze. Finally we were told return the next day. Several cups of tea restored me and I went alone to explore the complex.
A service was in progress and I pressed my nose to the grating to peep into the temple and see the saffron robed monks march around the temple and chanting. Inside little lights flared out through the gloom. Some of the monks looked at us watching as they passed. What are they doing I wondered. When the service was over I stepped down from the railings.
I saw a man watching me. "Hello," he said. I adopted the Western's Woman immediate distrust. Who is this stranger and what does he want?
"I have come," he continued, "to the gardens. It refreshes my spirit. It is so noisy in the city sometimes."
Disarmed I asked him to tell me about the service. He sighed. "Buddhism is so very hard. Very difficult. I want to believe. I have also a bible in Chinese. That is very beautiful."
I told him of the cathedrals in England and how beautiful they are and how important they are. I suggest diffidently, for who am I, that if China does open up to the west she will may be more materialistic and then these temples will be most important for people who need to step back from the pressures of life. He agreed fervently. I learn he was bought up in Tibet and when we parted he told me.
"I try not think about Buddhism too much. You must do it from the heart. It will come".
I headed back through the evening traffic and cut up lanes with abandon. There were some awful crashes, thankfully though, not involving or caused by me. Sometimes I thought the cyclists were like the White Knight from Alice Through the Looking Glass; forever falling off with a cacophony of falling baskets and contents, and forever climbing on again with no damage done.
Just as I was thinking this, I was caught in the sharp glare of a flash bulb. Startled I turned my head. A silver Mercedes had glided up beside me. Black tinted windows prevented insight. But out of the open back window a man was clutching an expensive camera. He looked at me.
"No, No!" I protested to him, "I'm the tourist. I take the photographs!" He laughed. And the window slid up and the car glided off.
The English, when they think of China tend to think of the famous Willow Pattern plate design. The little scene shows two lovers running across a bridge to flee an outraged father. When escape is impossible they turn into two birds for eternity. The willows frame the scene. It was meant to be a famous Chinese myth and yet the design and the story is entirely European. But this is how we came to see China in both senses of the word..
I cycled home thoughtfully. I find the pleasure of travel consists in the new patterns of life which are revealed. Each scene is presented vividly out of its context. I do not know if the Black Mercedes fitted with the seeker in the temple. Indeed if there is a link at all.
to be continued... Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5
Author: Sarah Keen Date: June 08, 2008 |