Finding Zhao, scaling the Wall

We walked briskly towards the hotel to meet Zhao, the driver we had secured via Alan, cum Sheila, cum Eos before the bitter cold and the timing caught up with us. The dry cold of Beijing was quite deceiving through our NY lens. Intermittent filtered sunshine and generally moderate winds belied a tolerable environment until you stood outside for three minutes. The chill seeped to the bone through all of clothing layers by severity of degree not the damp we were used to. Taxis made money from our shivers.
Michele ran upstairs to grab something from the room, when I spotted Zhao, pacing in his parka between the host stand and the lounge. I went to greet him, with Yusi’s notes in hand to navigate hello when Eo appeared to smooth the intros. Handsome and animated, I guessed early twenties; I could see that he was a bit nervous. We collected Michele and jumped into his Nissan; yes it did appear quite new. We navigated the few phrases that I could muster, occasionally repeating them for better tonality. Yusi, the student I had traded Mandarin for Spanish classes with at the end of the term had instructed me to wave my arm in the direction of the tonal sounds as a reminder. This would probably have been comical to Zhao, but more effective than my vocal butchering of his language. Needless to say we were off, in a car on a highway, passing tracts of middle then working class high rises, factories and the Northeastern corner of the city on our way to see the Great Wall. I, we specifically didn’t want to go to a viewing area like Badaling, fully renovated replete with T shirt stalls and tchochkes. This is the closest location and homing point for most tour groups. We wanted to find a country-spot, to see the landscape a glimpse of village life and a rustic view of the Wall; or in our sense of cultural capital a more unspoiled, “authentic” vista.
As we neared the toll booth, I realized that though Michele and I had discussed our desires, and tried to effectively share them with Eo in the pidgin conversations we had shared I wasn’t clear what she had relayed to Zhao. As we sat waiting for our turn to pay the toll, I took out the guide book and my notes and tried to clarify our goals. Boy did that end poorly. He looked at me aghast, paid the toll, pulled through the booth and pulled up the parking brake and stopped the car 10 yards into an eight lane highway. No pulling into the shoulder, popping on the flashers, N-a-d-a. I hopped from back to front seat while Michele quietly whispered that at least we both had health insurance. After 10 minutes of un productive conversation I telephoned Leo (Liu Ye), the concierge from the hotel. We passed the phone back and forth a few times trying to arrive at an understanding. At this point I learned that Zhao, like many people I would meet in these next few days was not from Beijing but had come to study and make a better living. Coming from Anhui he knew very little of the geography of the city. He was uncertain of where to go, how to get there and whether we could get there from here. That is why he had decided to just stop the car…Yikes. As we took turns on the cell, Leo told us both, that it was not difficult to find, just further out than Zhao had envisioned. Immediately, he wanted 100 yuan more, which I agreed to in sign language and word, via Leo. He looked into my face, realizing that this brief ride had more legs than he had planned; pursed his lips, brightened his face and started the car. We drove to the first exit and he pulled to the shoulder, got out his map/guidebook of Beijing and walked to the exit toll booth, pocketing his keys.
Seven or so minutes later, he was walking towards us, and then disappeared. Michele looked at me quizzically. “He’s probably pissing,” I said. Stepping from behind a pine tree hiking his pants and rebuttoning his coat, he jogged to the car, obviously colder. We were off. He now had ideas of which summit to drive towards. We haggled, now having some weird shared common gibberal Chinese-sign system in place. He rejected one of my suggestions and we agreed to Huanghuateng, my second choice; based on a guide book gloss. Hoping to rebuild our spirit, I pointed to the radio. He smiled and switched on his CD player. Hearing his selection, I recalled the ‘80’s working as a journeyman cook at the Odeon with virtually an entire crew and sous chef from Foochow in Canton or Guangdong province. They loved prepping to this satellite radio stations from Hong Kong; nothing but love songs it seemed by the syrup and smiles. Sometimes I heard current American pop presumably translated or literated into Cantonese; though commonly twangy simple melodies and high register harmonies. I was back in current roster of that playlist. All of a sudden, my fog cleared and I turned to Zhao and repeated the refrain, once then again to be sure I had it right. He burst into a shit eating grin. Turning from the road and looking straight into my eyes, we laughed like homeys and chanted, “w̌o ai nǐ, w̌o ai nǐ: I love you, I love you.”
