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They ask me if I’m tired and I say yes.  They tell me what I’m doing is amazing and I say “thank you very much, but its really normal,”with a head nod and a shy smile, bashfully attempting modesty, guiltily accepting the complement as justification. We speak in small words and language helpers like “well”, “I suppose”, “that’s great”, and let long acoustic breathes flop into our big meanings like ice cubes in a tall glass of water, melting, always fills you up, always cools down the awkwardness of silence that burns ears. Aahhh。 

We’ve been in big land ever since the wedding in Guanzhou when all of a sudden we were in the company of more white people than I’ve seen gathered in one place in 3 years.

In Japan, I knew my limits, and rested meekly on the foreigner crutch that allowed me to be aloof and ambiguous. In Asia, you can laugh when you’re embarrassed, or pretend you don’t understand when you don’t have anything to say.

In big land with its big ideas like carbon emissions, and non profit organizations, and one child polices, these tricks make me look silly.

 I found myself standing on the red carpet of a hotel banquet room coiling and looping with story book fantasia: glitter and confetti and ribbon and a bride sparkling in white and waitresses refilling whiskey flasks and people hunting for other people to talk to. This could be Hong Kong at night spinning on curvy sky ways, tubular lights making car trails, captured at the peak of speed, in a quiet postcard that moves like a bus in a floaty pen streaming down a snowy road where little people tidy little houses.

 I found myself twirling and turning trying to catch the clink of wine glasses toasting and the shriek of whispers shooting sharp tunnels through unprepared ears and the pillowed muff of heels piercing the cush carpet beneath them and the round body above them and the shrill staccato of confident lobby diners from the non-wedding world where people are free to be mute and untouched. The underworld of magnified sound padded me carefully against the onslaught of human interaction in big land. I kept my head steady for wind changes, ants carrying their eggs before a storm.

This is an eco system and I am an ant ducking for cover in carpet bush. Everyone is a predator.

I always get flabbergasted whenever we go to a big city like Shanghai or Hong Kong。 I feel like Alice looking into a world that makes little sense。Streets glow like computer animated cartoon characters that appear 3D， I cannot tell if they were drawn or graphically created。 And one seems realer than the other。 

 I find it hard to fit my writing into the vast space of a city。I am spread thin。Words appear in comic bubbles。They are not their descriptions。 They paint cartoon pictures of the people who speak them in this magnified setting of “meeting new people” and “making new friends”。 We scramble to project positives images of ourselves because this is what people will remember of us。 First impressions pressed into the presence like a name in a gravestone。   

We are in Hong Kong now and it is big. Jim has little patience for neon lights and the crowds and the trams and the billboards with the big models and their big abs shooting sexy laser beams with big omnipotent eyes. He’s a Montana man who dragged elks out of the woods before he could grow a beard. Buildings will never replace mountains.

I grew up in Xiao Dao Guo, that’s small island country to mainland Chinese. This does not suffice for the Hong Kong island people whose colonial past has spread out the whole world at its tiny finger tips.  One Nation, Two Systems. But this system, on the Hong Kong side, is much much bigger.

Globalization has the tendency to make small countries act big, or, in my country’s case, developing nations believe that they are developed.

The Bahamas and its relatively stable political climate draws in armies of international tourists imprinting pink feet on its tiny shores. 

Hong Kong has one of the busiest sea ports in the world and is fifth in attracting international passengers to its airspace.

The Bahamian dollar is pegged to the US dollar, and the economy leans on the service industries of tourism and banking. We manufacture nothing and have very little natural resources and skilled labor. We import everything that we cannot produce ourselves. We fear the Free Trade Area of the Americas gulping us down with its highly skilled, lesser demanding workforce, a long island ice tea that only kicks in when you stand up.

Hong Kong’s factories which initially built its wealth, are quickly being swallowed up by the cheaper, harder working, dispensable Chinese workforce. Now it is Hong Kong’s job to manage the huge amount of money generated in the mainland and its drudge task force of worker ants.

There are mouths all around tonguing crevices that tickle when touched.

But small country turn big doesn’t want to be touched. Doesn’t want the particles to drift. Wants to keep itself a subject – a being, a one and only. Leave the niceness to the big countries with the big aid like the US.

It is not an easy task for a mainland Chinese person getting a tourist visa to enter Hong Kong. Immigration officers turn away women who look more than 5 months pregnant fearing that they might intentionally remain in Hong Kong to make sure their babies are born there so that the child may have the right to better social health care and educational systems.

In Bahamas, we are constantly worried about Haitians stealing our jobs, exhausting our healthcare, and committing crimes, all of these accusations unproven by statistics, but highly feared.

