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Really it comes down to Kevin Clancy.  I mean, we could assign blame all over the place, but I think it would be best to light the burner under Kevin, and of course Kaishan.

  You see, we were doing just fine, sweaty and dirty, rolling into slimey places we loved because they were cheap (never mind that we shared sheets with the last who knows how many visitors, or the occasional worms under the mattress covering a hodge-podge of broken boards strategically placed to make a bed.  Never mind that.  Right?)  We were on a roll and getting used to dirty bathrooms where one showers above the squat toilet, which serves as a drain or walls that may have been white at one time now a comforting grimey brown.  All of that was becoming a very normal part of our daily lives; but little did we know, we were headed for a big-time change… (okay, so we had an idea, but indulge me here).

Kevin and Kaishan messed up our world by a simple invitation.  It was innocent enough, and quite nonchalante — something like: “We look forward to seeing you all at the wedding in GuangZhou and we’ve got you a couple rooms for the days you are there.” 

We tried to protest.  “Kevin, we can find our own accommodations.”  But no, Kevin and Kaishan had to insist that we stay in one of the fanciest hotels by the waterfront in GuangZhou for not one, but two nights.  And, I might add, for free.  Well, if there’s one thing FueledByRice goes for more than dirty and dirt cheap, it’s free.

We pulled up to the hotel early afternoon, right in front with our bikes–much to the hotel clerks’ collective chagrin (I think they were looking for “Audi” or “Mercedes” on our rides and couldn’t figure out how one drives a two-wheeled contraption in such proximity to this landmark hotel)–and we were giddy with our disbelief and anticipation.  Are we really staying here for two days!! 

In hindsight I recognize these as the beginning symptoms of the rare Chinese Enspoilitus, but we were too dazed to understand the implications…

So, after finding a place for our bicycles, we checked in and marveled at the mirrors, the carpet, the lights, the bathroom, the individually wrapped cups and complimentary toothbrushes, the hot hot shower, the western toilet — you know, the usual marvels of modernity– and prepared to purchase clothes for our participation in the wedding celebration.

Well, by the time the wedding feast came around the next day, we were pretty much a lost case.  We sat under chandeliers, surrounded by opulence, three glasses of different alcohol in front of each one of us (the baijio cup was mercifully small), a Lazy Susanna–that’s a fancy “lazy susan”– full of southern China’s tastiest delights.  We incredulously chatted with our English speaking table mates and sank hopelessly into the atmosphere of celebration as we filled our plates and satiated our appetites.

Speeches and toasts were made, gratitude was extended, and our first official “spoiling session” went off without a hitch.  Kevin and Kaishan managed to make their wedding into everyone else’s event, and the party continued late with live music at an Irish pub. 

  I think it’s still fair to blame Kevin for putting a microphone in Dave Harrison’s hands, so that we ended up being called to the dance floor several times throughout the evening (as well as any other names Dave could remember as he tirelessly and with amazing regularity made sure the dance was “happening” all night).

Well, after such an amazing hotel stay and party, you can imagine how we were losing our ability to think cheap and dirty, which is just like thinking clearly to us.  We were spoiled, thick.  But, as if that wasn’t enough, Kevin — again nonchalantely — mentioned that the Maryknoll retreat house on Hong Kong island overlooking the bay would be ready for us whenever we arrived and that arrangements were made for us to stay as long as we liked, three meals a day, all once again gratuit.  Unbelievable!  And the humility and air of hospitality with which he pulled this off would have sucked us in even if we weren’t already well on our way to being completely spoiled.

I’ve never come off a serious addiction, but I hear it’s bad.  Tonight I’m coming down a bit.  We’re back on the road, in the mainland, booked at a local cheap and dirty place, and I am washing my brain in the glow of a Net Bar computer to the sedative quality of the stale cigarette smoke hung atmosphere. 

Funny thing is, even though we’re getting back to normal cheap and dirty so I can once again think clearly, I’d do it all over again in a blink.  I think that’s one of the dangerous symptoms of being spoiled rotten.  You come back for more. 

Well Kevin and Kaishan, if you read this, beware: we intend to in someway return the favor… it may not be right away, but watch out!  And, thank you.

*Kevin Clancy is the lay coordinator for Maryknoll English teaching in China and just married Kaishan, incidentally one of his students when he was first teaching several years back.  Kaishan and Kevin now live on Lover’s Ave in ZhuHai on the southern coast of the mainland, just married.  I sang with Kevin in the men’s choir at SJU and Peter knew him from his involvement in the Maryknoll teaching program.  It was a pleasure to be part of the wedding and also enjoy Maryknoll’s hospitality.  Thank you Kevin!

