In the Land of Confucian -- Foreigners in China

Week 18 (January 9, 1998)

In the Shadow of Jiuhua -- 8 of 8

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 scott.urban@dacg.com .

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[Continued from last year :) ]

It was later the same day that we were making a stop on the long march to Ling Yang, with the commune’s children crowding around my brother as he handed an ABCs book to one of the younger tikes. The books paid huge dividends as smiles replaced the ill-at-ease faces of adults and children alike. Soon an older woman brought us a plate full of sesame cookies. The books were a secret anti-fear weapon. A devastating icebreaker.

Foremost among the children, and eldest among this particular group, was a girl we dubbed "Firecracker." She was extraordinary. Not yet a teenager, but no longer a kid, she dared to ask questions no one else would dream of asking. Merely asking Pat for a book earned her a slap from the old woman, which earned her the book, as far as we were concerned.

Pat gave her a book about trucks. Kids were everywhere, and I did my best to translate it for them -- a little easier, considering it was a children’s book. They fastened onto every turn of the page.

Firecracker spoke up again, and again got slapped. This time, she’d had the audacity to tell us to stay in the commune and teach English. The slaps brushed right off her.

We finished a second glass of water and scarfed down more of the sesame cakes as we got up to be on our way. The old woman poured the rest of the cakes into my hands, insisting that we take them. They were delicious. We tried to clarify which way to go, but were confused.

A woman told Firecracker to show us the way. Once outside the community she climbed atop a terrace to watch us disappear into the distance, waving all the while. "Zai jian! Zai jian!" she yelled. ("Goodbye!") "Man zou!" ("Take care!") "Qing nimen zai lai!" ("Come again!")

Ling Yang was now only six or seven kilometres away. Though it was flatland, and our knees were glad for it, it was still a big distance. The rumble of a farmer’s tractor was a welcome sound. We flagged him down and climbed aboard, paying a small fare.

Ling Yang seemed deserted. It was evening, and all the vendor stalls were empty. Trash was strewn everywhere. Nobody was out, no traffic. We asked two men about accommodations; after a moment’s delay, they pointed into the distance.

We headed that way and a woman came speeding after us. "Hotel? Hotel?" she asked. We nodded and she led us back to her place -- a few rooms and a kitchen. It was simple but had beds, and that was enough for us on our second night in Anhui.

[The end]

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