But this is the big world. Or the small world under a microscope that unwraps it and all its cells out onto the sizzling sand so that one goes hungry for small wanders like purple oyster shells spat out onto the sea shore, and babies who wonder precariously away from the peripheral vision of their parents.   I am lying on the sand and my vision of the families playing at a beach near Mayrknoll is sideways. I feel lonely because I want to play with the children, but their parents and nannies are there. And I don’t want to be weird. This is not the mainland where children run rampant, invading our campsites and pulling us into their schoolyards to play. I have to scurry the sand for imagery.  I have to sulk.

This is big land and I am Glorified Individual. I have to walk with a click and suck the sound like a cup of coffee, my morning comfort. It’s become a habit here in Hong Kong. I have to lean my head forward, peaking at workers smoking in alleyways, exposed pipes on the backsides of buildings, cracks of white paint on the ceiling above my bed, floods on the 5^th floor of a shiny mall, accents that don’t match faces. Did you know that there are Indians of Mongolian and Caucasian races?

In big land, I find myself comforted by the parks that are inhabited at any given moment by 80% immigrants. There are Indian or Pakistani men with greasy puffs and stonewashed bellbottoms smoking on the walls. There are beautiful Filipinas and Indonesians picnicking on plastic tarps beneath footbridges and on the edges of buildings. This is abnormal to me until I get kidnapped by a friendly Indonesian at a park beauty pageant for domestic workers, who explains to me that this is how they hang out. She takes me to a street stall to get coconut rice and curry chicken for $10 HKD. You know you’re in big land when you can get cheap ethnic food on the street corner.

I used to hate when the Japanese used the word “ethnic” to describe foreign food in Japan. They did not describe French food or Italian food or American food as ethnic.  Only the more exotic places, or the lesser developed country foods: Thai, Indian, Jamaican.

Peter noticed that they included Mexican and Italian food on the menu at Ruby Tuesday’s in Hong Kong, whose motto is “Simple Fresh American Dining.” 

One of my favorite slam poets, Chinese American from Oklahoma, Beau Sia, once argued in a poem that spring rolls ought to be classified as an American food.

This is big world, where identities come pre-packaged in combat boots, opaque leggings, bleached puffs, and kimono sleeve A-line jackets. At the mall at the top of The Peak, there was a store that sold “cool Japanese style” drinks. I can’t wait for my country to become a fad.

I like Kowloon better than Central. The restaurants there are more raw. There is still fish being squished and scaled in buckets out on the street. You can still get slimed if you’re not careful. There are night markets where crafty market ladies don’t take crap from bargainers. The Indian restaurants here are owned by Indians. And the interior is not decorated but for internationally renowned white plastic chairs. Sit and eat and make sure your glass is clean before you drink the water.

There is peace in the tranquil oasis of Mary Knoll, the 1920’s brick monastery that’s opened its doors to us for a week. It is on the other side of Hong Kong Island, behind several mountain ranges, where the land rolls out its tongue to the ocean. There are beaches and coconut trees here and it reminds me of home again. 

There is peace here, shadowed by a vague discomfort. A sense of incompleteness. Like I don’t belong here. The Pacific Islander maids and nannies pushing children with blonde ringlets in strollers and walking chestnut golden retrievers smile at me with familiarity, the same look I get from Ethiopians selling write-off Timberland boots on the street. I am one of them.

But not. Not a maid. Not a merchant. Not selling suits. Not an immigrant in search of a better life. Just passing through on a bike. My friends are Minnesotans who know the difference between fly swatters and robins. Their vocabularies are different from mine, but we share the same passions. I am caught between familiarity with the foreign English teacher and the immigrant, the first world and the third world, the concerned hippy and the dirty pretty thing.  Beauty smiles up at me from big brown eyes in shadowy sockets gaping down as I use its face to start a blog.

Shameless graphomaniac that I am, I feel the need to write everything down to claim it the way a photograph claims an image in a pose. Keepsakes, the authority of memory. A ticket stub that shows I have been there before. I want to scar myself with experience so that I have something to start with. So that people ask me to explain: “What do you mean by that?”  So that I always have something to say at a wedding.

In big world, I find peace in immigrants. Those assimilated in inner city grime. Their culture is still raw like an unhealed wound, still steaming. Immigrants from finicky countries that may or may not ascend to G8 status. Immigrants that still speak their own languages, that still have little Indias and little Mexicos and little Indonesias gathered in apartment blocks in snowy cities, the scent of their curry or their pita bread carried through the pipes.

Immigrants that form little countries labeled in neon signs hung above highlighted streets in big land. Immigrants who push blonde babies in strollers while their own babies speak their first words to them via an international phone card. Immigrants that may or may not have a chip on their shoulder, but still manage to smile, unassumingly at someone automatically distrustful of their intent.

