Three days of sloth. I am going nuts. The library has three mangy books, all in Chinese. The only activities seem to be smoking, spitting and playing mah jong in a room full of smokers and spitters. Of course Hamish is in his element. All he does is drink beer and sleep. I’ve never seen anyone sleep so much. The food is disgusting, but at least we can buy biscuits. And huge cold bottles of beer of course. I sit on the sturdiest deck chair I can find, play solitaire, reread books and watch the sea roll by until the sun sets red into the smog.
Remembering a romantic old sailors’ theory that the moon sprang from the Pacific Ocean while the earth was still young, I turn to tell Hamish and see he’s fast asleep and snoring heavily. I look at him and wonder what am I doing? He’s so lazy, a big kid most of the time, shambling around with a smile on his face as if he’s listening to some private joke. I never know what he is thinking. And when I think I do know he comes out with something totally surprising. We don’t have the same kind of sex anymore, passionate and prolonged, not able to keep our hands off each other until exhausted and sweaty. It’s more - controlled.
His suitcase is a mess, an absolute tumble of clothes so that he always looks rumpled in everything he wears. And he never seems bothered by it. He’s lost half his clothing, his toothbrush and his razor. I always have to lend him my things, pick up after him, remind him to replace things. I’m getting tired of it. Truly fed up.
Thank goodness some of the other backpackers are friendly and we have discussions that last for hours, suddenly realizing afternoon has become night. We all drink copious amounts of tea just for the pleasure of getting thermoses filled and using a loo that flushes. Sometimes we play scrabble. If it weren’t for them I’d have no one to talk to. Everyone asks me about Hamish as if he’s the only thing of interest. How do they even know he exists except as a big napping lump? And a presence at dinner of course where he charms everyone and they all laugh and joke with him, telling him how they admire his choice to go back to school, encouraging his newly emerging spirit of adventure. Not one person asks how I feel about his impending exodus. Sometimes I can barely look at him without feeling miserable.
Tonight, our last night, there was a party in lounge #3. I convinced Hamish to stay awake and go, and with high hopes we entered the salon to find a tape player playing slow, bad music that three couples and one single lady were dancing to in a rather cheerless manner. The music was often interrupted by individuals who got up to sing. The Chinese passengers’ love of song is amazing. They will sing at the drop of a hat, preferring Western songs, which is unfortunate because they are terrible singers of Western music. I would have loved to hear local music sung by people who understand it.
“You got me up to see this?”
“It’s our last night on the boat.”
“Oh good they’ve got beer. Would you like one?”
“Why do you always have to have so much beer?”
“There’s nothing else. It’s hot, I’m thirsty and there are only a few more days in which to savour cheap, Chinese beer. I like beer. What’s the problem?”
“Nothing, it’s just that…I don’t remember you drinking this much at home.”
“Maybe you weren’t watching. And I have to get my palate ready for Germany.” He smacked his lips.
“You sound like you’re really looking forward to it.”
“I am. Of course I am. Now that I’ve made the decision I can’t wait to get started. I never felt this way before, looking forward the next phase of my life.”
I don’t know what made me come out with it now. I planned to do this later, to make things easier, to make a clean break. But something inside lashed out. A demon perhaps. Or a malevolent sprite. Or maybe my true self, bubbling up.
“I guess there’s nothing stopping you going over early.”
“Early?”
“Yes, you know, to find a place to live, get sorted out, meet people there, that kind of thing.”
“Well, I don’t need too many days for that. I can probably set up someplace to live pretty easily from England.”
“Oh but wouldn’t you prefer to do it in person now that you know how much fun it is to go to new places?”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?” he asked smiling.
I did not smile back and his own smile faded. “I…I don’t understand.”
“I think it’s obvious.” I did smile then but it felt sickly. “I’ll make it easier for you. You are free. You have no ties.“
He flushed. “What do you mean? Are you feeling ok?”
“I’m fine. It’s pretty straight forward. You don’t have to think of yourself as being in a relationship. You can feel free to meet whoever you choose. Go wherever you want. If you fall in love, then that’s fine. You don’t have to consider my feelings on the subject. We’ll just remain friends.”
I felt my voice wobble at his look but was damned if I’d let him see me back down. I stood up. “I’m going to walk around the deck and watch as we moor in Hong Kong harbour. No, don’t get up. And don’t wait up, I’ll see you in the cabin. I’m almost packed up anyway, so we can go straight from the boat to the airport whenever you are ready.”
He was speechless and I was able to quickly make my escape. I could feel the tears beginning and I wanted them invisible in nighttime darkness, no spectators. I just know he’s going to want to talk about this tomorrow but I am determined to remain silent and just get back home. Then we can go our separate ways. Doing it this way, now, will be so much easier. Prolonging the separation would break me apart in slow pieces. A quick break is best. Then he can get on with his life and I can deal with what I have to. But I wish it wouldn’t hurt so much. I wish I didn’t see the hurt on his face replaying in my head. Maybe I can change airplane seats so we’re not sitting together.