Paying closer attention, I realized that it was all wrapped up in unrequited love, she loved him and he wasn’t noticing her. Hmm, patriarchal gendered romantic politics are global and again reductive towards women. I hoped that his glee was like mine based in shared understanding and not complicity with the lyrical theme. No matter, I was never going to be able to convey those ideas, gotta keep it all in the moment.
Our day continued with stops and starts, asking directions, stopping at toll booths and flagging down cabdrivers as we made our way from the highway into the countryside. By this time, every stall yielded a wondrous gaze or photo-opt chilling us out as Zhao attempted to understand our geography. 50-60 minutes later, after passing through many small villages we began to climb. Careening around switchbacks glimpses of the wall peeked through the clouds and distant hillsides, Zhao switched to a decent jazz disc; life was good. I was premature in believing that we were moments from our destination. We still had several foothill villages to traverse. As the mountains rose on either side of the car, I saw how accurate the many hanging scrolls I had seen in museums and art history courses were to the landscape. Striped terraces of either low stone walls or earth poked through the mist and marked the terrain. Anxiety mounted as we curved and climbed since Zhao would switch lanes as the rise steepened. Thankfully the downward oncoming vehicles never got to too close. Suddenly, we nosed down a steep grade ending up at a country lane intersection. To our right was a stream and half a dozen middle aged men hovered on a small footbridge, smoking, holding a few farm tools and talking. An empty store or school sat on the opposite corner with a semicircular porch and red iron grillwork. The road ahead turned to dirt, as had many before. This one led to a housing district. The hard right seemed to follow the stream and tail off. The street signs did not appear to clue Zhao in, so he stopped the car and looked at me bewildered. Using my book of notes and characters I stitched together, then blurted a sentence, loosely, “Why not ask those men?” Again he took the keys with him as he crossed to the huddled group. Returning quickly, turning to me as he settled into his seat, his eyes brightened and he exclaimed, “huanghuanteng. Here, we are. Huanghuanteng, now.” We almost headbutted each other we laughed so hard. No wall in sight too low for any view of anything, yikes this may have been a mistake… after a moment we elected to continue down the road to the right along the stream. Another village appeared at a fork in the road just a few km ahead. Zhao pulled over by what seemed to be a store or trading center with a porch full of neatly stacked dried corn. From there we could make out the wall on top of a nearby ridge. He got out and lit a cigarette, while Michele and I got ready to hike.
The village was defined by narrow dirt lanes set into the foothills below the wall, stacks of bundled branches, kindling I assumed, freshly made bricks, millstones and piles of drying chestnuts in prickly hulls. Every low brick and rough hewn beam home had a small yard or compound punctuated by low walls and slightly corroded iron doors. A few seemed larger or more prominent than the others. There were stairs cut in between some of the homes to climb deeper Around the base of Phoenix on top of a six foot concrete slab disc two winnowing baskets held drying persimmons and freshly harvested red dates. More corn and kindling were drying in an open garage door just to the side. Uh-oh, M told me she needed to pee. I looked around and saw nothing available, until just up the way I saw a parted iron gate. I walked up and knocked lightly, the metal twanged back breaking the morning calm. A late middleaged man, cutting wood turned with a warm smile, bright eyed with long teeth many random or jutting out at odd angles grinned and greeted me. In sign and word I asked to use his outhouse. Beckoning Michele she, then I found relief. He had disappeared behind a thick swatch of fabric covering the door to his house across the yard. When I had finished I heard his voice from behind the curtain, speaking loudly with a voice muffled by the fabric. His hands motioned to us before he poked out his head. One hand parted the curtain to reveal a large steaming pot of water on a wood stove. Rubbing his palms together he mimicked hand washing, then pointed to a large bar of soap, that recalled lye versions meant for scrubbing clothing. Upon entering into the large, dark living area, I heard the lowing noise of someone sleeping behind the curtain in the adjacent room. I washed quickly and left to find Michele who had walked back out to the street.