Immigrants who live under the intense, laser-colored city sky, bracing their shoulders against a marching crowd, arming themselves in fashion, and taking pics in the park on a lazy Sunday afternoon, their fixed off day, when the blonde children are under the supervision of their French and Finnish parents.

 Immigrants that have to start from here, and build.  Their journals burned. Their visa pages shrouded in work permits and extensions. Their memories of homeland unsticking themselves from the scrapbooks of their marmalade childhoods.  This makes big land seem much much smaller。.

我们最近在香港带了一个星期了。来了香港以前我们都很担心。在香港骑自行车会怎么样？我们都知道香港的路非常窄的，车多，开得快。我们都以为在香港骑会很危险。原来，下渡船以后，我们在香港岛开始骑，但是不太危险。车多，但是开车的人都开得十分有礼貌的。超过我们的时候都不但不用按喇叭，还是不挤我们。 虽然我们紧张的在路中骑，但是我们真的就不用那么担心。

香港的山特别多。山的路还是特别窄。 我们在香港最后打算去“Stanley” 因为我们在那里有一个朋友，他说我们可以一个星期住在他家。香港人都知道从“Central” 到 “Stanley” 得爬很多山。我们开始爬山。有时候得吃苦，但是从香港的山上的路，风景特别好看。我们一边吃苦，一边看风景。情况不错！最后我们在朋友的工作的地方（叫“Maryknoll”）。那里的人特别热情。我们很高兴地受他们的欢迎。有机会在香港休息一个星期，我们都很开心。我们在开始我们的自行车的旅行的时候我们的感觉是真的准备好了再出发。谢谢Maryknoll,谢谢香港！

“I hate the government,” said the young man sitting with us at the Muslim restaurant. We all paused uncomfortably. “Well,” suggested Drew, “if you change it enough, then maybe your grandchildren will be able to say they love it.” The young man shook his head. “No,” he protested, “my grandchildren will grow up in a different country. The government here is terrible.” This time it was me who spoke up. “It has been getting better,” I ventured, “compared to the sixties aren’t things much better?”

I don’t often find myself often defending the Chinese government. Most people I talk to couldn’t place politics further from their minds. No one cares. Even when I ask them leading questions about odd or unpopular government policies, the Chinese hesitate to offer any negative appraisals of local or national politics. They read the propaganda, accept whatever it says, and leave it at that. Affairs of state and politics are for people with government salaries to worry about. So it goes with most of China. But our impassioned young man felt differently.

Let’s name him Joe. When he’s not at work he dresses, like most other hip, upper-class Chinese, in a hip, upper class style. When he first approached me in the restaurant he had his baseball cap tucked into the epaulet of his well-worn, imitation U.S. Air Force jacket, which he wore over a plain T-shirt, stone-washed jeans, and brand new work boots. “Excuse me,” he said in very passable English, “are those your bicycles outside?” Intrepid readers will already undoubtedly have guessed that the five heavily laden cycles outside to which he referred did indeed belong to the group of which I was for that evening and every other one in recent memory a part.

Upon learning of our trip, its length and our intentions, Joe was noticeably impressed. He talked about his own desire to do a long bicycle trip, and made a reference to Thoreau’s Walden, the part where Thoreau says that we all can choose how many lives we live, and emphasizes the importance of gathering as much experience as possible through living many different styles of life. Even for a college graduate, Joe demonstrated a particularly erudite sensibilities and a crisp intelligence. He also could not say a single positive thing about the Chinese government.

When he first asked us about our bikes, we had already finished eating, and he had barely ordered. We invited him over to our table, and his plate of fried noodles soon arrived in front of him, but despite our frequent encouragement, he didn’t eat any, so excited was he to discuss China with people who brought an outside perspective.

He told us about the first time he learned of the Ti@n@nmen incident (where more than 200 civilians were killed by PLC soldiers trying to break up pro-democracy demonstrations in Beijing). “I was so shocked, so shocked, I really could not believe the government could do something like that,” he told us. But in fact it seems that his questioning attitude and skeptical view of the government originated from a sense of justice. “As a small child,” Joe explained, “I saw many poor people, but there were also rich men. The poor had things terrible, but the rich man just had more and more money. I thought this thing wasn’t right, so I thought about it often.” One of Joe’s childhood friends had similar views, and with each other to rely upon, they both developed attitudes that were, for usually propaganda-fed Chinese school kids, amazingly independent.

As an independent thinker in a country that is not open to all strains of thought, Joe realizes he’s at risk. “I can talk about these things here with you,” he says of his rants against the government, “but if I write it down or put it on the internet, the government will watch me.” He wrote down his email address for us. “It’s Google,” he says, “I don’t like what Google did in China, but I use it anyway.” Here he was referring undoubtedly to Google’s agreement to self-censor their China operations according to government demands. Sometimes it’s difficult, for both would-be ethical companies and individuals, to maintain completely clean hands.