I sat on the edge of a holey wicker chair, feeling awful. I tried to tell myself it’s really relief I’m feeling, that it’s better for both of us. Endeavouring to put tomorrow aside, I watched the approaching lights of Hong Kong sparkle through the darkness. As the night slowly became grey with dawn’s approach I tried to let the city’s beauty calm me.
Saturday, June 16, 1990
Tuesday, June 12, 1990
chapter 7 - tramps on a tramp
The sun was shining as we arrived at the boat, far earlier than most others of course. We sat on our bags and waited for the usual panic. Sailed past customs only having to show our cameras. After all our receipt saving and preparation! Oh well, better this way than the hours of interrogation we had been expecting. I guess the dearth of visitors since the Tiananmen Square event has relaxed some bureaucracies. There were maybe ten other backpackers in what seems to be a half full boat, the rest being Chinese- men in shiny suits and ladies in short skirts with knee high nylons showing beneath.
Our boat looks like a murder took place on it in 1920 and it hasn’t been cleaned since.
Rusty and decrepit. The few wicker deck chairs almost all have large holes in the seats preventing one from actually sitting in them. The swimming pool is a square cement hole in the stern, empty of water but full of brown and green sludge, of interest to a marine biologist but not much to a swimmer. Most of the door locks do not fulfill their purpose, nor do some of the window hatches. Fabric on the indoor chairs is faded and torn, with grubby lace antimacassars hinting at thousands of greasy heads. The air is forlorn. It’s perfect. 
Our cabin has three bunks, but we’re the only ones in it. We even have a porthole. There are three sinks, a loo and a shower, ceramic mugs with lids and piping hot water in three of those amazing Chinese thermoses. Stiff white sheets and scratchy blankets tucked mercilessly into bunks. As luxurious to us as any cruise ship could ever be. We have three days on a slow boat from China!
Our boat looks like a murder took place on it in 1920 and it hasn’t been cleaned since.
Rusty and decrepit. The few wicker deck chairs almost all have large holes in the seats preventing one from actually sitting in them. The swimming pool is a square cement hole in the stern, empty of water but full of brown and green sludge, of interest to a marine biologist but not much to a swimmer. Most of the door locks do not fulfill their purpose, nor do some of the window hatches. Fabric on the indoor chairs is faded and torn, with grubby lace antimacassars hinting at thousands of greasy heads. The air is forlorn. It’s perfect. Our cabin has three bunks, but we’re the only ones in it. We even have a porthole. There are three sinks, a loo and a shower, ceramic mugs with lids and piping hot water in three of those amazing Chinese thermoses. Stiff white sheets and scratchy blankets tucked mercilessly into bunks. As luxurious to us as any cruise ship could ever be. We have three days on a slow boat from China!Monday, June 11, 1990
chapter 7 - Private Lives
Our last day on Chinese soil and I'm embarrassed to admit I'm kind of looking forward to leaving. Travelling in China, on our own and not on some tour, is hard work. We’re used to the heat and humidity now, but the climate still tires us. And this whole thing with Hamish. Soon enough he will be leaving and then I will really be alone. I feel sapped of energy.
Tonight we are treating ourselves to a stay at the Peace Hotel, famous for having accommodated Noel Coward while he wrote “Private Lives”.
I feel out of sorts and on the way up to our room I look at Hamish and without thinking say, “When we get to Hong Kong, why don’t you cut your hair? It’s too shaggy.”
He ruffled his unruly mop. “I kind of like it like this.”
“Well I think it looks juvenile.”
He looked at me surprised. Which is how I feel too. God, I sound like my mother! Why am I saying this stuff?
Our hotel room is shabby, with a soft bed and dirty walls, looking just like any Western styled hotel or motel in any small town in any country. But to our eyes it seems opulent. There is a real bathroom all to ourselves! Warm water! A reading lamp that works! A TV with an English speaking news station! Our own key! Soap! A window!
We can lie around naked and talk freely to each other and I try to make myself enjoy it. We had a lukewarm bath, made love because we could, and lay on the bed, occasionally saying “Do you remember?” Or “What about that day?”, remembering all the things we’ve seen in the last few weeks. I wanted only to smile at the memories added to our relationship but my mind instead goes to the image of Hamish going away and what that would mean. Our conversation ran out after an hour or so and I lay back on the bed, feeling the hot air settle on my skin and looking at the peeling ceiling.
I persuaded him to go dancing downstairs in the evening. I have been wanting to escape curious eyes for weeks but now desire to get among other people. After all we've done we can only talk for an hour? That's not good! The room held a tired band playing tunes that sounded as dusty and worn as the furniture. Several men came up to ask Hamish if they could ask me to dance, which he found vastly amusing. After dancing they would grab my hand and rush me back to our table, thanking both Hamish and me for the pleasure. All very courteous.
