Happy Dragon Boat Festival
Day! It’s kind of like the Chinese version
of Cinco de Mayo I think. Lots of traditional
food and festivities, costumes depicting ancient China, music and light
festivals, lucky charms to keep away evil spirits and of course boat racing in
the provinces. These facts I have
gleaned from the first English speaking TV we’ve had in two weeks—we haven’t
actually experienced Dragon Boat Festival Day because now we are back in
Shanghai and today we are going home. Here are a few musings while we wait for our
driver to take us to the airport…
One of the hardest things to
convey about a trip like this, or to any Asian country for that matter, is
something that doesn’t come through in photographs or in my deathless
prose. It is the myriad of sounds,
smells and the minor interactions with the people where you “just had to be
there.” I’ve already talked a little
about the fascination the Chinese people have with us Big Noses, so allow me to
make a feeble attempt to put you in the middle of a Chinese city.
First, the traffic is like
nothing we have in the states. Horn
honking is raised to the level of a fine art, and horns come in all gradations
of the musical scale. No one pays any attention to the danger or to the
distinct possibility of being killed at any moment, and pedestrians just walk
out into the street without so much as a flinch. The driver then leans on the horn without
slowing down, mumbling what must be Chinese obscenities under his breath, and
in every case—at least those we have seen—the persons emerge on the other side
unscathed. It is a miracle.
The drivers of these many
and varied vehicles have also taken spatial relations to a new level. In most of the cities we’ve seen, there
actually are lane markers drawn into the streets but if, for example, it is a
three-lane street, there will be at least five lanes of traffic abreast with barely
a millimeter between the vehicles. Cars,
vans, buses, motorbikes carrying families of four, bicycles ridden by
businessmen and women as well as farmers and peasants, funny looking little
vehicles carrying three times their size in baskets or sacks of goods or even
animals, and the Chinese version of the pedicab which is usually an unsavory
and unsafe looking rundown jalopy—all consume their share of the road without
regard to the others. And all honking
their horns in unison. It is a giant
game of Chicken, and yet we have not seen a single accident. No one pays attention to lane markers and
certainly no one signals a lane change or a turn.
Along with the honking,
screeching of brakes, motor sounds and other sounds of traffic, you have the
sounds of the people—more obvious of course when you are walking down the
street. The Chinese have a way of
talking to each other as if they are yelling at each other and many times we
have mistaken a friendly exchange as a knockdown-drag out argument. Even sweet Keren does this, and he will walk
up to a stranger and shout something which to us sounds very rude, but
invariably the person will laugh and answer him readily with another shout. And
pretty soon they are both laughing. And
shouting.
There is also music of all
kinds coming from the doorways and shops—everything from American rock n’ roll
to Chinese traditional folk tunes and even the chanting of monks where
appropriate. And there are vendors
hawking their wares. Hello! Nihao!
Look! And of course whole spiels in
Chinese that we don’t understand. And let’s not forget the banging, chopping and
squeaking that is just part of the general commerce.
One rather unsettling
experience happened yesterday as we were leaving the Jade Buddha Temple here in
Shanghai. Outside the temple there are a
number of beggars—all of them deformed in some terrible way, and one holding a
small child with a large tumor on his neck—truly horrible. We hadn’t seen much of this before because,
according to Keren, the Communist government provides for everyone so there is
no need to beg. But at the temples the
more destitute among them feel that there will be a larger number of charitable
souls and so they tend to congregate there.
Anyway, evidently Keren had slipped
the mother with the sick child a few Yuan and this was noticed by a man with a
badly burned face and arms. The man
demanded that Keren give him something as well.
Noting his attitude, Keren refused and as we all got into the van, the
man became more and more agitated, yelling at Keren and raising his fists in
anger. This was truly anger and not just
the Chinese way. After the four of us
and Keren were all in the car, the man began banging on the outside of the car
and then he came around to the front and grabbed one of the windshield wipers
and pulled at it as if to break it. Then
he took off his shoe and banged it over and over on the windshield—the ultimate
insult is to show the bottom of your foot or your shoe to another. This was
more than the driver, Mr. Liu, heretofore very mild-mannered and sweet, could
bear. Instead of just driving off, he
leaped out of the car and began yelling and gesturing ominously at the man with
the burn scars. Luckily, there were a
few apparent peace keepers who entered into the fray, and eventually, after
much shouting and after the two almost came to blows, the peace keepers won
out, Mr. Liu got back into the car and we drove off. I noticed as we escaped that there were
shopkeepers and waitresses out on the street to witness the disturbance, so
this was pretty serious even by normal street scene standards. Keren, unperturbed, told us afterward that the
driver was saying to the burned man that he was just a driver, we were his
clients, and why was the burned man taking out his anger on the innocent vehicle! Keren also said that if the burned man hadn’t
been so hostile in the first place, maybe Keren would have given him a few Yuan
as well. One can only imagine what was
going through that man’s mind at the sight of us. But my point is to illustrate yet another
instance where the sounds of the city are difficult to convey. The sad fact of this poor man’s life is yet
another story.
On a quieter note, inside
the temple the atmosphere was relatively calm, most people respecting the holy
place. It was the only temple we visited
on this trip—unlike other Asian countries where temples are among the most
frequented sites—and it was a welcome respite to the usual cacophony of the
streets. The monks padded around on
sandaled feet and people knelt and prayed before the various shrines to the
Buddha. There was some beautiful
chanting going on in one of the shrines, led by some monks who were accompanied
by ordinary folk who seemed to know all the words to the chants. True believers I am sure although Keren seemed
skeptical. The smell of incense emanated
from all parts of the old temple with many rooms. The Jade Buddha is housed on an upper floor
and requires an extra fee, but we went to see it and it is very beautiful
although you can’t get very close. No
photos are allowed but Jane and I snuck a couple of pictures before the guard
got wise and glared at us. Keren said he
believes this Buddha is not real jade but I looked it up and according to
Wikipedia it is real jade and thus very valuable. No wonder they are so protective of it. Keren, after all of his travels, can be a
little “jaded.” By the way, Keren claims
to have been to every country in the world except for Iran and when you
question him about any obscure country, he will have an anecdote to tell about
it. I will spend the rest of my days
pondering his many stories.
But I digress… The smells—oh
dear Lord the smells! Everywhere the air
smells either wonderful or horrible depending on which moment you are talking
about and where you are. The fragrant
spices of the ubiquitous street food mingle with some other pretty unsavory
odors and of course the smell of the exhaust from the vehicles is
everywhere. As you walk down the street,
vendors will hold out a can of tea or a bag of spice or some other substance
and ask you to take a sniff. Sometimes
the substance is identifiable but usually not.
The smell of garlic and ginger lingers outside of every restaurant and
sometimes you feel that it is in your pores.
In the best possible way…
And so, as before on our
trips to Asia, we are in sensory overload—the sounds and smells of voices and
music and clanging and chanting and honking and shouting and laughing and garlic
and camphor and a little bit of sewage and sweat and dirt…but that’s okay,
And then we go to bed and
all is quiet.
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