“I love America,” Joe tells us as his noodles get cold, “not the government or the military, but I love the American people, and the idea of America.” We have to admit that the ideas behind the constitution, and indeed the whole of the American people, are an admirable bunch, even if the actions of its government and legislature aren’t always the most well-considered. But Joe didn’t praise the U.S. for too long before taking the Chinese government to task. “You don’t know what it’s like to live under the government. You could be killed at any moment,” he claimed. He went on to tell us about a recent college grad who was looking for work in Guangzhou, but did not have a permit to work there. He was taken in by the police, and through an unfortunate twist where the unstoppable wheels of bureaucracy turned brutal, was beaten to death.

Stunned though we all were at this tragic twist in his tale, we tried to point out that following the young man’s death, the system of local work permits was reformed, so it seemed that bad as things may be, it was still possible to change the system. “But this man’s parents and family,” Joe pointed out, “things are awful for them. But who will take responsibility? Who will pay? Noone!” “Maybe you can change the system, though,” we tried to reason with him. “No,” said Joe, “I am not brave enough.” He explained that he felt responsible for his mother, and would not want to jeopardize her retirement by putting his future at risk. Brave or not, he certainly had plenty of ideas of how to reform the system.

Joe currently works for an international company in sales. This certainly explains his great English, but it also demonstrates a quandary for people wanting to be hypercritical of the Chinese government. Whatever abuses the Chinese government continues to commit or has committed against its people, it has also lifted more people out of poverty in the last thirty years than have ever been enriched similarly in all of history. It is in part because of Chinese government policy that Joe is able to work for a company that does business over seas and get his information over the internet.

At the same time, because the Chinese government has created conditions in which people like Joe can flourish, it has also created a condition that imperils its own existence. That is, one in which folks with money and sway and independent minds have the information and reasoning to become upset by their lack of self-determination, the presence of injustice, or the state of the environment.

As you can well imagine, Joe doesn’t enjoy working for the man. Instead he would prefer pursuing a degree in international relations. He regrets the presence of war in the world. Joe tells us he could make a positive contribution to a peaceful world by helping countries get past their differences. But he realizes it will be an uphill battle. In a reference to Milton’s Paradise Lost or perhaps simply to Christian theology in general, Joe mentions that before men there was no peace, even between angels. Regardless of what the angels do, I am glad to know that logic and empathy still have the ability to shed light on murky situations and speak truth to power.

I do have a ring I wear around my neck, but as of yet I haven’t been able to elicit any magical powers from it.  And it certainly isn’t the focus and burden of our journey, as is the ring in the epic tale by Tolkein about a misfit band of travelers crossing vast terrain full of dangers.

 But, we are five travelers and we are journeying across distant lands far from home in a place called “ZhongGuo” (which is the Madarin form of China which could actually be translated, “middle earth”).  And, like the band in the Lord of the Rings we grow weary from time to time…

And so for the last week we have found ourselves in Rivendell.  In this Rivendell instead of elves we have retired priests, and we’re not deep in ancient woods, but rather high on a hill.  We have spent the last week at a place called Maryknoll on Hong Kong island.  Here we have had all the luxuries of rest and relaxation and plenty of food that the hospitality of friends has to offer.  In the morning our balcony is flooded with light as we gaze out over the lush treetops to the vast expanse of the ocean stretching out around the cove…  During our feasts of pork chops, or potatoes, or hamburgers, or stir fry, or cold cereal!, our kind cooks will come in asking, “Do you have enough?”  Here it is peaceful and we have plenty.  We are blessed!

The generosity we have received from good-hearted people has been humbling, and our time here in Hong Kong has been full of undeserved kindnesses.  The cooks let Jim have his way with the kitchen and we ended up with homemade bread, fresh chocolate chip cookies, and peanutbutter and chocolate fudge.  The Hong Kong chapter of the SJU alumni had us out to dinner at the Royal Yacht Club and treated us to a memorable evening of banter and discussion, as well as a great view of the city at night.  Brother Sebastian gave us a personal tour of his drawing studio (where he writes and illustrates comic books that highlight social issues and offer positive responses).  Later he took us out to Ruby Tuesdays where we took advantage of his half-off membership card to remember Western burgers and enjoy the last crumbs of delicious dessert.  In between all of this we managed to get visas for Laos and Vietnam, help decorate for Christmas, interview with a television station, swim in the ocean, attend mass, watch movies, play music, eat food, sleep in, eat more, and generally enjoy ourselves and the view. 

Our time at Maryknoll was a much-appreciated period of refreshment during our trek across ”MiddleEarth” towards Europe; it was our Rivendell of rest. 

Thank you Maryknoll staff and priests for your generosity and kindness to FueledByRice this past week!  You are a blessing — may God bless you in kind.

