Part 20 (1/2)

Everything had gone quiet except for my voice; the silence made me s.h.i.+ver. I was angry but I held the emotion down so I could speak clearly. ”You came and bothered me, small friend,” I said. ”I told you to stop. Now if you want a problem, I'll give you a problem. Come on, small friend. Come here.”

The man took a step forward and Mr. Zhang moved between us. The hot pot woman was yelling at him: ”That waiguoren waiguoren is a teacher! He has culture-you shouldn't treat him like that.” It was clear that n.o.body was backing the little man, and without help he wasn't going to start anything. His big friends had not materialized. He sat back down at his shoes.h.i.+ne stand, glaring at me from a distance. is a teacher! He has culture-you shouldn't treat him like that.” It was clear that n.o.body was backing the little man, and without help he wasn't going to start anything. His big friends had not materialized. He sat back down at his shoes.h.i.+ne stand, glaring at me from a distance.

I wanted to leave but I knew that I should wait until it was obvious that I wasn't frightened. I talked with the people and read my paper. Tension was still in the air, and I could see that everybody was waiting to see if the little man would make a move.

I was ashamed of what I had done. I was glad that the people on Gaosuntang liked me enough to come to my defense, but I knew that I had been needlessly cruel and petty. The incident left me embarra.s.sed; I had been educated at Princeton and Oxford, and yet for some reason I felt the need to face off with a Sichuanese shoes.h.i.+ne man until the locals said he had no culture. I knew that his hara.s.sment had nothing to do with me personally, and I knew that I should have sympathy for him, because his bitterness was the result of other pressures.

But after a year and a half in Fuling I couldn't push away the wave of hatred that I felt. I could remind myself who I was, and I could think about the advantages that I had received my whole life; but out on the street all of that slipped away. The strangeness and the pressures of life in a place like that were bound to change you, and something inside of me had stiffened long ago. Indeed, I wasn't certain that the man was entirely wrong: perhaps the people in Fuling didn't need this kind of waiguoren waiguoren. But to some extent they had helped create him, and for better or worse we were stuck together.

I wondered what the little man was thinking. He sat at his stand, staring at me. n.o.body stopped to have his shoes s.h.i.+ned. After a while it started to rain.

”I have to go now,” I said to Mr. Zhang.

”You should watch your money,” he said, nodding toward the little man.

”That's not a problem,” I said. I thanked him and left. Deliberately I pa.s.sed in front of the little man's stand. He did nothing. Without looking back I walked away.

THE LAND.

April 15 THERE IS A NEW METHOD OF TRANSPLANTING RICE, and about half of the peasants on Raise the Flag Mountain are using it. In the past, seedlings have always been transplanted by hand, row by row, but now many peasants are trying paoyang paoyang-literally, ”throwing the seedlings.”

The seeds are first planted in plastic trays, each of which holds five hundred plants in individual pockets. When they are ready to be transplanted, the seedlings have a round clump of earth formed around the root; when thrown, the weight of this earth carries the seedling and sinks it into the muck. Paoyang Paoyang saves time-the peasants can throw the shoots from the edge of the paddy rather than transplanting each one by hand. saves time-the peasants can throw the shoots from the edge of the paddy rather than transplanting each one by hand.

Halfway up the mountain is a man who has been using this method for two years. Yesterday he threw his seedlings; today he wades in the paddy, straightening any plants that have slipped out of the mud. He is thirty-five years old, with a black mustache and hard muddy calves. He wears a fake beeper on the belt of his blue trousers. He has one and a half mu mu of land, or roughly a quarter of an acre, which is more land than the average peasant works in these hills. of land, or roughly a quarter of an acre, which is more land than the average peasant works in these hills.

Numbers are important here, as they are for farmers anywhere in the world. This particular paddy, one of four that compose his land, is two hundred square meters. The peasant estimates that this paddy will use twelve pans of rice seedlings, which is a total of six thousand plants. These stalks will produce approximately 330 pounds of rice, which will sell for three hundred yuan.

