Part 26 (1/2)

But now I found myself wondering if anything would be left from those hours in cla.s.s. I hoped that my students would remember that Frost poem, or something else that we had studied. It could be something as small as a single character from a story, or a sliver from a Shakespeare sonnet-but I hoped that something would be remembered. I hoped that they would keep it somewhere in the back of their minds, and that they would find something steady and true in its simple beauty. This was the faith I had in literature: its truth was constant, unaffected by the struggles of daily life. But at the same time there was always the issue of relevance, and there were moments when a poem like ”Nothing Gold Can Stay” seemed useless against the harsh realities of a place like Fuling.

I thought about that for a while, and then I went back to grading the examinations. I didn't have any answers; in the end I just had to hope for the best. Most of them would be fine, I figured. Certainly Linda would be fine, and Mo Money would be fine, and William Jefferson Foster would be fine, and so would Anne, working down in Shenzhen. Most things in the city would work out all right. The priest would be fine, and my tutors would be fine, and the family at the Students' Home would be fine. Most of the people would continue to make the best of things, and most of the children would have better lives than their parents had. That was really all you could hope for. Perhaps Susan would not be fine, but there was nothing to do about that, just as there hadn't been much to do for Janelle and Rebecca and the others who had lost their way. Mei banfa Mei banfa.

A couple of days later, Jimmy gave me a ca.s.sette tape and asked if I would make a recording of all the poetry we had studied. He was one of the liveliest boys, but he had never been a particularly good student; usually he sat in the back of the cla.s.s and muttered ”yahoo” and yashua yashua whenever anybody said something. But he had always been one of my favorites, and now I was touched by his request. whenever anybody said something. But he had always been one of my favorites, and now I was touched by his request.

”Especially I want you to read 'The Raven,'” he said, ”and anything by Shakespeare. This is so I can remember your literature cla.s.s.”

I told him that I would make the tape that evening.

”Also, after you finish the poems,” he said, grinning, ”I want you to say all of the bad words you know in English and put them on the tape. Even if there are some bad words you did not teach us, I want you to say them. I would like that very much. And maybe some of the other students will copy it, too.”

It took two long sittings to record all the poetry we had studied. After that was finished. Adam and I spent five minutes shouting obscenities into the recorder, and I returned the tape to Jimmy. He would turn out fine, too. Most of them were that way. They were tough and sweet and funny and sad, and people like that would always survive. It wasn't necessarily gold, but perhaps because of that it would stay.

I LEFT FULING on the fast boat upstream to Chongqing. It was a warm, rainy morning at the end of June-the mist thick on the Yangtze like dirty gray silk. A car from the college drove Adam and me down to the docks. The city rushed past, gray and familiar in the rain. on the fast boat upstream to Chongqing. It was a warm, rainy morning at the end of June-the mist thick on the Yangtze like dirty gray silk. A car from the college drove Adam and me down to the docks. The city rushed past, gray and familiar in the rain.

The evening before, we had eaten for the last time at the Students' Home. They kept the restaurant open late especially for us, because all night we were rus.h.i.+ng around saying goodbye to everybody, and it was good to finally sit there and eat our noodles. We kidded the women about the new foreign devils who would come next fall to take our place, and how easily they could be cheated.

A few days earlier, Huang Neng, the grandfather, had talked with me about leaving.

”You know,” he said, ”when you go back to your America, it won't be like it is here. You won't be able to walk into a restaurant and say, 'I want a bowl of chaoshou chaoshou.' n.o.body will understand you!”

”That's true,” I said. ”And we don't have chaoshou chaoshou in America.” in America.”

”You'll have to order food in your English language,” he said. ”You won't be able to speak our Chinese with the people there.” And he laughed-it was a ludicrous concept, a country with neither Chinese nor chaoshou chaoshou. After our last meal the family lined up at the door and waved goodbye, standing stiffly and wearing that tight Chinese smile. I imagined that probably I looked the same way-two years of friends.h.i.+p somehow tucked away in a corner of my mouth.

In the morning we said goodbye to Sunni and Noreen, both of whom had early cla.s.s, and then we headed down to the docks. A few of the students were free that morning and they came to see us off, along with Dean Fu. Chinese partings were never comfortable-no hugs, few words, tears held back as long as possible. We shook hands awkwardly and boarded the boat.

The hydrofoil was crowded. They played karaoke videos on the television screen while we sat there at the dock for thirty minutes. Outside it was raining, but still the students waited. To show respect for a good friend you would see him off until he was completely and undeniably gone, regardless of the weather.

Most of them were crying as they stared out at the river. Mo Money crouched on a black pylon near the edge of the dock. William Jefferson Foster looked out toward White Flat Mountain, and Roger squatted near a coil of rope. Luke leaned against a wall. There were others-Chuck, Diaz, Lewis, Richard, DJ. Their eyes were red, and they did the best they could to hold their expressions even.