After an hour of me dancing and him drinking beer after beer he asked me to put him out of his misery and let him go to bed. I felt put out - he hadn't danced wiht me himself once! I just silently got up and led the way back to the room. Almost everything he does now makes me feel a bit resentful.
Even though they are worn and shabby the bed sheets are clean and its a treat to lie on clean sheets again. Hamish has told me I clutch at the sheets and pull them tightly to my chest, not letting go for anything. I guess I’m still not totally used to sharing my bed. Maybe it's a sign not to.
Tonight we are treating ourselves to a stay at the Peace Hotel, famous for having accommodated Noel Coward while he wrote “Private Lives”.
I feel out of sorts and on the way up to our room I look at Hamish and without thinking say, “When we get to Hong Kong, why don’t you cut your hair? It’s too shaggy.”He ruffled his unruly mop. “I kind of like it like this.”
“Well I think it looks juvenile.”
He looked at me surprised. Which is how I feel too. God, I sound like my mother! Why am I saying this stuff?
Our hotel room is shabby, with a soft bed and dirty walls, looking just like any Western styled hotel or motel in any small town in any country. But to our eyes it seems opulent. There is a real bathroom all to ourselves! Warm water! A reading lamp that works! A TV with an English speaking news station! Our own key! Soap! A window!
We can lie around naked and talk freely to each other and I try to make myself enjoy it. We had a lukewarm bath, made love because we could, and lay on the bed, occasionally saying “Do you remember?” Or “What about that day?”, remembering all the things we’ve seen in the last few weeks. I wanted only to smile at the memories added to our relationship but my mind instead goes to the image of Hamish going away and what that would mean. Our conversation ran out after an hour or so and I lay back on the bed, feeling the hot air settle on my skin and looking at the peeling ceiling.
I persuaded him to go dancing downstairs in the evening. I have been wanting to escape curious eyes for weeks but now desire to get among other people. After all we've done we can only talk for an hour? That's not good! The room held a tired band playing tunes that sounded as dusty and worn as the furniture. Several men came up to ask Hamish if they could ask me to dance, which he found vastly amusing. After dancing they would grab my hand and rush me back to our table, thanking both Hamish and me for the pleasure. All very courteous.
After an hour of me dancing and him drinking beer after beer he asked me to put him out of his misery and let him go to bed. I felt put out - he hadn't danced wiht me himself once! I just silently got up and led the way back to the room. Almost everything he does now makes me feel a bit resentful.
Even though they are worn and shabby the bed sheets are clean and its a treat to lie on clean sheets again. Hamish has told me I clutch at the sheets and pull them tightly to my chest, not letting go for anything. I guess I’m still not totally used to sharing my bed. Maybe it's a sign not to.
Sunday, June 10, 1990
chapter 7 - due to repeat?
I cried in the night. Couldn’t stop. This morning I realized it’s been exactly nine years since Andrew died. Well of course. That’s why I mentioned his name yesterday. Somewhere deep inside me this anniversary was swarming around in my sub-consciousness. Nine years. If I were in a fairy tale I would die today. Only now I don’t want to.
Or at least I didn’t a few days ago. Now I’m not so sure. Hamish and I practically said nothing to each other the rest of yesterday. Will I ever be truly whole again? Something really did die inside me that day nine years ago. For so long, I was always able to squash those feelings that welled up inside me, pushing them back down again under the surface. With so many years of practice I’d gotten good at it. Then I met Hamish, and as soon as I started to feel a bit, everything broke apart. I cried more, I angered more. Maybe Sophie was right, my avoidance of grieving meant I hadn’t properly grieved in the first place. How awful having to face everything I’d spent so many years avoiding!
And yet, my feelings for, Hamish, which opened such a chasm of pain, gave me so much soothing comfort too. If it wasn’t for Hamish I would never have been able to get past my past and feel anything again. The first time I could talk about Andrew and not cry shocked me. Hamish always encouraged me to let everything out, tears and all, to talk about that part of me buried in denial. And now, Hamish is going away from me. Oh lordy, I can’t bear the thought of going through something like that again!
Or at least I didn’t a few days ago. Now I’m not so sure. Hamish and I practically said nothing to each other the rest of yesterday. Will I ever be truly whole again? Something really did die inside me that day nine years ago. For so long, I was always able to squash those feelings that welled up inside me, pushing them back down again under the surface. With so many years of practice I’d gotten good at it. Then I met Hamish, and as soon as I started to feel a bit, everything broke apart. I cried more, I angered more. Maybe Sophie was right, my avoidance of grieving meant I hadn’t properly grieved in the first place. How awful having to face everything I’d spent so many years avoiding!