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!

Before we arrived in Hong Kong, or the fragrant harbour to translate the name literally, our last 4 to 5 days of biking had been almost all downhill, funneling us ever toward the coast and finally ending at She Kou, a port city wrapped in the chaos that is ShenZhen and just across the way from Hong Kong’s new territories.

We found the ferry terminal pretty easily, concluded that in fact we would be able to put all of our gear on the boat (for an extra 5 US dollars per bike if we carried them on ourselves) and then took off to look for a place to stay.  The area right by the port was very developed for China and the effects of the spread of Hong Kong’s wealth was very apparent.  Other foreigners could be seen being bussed in on huge tour buses, led off in a daze and shuttled through line in order to get onto the next ferry, we watched.  Both baffled and concerned looks turned the necks of both travelers and the ferries employees.  One rather tall almost slender man in a leather Harley Davidson jacket and a thick Australian accent asked us if we were doing a bike tour, our answer of course was yes.  He promptly told us he liked to stick to taxis and buses.

We began biking back up the hill towards the city in order to find a place to stay.  Even though it was developed this area has seen an influx of millions of migrant workers in the last few decades and there must be cheaper places to stay other than the obvious large hotels in the area.  The city of ShenZhen is a rather unique place.  In 1979 then Chinese leader Deng Xiaoping declared it as China’s first economic free zone, opening a tidal wave of foreign investment and business.  People soon began to arrive looking for work and opportunity.  From a small coastal fishing village ShenZhen soon grew to millions.  Today there is an official population of 9 million but the surrounding area brings that up even more.  The average age is less than thirty, and a major problem is that people do not possess the hukou, or resident card, making work difficult or illegal.  I personally knew a number of people moving to ShenZhen after graduation when I worked in Changsha, I still know of one there today.  

People from all over the country of China fill this city, with little or no family, friends, or social network.  Crime becomes a problem, prostitution is a problem, and disease can become a problem, in fact the SARS epidemic first started in this region and quickly spread among workers stacked in housing and dormitories with few health precautions or health education.  The book China Syndrom by Karl Taro Greenfeld discusses both concerns of this city in detail and the SARS epidemic.

Although the night before we had stayed in factory style dormitories, a cement room, a spicket to wash in, we were lucky enough to find another option that turned out to be a great experience. 

We were asking a young man if there were any inexpensive Luguans in the area and he mentioned a few.  After talking with him a while though he said he knew a place we could stay and we should follow him.  He led us back to an apartment complex, he riding an electric bicycle, a common mode of transportation in China, and us on our bicycles.  We stopped in front of a steel garage door, it opened into a large cement garage, two rooms were made in the rear out of plywood dividers, there was more than enough room for us to put our bicycles and sleep on the floor with our camping gear, we said it looked great, because it did, and he showed us a good place to eat dinner.  Although he did not want to eat with us he said he would return, which he did after our meal to bring us back.  We returned, set up “camp” and began to talk. 

His name was Zhou, he was 24 years old and part of the Yizu 彝族  minority group one of the 55 recognized groups by the Chinese government.  Because of this he told us he was given a few different benefits that other Han Chinese are not.  He gets extra vacation time on his minorities holidays to go home and visit with family.  He also gets a small amount of money from the government.  For two years he worked in the military in Tibet.  Although he didn’t like it much because the weather was too cold.  He then lived in Malaysia for a while, then moved to ShenZhen.  He works two jobs and lives in this building with his girlfriend.  He is a security guard at a nearby location and also delivers tanks of natural gas to people by means of his heavy duty 28 inch bicycle.  Not too long ago he got injured at work and was sent to a hospital in Macau to recover, a rare thing among common workers, and he told us we should go there to visit if we get a chance. 

He crossed the street and brought back peanuts, Pepsi, a case of beer, and a few people to look at us.  We sat on our camping mats, chatted, played music, and ate snacks.  In the morning we got up early in order to make it to the ferry on time, he was up already though getting ready to go for a run.  In the military he had to run 10k a day, he now runs 5k every morning to stay in shape.  We graciously said thank you, offered just one more time to give him money which he would not accept, and then biked off to find breakfast and our way to the ferry.

We encounter all kinds of people everyday, and when someone goes out of their way to help us, especially when they don’t have a lot to start with themselves it really speaks loudly.  We are expecailly thankful to people like Mr. Zhou for giving us insight into their lives and offering us a very uniqe experience.  