I watched them standing in the rain and wondered what their futures would be like. William Jefferson Foster was going off to teach at a private school in the eastern province of Zhejiang; Mo Money was looking for business jobs in Fuling; Lewis would return to the remote countryside and teach. Luke would be married in October, on National Day. It was an arranged marriage and he had never spent much time with his future wife, but he was a good peasant son who would not oppose his parents' wishes.

The boat pulled out of the harbor. The students stood perfectly still on the dock. Behind them the city rose, gray and dirty-looking in the mist. As always on the river I saw Fuling with an outsider's eyes: it looked big, impersonal, impenetrable. It was hard to believe that for two years this place had been my home. I wondered when I would see it again, and how it would be changed. The boat swung out into the heart of the Yangtze, facing the current.

The river was the same as it always had been. It wasn't like the people, who had changed so much in my eyes over the course of the two years, and who would now go their own separate and unpredictable ways even as they were frozen in my mind, pinned by memory-making chaoshou chaoshou, teaching cla.s.s, standing motionless on the docks. But it was different out on the river, where my guanxi guanxi with the Yangtze had always been simple: sometimes I went with the current, and sometimes I went against it. Upstream it was slower and downstream it was faster. That was really all there was to it-we crossed paths, and then we headed off in our own directions. with the Yangtze had always been simple: sometimes I went with the current, and sometimes I went against it. Upstream it was slower and downstream it was faster. That was really all there was to it-we crossed paths, and then we headed off in our own directions.

And finally I stopped worrying about the future or the past, and I simply looked at the city for the last time. The buildings were gray. The mouth of the Wu was wide with the summer rain. A sampan sculled gracefully near the sh.o.r.e. Raise the Flag Mountain was hidden in the mist. Our boat picked up speed and we rushed away against the steady current of the river.

P.S. Insights, Interviews & More...

About the author.

Meet Peter Hessler About the book Return to Fuling Read on Author's Picks: Books About ChinaRead an Excerpt from Peter Hessler's Oracle Bones Oracle Bones

About the author.

Meet Peter Hessler I GREW UP IN GREW UP IN C COLUMBIA, MISSOURI, where my father was a professor of sociology at the University of Missouri. My mother teaches history at Columbia College. I have three sisters, and all of us attended the local public school, Hickman High School, where I first became interested in literature and writing. My soph.o.m.ore year English teacher, Mary Racine, encouraged me to consider a career in writing. Over the next two years, I studied under two other excellent English teachers, Mary Ann Gates and Khaki Westerfield. By the time I graduated in 1988, I knew that I wanted to become a writer.

” I took John McPhee's seminar in nonfiction writing as a junior, which helped me realize the possibilities of narrative nonfiction. I took John McPhee's seminar in nonfiction writing as a junior, which helped me realize the possibilities of narrative nonfiction.”

At Princeton University I majored in English and Creative Writing. As an undergraduate, I focused primarily on writing fiction. I studied under Russell Banks, Stuart Dybek, and Joyce Carol Oates. My senior thesis was a collection of short stories set in Missouri.

As a junior, I took John McPhee's seminar in nonfiction writing, which helped me realize the possibilities of narrative nonfiction. The following summer I worked as an ethnographer for the Kellogg Foundation, writing a long ethnographic study about Sikeston, a small town in the southeastern Missouri boot heel. The paper was published in Journal for Applied Anthropology Journal for Applied Anthropology, and the experience was a valuable introduction to research and writing in a small town.

I wanted to go overseas after graduation, and as a senior I decided on two options: I applied to join the Peace Corps, and I applied for fellows.h.i.+ps to study in England. The Peace Corps planned to send me to Africa, but I pulled my application after receiving a scholars.h.i.+p to Oxford. For two years, I studied English language and literature. After graduating in the summer of 1994, I went home the wrong way-via the East. For six months I traveled from Prague to the Gulf of Thailand, all by train and bus and boat. During the trip, I took the Trans-Siberian train to China-my first time in the country. That journey also introduced me to travel writing, and I published stories about my experiences in various American newspapers, including the New York Times New York Times and the and the Philadelphia Inquirer Philadelphia Inquirer.

In 1995, I received a Friends of Switzerland grant, which funded two months of hiking and writing in the Alps. For most of a year I worked as a freelance writer, publis.h.i.+ng travel essays and features. In 1995, I applied once again to the Peace Corps-but this time I requested Asia as my destination. I was thrilled when the Peace Corps sent me back to China.