And yet, my feelings for, Hamish, which opened such a chasm of pain, gave me so much soothing comfort too. If it wasn’t for Hamish I would never have been able to get past my past and feel anything again. The first time I could talk about Andrew and not cry shocked me. Hamish always encouraged me to let everything out, tears and all, to talk about that part of me buried in denial. And now, Hamish is going away from me. Oh lordy, I can’t bear the thought of going through something like that again!
Saturday, June 9, 1990
chapter 7 - silk over thorns
Today we visited a silk factory, hearing a rumble and following it to a cavernous room where silk thread wound down from foot long spindles onto the warp and weft sides of looms. Middle aged ladies nimbly moved these back and forth as the looms juddered and clattered, with results both tawdry and magnificent. A heap of thread ends lay on the floor where they positively glowed. I’d have loved to buy a length of fabric but everything is made for the overseas market, the cost being prohibitive for locals. Now that’s sad.Afterwards we tried Dragon Well Tea, for which Hangzhou is also known, and explored ‘Xi Hu’. Every Chinese city has a ‘West Lake’, but this one is perhaps the most famous. As we passed a little gazebo, our attention was caught by an old man making wicker brushes and little hand brooms. Such speed over intricate work must tax elderly eyes and hands, but each little broom was perfect, a piece of art. Hamish started the bargaining dance.
“Are you buying that for your place or mine?,” I asked him as he emerged nearly as triumphant as the seller and he handed me his lovely prize. I immediately regretted breaking our self-imposed taboo.
“I was kind of thinking it might be for our place.”
“We don’t have a place. You are going to Germany and I am staying in London.” I couldn’t stop myself, the words came out.
“But when we are done, we’ll get a place. Wherever we want. Wherever we choose.”
“Unless something changes.”
“Well of course. Change is good. That’s what you taught me. Choose our own destiny. Do whatever we want.”
“Glad I’ve added something positive to your life.”
“What’s wrong? You seem out of sorts. If you don’t like the broom I can give it to my granny.”
“It’s not about the broom. I love the broom. I just don’t know why you are talking about our place when for two years, maybe three, we’re going to be apart.”
“But only physically. There will be visits. And I promise I will phone you at least every week if not oftener.”
“But you won’t be there.”
“No, but I’ll imagine I am. Come on, buck up. You know how much I hate my job, and how little scope it has. This degree will mean I can build towards a future. Where we can be together.”
“I don’t know. It sounds like you are pretty happy to go your own way without me.”
“Oh now, I don’t feel that way at all. Are you still mad because I didn’t talk it over with you first? Ok I’m sorry about that. I know that I sometimes I make snap decisions. I'm not used to having anyone else around who is part of my decisions. I promise I will try to do better at communicating.”
“How about trying communicating period? And don't say 'it's a guy thing'. Andrew never seemed to have any trouble doing it.”
There was beat of silence. I bit my lower lip. How did that come out?
“Well, I can’t compete with Mr. Perfect now can I? All I can do is learn from the master.”
Hamish smiled a smile that was not quite a smile and I regretted my remark. I gave him a hug, which was probably a little halfhearted. He stiffened and I backed off.
Friday, June 8, 1990
chapter 7 - internal and external explorations
Having a few days to spare we took a trip to Hangzhuo, famed for silk and scissors. Our challenge began with trying to get a train ticket though. At the station we waited in a long queue, shuffling ahead every so slowly. When we got to the wicket, the person behind it took one look at us and closed the window, pointing to another window. No amount of words from us or the people behind us could make it open, although we noticed that once we were well entrenched in another line the original window opened again. Everyone in the place stared and pointed at us, laughing out loud at our clothes and hair. Two or three weeks ago this was reasoned away as being normal behaviour in a place that never saw Caucasians, but after six hours in this cramped room, with the queue-window performance happening a second and then a third time, I felt like crying. I am so tired of being stared at and pointed at as if we were some kind of freaks. People pretend they don’t understand us even when it’s obvious they do. The only time anyone ever shows kindness is when they want to practice English. I lecture myself that this is what it must feel like for some of those who are visible minorities in my own country and I vow to be more helpful to those I meet in future.
We finally got our ticket, arrived and found the next challenge was finding a room, having taken a bus to the only hostel we knew of and finding it doesn’t exist. After wandering around for three hours we saw a sign tacked to a light standard that read ‘Zhejiang Guest House’. We followed this promising prospect up to a sort of compound full of cement shacks, inexplicably numerous outside water taps and broken vehicles. We looked at each other in dismay and approached an old man gardening, who motioned us further up the hill. There we found grass, trees, gardens and several square industrial looking buildings. It looked like it could be a university except there was not one person around. This is not only strange in China but eerie. There’s never no one around.