Our first leg of the journey from Beijing to Hong Kong is now complete.  Yesterday we took a ferry in from Shenzhen 深圳, the border city to Hong Kong.  Unfortunately there is no way to cross the boarder by bicycle so a ferry was the only option.  From Beijing to Hong Kong I (Adam) have taken three ferries and one subway.  The rest of the was completely powered by rice, which ended up being over 4,300 kilometers on my bicycle’s odometer.  The three ferries were unavoidable, one to cross the Yangtze 长江, where the nearest bridge allowing cars was miles and miles up-river out of the delta, and two in Shanghai 上海 to cross the Huangpu river, one to get over it, and one to get back.  Strangely enough there are no bridges in downtown Shanghai, only tunnels for automobiles that go under the river dividing the bund and downtown Shanghai.  Jim and I had to cross the river in order to get to a bike shop and purchase the bandwagon.  In Guangzhou 广州 after Kevin’s wedding there was a reception at a bar about 6 kilometers from our hotel which most people took taxis to.  I was unsure about where it was and did not want to risk locking my bike outside on a street-post and having it stolen so Pete, Nakia, and myself took the subway.  Jim and Drew were out running errands and stopped by on their bikes.  In order to keep my “no automobile use” record going I walked back, the rest of fueledbyrice decided to join me, making us truly fueled by rice. 

Unfortunately Hong Kong is not a city developed with bikers in mind, in fact the roads are very narrow, steep, and people drive on the left side of the road making all of our instincts wrong.  In fact the steepest hill we have climbed so far has been the last hill we rode up to get to the Maryknoll house overlooking Stanley market.  Maryknoll, the organization Pete previously had taught through in China, and the organization Kevin works for graciously has let us stay here.  We will be highlighting some of the interesting people we meet here in the future.  We are also in the process of getting visas right now for SE Asia, our Vietnam visas should be done today.  Patrick Leung, a Hong Kong resident and St. John’s alumni organized a benefit dinner for our cause which will take place Saturday night at the Royal HK Yacht Club.  Money will go towards some expenses for the trip and the charitable organizations we have chosen to support.

广东，广州 (Guangzhou city [Canton], Guangdong prov) is essentially the epicenter of the famously booming Chinese economy.  Far in the south, just 2 hours from Shenzhen (mainland city started in the 1970s to faciliate the regional economic growth direclty across from Hong Kong) and Hong Kong (an economic “miracle” since the 1960s due its then status as a British colony and detachment from the mainland’s chaos of that time) its location location location that explains Guangzhou’s selection to be the factory central of China…with Shanghai and Tianjin playing in a close 2nd and 3rd.  After biking south 50km from Guangzhou, its been solid development and factories, and I expect it to be so down to Shenzhen, the port.

 Its of course the abundant labor that drives China’s economy, and those that fill the jobs often come in from the countryside with courage enough to seek a better life through higher incomes than agriculture can offer, and are willing to take the risk to move to a big city without pre-arranged work.  Guangzhou, due to its reputation as the economic and factory folcrum of China naturally attracts a comparatively large percent of China’s rural migrants.   Although countless construction sites in addition to its factories absorb an incredible number of these people, a surprising number of migrants who can’t find work (and therefore don’t have the dormitory housing that still accompany many jobs in China) make due with sleeping on sidewalks and under bridges.  Walking by them naturally makes me uncomfortable.  Most sleeping by 10pm, they look peaceful and comfortable enough.  It seems they’ve gotten enough to eat, this eases my unease.  A bowl of rice is, afterall, 1 Yuan (US$0.13).  But I still think of the luguans (cheap hotels) I’ve stayed at in the last 2 months, and how though most westerners would never even consider staying at them due to the lower standards, they’d be a far cry better than sleeping on the street.  But tonight, I’m not just at a luguan.  I’m at the Landmark Hotel, for Kevin’s wedding.  Just about as opposite on the socio-economic scale as one can get.

I’d often heard from people in the north - in Beijing and in Jilin - that Guangzhou was “dangerous” with “high crime” and is China’s least safe city.  Not that Guangzhou natives are more apt to stealing, but people told me its the poor migrant workers who steal.  Now my second time to Guangzhou, even if some statistics that I haven’t seen prove this, I’ve never had any trouble whatsoever.  I often tell people that China is the safest country that I’ve ever been to.  China’s obsession with walls and gates and guards seem to go well over board with a strong culture of early to sleep, early to rise, but no matter the reason, Guangzhou in my experience joins the rest of China in being very safe, not to mention rural Chinese people being overly more friendly and open than urban dwellers.  Perhaps my height scares off would-be pick-pockets, for they do exist in all Chinese cities, but I do think the northern perception of Guangzhou is a bit off.

When we 5 fueled-by-ricers pulled our bikes along side new BMWs, Mercedes, Audis (yes, the Germans dominate the Chinese car market), by the front door of the Landmark Hotel, in our dirty clothes, with our dirty bikes, carrying out dirty luggage, the perfect harmony of cleanliness, of niceness, that is characteristic of the typical Chinese facade of quality and wealth was disrupted.  Immediately, guards and car park guides felt uncomfotable with our presence and immdiately told us we couldn’t “park” our bikes here.  “No problem, we’re just taking our luggage off our bikes.”  “You can’t park your bikes here, go around back across the street to the bike coral.” “Ok, we just have to take our stuff…   Yes, yes, we’re guests here are your hotel.” 