Within two city blocks the village proper fell away as the grade increased. Persimmons and dates drying on trees were the only remnants of the local community. As the brush became prickly and more unmanageable, Michele began to fall back, even the few birds seemed to still their song. Trudging forward obsessively, wanting, coveting the wall, my stimuli were the view ahead, the slight crunch of brush and a strong pungency of the clayey red soil. Later that evening in the hotel, when I re-examined the icon by the bathroom faucet to confirm that it implied, not potable as I ran the water to prep my shower, I realized that the hot spray had the same aroma of red earth. Washing myself that evening, I fell back into the summit I had struggled climbing that afternoon.
Obviously impetuous, I scampered as best I could up the hill, while Michele cheered me on as she descended back to the car. Blinded by the goal, I lost the trail and mistakenly continued climbing old rainwater courses that had interrupted the terraced furrows and hillocks. Shortly after, I was a hot mess of bramble, skittish stones that often implied stability but yielded to gentle pressure and tumbled into the brush. I grasped at roots and boughs for support, more crawling than standing. I just kept my focus of the summit and the prize of communion with this relic; punctuation, ancient boundary or lineal drawing in stone. Now sweaty after nearly 30 minutes of effort I had to rest a moment, swallow a few shallow gulps of water and go on. Soon after, I was able to right myself and continue in a more upright fashion still grasping for supports until I reached the top 10 or so minutes later. The final ascent involved wedging toes into ruts between the ever larger stones, skinning my palm once or twice and then pulling myself up to a weathered ruin of a former guard tower. My reason for choosing this locale to access the wall was to see an unrestored portion, and with that quirky marriage of the historical and the postmodern I craved the perceived ‘original’; the more pure-whatever that suggested or implied to each seeker. Now on top it made sense. I called out, laughed belly deep and sang a bit. Praised my family, departed mothers mine and others who guided me to through to these spaces and moments of my experience. Gave thanks to Cliff, my Dad and tried to observe this scene closely to better share a story of it with him back at home upon my return. Wanting to skip and dance, I calmed down a bit and just took it all in. turning to follow the undulating ridge decorated with this earthwork rise, fall, disappear and return miles in the distance. I counted one dozen sentry towers within view of my bifocaled eyes. Some more robust and unchanged than crumbling neighbors. I walked between two and considered for a moment climbing higher to reach two others. In the valley behind the village a few lone tall evergreens, all trunk for days with an ostrich plume hat thick with green needles brought a whisper of color to a fairly monochromatic ochre landscape. I heard nothing but wind in the lower trees, no villages sounds, trucks or signs of humanity. For a moment I felt like I held some magic that I wanted to retain at least in memory. Wistfully pc I considered a doing a Tai Chi set, and realized that I had probably been meditating here for an hour. I needed to wrap it up and get back with my crew. I walked along both sides of the wall, taking in the view from all directions, entered the first crumbling guard tower once more and made my way to the actual trail which was obviously easier to use for my descent. The beginning was still a little tricky to navigate but I got down fairly quickly within about 8 minutes. Walking back through the village, I stopped at the house who had shared their outhouse to say goodbye. This time his wife was working in the yard, apparently gathering ingredients together for the midafternoon meal. I tried to signal her to call her husband since I had no idea if she knew anything of our experience with him. As she raised questions to me in Chinese, he heard them from inside the house and came out grinning. We shook hands, and I snapped a quick shot before I waved goodbye. Back at the car, Michele had been people watching, shooting photos, creating her own communication method with Zhao while watching him smoke cigs at the front bumper. According to her, he had been anxious to understand my whereabouts and timing long before I returned. I think he had intended plans back in town. When I walked up he crushed a butt under his foot, smiled my way, jumped in and started the car. We left quickly, finding our way into town faster than we had our village, passing the Qing Tombs on the way in. unfortunately, traffic caught up with us on the highway, faulting my agenda to see the Lama Temple, the Drum & Bell Tower neighborhood and hǔtong alley districts before sundown, and the closing of the temple and local retail businesses. We were able to have a glimmer of a view of the compound just before the gates were locked. Wandering the hǔtong at dusk we found cramped living quarters, a gallery of antique sculpture and religious artifacts, bodegas, tea vendors and a lovely home cut into a small compound bounded by a walled yard with a tea house at the center. Two young teen girls prepared a classical Chinese Tea service while their mother quietly oversaw their work under the guise of reading, doing her bills and glazing over in front of a small late model tv. We walked back to the main street to look for a means home around 6 or 7ish, grabbing a freshly roasted yam from the neighborhood vendor. I ate my golden yam, walking and window shopping past stall and store after another full of golden Buddahs, incense and ethnic jewelry.