We finally got our ticket, arrived and found the next challenge was finding a room, having taken a bus to the only hostel we knew of and finding it doesn’t exist. After wandering around for three hours we saw a sign tacked to a light standard that read ‘Zhejiang Guest House’. We followed this promising prospect up to a sort of compound full of cement shacks, inexplicably numerous outside water taps and broken vehicles. We looked at each other in dismay and approached an old man gardening, who motioned us further up the hill. There we found grass, trees, gardens and several square industrial looking buildings. It looked like it could be a university except there was not one person around. This is not only strange in China but eerie. There’s never no one around.
We eventually found a sort of reception hall in one of the flashier buildings and were efficiently directed to dormitory rooms in building number 6. Along the walkway to building 6 were cunning litter bins and curious signs written in both English and Chinese with varying degrees of spelling accuracy: “Consultancy for Curing of Bald” and “Rotating Restaurant Hotel with Bussness Centre in it”, and my personal favourite “Honour to those who practice Hygene, Disgrace to those who don’t”. 
At building number 6 we followed empty corridors until we found room #15 containing four beds, a thermos of hot water, and silk quilts. The room was enormous and the otherwise empty building echoed with our movements. We were totally overwhelmed. 
What is this place? It felt like we were in the headquarters of some secret society masquerading as a hotel. It’s like someone built a small town but took its soul away. Beoing miles out of the centre of town, we wandered aroudn outside to see if there was any place to eat and found a restaurant, in building number 5, that was likewise completely empty except for a few female attendants. We awkwardly sat down, were handed substantial menus but it took several tries before we found something actually available – imagine no noodles or eggs! While we were there four Japanese girls came in so thankfully we were not the only ones staying in this vast place. We wonder to which building they have been assigned.
What is this place? It felt like we were in the headquarters of some secret society masquerading as a hotel. It’s like someone built a small town but took its soul away. Beoing miles out of the centre of town, we wandered aroudn outside to see if there was any place to eat and found a restaurant, in building number 5, that was likewise completely empty except for a few female attendants. We awkwardly sat down, were handed substantial menus but it took several tries before we found something actually available – imagine no noodles or eggs! While we were there four Japanese girls came in so thankfully we were not the only ones staying in this vast place. We wonder to which building they have been assigned. Now having spent a little bit of time in this huge and fascinating country, I remain curious as to how a country with such self-sufficiency, such technical superiority, such advancement in every area for so many centuries, how such a country historically had virtually no interest in exploration beyond its natural borders. Ever. You’d think if Marco Polo actually did come to China as he claimed to there might have been some interest from the Chinese as to where this strange white man came from. But apparently not. Okay, there was a short skirmish in the 15th century, but even that yielded nothing. I can’t help wondering what maps might have looked like if the Chinese had explored beyond their borders instead of only within. Would the Pacific Ocean be placed in the middle instead of the Atlantic?
Of course China was not the only superior culture not to expand. The most expansive culture in the world never even tried to cross the Atlantic. Mind you, there are at least Islamic maps existing, one of my favourite maps of all time being Al-Idrisi’s world map from 1154AD. I must have looked at that map for days all together. And having no map does not mean there were no voyages. Until later, the people who made the journeys did not make the maps anyway. In general, explorations were made by mostly fighting men and mercenaries, not scholars or scientists. Attributes of courage, skill and endurance were ruined by pitiless cruelty. Religious superiority too: Pizarro planned the murder of Peruvian Inca king Atahualpa on a charge of heresy of all things.
I jolted out of my thoughts. Hamish was looking at me with glazed eyes and a fake smile. Oh dear, it looks like I’ve been speaking my thoughts out loud again. How on earth did I get there from here? I shook my head and finished my bok choy.
Wednesday, June 6, 1990
chapter 7 - we all scream for ice cream
It took us three hours to cross the Bund today, constantly answering questions and feeling more like we were being interviewed. Most of the questions centered around how much it costs to get into an American university, but we were also asked about our home countries. We attracted the inevitable curious crowd of onlookers as well as four police officers, probably ensuring we weren’t spreading evil capitalist doctrine.
In the afternoon we went to Dr. Sun Yat Sen’s residence, now a museum. I told Hamish it was a house. If I told him it was a museum he wouldn’t go. We had to place plastic bags over our shoes before we went in and every room had an old attendant nodding sleepily in a corner. The house was large and cool, full of old photos, rosewood furniture, books and prints. There were airy verandahs and bright sitting rooms and we both thought it looked very livable. We sat in the garden for awhile, but it was hot outside and so we went into one of the hundreds of Shanghai’s confectioneries. Ended up with coconut ice cream balls and a Sprite float eaten in the relative cool of the People’s Park. We sat there lazily watching locals and talking about the museum (which Hamish really enjoyed!), the good Doctor himself and conjecturing whether or not there was any country in the world that did not sell ice cream.