While teaching in Fuling, I studied Chinese and freelanced the occasional story for American newspapers (including the New York Times New York Times and the and the Los Angeles Times Los Angeles Times). In August of 1998 I returned to Columbia, Missouri, where I spent the rest of the year writing about my experiences in Fuling. After completing a draft of River Town River Town, I tried unsuccessfully to find a job with a major American newspaper or magazine. Finally, in March of 1999, I decided to return to China independently and try to establish myself as a freelance writer. I settled in Beijing, where I worked part-time for the Wall Street Journal Wall Street Journal as an a.s.sistant (or ”clipper”). Most of my time was spent freelancing for a wide range of newspapers and magazines. In 2000, I began writing for as an a.s.sistant (or ”clipper”). Most of my time was spent freelancing for a wide range of newspapers and magazines. In 2000, I began writing for National Geographic National Geographic and and The New Yorker The New Yorker. In 2001, I became the first resident correspondent for The New Yorker The New Yorker to be accredited by the People's Republic of China. But I have always remained an independent freelance writer-teaching in the Peace Corps is still the only ”real job” that I've ever had. to be accredited by the People's Republic of China. But I have always remained an independent freelance writer-teaching in the Peace Corps is still the only ”real job” that I've ever had.

”In March of 1999, I decided to return to China independently and try to establish myself as a freelance writer.”

I never studied journalism, and some of the less formal aspects of my education have been the most productive. I learned more in the Peace Corps than I learned at Oxford, and my summer job as an ethnographer was one of the most valuable writing experiences I had during university. Nowadays, I try to approach narrative nonfiction with the lessons of both literature and the social sciences. I'm particularly interested in what sociologists call a ”longitudinal study”-following a subject through time. In China, I've often kept in touch with individuals over a period of several years, recording how they respond to a fast-changing society.

Since 1999, I have lived in Beijing, where I have an apartment in a hutong hutong. I also keep a home outside of the city in a small village called Sancha, where I can see the Great Wall from my desk.

About the book Return to Fuling I WROTE THE FIRST DRAFT WROTE THE FIRST DRAFT of of River Town River Town in four months. There wasn't any reason to work so fast; I had no contract or deadline. I could have taken my time, enjoying life in the States after a long absence, but every day I started writing early and finished late. Memories pushed me to work faster, because I was afraid that I would lose the immediacy of my time in Fuling. And I was also motivated by the future: I wanted to record my impressions of a city that was on the verge of ma.s.sive change. in four months. There wasn't any reason to work so fast; I had no contract or deadline. I could have taken my time, enjoying life in the States after a long absence, but every day I started writing early and finished late. Memories pushed me to work faster, because I was afraid that I would lose the immediacy of my time in Fuling. And I was also motivated by the future: I wanted to record my impressions of a city that was on the verge of ma.s.sive change.

”Memories pushed me to work faster, because I was afraid that I would lose the immediacy of my time in Fuling.”

That sense of transformation-constant, relentless, overwhelming change-has been the defining characteristic of China during the past two decades. It's hard to believe that the country used to appear exactly the opposite: the Chinese were ”the people of eternal standstill,” according to Leopold von Ranke, the nineteenth-century German historian. Nowadays, no description could be less accurate, and one challenge for the writer is that the pen simply can't keep pace. On the first page of River Town River Town, I wrote There was no railroad in Fuling. It had always been a poor part of Sichuan province and the roads were bad. To go anywhere, you took the boat, but mostly you didn't go anywhere.

By the time the book was published in 2001, a superhighway had been completed to Chongqing, and almost no one took the Yangtze boats to Fuling anymore. A railroad line was under construction. The city was booming, its growth spurred by resettlements from low-lying towns that eventually would be flooded by the Three Gorges Dam. The Huang family, who owned the simple noodle restaurant where I used to eat, had opened an Internet cafe. My students had scattered to all corners of the country: to Tibet, to Shanghai, to Shenzhen, to Wenzhou. But none of this appeared in River Town River Town-the book of eternal standstill.

After moving back to China in the spring of 1999, I returned to Fuling at least once a year. The trips were easier than in the old days, because of the highway, and my new life as a writer in Beijing allowed me the freedom to travel. Often, I visited Fuling and then headed downstream along the Yangtze, into the heart of the Three Gorges.

During my Peace Corps years, the dam had always seemed like an abstraction-a vague promise, a distant threat. But every time I returned it became a little more tangible. By 2002, the resettlements were well underway, and the landscape had become sharply divided between the past and the future. Down near the banks, the old river towns and villages were left virtually unimproved. Even though the rest of China was in a construction frenzy, it was pointless to build anything where the water was certain to rise. These low-lying settlements were allowed to deteriorate, until everything looked neglected: broken bricks, dirty tiles, murky streets. The doomed towns contrasted with the new cities, which were being constructed of cement and white tile, perched high on the hills above the river. Whenever I floated down the Yangtze, I could read the landscape's evolving history at a glance, in a series of horizontal bands: the dark riverside settlements that belonged to the past, the green stretch of farmland that would be claimed by the reservoir, and then, high above, the cl.u.s.ters of white looking toward the future.

My final pre-dam journey was in the fall of 2002. Equipped with a tent and sleeping bags, a friend and I set out to hike the old paths that had been carved into the riverside cliffs nearly a century ago. The weather was perfect, and the trails were breathtaking; sometimes, they led us high above the Yangtze, with a hundred-foot drop straight to the water below. With every mile I thought: this is the last time I'll see this trail.