Experiencing China

Day 4: Mama Moon & Mountains
Yangshuo, Guangxi Province

We began today with a good, long breakfast (American and European food) with Lenka and Martin from Denmark. We spoke about everything from Copenhagen to the drug problem there to its sub-culture; from politics (both U.S. and Denmark) to big government, from conspiracy theories to Cold War memories and nuclear arsenals. Martin shared some intriguing memories of losing sleep as a child in the 70s, in fear of being nuked by nearby Russia. He was deeply freaked out by Cold War prospects. He and Lenka are hoping to travel to Vietnam from Yangshuo, assuming they're let in at the border. They've obtained a visa, but nothing's certain.

The four of us, after exchanging a few rickety, broken bikes for new ones (Martin's chain broke in half), and after meeting up with some other teachers from Guangzhou and Su, our local guide, we headed out. My bike had four gears out of twelve working; had to be careful on the hills or my chain would jump off of its track.

Su has led biking tours around Yangshuo for five years now, before which he taught Chinese to adolescents, ten to fourteen year-olds. He said there wasn't much money in teaching. He has two kids, a boy and a girl, and is originally from a small village not far from Yangshuo. Su does have a small amount of land outside of town, but he has others farm it; rice. He seemed like a very kind man and I was tempted to offer to buy him dinner after the ride, but didn't; fatigue won out over my evanescent generosity.

The mountains are abrupt and beautiful, green yet seemingly arid. The mist amidst the peaks adds an aura of mystery. Our destination, after winding our way through a few valleys and couple of villages on a rugged, muddy path, was Moon Hill, a natural bridge atop a mountain; about a 6 or 7 kilometer bike ride, though it took us rubberneckers a couple of hours.

Upon reaching Moon Hill, half a dozen older ladies toting satchels of Coke, bottled water, Snickers candy bars, beer, and postcards flocked to us as we parked our bikes, their chatter urgent. They wanted us to buy their goods, or at least promise to do so after hiking up and down the mountain, and they were fiercely insistent. Again, so it goes during the off-season for tourism. One of the women we met went by the name Mama Moon, a fairly flamboyant, few-toothed woman. She knew minimal English. I bought some of her stuff and then bartered with an orange to take her gleeful picture. She proved to be photo-energetic and enjoyed the attention, even did a song and dance saying, "I'm a crazy lady! I'm a crazy lady!" As we hiked to the top of Moon Hill, on a well manicured path made up mostly of stone steps with bamboo growing all around, one lady, who was certainly at least sixty years of age, walked all the way to the top with us - 40 minutes straight up - just to sell us goods at the top. Couldn't help but buy from her then. We went all the way above the bridge to the top of the mountain peak for a better view of villages, other peaks, rice fields, water buffalo herds. Upon our descent, I gladly bought a snack from Mama Moon who had made me promise to buy from her before leaving. I split a candy bar with Su. As we rode away, Mama Moon waved and said, "Au revoir! Sayonara!"

I found the villages intriguing. Many of the Chinese wear western clothing, much of it surprisingly formal (by North American standards), with collared shirts, blazers, loafers or heels; many of them with famous brand-names. And these are worn regardless of one's activities, be it road construction, carrying chickens to the market, or driving a bus. Many villagers played cards, washed clothes, worked in the fields. I also saw an encircled group of a dozen women knitting, each sitting on a large rock and conversing while they worked the threads through their fingers.

We saw much cattle, water buffalo, ducks, pigs, and various other things; lots of chickens. They seemed to depend heavily upon rice, of course, as well as stone quarries from the limestone mountains. Rice, according to Su, grows twice a year here. They have advanced systems of irrigation and concrete walkways dividing rice fields. One village had a water pump to transport water from one field to another.

The buildings were fairly dilapidated brick; it's been ten years since they've seen snow here, according to Su. Major roads from city to city are paved and dangerously busy in spots with Hummer trucks, dozens of bicycles, three-wheeled "tiller" trucks (look like a garden tiller to me), some cars - lots of Volkswagens and Audis and, I think, a few Chinese makes. Kids along the way shouted "Hello" as they chewed on bamboo shoots. Women and men carried the fields' yield, wood, and other domestic accoutrements in two baskets hanging from the ends of a pole that rested upon their shoulders.

Found the villages fairly sobering. How random is it that I'm a rich American biking through a rural Chinese village for the sake of recreation, diversion, and these villagers are subsiding on dollars a month and simple staple foods - rice and bamboo and chicken - that would leave my palate in want? They do not have the health facilities I have; many of them will never leave this province, certainly not this country, for a multiplicity of reasons. Random? Certainly not. Have to retain hope that God has his purposes. But acceptable? No, neither is this the case. I will not pity the lot of the people I've met and seen today; it's quite likely that they're proud and content - I don't know their stories. But is it just that I have the material goods, the opportunities that I do while others struggle in a physically hard and trying life? And all of this with apparently little Christian witness in their lives? Freedom neither physically nor spiritually.

Again, I do not know their stories. But I pray that God will show mercy on those suffering and bring a stronger Christian witness to this region. Too many suffer without Jesus for me to sit complacent and lazy. Guide me Lord.

I am surprised at how much the countryside and villages here remind me of Albania: the roads and paths, makeshift vehicles, people gathering outside of homes, little vivid color, the agrarian culture, much under construction. And yet they are worlds apart.

I'm also surprised at how sore I am, and how my tailbone hurts. Those paths were terribly rocky, and my bike seat lacked padding.

My prayer tonight, Lord, is for the villagers. May they know real happiness and freedom on all levels and may they come to know you. And for myself, that I rightly process and reflect upon what I've seen and experienced today in light of your character.

Mark

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