In the afternoon we went to Dr. Sun Yat Sen’s residence, now a museum. I told Hamish it was a house. If I told him it was a museum he wouldn’t go. We had to place plastic bags over our shoes before we went in and every room had an old attendant nodding sleepily in a corner. The house was large and cool, full of old photos, rosewood furniture, books and prints. There were airy verandahs and bright sitting rooms and we both thought it looked very livable. We sat in the garden for awhile, but it was hot outside and so we went into one of the hundreds of Shanghai’s confectioneries. Ended up with coconut ice cream balls and a Sprite float eaten in the relative cool of the People’s Park. We sat there lazily watching locals and talking about the museum (which Hamish really enjoyed!), the good Doctor himself and conjecturing whether or not there was any country in the world that did not sell ice cream.
Tuesday, June 5, 1990
chapter 7 - was Dickens here too?
The so-called English part of Shanghai is a maze of lanes with paving stones and crooked houses all connected to one another. There are overhanging balconies that look medieval. Dingy laundry is strung everywhere, and bikes and carts vie for space on the street. The pavement seems an extension of the home and little old ladies simmer eggs in soy sauce on pavement braziers while children play with firecrackers. I feel like I am walking through a Dickensian China.
Monday, June 4, 1990
chapter 7 - shanghai'd
I don't know quite what I expected to see on this first anniversary of the Tiananmen Square incident or massacre (depending on who you are and what your viewpooint is), but I didn't expect nothing. Absolutely nothing. In fact, the only thing we can tell is perhaps different is that that there are fewer Westerners here and, as a result, queues at customs points are shorter and less stringent than we'd been expecting. We've also been able to find rooms quite easily.
Tourism was just budding here and the country is now feeling an economic change in numbers. We are told to tell our friends how friendly China is and to encourage them to come visit. We are also inundated by young students who are desperate to practice English and find out about where we come from and where we went to school and what our lives are like. Conversation sometimes bends towards the political, but there is little real knowledge or information as the state media has severaly limited details of last year's activity. We hesitate to inform them, as no doubt our own knowledge is gained through Western media, which does its own form of limiting. Crowds gather to hear us converse, and police officials join in, no doubt suspicious of what we are saying. Occasionally they will break up our group and impatiently gesture to us to move along, but it's never serious, as they no doubt are also under orders to be nice to foreigners who are visiting and have money to spend here. We worry more about how the students we talk to may be treated. We want to take their photos, but know it might put them in danger so refrain.
We arrived in Shanghai this morning, and felt so achy from days on a train that we splurged on a taxi to the Pujiang hotel, which ended up being a harrowing drive narrowly missing several local pedestrians and cyclists who didn’t turn a hair. Throughout the ride I wondered if we survived the train only to die in a taxi.
After we checked into our respective dorm rooms we tackled the travel office, located along the Bund. Along the way, we were stopped many times to "practice English", so we arrived a lot later than planned and hoped the office would still be open. Office hours are hard to predict in China - sometimes they are absurdly short and other times people seem to work 24 hours without a break. We see blankets behind desks for occupants to sleep upon, and always, always, the ubiquitous thermos nearby full of piping hot water.
With only one smallish boat leaving the city every week, we knew we needed to get our tickets back to Hong Kong for next week as soon as possible. We eventually arrived at the shabby ‘international travel office’ with one man working who knew absolutely no English and who ignored our Chinese, which we know is at least understandable by now. We mimed our needs. He sat and stared. We pointed at the schedule on his wall. Nothing. After getting nowhere we sat and stared right back at him which he obviously didn’t like a lot because we ended up with our two tickets on a boat that leaves next Thursday.
Normally we prefer to take a different route back to see other streets and buildings but in Shanghai the Bund is the sort of road you want to walk along again and again. We sauntered along it, attracting groups of students again and again. Shanghai is a real port city. Ships’ horns shudder and hoot all the time. Cranes and barges litter both sides of the river. It’s windy, probably a saving grace, for the smog is terrible and the smell of brine mingles unpleasantly with the smell of sewage. But there is a certain style of architecture we haven’t seen elsewhere in China. Of another time. More Western in appearance. Graceful and familiar. And there’s an undercurrent of optimism here. It feels like it’s a city on the brink of big change.
Tourism was just budding here and the country is now feeling an economic change in numbers. We are told to tell our friends how friendly China is and to encourage them to come visit. We are also inundated by young students who are desperate to practice English and find out about where we come from and where we went to school and what our lives are like. Conversation sometimes bends towards the political, but there is little real knowledge or information as the state media has severaly limited details of last year's activity. We hesitate to inform them, as no doubt our own knowledge is gained through Western media, which does its own form of limiting. Crowds gather to hear us converse, and police officials join in, no doubt suspicious of what we are saying. Occasionally they will break up our group and impatiently gesture to us to move along, but it's never serious, as they no doubt are also under orders to be nice to foreigners who are visiting and have money to spend here. We worry more about how the students we talk to may be treated. We want to take their photos, but know it might put them in danger so refrain.