Culture shock.  Really, we should fit in perfectly at the Landmark.  We’re foreign, and foreign means firstly wealth to many Chinese.  We all studied in America and have the ability to go to the US, which alone classifies us in the top echeoleon of world citizens.  We are, afterall, middle class, so the Landmark and its niceness, its cleanliness, its class, its fancy-pants image, yes yes, it’s all a part of who we are.  But its a part we’ve all seemed to have left behind when we started this bike trip, if not earlier in our lives.

As we passed through the lobby, our arms loaded with our Chinese road-grit-ladden bicycle luggage in our dirty biking shirts and beards, I felt uncomfortable, a misfit.  We’re used to staying in common low-end Chinese hotels in the rural areas…well, see the luguan photos in the Photo section yourself.  No, we hadn’t driven our cars to the Landmark.  Yes, reducing carbon emissions and helping to halt Global Warming / The Climate Crisis is sometimes dirty and unglamorous, dispite the romance of our trip that sometimes comes across this website.  Biking is sometimes dirty, dangerous, and uncomfortable (What?! You mean you have to use your own energy and muscles to propel yourself?)  But in the end, IT IS SO WORTH IT.  Until we have solar and wind produced electric cars, street cars, and light rails, riding bicycles instead of driving the internal combustion engine whenever possible is KEY to slowing and eventually stopping the Climate Crisis in the next 20 years.  We hope that our (rather extreme) example of how effective bicycles are in human (and luggage) transport may encourage you to keep that car of yours parked a little longer between outings.

Although our stay at the Landmark was very nice (after we worked through several staff people over the course of 1 hour to figure out where we could park our bikes) and we are SO GREATFUL to Kevin and Kaishan for their generous gift to us of 2 nights stay during their wedding, I realized that we have something in common with the jobless migrants sleeping out on the streets.  Its a common human weakness to judge someone by their outward appearance instead of a person’s internal character, but it must be overcome.  In modern China, image and surface looks are everything.  I’ve found the impression or illusion of quality is more important than there infact being quality.  One of Gandhi’s profound role models taught him this key life lesson, the role model himself wearing simple and rather dirty clothes daily.  Looking down upon people sleeping in the street, on people with the courage to try to better their lives through their own initiative and effort, leaving families behind, standing up to try to participate in some small way in China’s booming economy to balance the dangerously enormous income gap, is illogical and void of compassion and empathy.  Some Landmark Hotel staff may have looked down on me in a similar way because I don’t fit their image of a wealthy guest.  I’m foreign, yes, but…dirty shirt and arrived on a bike?  Confusion.   

2am walking the 5km back to the Landmark from an Irish pub the wedding party had migrated too late in the afternoon upon Adam’s insistence of not taking a taxi (The dirty “T” word), two women pulled me aside while I was ahead of the group.  At first moving their fists to their mouths, I thought they were thirsty, so I offered them my bottle of water.  No, not thirsty.  When they learned I speak Chinese, the sharades ended and they clearly told me that they were hungry.  Although most migrant workers are male, they’d just come to Guangzhou alone several days earlier from the countryside looking for work, but unfortunately hadn’t found any yet.  Their money had run out, most having been spent on their standing train tickets.  Having become a bit leery of giving cash to beggars in Beijing, I offered to go with them to a store to buy them food.  Half expecting them to tell me to forget it, they eagerly agreed.  So we walked about a block and found a latenight pulled-noodle restaurant.  They sat down at a small table in a corner, obviously embarraced in front of the restaurant boss as I ordered for them.  I ordered the standard beef noodels for them, just a hair over US50 cents a bowl.  It was late, I was tired from walking.  I didn’t sit down to talk more with them, though I wish I would’ve had the energy.  They smiled and thanked me, I wished them well.  Walking back I wondered if 1 bowl each would be enough.  Could I have helped them any more?  I worry about them, 2 women without work in a large city, in a country with plenty of prostitution for its overly male population due to years of selective abortion favoring boy-children in a 1 child policy environment.  They’re just 2 of countless others.  2 I had the honor of meeting, God bless them on their own journeys.

Interesting how Guangzhou’s migrants’ stories sound so similar to that of my great great great grandfather who immigrated to the US from Germany in the early 1860s at the age of 21.  And so similar to the stories of today’s Mexicans, South Americans, Somali, Hmong, etc in the US, and Eastern Europeans in Western Europe…

In the end, people are people - 人就是人。Its unfortuante so often our own identy depends on creating divisions, building walls, spreading sepratism in the form of loving those similar to ourselves and hating those perceived to be dissimilar.  Us and Them.  And though our identies are not identical, as John Denver sings in his Season Suite, “Yet as different as we are, we’re still the same!” At the very least, we may offer mutual respect to our fellow humanbeings.