On the thres.h.i.+ng platform of a nearby house a small girl sits at a desk, doing her homework. Beyond the girl is the backdrop of the city with the setting sun falling orange behind the gray buildings. Next to the house, two young men throw seedlings into a newly plowed paddy. They are laughing and tossing the rice carelessly in every possible direction. They complain about life in the countryside, although they say that at least in the city they can find construction work, which is better than becoming shoes.h.i.+ne men or stick-stick soldiers. ”The peasants from the very remote countryside do those jobs,” says one of the men. ”Those of us who live here in the suburbs won't do that kind of work.”

He is asked to compare his life to that of a factory worker, and he thinks it over.

”Peasants, workers,” he says. ”It doesn't matter. They're all bad jobs.”

April 28 THE SUN IS UNBEARABLY HOT. It has rained once in the last two weeks; a drought is building. The corn plants are now about two feet tall. The earth around the stalks is dry and powdery, scorched by the sun.

In other parts of the world this strange weather is blamed on El Nino. But the peasants, who never speak of El Nino, have their own reasons for the heat. The traditional Chinese lunar calendar follows a system in which a month must be made up every fourth year-sometimes there is an extra ninth month, or an extra second month, and so on. This year the extra month is the fifth one. Whenever there are two fifth months in one year, you can count on a hot dry spring followed by an extremely wet summer. This is the way it has always been in the past, and thus the peasants are not surprised by the current heat and dryness. Everywhere in the countryside they complain quietly about the problems of having two fifth months in one year.

May 5 MOST OF THE WHEAT IS GONE. Over the weekend it rained, and after it dried the peasants harvested almost all of the crop on Raise the Flag Mountain. It was harvested by hand, with short scythes. The wheat stalks were cut close to the ground, leaving rows of stubble, which will be plowed into the earth when the time comes to sow another crop.

The loss of the wheat has subtly changed the mountain's texture. Last week the crop stood soft and yellow along the terraces, but now those fields are bare. The cornfields are beginning to fill out, and the transplanted rice has started to thicken in the muck of the paddies. Soon the lower mountain will be covered by lush carpets of green.

Peasants are using sticks to beat piles of wheat on the thres.h.i.+ng platforms. The sound of their work-a steady swish swish swish swish swish swish-echoes throughout the countryside. There is also the sound of frogs croaking in the paddies, and ducks calling out in the small ponds, and the soft rustling of the breeze in the growing corn.

Along the southern shoulder of the mountain a long thin field is being harvested; workers are piling the wheat stalks into bundles and tying them with reeds. The bundles weigh more than fifty pounds each, and they must be carried to shelters where they will be kept dry. A young man takes a long st.u.r.dy stick and stabs it into the heart of a bundle, lifting it onto his shoulder. He uses its weight to help him stick the other end deep into another bundle, and then he lifts both bales, adjusts the load, and carries them balanced across his back. He walks quickly, moving with a loose-kneed bouncing gait, heading toward home.

May 11 AFTER SIX DAYS the harvested wheat field is unrecognizable. It has been flooded and half filled with rice shoots, their green tips poking above the water like drowning blades of gra.s.s. In less than a week, the wheat field has been turned into a rice paddy. the harvested wheat field is unrecognizable. It has been flooded and half filled with rice shoots, their green tips poking above the water like drowning blades of gra.s.s. In less than a week, the wheat field has been turned into a rice paddy.

A man wades in the paddy, transplanting the stalks by hand. His sleeves and trousers are rolled up. He bends low and moves backward as he works. The rice shoots stretch in neat rows across the water. This peasant does not believe in paoyang paoyang, and so he transplants his rice completely by hand.

