Walkin' and Talkin' Under the Red Sun part 5

Li’shan was where a friend and I ventured to last weekend. We got driven there by a car; the ride being two hours long, and the view during was well worth it. China’s countryside is simply stunning. It being such a marvelous day did help as the landscape was preen, shinning, and fluorescent. We passed a large lake that gleamed with a pale glow, stretched out endlessly with mountain tops and canyons and town etched silently under them. The road there was pretty barren which was good since our driver didn’t seem to be keen on the rules of the road, nor are any drivers here, which I will discuss later. We passed many tiny villages, saw boats docked awaiting the morning catch, and pedestrians wandering in the streets not going anywhere in particular. We then took a curving road that hugged mountain after mountain, going higher with no guardrail at the edges, nothing but a long dive into the ground. The mountains all were an ocher, shrouded by a light mist, with a bit of algae crumbling off the sides. Some of their peeks were sharp like javelins, while others sloped off like gentle waves. You couldn’t help but smile at the scene of treading through the twists and turns, sometimes having to stop to move displaced rocks that damper the road. The air was crisp, a cold gale sung as it whipped around the mountain tops, and some birds played catch overhead. We then got there.

It was more of a walk than a climb, but we didn’t mind—me especially since my ankle still ached. We started on planks down a prairie path, the thick grass grabbing our feet as we walked, and a few large boulders rested in particular points around us. We were high, noticing valleys receding below us, and more mountains obliquely, looming and sharp. We stopped now and again to just be engulfed by warbles of nature that peppers the ambiance; crows cawing, trees brushing, rocks sliding, and wings flapping. We kept walking, at first still in the open, climbing on rocks, letting our eyes vanish into this and that, then we got encompassed by trees, low at first, but then growing tall, so tall they covered the light coming in, with it cascading down like cool beams. We decided to traverse off the trail into the thicket and find a place to rest and eat. Brushing off the branches, brushing our knees on the dirt, and keeping our eyes forward we found an open spot to rest. I ate first, munching on a large piece of bread I brought and drinking some water while he slumbered behind me, I then slanted oblique on the grassy patch.

I didn’t think I slept, or, well I was in that stasis between consciousness and subconscious with my mind floating into the in-between while the noises surrounding me painted my mind. There were many nice colors, endless blues that sailed through the sky, jade greens that flowed forever at your feet, and the purple nothingness that is sprinkled with sparks that last for eternity. It’s nice being in such place alone with your thoughts since those thoughts are only beautiful, why live in the scorn and the hate, since what’s beautiful is what really matters.

We got up after an hour and kept on the trail. We reached a path that featured jagged trees curving like witch fingers and their branches spindly reach out every way. It looked like an old haunted forest with soft thin leaves that we ran down as the path lead. Our last monument was a gap between two mountains that was bridged by millions of large rocks and a rock path that lead you to the other side. And of course we jumped from rock to rock instead of taking the path. Some Chinese people met us on eventually on the other side, staring at us like all do, and began asking us the common questions are lives here have been filled with. The way back was treacherous, us not realizing how far we have gone and how far up we had to go back. When we got back we decided to walk a bit to the other peak nearby just to look out. He started to climb a boulder in the background. I merely collapsed on a rock lying below it, recollecting, admiring, and enjoying everything that has brought me to this point in my life.