We arrived in Shanghai this morning, and felt so achy from days on a train that we splurged on a taxi to the Pujiang hotel, which ended up being a harrowing drive narrowly missing several local pedestrians and cyclists who didn’t turn a hair. Throughout the ride I wondered if we survived the train only to die in a taxi.
After we checked into our respective dorm rooms we tackled the travel office, located along the Bund. Along the way, we were stopped many times to "practice English", so we arrived a lot later than planned and hoped the office would still be open. Office hours are hard to predict in China - sometimes they are absurdly short and other times people seem to work 24 hours without a break. We see blankets behind desks for occupants to sleep upon, and always, always, the ubiquitous thermos nearby full of piping hot water.
With only one smallish boat leaving the city every week, we knew we needed to get our tickets back to Hong Kong for next week as soon as possible. We eventually arrived at the shabby ‘international travel office’ with one man working who knew absolutely no English and who ignored our Chinese, which we know is at least understandable by now. We mimed our needs. He sat and stared. We pointed at the schedule on his wall. Nothing. After getting nowhere we sat and stared right back at him which he obviously didn’t like a lot because we ended up with our two tickets on a boat that leaves next Thursday.
Normally we prefer to take a different route back to see other streets and buildings but in Shanghai the Bund is the sort of road you want to walk along again and again. We sauntered along it, attracting groups of students again and again. Shanghai is a real port city. Ships’ horns shudder and hoot all the time. Cranes and barges litter both sides of the river. It’s windy, probably a saving grace, for the smog is terrible and the smell of brine mingles unpleasantly with the smell of sewage. But there is a certain style of architecture we haven’t seen elsewhere in China. Of another time. More Western in appearance. Graceful and familiar. And there’s an undercurrent of optimism here. It feels like it’s a city on the brink of big change.
Friday, June 1, 1990
chapter 7 - national pride
I had a dreadful dream about cannibalism in the night. It made me feel quite ill and I lay there feeling queasy. Maybe it was the movement of the train. We’ve been on it 26 hours so far, almost halfway. Frantic music woke us again this morning at 6am sharp, and we steeled ourselves for the necessary visit to the toilet, the worst part of each day. It is utterly foul. No one on this train seems to know how to aim for the hole.
As we rattled along eating biscuits, lying on our bunks across from each other, we talked about this and that. We used to talk about all sorts of things after making love, but bunks on a train are not conductive to that sort of physical activity so we tend to talk less about plans and ideas. We have avoided all talk about Hamish’s plans to go to Germany to study. I know it’s immature but I also figure if I ignore it, then it will just go away and not happen. I’ve avoided the topic for a week now and our relationship has been really fine, wonderful, really wonderful, fun and tender. I’ve almost convinced myself it really was all just talk. Hamish was telling me more about his childhood, when I was startled at one point.
“Wait, you were an ‘ink monitor’? Was this 1972 or 1872? When I was a child we used ball point pens. And I’m older than you!”
“Well, this is Scotland I’m talking about, what do you expect?”
“You’re just playing up this 'Britain is like a third world country' thing aren’t you?”
“Well, people still burn coal in their fireplaces.“
“Yeah, yeah, and there was rationing right through the 50s. I know, I know.”
“And people toast muffins over that same coal.”
“No thank you.”
“Oh couldn’t you just fancy a chip butty right now?”
“I’ve heard of chip butties but I’ve never had one. Exactly what is it comprised of?”
“Big, deep-fried potato chips, butter, white bread.“
“I think I can hear my arteries screaming in agony. Are you going to tell me next that for Christmas you only got a quill pen and a tangerine?”
“I save those stories for telling young children round the fire on Christmas Eve.”
“So you’re the boring old man I've heard about. Good thing children generally have short attention spans. Is there anything about the Scotland of your childhood that isn’t about lard and coal dust and misery?”
Hamish thought a moment before answering. “Well, all the good things are.”
As we rattled along eating biscuits, lying on our bunks across from each other, we talked about this and that. We used to talk about all sorts of things after making love, but bunks on a train are not conductive to that sort of physical activity so we tend to talk less about plans and ideas. We have avoided all talk about Hamish’s plans to go to Germany to study. I know it’s immature but I also figure if I ignore it, then it will just go away and not happen. I’ve avoided the topic for a week now and our relationship has been really fine, wonderful, really wonderful, fun and tender. I’ve almost convinced myself it really was all just talk. Hamish was telling me more about his childhood, when I was startled at one point.
“Wait, you were an ‘ink monitor’? Was this 1972 or 1872? When I was a child we used ball point pens. And I’m older than you!”
“Well, this is Scotland I’m talking about, what do you expect?”
“You’re just playing up this 'Britain is like a third world country' thing aren’t you?”