from the Crown Plaza to Zhao

Last Days and First Evenings.....

Michele left this evening. We had a quietly gentle day together doing a few last errands, getting ready, going toward. One last morning snuggle before we packed up our temporary digs and made a final path for Pelourinho. She wanted to go home with a single strand necklace for Ossain. She had the two other single strands that she needed for the moment. Later, she would get the more ceremonial 7 or 16 stranded beads. But for now, we needed to go see Bene our new friend in the Mercado Modelo. We had met Bene, after a day of shopping with Giovanna. Our excursion with her had been on a Friday before the MAM (Museo de Arte Moderno) jazz concert, almost 10 days ago. She had introduced us to the Mercado. It is a curious place. Almost the size of a football field with 60 foot ceiings. A cafe on each floor and a bar on the side for the workers. A paved patio out front for another tier of goods to be hawked as well as food and hair braiding. In one sense a tourist mecca....yet you can get deals there; especially if you are willing to haggle and pout. When she took us there, she poured on the sob story, we are American artists, she is a native Baiana, blah blah. Don't ya know she knocked down some prices by 25-30%. You can never forget the walk away with a cold glazed gaze factor. After you have given your best price, if they don't bite, thank them, turn to granite and back away. Usually that will get you an extra 5% off. So, that day she and Michele both got lace dresses. They each got wonderfully colored ones. Giovanna got a rainbow of daisies on a mesh lace and Michele got a swath of alternating gold and black flowers on stitched onto a based of the opposite color. She also got a white lace dress. Everyone got a fine cotton shirt, even me and Ed, (the lovely man who watched our house). Well, we had made plans to return to pick up one of the items that we did not have money for at the time. Giovanna had said that we should also go to the second floor when we returned. We did return the following Monday and went straight upstairs. There we met Tekka. She had a mane of loose curls bound up in an elegant head wrap and accessorized with various piercings and tattoos. She is probably someone's grandmother too. Well, Tekka had beautiful bolts of African fabric, earrings and some beads. I kept eyeing 1 set of beautiful cobalt blue beads. She told me that she had others. I said, again and again, that these were the only ones I liked. Really she asked? Yes. She continued her pitch, standing between me and her beads. After the third go-round, she asked, "Did I really mean what I said?" Yes. (mind you, this is all in Portuguese). "Well, then"....she motioned to the man whose stall was across the aisle from hers. "Watch my space." She led us across the floor and down to the far corner and introduced us to a chestnut brown-skinned man named Bene, I would guess he was in his early 70's. He only sold Orisha beads. Yes, that was the issue, I had been coveting her personal Yemenja beads. She told us that this was a favor, and that we had to return to purchase from her, but we could look at what Bene had.

Well, with Bene its all about who your Orisha are. Once we settled that he looks and looks through the hundreds of beads he had on display to pick out the one, or ones for you. single strand or multi, one Orisha or combinations of two or the whole cadre. He pulled, we looked, we admired, he searched for more. I ended up with a special strand that included all of the Orishas. What I marveled at with all of these folk is the fact that they will all take time with you, even if the sale is not readily apparent. And then, if you do not have the money, they will put the items you like aside. When we returned 10 days later Michele had forgotten about our layaway. Bene hadn't. That final Tuesday he pulled out five sets of multi stranded beads, two for her and three for me. Once she identified Ossain, he added another set to her pile. Bloomingdales works like that, right? I agreed to return before a week was up and collect our booty. After Bene, oh- I forgot about the first visit. After that first visit we did go back to Tekka's booth. Bene had advised us that we must put our beads deep into our bag so that she wouldn' t see them and not to wear them until we were far from the Modelo. With that we walked back to her booth and Michele tried on earrings. I tried to knock down the pricing, but she wouldn't budge. She probably had guessed that we had spent our monies with Bene. I admired her fabric and had her pull down some smaller pieces that could have made a nice wrap for Michele. We couldn't agree on anything, so that gave us an out to leave. We claimed that we would return soon and off we went.

