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Adam and I sit outside of a road-side restaurant perched on top of a mountain pass, waiting for the food to be made so we can take it back to the hungry campers waiting in the rice paddy. An older, spry man clad in an old olive drab military coat with big brass buttons, well-patched trousers, and dollar shoes wanders past us. “Ahh,” he says to himself as he walks by and glances at us, “foreigners, they don’t understand what I’m saying.” “But we do understand,” I contradict him. “Aha! You do understand,” he says, “What country are you from?” I tell him we’re from the U.S. “That’s great! You’re studying abroad here?” I tell him we’re just biking, and then one of our dishes comes out. He wanders on to the truck drivers, who are also waiting for their dinner, and tells them there are some foreigners who can understand Chinese eating at this restaurant, but they don’t really care.

One great aspect of living in China is the ease with which you can start conversations. Tension between the U.S. and China sometimes infiltrates my efforts to get to know locals better. Chinese people often express concerns about U.S. policy in Iraq or U.S. support for Taiwan. However, they are quick to acknowledge that matters of state are not my responsibility and return the conversation to one of mutual respect and curiosity, which I think is a great way to build connections between countries on a people-to-people basis, rather than through high-arching diplomatic channels, which few of us are able to understand, let alone control.

Later I talk with the man again. He’s a relatively recent immigrant to these parts. He moved here eight years ago to help build the now-complete reservoir, and now stays on as a worker at this restaurant, doing whatever manual labor they require of him. I ask him where he used to live and he gestures to the northwest, “20 km that way,” he says. Based on his clothing and his job as an uneducated laborer, I worry about his future. China lacks a great social security system, and I often see people who look like they’re too feeble to golf shoveling dirt all day to make a buck. Older workers are no rarity in the U.S., but at least there the nature of work tends to be less brutally manual.

But this man with the salt and pepper hair doesn’t seem to think about that. Nor does he care about international relations. He has at least a few more years of hard work built into his legs, and will do whatever he has to get by, when the time comes. “Old hundred names” is how most Chinese refer to the common or lower class people on the mainland. Everyone claims to be from this class, but really my friend with the faded clothing is the only authentic specimen in the restaurant. He arises each day, not worrying, not questioning, but simply willing to put his back into hefting the hoe in preparation for the next harvest or the next bucket of bricks.

This entry was posted on Sunday, November 4th, 2007 at 8:22 am and is filed under Jim's Posts. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.