Meihua lies in the mountains on the border between Guangdong and Hunan provinces. It looks like a small village, but it crawls and winds its way up valleys and around stream beds, so it balloons outward into a much larger city than you would expect. Rice fields and vegetable plots surround it wherever sharply rising hills prevent Meihua’s expansion. While wandering around these fields, Adam and I saw a woman harvesting sweet potatoes. We at Fueledbyrice have always felt a special connection with sweet potatoes, alternately known in the North and South of China as digua and hongshu respectively, and lacking many chances to speak with people other than restaurateurs and innkeepers, we decided to approach her.

The woman, who seeemed to be about 40, wore a concave woven straw hat of the the sort widely associated with Southeast Asian rice farmers, a white, long-sleeved well-worn shirt, black trousers and pink plastic shoes. She didn’t look up as we approached, but continued digging. We said hello, and she shyly smiled and returned our greeting. She slowly stood up, and politely inquired if we were here touring. “Yes,” I said, “we’re doing a bike trip. This area is quite beautiful.” “But, this area isn’t very fun,” she protested, and gesturing to the road, said “it’s dusty and dirty.”

We inquired about the tubers she was harvesting as she pryed the last few out of the ground and threw them into her shoulder-pole baskets. They were indeed hongshu. Then hesitantly, looking at us out of the corner of her eye, she queried “Are you foreigners?” We confessed that yes, we were.

She also gathered up the leaves from the sweet potato plants and threw them into her baskets. In Hunan, farmers feed these greens to their pigs, so I asked her if they did the same in Guangdong, but it didn’t translate very well. “Are you asking me how many children I have? asked the lady, whose name was Qiu. That question was in a much more interesting question, so I said yes. “I have four,” she said. “That’s great,” we rejoined. “No,” she said, laughing “it’s awful.” I couldn’t quite catch her response to my question why.

She finished gathering up the leaves and tossed them into her baskets. “Do you want some sweet potatoes?” she asked us. “Oh no,” we responded, “we’ve just eaten, we’re quite full.” “Ah, but these sweet potatoes are great, they’re very delicious,” she reached into her basket and rummaged around, bringing out 2 huge sweet potatoes. We felt we could do nothing but accept them graciously. “Here,” said Ms. Qiu, reaching again into her basket and grabbing two more huge sweet potatoes from among the many small ones, “give some to your friends too.”

Before she left, I asked if I could get a picture with her. “Eh, why do you want a picture with me?” she resisted, “I’m nothing great to look at. I’m wearing this hat. It looks terrible.” “No,” I tried to reassure her, “it’s a great hat.” “Look,” I continued, pointing at Adam’s baseball cap, “he wears a hat too. No problem.” I cajoled her into taking a picture the same way she cajoled me into taking her hongshu.

Finally it was time to go. She collected her hoe, slipped her shoulder pole underneath the handles on her baskets and hefted them up. They must have weighed about fifty pounds, but she maneuvered through the fields and back to the road easily. We walked with her a ways. She rotated the pole around her shoulders to keep the weight from resting on one spot or to make room for dump trucks full of school children trying to pass. She reached her turnoff, we bade her good-bye, and that was that.

Because of her wide smile and quiet jokes, Ms. Qiu will stand out in my mind when I reflect back on my reactions with Chinese farmers. However, she is also a good example of the huge demographic known as the “Chinese peasant”. Despite their relative lack of means, their position on the lower side of the increasingly huge wealth gap in China, and their very hard lives, Chinese farmers are some of the most friendly and hospitable people I know of.

Around China migrant laborers, who are almost always farmers trying to make more money by coming to the city and working construction, get a bad rap. City dwellers often cautioned me against interacting too much with the supposedly criminally disposed migrant workers. However, I find the people at the lower end of the income scale to be some of the most hospitable in all of China. Perhaps it’s because they don’t have much to do, or perhaps it’s because they don’t have money to worry about spending. Or perhaps it’s just because their lack of possessions leave them better able to see other people as humans. Whatever the reason, my interaction with Ms. Qiu will remind me to slow down and treat people as people with respect and not as obstacles. At least so long as I’m in the country-side.

Fear, they say, the people who appear in books, the people who author life, they, say, should speed one up, say, dilate the pupils, hasten the synapses, quicken the pace at which the heart squeezes the blood like a fist around a throat, or a fist around the pole of a revolutionary flag, a fist thrust upward, the direction of blood after it is deflated of oxygen, its second trip around the body.