Thus, on August 12, terca feira (third market day or Tuesday for us old-skoolers) we returned. We got her Ossain, and went out to the outdoor market to buy a cocada for Mossa my teacher. Cocadas are to Bahia what pralines are to New Orleans. Large rounds of shredded coconut with crystallized sugar. They come either white-white, caramelized in a deep mahogany, Pale pink with Guava juice or a light yellow from fresh pineapple juice. I thought that this would be a sweet reminder of home for Mossa. We went up the Elevator and walked over to Senac (the state community college with a comprehensive food division) to register for the one day Dende seminar that I would be taking on Thursday. It looked promising with people speaking from culinary, agricultural and historic perspectives on how much the oil of Palm trees characterizes the foods and the region. My plan was to spend the day, Thursday, in the conference; hop on a bus for a almost two hours at 8:00 that evening for Cachoeira to catch the midpoint through to the finale of Festas de Boa Morte ([Boa Mortchee]-the festival of the Good Death). From there, I would come back to town, catch another bus to Gantoes [Gaantwaas] to witness my new friend Zeno's terreiro in one of their special ceremonies. Zeno is a direct descendant of one of the most powerful Mae de Santos in Salvador. He explained that when he initiated in Candomble, he was five years old, and they pulled him out of society for one whole year to learn the faith. "No one can do that today. If we are lucky we get them for one month. It causes problems, how will the culture grow strong and be passed on intact, without greater segments of time placed in the assimilation of the method and spiritual practice? This is how we are living, but it does not bode well". Hmm-it is hard to imagine, dropping out for a year of your life for ascetic reasons. We would probably have a much calmer, happier world if we would all try it.....(Obama can you hear me?).

Boa Morte. The festival was started long ago by women for women. They were protesting and trying to protect their elders who could not get access to freedom. They demonstrated on their behalf to set them free. It is alleged to be quite profound and symbolic, with its own set of foodstuffs. I heard that there is a fejioada without beans. (Fejioada is the national dish. An amalgam of slow cooked beans several types of sun dried meats and sausages, collard greens and farofa). Technically, the festival started at the end of July and continues until August 18th. I will see the crescendo, though I am told that I will be late for a key ceremony. The woman at the pousada I reserved a room at, said you need to come earlier to see the ______. Can't do it all.

Ok, back to last days and first evenings. Once we did our business in the Pelourinho we decided to go down the other exit to the gondola like car. We boarded a bus and went home. I had made arrangements with a cab company to pick us up and not run the meter. Good work if you can get it. The $70 Real ride goes down to $50 without a meter. On the way back to the apartment we got one last bag of fresh roasted Cashews and a Mango for the plane snack basket. At home, we made one last meal of roasted potatoes with wonderfully aromatic fennel seeds and rosemary from our locale spice vendor, a salad of shredded beets, carrots, onions and sliced cucumbers with a peppery spanish olive oil, and Senhor Levy's rotisserie chicken. yum. Of course when I went to confirm with Marcio, the cabdriver as he had requested, he swore that he had come by and we were not ready, so if we wanted he would send a trusted friend. But he had decided that the possibility of losing four hours work was too much for him. Cabs tend to be parked in well traveled corners waiting for fares instead of cruising for them. All drivers have cards to give you to arrange special excursions and airport drop offs. Well before Marcio's friend came, I found another willing driver. It was now 3:45PM. We got to the airport in plenty of time, which made me glad. I had been forewarned with horror stories of enormously long waits leading to missed planes at the connecting hub even though the layover was six hours and there was no storm to hold up either flight. As it was, we found our place in the queue and it snaked forward fairly rapidly. I took off for a moment to read the Arrival/Departures board. I found that I could not find Michele's flight. The board is funny, because it continually updates itself on 30 second intervals. The flights are grouped in segments by hour in military time, so your eyes have to adjust, readjust, make a mental note and then change it. After studying the board several times and asking an agent for help I was told that I shouldn't worry as long as we were on that line. Luckily, that is where Michele was situated. We checked in, walked to security and had a teary goodbye. It is always harder to be left than to be the one leaving. I made my way to the street, bought myself an acaraje and a coconut while I waited for the bus back to town. I later learned from Michele after she touched down at JFK that they had completely changed her flight numbers and that had she not been paying attention in Sao Paulo she could have missed the connecting flight. That by the time they announced the flight in English, she would have been a goner. Thank you Mossa.