Attempt to explain China, take 10
A part of a recent letter to a friend of mine in Saweden, who asked about whether I like China:
You asked about my life in China -- I freakin love it! It's impossible to express in words the magic of daily life. I guess I can say that every experience is lived so deeply -- everywhere I go, crowds gather and say things to me, so there's no being anonymous, ever. My every word, action, look, gesture is noticed and commented on.
Everyone I meet wants to be my friend, show me around, teach me Chinese, sell me an octopus, on and on and on. This means that I must constantly respond to situations -- I cannot be passive, I cannot ignore people or problems. No, I must deal directly and immediately with people and problems constantly, in a language I don't know and in a culture I don't quite understand. Is there any better way to learn about myself, about another culture, about humanity in general? I don't think so. Is there any greater adventure? Nope.
My emotions run so strongly, all the time -- I swear more and with more passion here than ever before, but I laugh more and with more vigor than ever before. I've encountered kindness and hospitality among new friends in a more touching way than ever before, but also faced down some of the most crooked, evil bastards I could ever meet. I've seen natural beauty that makes my heart stop, but live among squalor and filth that I didn't know it was possible for human beings to live under.
I guess the true beauty of China lies in its extremes -- so many warm hearts, but so many cold ones; so much beauty, so much squalor; such wealth, such choking poverty; boundless hopes for a better future, backward policies that cripple those hopes. And I think it's luxurious to live as an outsider in this culture -- I get to experience life in all its richness and complexity, but I have a permanent opt-out clause. Unlike the people I live among, I can leave this great adventure anytime, and my actions in it are not constrained, as theirs' are, by fears of my future being ruined.
Every day, as I run through the countryside, with terraced plots of
green farmland stretching forever, and armies of little kids ride by in bikes and scream "hello," and families gather in front of their brick shacks, staring
in wonder at this exotic creature passing by, and a farmer butchers a pig on
a table beside the road, and an old woman sits outside the little brick "medical" shack, her arm attached to an IV, and smiles at me with no teeth, and a blue dumptruck rumbles by, turning my world into dustland, and a pregnant black goat baaahs at me, and a dinosaur-sized ox plows through the sodden field, a peasant with a cone-shaped straw hat pushing him along, I realize how lucky I am to be here, observing the sights and sounds and smells of a beautiful, utterly foreign culture. And I realize my luck in being able to leave it any time I want. And I realize that, each day I'm here, leaving it seems less appealing, even though it's an option.
Ah, my fingers caught giardia and just wouldn't stop spouting. As I said
to begin, it's hard to find words for what I experience every day, but I
do love everything about it.
I best be running now, as the sun is rising and the birds are chirping and
the village is emerging from its sleep.