Walkin' and Talking under the Red Sun Part 4

Piles of Earth forming over years and years and years, eroding, morphing, adapting, always changing, but always existing, never ceasing, unlike the humans and animals that may have tread on it, lived below it, thrived on it, it still stands, firm, allowing riverbeds to form and animals to flourish, majestic, only asking for peace, tranquility, that repose of solitude even if it is fleeting. We don’t see many mountains back in Chicago. Nature has been brushed aside for the development of civilization. Cities in general tend to try to mask the fact that there used to exist verdure growth, applying makeshift gardens to hide the fact. Even with Chicago being one of the pioneers of a “green city” it still neglects Mother Nature and all its glory, with such insipid noise, and blasting lights, and pollution: that lurid mustard glow peppering the sultry nights on Michigan Ave. We tend to want to forget there is life outside the city. Gazing upwards at skyscrapers instead of at wilting flowers and muck filled river beds. Anyway, I climbed one of the numerous mountains sprouted out around my village. It was only a 15 minute cab ride, trundling through “back of the yards” type settlements on my way, eyes peering through the window at the American bobbing left and right. A husband and wife live at the base, offering you to jaunt up the mountain for a small fee, providing you with a map, and some fruit for your journey. A vibrant path greets you, with a few temples and houses scattered near the entrance, people living off what the mountain provides, and then eventually you are merely emerged into the flourishing life that exists on the rocky path towards the top. Arrows guide you towards your destination as you scavenge higher, on a path at the start, until a certain point where the climbing begins. A small river curves from the top of the mountain, clear, pallid, rolling like marbles, a murmur, like a voice. Cries from birds stealthily hidden within the sprawling greens and yellows and creeping algae covering the peeks of the mountains towering around you as you walk. Doddering from rock to rock, so not to collapse into the puddles, facilely clamoring higher till you reach a small waterfall. The arrow pointed though it, my friend and I glanced at each other, then upwards at the rushing tide crashing through this small cavern leading even higher, feeling the brisk shutter as we placed our hands in it. After some contemplation we shrugged, stripped to our boxers, placing them under some shrubs till we returned, and decided to tread through the falling riverbed. Once you hit the water the cold punches your chest, I grabbed for the nearest rock and lunged into the stream, it knocked the life out of me, I struggled to breath, gripping for any support as I fought forward through the ice water, cymbals pounding my ears, slippery, chest exhaling and inhaling intensely, lifting my head through the small opening above felt like being reborn again, the air was crisp, I pulled myself out and shook off the fear that jolted through me while I was battling the water, taking in the vantage point of the amount we have conquered, the Sun baking the emerald and brown in a bronze hue. After some more climbing we reached a second waterbed, this one larger than the one we climbed through, falling elegantly into a pool, ferocious, but gentle. We scaled higher and higher up first a ladder, than pulling ourselves by bars, reaching a drawbridge, then the to the top of the second waterfall, in my boxers, shivering a bit, gazing at the falling lemonade painted mountain edges fading softly with the calming wind, bushes and trees fawning, rushing water singing, animals chirping their tenor tones, everything moving and still at the same time, sighing, wishing everyone, anyone else can see this, and be there, here, and enjoy it, cause’ it is worth a moment, for appreciation, if only for a few minutes…

Walkin' and Talkin' under the Red Sun, Part 3

I neglected to give much detail upon the place I am living and I apologize for that. I will divulge as much info as I can on my village. It is called Yuanqu, in the Shanxai providence, deep within the stomach of China. My village is wedged between towering mountains, they surround us like guardians. I can’t look in any direction without seeing one, on pellucid days I am greeted by the emerald algae and trees on its deep brown body. It’s a very majestic sight in the morning, while I jog having these giants to ogle at. The air is thin, as you come into my village your ears pop to adjust to the altitude. I’m told my village as some of the best air available in China, due to the mountains, which I can believe traveling to a city where the fumes seep into your lungs, forcing you to cough. Most of the roads lunge upwards, especially the main road off my apartment, which I jog up. My apartment is big for it just being me living here, two bedrooms, a front room, dining room, bathroom, and kitchen all to my lonesome. I usually lounge about the other bedroom, or read in the front room with the mountains peeking through my window. My school is a mere five minute walk, bustling, the number of children there is too many to count. Immediately walking there on my first day I was assaulted, stared, and gawked at by all. They love to see foreigners, I imagine cause’ they don’t get many. The building is a bit run down, traditional, but quant. The campus is large, and still expanding. They have courts set up, Ping-Pong tables, and all. My teaching consists of me merely mouthing terms and having them repeat them back at me, and if they are having trouble I gesticulate or form each letter with my lips. It’s not an incredibly difficult job, but it does take practice. At first I spoke to fast and wasn’t engaging enough with the students. The pedagogy fosters much weight to the teacher, housing countless respect, rising as I entered and greeting me before I started my lesson. I try to make my classroom friendly and keep interest alive, while joking and poking fun at myself in the process. It makes me smile to see them want to pursue the west in such a way. It’s such an ideal that they attempt to grasp, the west, and dream of that nostalgia that most living there have already forgotten. I don’t want to be the one to bust their bubble.
There is a market a block away from my apartment and it’s always bustling. All one has to do is pull a seat up and order a bowl of noodles and some meat on stick, roasted near burnt, and seasoned with chili powder and vinegar (they love vinegar by the way, eat it with everything). It’s delicious and as you eat, if you are American, you can expect others to join you, offer you beer, and chat and drink with you, ending up paying your tab usually. My friends and I end up looking for this on the weekends. Also, every day at around 7:30 all the adults come to a square near the same block as the night market and dance, which I found humorous at first. The reason being is that a group of them line up and perform a choreographed ensemble that differs from each song spewing from the loud speakers up above. The movements are so in tune sometimes it’s as though I am watching a music video, as they prance the number to the beat, turn right, then do the same, turn right, and repeat. It’s a sight to see. Other couples are entwined in one on one moves that are also practiced most of the time beforehand. Dances range from Tango to a waltz type of jingle. It’s actually not a bad way to meet others in your neighborhood, but I don’t see the south side of Chicago meeting every day at the same time to socialize with others.
I sat and had Hot Pot today. It’s when you place a large pot in the middle of the table, having your vegetables, meats, tofu, seafood siting outside, with the liquid inside boiling intensely. The liquid is a deep black, mixture of spices, chicken broth, vinegar, while there sits a small white bowl of some type of cinnamon and sharp vinegar and spices. You throw whatever you want into the pot and let it simmer and cook, placing it in your bowl to eat with enough time. I ate this with a nice couple I have been going to frequently, since they know what I want and make some dam good noodles. We eat our fill then the man, who has seen tons, being a ruffian when he was young, begins to explain a little bit of how China works. He breaks down the system they operate on into four, beer, sex, fortune, and ability. A note here, every male in China drinks. I have yet to meet a man who turns down alcohol, which is why my liver will probably rot unless I figure out a good excuse. Yes, China’s beer is light compared to American brew, by 3%, but the way they drink differs. They bring out a cup to each person, filling it to the brim, equally to about a third of the beer, they cheers, Gambai (drink all), and you chug the glass. Here is something of note in this process: China is all about respecting your elders, so when you Gambai someone who is older than you, you must lower your cup to theirs, clinking beneath them to show them respect, and you must finish your cup, or it’s disrespectful. The cups are refilled, and again, Gambai, refilled, Gambai, again, and again, and again. They don’t know the meaning of stop. They want you to need to hobble home clinging to the walls for support. The craziest thing is, no matter what happens, it’s everyone else’s job to forget everything, even if you made a complete ass of yourself, and act as though nothing happened. I have a funny story relating to this that I will tell anyone who asks when I get back. Anyway, the Man bestowing me the knowledge upon Chinese culture informed me that money is the root to everything. The Chinese have a practical, monetary approach to life in a lot of ways. Everything can be weighed, bought, and so that is what is most important to them. When I asked about his views on love, he declared money is the main goal, love is a product of it. “Life is a Dream,” he said, nodding solemnly, his bald skull wrinkled by age. This man has seen many things, I can tell from his eyes, and the way he speaks, booming, erudite, wise. I am getting second hand his musings by the way, my assistant bridging the language barrier for me. The one thing that stuck with me most, “American’s think with the mind, Chinese think with our hearts.” I realize that my mind has always been the ringleader pointing the directions my body should go, but I never acknowledge my heart. I was dumbstruck, how could I miss such a simple thing? I have a new goal now, in order to understand my body, truly know it, I need to know my heart: the main pump bursting energy so I may move and think and live and love. I must listen to my heart. I need to learn its language and allow it its say in my decisions. I will do it. I will know my heart.

