Nice welcome.

(Aug 1, 2015)

(July 30, 2015)

Eight thousand workers toiled for years to build the army of terra-cotta warriors. By order of the Emperor. Who wanted an army to guard him and his treasures in the afterlife. The faces of each warrior are individualistic. Who were the models? The workers themselves. Did those workers know that their corresponding warrior was in essence their tomb? I think so. For many of the warriors were found signed by the workers who made them. A reaching attempt at posterity. For those workers knew. They knew that the location of an emperors tomb must be kept secret. The looters to be frustrated. How to keep a secret? Silence those who built it. When the last warrior was placed a mass death warrant was signed. The bones of 8000 silenced to be found in nearby pits by archaeologists. Buried like the warriors they created. Forgotten but not. For those faces stare on.

The policeman spoke English. Taught in school and self-taught more. His air weighted with sadness. Polite conversation. “Have you traveled outside China?” His look at the ground. “It is not possible. Policemen are not allowed to leave the country. We can’t even get passports. This is just another North Korea. When I graduated from school I took a Government test. The test said I was to be a policeman. My family forced me to do it. I was trapped. Now I must work another 30 years until I can retire. Maybe then I can travel abroad. Maybe then… He seemed near tears. I would’ve hugged him if not for the cameras.

Governments change, as does their method of killing you. These days in China the method just seems a lot slower.

(July 30, 2015)

(July 25, 2015) One in seven humans claim Chinese nationality. That’s a lot of folks. Most of them seem to prefer to congregate in an eastern population belt. Which we had been making our way through. Some byproducts. Crowds. Think weekend Disneyland wherever you went. Skyscrapers. From the big city to the humblest town people living upward. And pollution. Uniformly green sky without gap. At Xian we made plans of evasion. Two hours away lay the Taoist sacred mountains of Hua Shan. A temporary respite from all three.

Sometimes plans unravel early. The road to Hua Shan was lined with skyscrapers. On arrival the dense smog strangled the mountains into hills. And the crowds launched, to my efforts, a concerted campaign of irritating obstruction. I purchased the first of 14 tickets. Clean air was expensive. My mood blackened. Tickets 7 8 9 and 10 were for the cable car up and down the mountain. This reflected a compromise from earlier familial negotiations concerning our mountain hike. Fumiko having a healthy and reasonable fear of such expeditions based on earlier experiences. There would be no foot climb. The line for the cable car was devastating. There were lines to get into the lines. My teeth made contact and began to reduce themselves.

The stewing needed to end. As the line tried inching forward Fumiko took my hand. “It’s going to be OK. We’re going to have fun.” Misery is often a decision. A fork in the road chosen. I was with the most important person in my world. Was that not more than enough? Outlook reduced to an insight. I backtracked to the fork and hustled down it’s other branch. That simple.

The cable car held eight people. It’s ascent up vertical white granite for thousands of feet brought to mind reverse BASE jumping. Fear and thrill danced. I buried my fear as solid fathers must. We crested. But we weren’t at the end. The cable car went over the summit just like a car going over a hoop de do on a country road. Weightlessness. Only here there was no landing. The cable car matched its ascent with an equal plunge. The earth yawned. Solid became liquid. I yelped. A young Chinese mother grabbed me. No time to consider her after life companion. Fumiko went wild. Sometimes a line earns you something.

Eventually the cable car gave up trying to reach the true summit. Instead it entered a tunnel and deposited us. We emerged into unshrouded sunshine for the first time since arriving in China. The crowd still milled but we were willing to take two out of three. And what crowds! Ages, shapes, outfits. Nothing was unrepresented from spiked heels to centarians. United by two observations. One they were Chinese. As in 99% Chinese. This had been universal since arriving in China. The identifiable tourist had always been less than 1% non Chinese. The other 99% of people wandering around behaving in an identifiably touristic manner were locals. There is money here now and the Chinese are using it to see the homeland. Two, was the obvious enthusiasm. These folks were escaping the same three. They had bought the same tickets. Smiled patiently through the same lines. Now it was time to party hike. We jumped in the graceful current.

For centuries religious recluses lived in and on these peaks. Searching for their needed answers. Left alone, guarded by inaccessibility. No more. Now the five Granite peaks are linked by a circular path hacked from stone or imposed by concrete. At one point an optional 2 foot wide plank walk allows for a 2000 foot fall should error visit. Which it does. This is the part of the trail where the “timid would feel rather horrified” according to the sign. The rest of the trail tracks granite free falls whenever possible. Precipices protected by a single chain linking metal posts. Endearingly tens of thousands of padlocks have been clipped onto the links. Their keys launched. Forever locking in love or a dream.