Rice is being tended all over the mountain, in all its early stages. Most of the crop has already been transplanted, but the post-wheat paddies are running later; farther down the slopes a few peasants are still plowing the muck. On the steeper parts of the mountain, where it's impossible to grow rice, the peasants have not quite finished harvesting the wheat. Simultaneously they are weeding the corn, which will be ready in a little more than a month. The corn stalks are still headless but now they are nearly chest-high.

Today is cool and overcast, the late-afternoon sun breaking through the clouds. Westward the Yangtze runs silver between the hills. The level of the river is still low, because the last month has been dry, but spring is always like that in a year with two fifth months. Even as they transplant the rice, and harvest the wheat, and weed their corn, the peasants are waiting for the heavy summer rains that they know will eventually arrive.

June 10 RAIN IS COMING. The air hangs still and thick above the river valleys. Clouds have gathered and faint rumblings echo from beyond White Flat Mountain.

Tonight it won't rain much, but at the end of the month it will pour for a week, and then the rains will continue hard throughout July. In August the downpour will not stop. The rivers will swell and rage. In the east, where the Yangtze leaves the Gorges and enters the flats of central China, the country will suffer its worst floods in decades. Over 64 million acres of farmland will be inundated, and the death count will reach 3,656. All of this will happen because of the two fifth months, and the peasants on Raise the Flag Mountain will not be surprised to see such a bad summer.

But now-in these humid fields, with those clouds dark overhead-now it is still spring. The texture of the growing mountain has s.h.i.+fted once more; the corn stands six feet tall and it is at the point where it has just begun to ripen. The stalks are still a fresh spring green but the ta.s.sels are turning pink, a soft feathery color that sits lightly atop the deep green of the close-planted plots.

The rice is thigh-high and long-leafed like swamp gra.s.s. The water in the paddies has dropped to about an inch and now it cannot be seen through the lush green. From a distance the rice fields look smooth, like a lawn freshly cut.

All seasons are beautiful in the countryside of Raise the Flag Mountain, but the long Sichuan spring is the most beautiful of all. And this particular moment-today's ripening corn and growing rice-this may very well be the most beautiful day of the most beautiful season. Next month the corn will be harvested, and after that the rice will turn a drab pale yellow; but today any change seems far away. Everything is perfect: the mountain's texture is balanced like sections of a good painting-the long, even brush strokes of the rice plots; the choppy mixed colors of the corn. Standing here in the countryside it is easy to forget that everything is growing, s.h.i.+fting, changing; and it is easy to forget that this moment won't last. It's like waiting for rain without worrying.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Spring Again MY FATHER VISITED ME at the start of the spring semester. Since coming to China, I had seen n.o.body in my family except for my sister Angela, who prodded my father until at last he worked up enough courage to make the trip. My mother decided to stay at home. at the start of the spring semester. Since coming to China, I had seen n.o.body in my family except for my sister Angela, who prodded my father until at last he worked up enough courage to make the trip. My mother decided to stay at home.

I met my father at the Chongqing airport. We stayed in a Chinese hotel near the docks; I figured there was no reason to go to a waiguoren waiguoren hotel and spend four times as much money. During the night the hotel workers called twice on the phone and burst into the room once; it always had something to do with checking our pa.s.sports. Each interruption terrified my father, who was already badly jet-lagged, and I tried to explain that the workers were probably just curious. hotel and spend four times as much money. During the night the hotel workers called twice on the phone and burst into the room once; it always had something to do with checking our pa.s.sports. Each interruption terrified my father, who was already badly jet-lagged, and I tried to explain that the workers were probably just curious.

In the morning we caught the nine-o'clock slow boat downriver to Fuling. This, like the hotel, proved to be a serious miscalculation on my part; we could have taken a hydrofoil and cut the travel time in half. I thought that my father would like to get a taste of typical river life, but five and a half hours is a lot to taste, and the nine-o'clock slow boat was always full of Sichuanese unemployed who were heading down to Wuhan to look for work. They sprawled like casualties in the hallways, sleeping, smoking, spitting. It was too crowded to wander around the boat, and the mist was so thick that you couldn't watch the scenery. My father s.h.i.+vered in his bunk until at last we reached Fuling.