Walkin' and Talkin' under the red sun part 2

In a big city there is those crowds and circles that remind me of the cities I have seen before. It is obvious that the states have infected China, palliating those erroneous verve's towards capitalism. By little doses we can all be saved. They have the makings of the new world, but still revile in the consanguinity of that ancient ancestry. It is bustling, Xi’an, millions of walkers and talkers gawking and oo’ing those structures that we take for granted. They still eye me as I pass, but in the city, they see their share of the world. It is in small increments, but it is there. I am bumped and shoved and skidded over so that everyone can get to where they are going. Just like home. Taxi’s litter the streets like lice curtly speeding passed as though they don’t see my arm, just like home. The American cuisine is at it’s best, Pizza Hut, Dairy Queen, MCD’s, all topnotch establishments offering similar western wares, but at a price much steeper than the usually dinner out. The waitresses smile warmly, sweating profusely, darting here and there. The food is quite good, better than I remember. Perhaps the culture hopes to fool the people into what America really is, not making good food, just some substance to give you that push and extra pounds to continue living on meagerly. Anomalous manners perpetuate, but it is something I need to get used to. As I traveled with my companions to the restaurants and stores and bars and clubs, I couldn’t help but do two things. Compare them to their alternatives at home, and overall most are pretty similar. Restaurants are quaint and delicious, stores are trendy and infuriating, and bars and clubs are full of drunken buffoons dancing and laughing, and trying to be included, get laid, or forget everything. I then remember all the drunken buffoons I have back home and how I miss them and wish they can sit and drink with me. I cheers all those back home. Walking at night, the city lite up by the convenient stores buzzing, and damp street lights, it reminded me of all those memories assailing me, even in such convivial atmospheres. Lack of sleep breaches all thirsty souls seeking that “love” or “attachment” that binds the feet but also gives us a place to rest. Trains are hectic. We are all caged in wishing for a bit of rest on a tight compartment full of others. I just happened to be the “other” other. It is annoying being gawked at every moment, can’t they at least look away when I look, but I guess I would stare if I noticed a stranger. Is it curiosity? Anxiety? Dislike? I just want to be homogeneous within this new structure since I already feel like enough of an outsider as it is. I need that feeling of home that gaps an ocean without effort, I already lost my map, my companion didn’t, couldn’t come, it is lonely alone on a skiff heading everywhere. I guess it is for the best, or at least I will keep telling myself that.