In the Land of Confucian -- Foreigners in China

Week 13 (November 21, 1997) -- In the Shadow of Jiuhua, Part 3

by Scott Urban

Introduction: Scott Urban went to China in 1994 to work at the China Daily newspaper in Beijing, where he stayed until 1997. While in China, Scott contracted a severe form of bicycling mania, which manifested itself in his 6,000-kilometer bicycle journey to Xinjiang in 1995 with friend Brice Minnigh.

In the Fall of 1996, Scott Urban and another friend William Lindesay spent every weekend possible cycling to the Great Wall of China to find lost sections of the Wall, with nothing more than curiosity, bicycles, and a map of the greater Beijing area.

This Jiuhua story was written in April 1995 about Scott's brother Pat's visit to China, their unusal encounters with Chinese people. The story begins in the middle of that visit. Jiuhua is one of China's four sacred Buddhist mountains (the other 3 being Pu Tuo in Zhejiang, Emei in SIchuan and Wutai in Shanxi). Jiuhua is located in Anhui Province, East China. In its heyday there were more than 300 monastaries around Jiuhua Mountain.

Scott currently resides in Denver, Colorado, USA, and is involved in a number of China-related projects. He can be reached at 110362.3041@compuserve.com .

I was thrilled to learn that Pat would be visiting China. I promised him we’d forge our own route -- my Chinese was faltering but good enough to get us around on the country’s ample transport network. I promised him we’d meet ordinary people and see common sights, always the best experiences in a foreign country.

But as the weeks to his arrival drew near, the itinerary became no less vague. When trying to select "ordinary" sights in China, how does one choose?

I decided we were gong to experience spring in East-central China. With its famous Yellow Mountains and my own personal connection (friends who call the area home), Anhui Province would be a worthy destination. The only question was the route.

Anhui’s Jiuhua Mountain is 100 kilometres from the Yellow Mountains. Walking between the two would make for an excellent trip.

A week before Pat’s arrival, I called him on the phone to do a reality check. "How long would it take us to walk 100 kilometres?"

"That’s sixty miles," he responded. "Even in six days we’d be walking ten miles a day. Those would be hard days."

So much for Jiuhua Mountain.

A city called Tong Ling made more sense as the starting point because it was at the end of the rail line from Shanghai and it was on the highway to the Yellow Mountains. We could walk and take buses through various sections to get there.

The train to Tong Ling left Shanghai at 4:40 in the morning under a veil of darkness.

We arrived in Tong Ling by 3:00 in the afternoon, only a couple days after Pat’s arrival in China.

We quickly found a bus bound for Qing Yang, which traveled three hours over rough terrain. But as it ascended mountains covered with spring’s blossoming fruit trees, we knew East China was the right choice.

Anhui Province was in full bloom.

The passenger ahead of us turned around to inquire about our itinerary. Mr. Chang Jiang’s Chinese was clear and, like the bus, our conversation covered much ground. Somewhat guarded but decidedly interested in the two foreigners on the bus home to Qing Yang, Chang opened up the conversation.

"What country are you from?" he asked, as most Chinese do. Whereupon in other situations some farmers have asked, "what language do they speak in America? Are there pears? Are there apples?"

But this guy was more worldly. He was en route home from an extended stay in Guangzhou, capital of faraway Guangdong Province (known in the English-speaking world as "Canton"), the showcase of China’s economic reforms.

I interrupted the conversation infrequently to translate for my brother. He would have to be content looking at the (beautiful) scenery and prodding me for details later. But Chang eventually turned the conversation to Pat, and asked whether he understood what we were saying.

"No," I told him. "Not one word."

I told Chang my brother’s Chinese name was Xiangsheng -- "Faces Life," and goaded Pat to try pronouncing his name. As we’d established the day before, he couldn’t do it. But trying to do so provided a fascinating lesson in the concept of face.

In Chang’s eyes -- or, to his ears -- Pat’s repeated attempts to say his Chinese name were difficult to stomach. No progress followed the repeated utterances, and Chang raised his hand as if to say, "enough."

"Can he say my name?" Chang asked. I translated the query to Pat and reminded him of Chang’s name. He disfigured it.

In a master stroke of face saving, Chang praised my brother for saying Chang’s name correctly. It was a device he’d engineered in a split second to conserve Pat’s face. It was a kind gesture.

So when Chang invited us to his home for the night, we knew it was a genuine offer, and there was no hesitancy on our part beyond the desire not to burden our new friend. He assured us it was no burden.

[To be continued]

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