Slow thee not down, nay

Speed thee rather up, and sound thine horn

One mayn’t slow down if one can find a louder way to warn.

Looking down from our balcony we could see the head sitting on the cement floor next to a pile of herbs and a bucket of intestines. We took turns taking pictures. It wasn’t really gross, just curious. A pigs head on the floor and an old woman next to it, carefully cutting open the intestines with a scissors so they could be washed out and prepared for serving.

Adam and I found ourselves at the balcony together, observing and passing a few thoughts. How many people would turn away in disgust to see a severed pig’s head sitting, still bloody, on the floor? It seems brutal. And yet, we also eat pork chops in the United States. It isn’t pretty, but it is the reality of pork chops. The pork we buy in the U.S. has little resemblence to the animal it once was, being neatly packaged on syran-wrapped styrofoam with a sticker to tell us what it is: “pork tenderloin“. We know it’s a pig, but we’re not often brought face to face with it like this, so to speak. Hotdogs aren’t quite so honest, and we can be thankful that they’re not.

Even though it’s slightly horrifying to see the head and watch a woman cutting open the guts, it is nice to know that very little goes to waste. And it’s a healthy perspective, remembering that death is an every day part of our lives, in all its commonplace brutality.

Later, as we’re ready to go, we hear some excitement just outside our “lu guan’s” doors. A crowd is building as a man appears to be hitting a woman amid angry shouts and cries of alarm. The fight sways and swarms, and another man is now involved. He has in his hand a square wooden stool and it cracks loudly several times over his pursuer’s head. Somehow the man with the stool is restrained. One of the men is bleeding down his face. The fight breaks apart, then rushes to resume several times. Finally, the more clear-headed neighbors restrain the angry assailants.

I am surprised at my body’s reaction. I have put out adrenaline and my heart is racing. My blood pumps. I am ready; the fight or flight response. Pretty curious. I’m just watching. My blood races in my live veins, the pigs blood is cold sticky, the fighters’ blood is “hot”, while the injured man’s blood trickles.

Life and death are all bloody affairs. And it’s somehow real. It’s basic. Seeing blood reminds us of life and death, and it’s simple. It’s raw. And it’s not even ten a.m. on a Wednesday, so there’s much to think about.

One of the things I like most about traveling by bike is noticing my surroundings.  You can’t help it.  On a bicycle a person feels the heat or the cold of the air, the stillness or the breeze, the sunshine or the mist.  When the road rises into a hill, the muscles swell with the strain of meeting the incline.  You notice, and are grateful for, the shade trees lining the pavement or the natural coolness of passing by a field of clover.  And people have time to notice you, and stare, and smile or make a comment.  

One of the biggest differences from traveling in a high-speed machine (car, train, plane) is that in the course of a few days a cyclist can see the gradual changes in the landscape.  Early on in our trip we began to speculate on where we would be when saw our first palm tree or water buffalo.  These would be to us measurements of our progress southward.  From Beijing until now, here is a brief history as we see it:

Out of Beijing the road is flat with farmland, fields, and factories. 

Soon we see orchards of pinggua (apples), peaches, and pears,  with piles peddled peripherally for a few pence.

 Yellow corn covers concrete, drying, we dodge it. 

Soon we hit hills and huff.

Pomegranites and persimmons hang on hillsides as we wind windily up and whirring, wizz down.

We come to rice and rivers, boats and buffalo, palms.  Check point.

 Shanghai shakes our senses, sending us spiraling back into city luxuries and lifestyle.

Now we move toward mountains in the mist, beginning to see bamboo and banana trees.

The surrounding peaks are lush and green as the road channels smoothly through, now up, now back down.  And sometimes you can’t even tell with your eyes, but your legs let you know.  We are approaching Yellow Mountain.  We continue westward…

It is very near the end of October, but we seem to be on pace with the weather pretty well; as the warmth moves southward, so do we.  The days have been sixties and seventies, mild but crisp in the morning.  Barring a few rainy ones, each day seems to be a good day for biking.  And so it is.

…from the week:

We’re biking through harvested fields burning piles of cornstalk, avoiding the peanuts spread on the flat cement road that winds between farmland and rows of trees.  I am behind, and I come up the incline that spreads into open space ahead of me.  The Yellow River carves its wide and deceptively lazy swathe some 15 meters down the bank, opening the sky.

My pickled feet feel funny plodding their palid path across dark silt sands.  The water is cool and seems somehow clean, though covering my cuticles with its silt in seven centimeters.  Yep, it’s yellow.