Leaning against these chains, looking down at clouds, recalls something primordial. An illogical urge to launch. Not to die. Just to know. I remember a story of a man who nightly dreamed strongly of flying. On Half Dome in Yosemite he stood on the edge. The dream returned. He turned to his friend said something to the effect of “I think I can do it.” Climbers remember a woosh. Looking down they saw a plummeting man flapping wildly. At the time the story seemed ridiculous. But pushing against the chain made me not so sure. And I blinked and pulled back. What the hell, I don’t even like heights.

The current carried us to all five peaks. The crowds receded in focus and the mountains took center stage. As a Chinese wood block artist would have painted them had he never seen them. A storm stumbled into one peak and then threw in some thunder for drama. We hid in a temple under the watchful eyes of Gods. The storm moved on. Fumiko tested her limits on wet boulders, her trusty Chuck Taylor hightops never faltering. The day dimmed. It was time to leave the mountains alone to their dreams. And we did.

(July 23, 2105)

(7/21/2015) The Chinese have been around a couple of thousand more years than the country that issued my passport. There is something like 40,000 characters in Mandarin Chinese. That’s a lot of complexity to convey to a simpler bunch. But bless the Chinese and their generosity of spirit because they give it a shot. Proudly translating everything in sight in an attempt to help. Some of it baffling, some informative, and some past poetic. All of it rewarding. Below are a few early favorites.

(7/21/2015) The art of the meal. When hunger calls in the dark hopefully the night market answers. Most towns have them. Centrally. Hundreds of food carts pursue the call of the free-market. Behind them, day jobs forgotten, are the chefs of the night. Cooking up whatever their ethnicities or passion dictates. Serving up dishes that fascinate, shock and every once in a while change a bad day into a good day. Patronized by thousands of ever out and about Chinese oddly more interested in food and socializing than the tube.

The art is in the ordering. When our mutual languages sound like summer cicadas to their respective listeners an alternative is called for. That would be the infallible finger pointer. As in my finger would like that. Followed by a flick of the wrist and fingers going up to indicate how many. Then a seesaw of the hand to query the amount due. All this presided over by my beaming smile that indicates good will and low intelligence. And it works. Much, much better than using my savagely mutilated Mandarin Chinese with the cart owner. Whose misinterpretation rate runs at about 80%.

Pursuantly, we found ourselves in the Luoyang night market walking its length in survey. The weather gently collapsing. And then gentleness moved on. A charging wind bowled straight through the heart of the market. It carried sand from an unseen desert. It’s ferocity such that I searched for a funnel. Signs ripped from buildings. Heavy things went into the air. People scrambled for their loved ones. Carts panic packed. But we were hungry. I began aggressively pointing. Ignored, but by one night chef. His eyes wild with the nights collapse, mine with hunger. He threw food into Styrofoam. I balled money so that the wind didn’t steal it. Transaction complete, we fled in opposite directions. For the rain had arrived horizontally. I banged on the first glass door I came to. My sight did not open the locked door. But Fumikos did.

The storm howled bitterly at its loss. It turned out to be a small beer bar with exactly 3 taps. Out of one of which poured the sweetest motor oil stout I’ve had in years. We set to it. First by flushing the grit from under eyelids and then putting chopsticks to their task. Teeth never fully grated to avoid the sand. Grateful for the surge of storms, grateful for sanctuary and grateful for a deathbed worthy memory of chaos.

The day meals are tougher. They more than not take place in restaurants. If there be food photos then there is guidance. Though culinary ambush is commonplace. “It looked like olives in the photo but I suspect a reptile egg.” Without photos we are left with confidently placed menus. Covered in communication that mimics 1000 interpretations of tic-tac-toe to our untrained eye. Your order left to it’s fate of a finger landing. Some pleasant meals, some not. Always a surprise. This particular meal I avoided ambushed by pointing to our neighbors large pot of boiling soup. Placed on a burner upon their table. Surrounded by vegetables in bowls to be placed in the soup. Some cicada questions from the waitress followed. I steadfastly pointed at the neighbors. She gave up and brought out it’s twin. Lots of veggies, no meat. Using our guidebook language section I asked for, in no order, chicken, beef or fish. Her response conveyed this was a vegetarian establishment. Acceptance, followed by our tossing veggies into boiling soup. Halfway through a plate of meat arrived. I smiled, the waitress grinned. I stuck out my lower lip which universally is recognized as “what is that?” She chirped something and walked away. It was roast beef in appearance and consistency. By taste a whole hell of a lot better. Consumed with haste and vigor. The small piece of piece of I Translated paper arrived shortly thereafter.

More smiles as she handed it to me. Some Chinese writing at the top. “Ass meat” written below. One must keep the smile while one’s mind races for salvation. Three options. Varying levels of attraction. 1. the ass of some undetermined animal 2. Donkey meat. 3. the unthinkable. “What kind of meat is it Daddy?” “Why it was ass meat dear.” Hilarity from my 12-year-old. A waitress mystified. And me with this. If you ever come across a good piece of ass meat, tuck in. It’s divine.