On the docks I d.i.c.kered with the cabbies until I found one who would take us to the college for fifteen yuan. The taxi billowed with Magnificent Sound smoke, and, as usual, the cabby was inspired by the unexpected responsibility of carrying waiguoren waiguoren. He flew through the center of town. Pedestrians scurried in our wake. We swung hard onto the Wu River Great Bridge and the deep green water flowed far below us. My father clung to the pa.s.senger grip. The guardrails of the bridge flashed past. The engine roared.

”Why,” my father asked, ”does he keep honking?”

FOR TWO DAYS IN FULING my father couldn't sleep. The noise, the dirt, the language, the endless swarms of people, the constant bustle of life on the streets-all of that was too much. At night he lay awake in bed, listening to the horns out on the river. It had taken me half a year to come to grips with the city, and now he was trying to deal with it in ten days. my father couldn't sleep. The noise, the dirt, the language, the endless swarms of people, the constant bustle of life on the streets-all of that was too much. At night he lay awake in bed, listening to the horns out on the river. It had taken me half a year to come to grips with the city, and now he was trying to deal with it in ten days.

He had always found comfort in hard exercise-at fifty-six years of age he still ran ten miles a day-and I decided that this was the best solution to his insomnia. After all, the simple activity of running had been soothing to me when I first arrived in Fuling. So for two days I led him on long runs past the summit of Raise the Flag Mountain, into the rugged hills of the high countryside, where the peasants stopped to stare as we charged past. We went twelve miles a day; I made sure the pace was fast.

It worked-two days of that and he slept perfectly. But now his nose ran like a faucet and his throat burned; he hacked up coal dust into my sink. He was sick for the rest of his time in Fuling. My sinuses flared up and I was sick, too. My father suggested that we skip the running.

THAT WAS PERHAPS the longest week and a half I spent in China. It was like seeing a reflection of my entire first year, cut and spliced and crammed into ten days-all of the fear, the annoyances, the fascination, the wonder of the city; everything hit my father in the s.p.a.ce of little more than a week. And I found that it was difficult to predict what would bother him, because I had been in Fuling for so long that I no longer saw it with a true outsider's eye. A slow boat that might seem perfectly fine to me was terrifying to him, while other things that I had worried about, like the spiciness of the food, didn't pose the slightest problem. Like many Peace Corps volunteers all over the world, I found that the parent visit was a kind of revelation: suddenly I saw how much I had learned and how much I had forgotten. the longest week and a half I spent in China. It was like seeing a reflection of my entire first year, cut and spliced and crammed into ten days-all of the fear, the annoyances, the fascination, the wonder of the city; everything hit my father in the s.p.a.ce of little more than a week. And I found that it was difficult to predict what would bother him, because I had been in Fuling for so long that I no longer saw it with a true outsider's eye. A slow boat that might seem perfectly fine to me was terrifying to him, while other things that I had worried about, like the spiciness of the food, didn't pose the slightest problem. Like many Peace Corps volunteers all over the world, I found that the parent visit was a kind of revelation: suddenly I saw how much I had learned and how much I had forgotten.

By the third day he was more accustomed to the noise and the air, and after that we spent hours walking through the city. We watched the streetside doctor perform surgery on a peasant's foot; we watched the blacksmiths pound out chisels on their anvils; we watched the stick-stick soldiers as they watched us. We watched the man at the Lanzhou pulled noodle shop make noodles by hand. We wandered through the markets and watched the workers gut eels that had been harvested from the peasant ponds. One morning we stumbled onto a small shop in the old town where a man was scrubbing syringes with a dirty brush, and we watched that too.

”They're for the hospital,” the man said brightly, when I asked why he was doing that.