We are biking again.  Now it is the mountain in front of us that rises into a sky closed by mist and pollution, a smattering of rain.  Turn over, and over, and over.  The climbing gears are necessary.  Look at the ground; it’s moving slowly underneath you even though you’re turning, turning, turning, burning.  Checkpoints.  The next pile of grain…  okay, good, turn it over… that tree, come on!  Come on!  Switchbacks.  And then, the road levels and you look up and the others are smiling.  We are at the pass.

Arms dark, body white, water dark, sky light.  Cold mountain resevoir pushed back against the valley, deep, they say.  Too deep to swim; but only if you can’t.  Plunge, splash, get the soap… can you hand me the shampoo?  This is great!  Lean back and let the water support you as you feel the raindrops falling from a sky that was closer than it was this morning into a pool so much higher than sea level.  Was it really an accident we stopped here and it started to rain and they had a room?

It’s after noon when we arrive at the base of Mount Tai, so we eat lunch and try not to pay tourist prices while discussing our next move.  Climb the mountain, if it’s not too expensive.  We’ll check the west gate to see what’s the story.  We can leave our bikes here in the room for $10 total?  And equipment?  Sweet.  Let’s do it.  Let’s climb the mountain before the gate closes.  It’s a road and stairs the whole way, anyway…  Where did we get this energy?

The sky gray and occasionally drizzling rain, we begin ascending in rain gear.  Step after step.  Fifteen kilometers.  We make it to the stairs after dark, suppertime.  It feels like two a.m. and we’re leaving on a fishing trip or something.  It’s only 8 o’clock.  The wind picks up and the moon is bright through clouds.  Step by step.  By ten thirty we are at the top.  We have a room.  We have big thick blankets and plans to get up before the sun, lest it should rise without our supervision.  It does anyway, hidden in a big thick blanket of clouds, letting the wind have its way with us.  But the former “communist issue” green ankle length coats help our cause, and we take pictures and turn our backs to the blasts.  Even conquerors need a warm place and a hearty breakfast.

…You Don’t See Everyday (at least outside of here)

•  the Chinese equivalent of an 18-wheeler heading at you in your lane 
• one lane of the road used for spreading corn, peanuts, and cotton
• a truck with several dogs in a cage rolling down the street blaring from a megaphone what at first I take as a warning to keep your pets contained, only to find out it’s advertising specialty meats.
• A sign in Chinese characters that reads “Please Don’t Pee in the Hallway.”
• Scores of couples dancing to loudspeaker music in the public square.
• The bill for a meal that has satisfactorily stuffed five ravenous twenty-somethings reading 58 RMB (c.$8)
• Older folks walking backwards.
• A motorcycle lady with 8 chickens hanging upside down in stocks across the back seat.
• The night streets transformed with stools and with tables, covered with broiled meats-on-a-stick, peanuts, soybeans, pickled vegetables, rice, and bottles of beer, all gone by morning.
• Weiguoren (foreigners).

SILENCEThe apartment is quiet at 5:30; peaceful with gentle early morning twilight.  I walk soundlessly to Nakia’s room and pause for a few moments to hear if she’s sleeping.  Silence.  Well, either sleeping or listening quietly to someone who’s up at this improbable hour.  I softly bring her door to a close, without pulling it shut all the way.  The click of the mechanism would terrify me.  It seems to be a fetish or condition I have with which I am not willing to part – I don’t want to wake others up in the morning.  Not only that; I’m paranoid and terrified that someone will wake up—like trying to land a bubble in your palm, not wanting it to burst…  It’s all about treading slowly and delicately, but quickly too, before the natural course of morning necessities stirs the bowels in the sleepers.  I take out my bike like I’m diffusing a sensitive bomb.  No sudden movements.  Gently, slowly…that’s it.  I cringe at the knocking of the pedal against the door frame.  Stop.  Proceed with caution.  A fetish.  Cherished.  My Chinese name is An Chen.  I am told it is taken from a Chinese cliché having to do with the intimate morning hours.  Perhaps my naming even hints at this my condition—the fear to break the silence. 

AIRThe air feels cool.  Almost too cool for my shorts and t-shirt.  I wrap my arms around my chest and go no-hands for awhile.  It’s hazy, I notice—a combination of moisture, construction dust, and pollution no doubt.  But the morning haze is calm.  I ride down wide roads normally full of traffic, now quiet, ready. 

ROADSo many roads are inviting before six o’clock.  They are shrouded in morning and seem tso empty, a bike could hum along beautifully… but I am interested in Hou Hai.  The lakes are in the center of

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