“Well, people still burn coal in their fireplaces.“
“Yeah, yeah, and there was rationing right through the 50s. I know, I know.”
“And people toast muffins over that same coal.”
“No thank you.”
“Oh couldn’t you just fancy a chip butty right now?”
“I’ve heard of chip butties but I’ve never had one. Exactly what is it comprised of?”
“Big, deep-fried potato chips, butter, white bread.“
“I think I can hear my arteries screaming in agony. Are you going to tell me next that for Christmas you only got a quill pen and a tangerine?”
“I save those stories for telling young children round the fire on Christmas Eve.”
“So you’re the boring old man I've heard about. Good thing children generally have short attention spans. Is there anything about the Scotland of your childhood that isn’t about lard and coal dust and misery?”
Hamish thought a moment before answering. “Well, all the good things are.”
Tuesday, May 29, 1990
chapter 7 - a nation like Magellan
“Do you want to go out now and get a quick bite to eat or to wait until dinner and get a proper meal?”
“I…think…I’m almost finished reading this book.”
I laughed. “That in no way answers the question.”
Hamish pondered a bit. “You’re right.” Pause. “I’m inscrutable.” He smiled. “Even to myself.”
“You nut.”
Food gets spicier as we travel north. We had hot and sour soup for lunch today. ‘Tangy’ would be an understatement. While we ate rice to offset our third degree burns, a man came in and ordered three of the snakes lying in little cages outside the door. The café owner put them in a large sack using great long tongs as a crowd gathered on the street to watch.
The Chinese we’ve met are all terribly curious. They stop and stare at anything unusual. When we open a map or book we immediately attract a cluster of bodies craning for a look, although map reading is a skill that seems to have bypassed this entire nation. We’ll ask where something is only to get a shrug. Maps are looked at with interest but no recognition. Even when we point out where we are standing, no comprehension whatsoever. The map could be, and sometimes is, upside down. It doesn’t matter. Of course if we ask directions we do get answers, but they’re never correct, instead what is thought we wish to hear. The same question asked of the same person will yield a totally different answer each time. They are cheerful throughout and not at all perturbed. Exasperating and yet fascinating.
I would love to get my hands on an old map of the country as it was pre-1933 for my collection, but maps seem, if not prohibited, then at least well concealed. I haven’t seen so much as a school atlas anywhere and even the tourist centres are remarkable in their absence of street maps. The thought of living in a world without maps is unnerving. Like Magellan crossing the Pacific, with no idea of how big it really was. Finally getting through the Strait that bears his name, breaking down in tears of joy at finding a way through at last, little dreaming of that vast expanse of water which lay ahead of him. But then again, if he had known, he might have never had the energy to carry on, to complete his journey, that so very important trip.
“I…think…I’m almost finished reading this book.”
I laughed. “That in no way answers the question.”
Hamish pondered a bit. “You’re right.” Pause. “I’m inscrutable.” He smiled. “Even to myself.”
“You nut.”
Food gets spicier as we travel north. We had hot and sour soup for lunch today. ‘Tangy’ would be an understatement. While we ate rice to offset our third degree burns, a man came in and ordered three of the snakes lying in little cages outside the door. The café owner put them in a large sack using great long tongs as a crowd gathered on the street to watch.
The Chinese we’ve met are all terribly curious. They stop and stare at anything unusual. When we open a map or book we immediately attract a cluster of bodies craning for a look, although map reading is a skill that seems to have bypassed this entire nation. We’ll ask where something is only to get a shrug. Maps are looked at with interest but no recognition. Even when we point out where we are standing, no comprehension whatsoever. The map could be, and sometimes is, upside down. It doesn’t matter. Of course if we ask directions we do get answers, but they’re never correct, instead what is thought we wish to hear. The same question asked of the same person will yield a totally different answer each time. They are cheerful throughout and not at all perturbed. Exasperating and yet fascinating.
I would love to get my hands on an old map of the country as it was pre-1933 for my collection, but maps seem, if not prohibited, then at least well concealed. I haven’t seen so much as a school atlas anywhere and even the tourist centres are remarkable in their absence of street maps. The thought of living in a world without maps is unnerving. Like Magellan crossing the Pacific, with no idea of how big it really was. Finally getting through the Strait that bears his name, breaking down in tears of joy at finding a way through at last, little dreaming of that vast expanse of water which lay ahead of him. But then again, if he had known, he might have never had the energy to carry on, to complete his journey, that so very important trip.
Saturday, May 26, 1990
chapter 7 - river life
Yesterday we hitched a ride on a narrow, wooden boat down the river to the tiny village of Fuli. Along the way we caught glimpses of everyday life in this remarkable landscape. People washed clothes in the river at the base of stone steps that led down to nowhere, cattle swam and ate reeds next to bathing children. Little bamboo rafts took people out fishing, two long oars used like chopsticks.
Fuli itself was full of laden houseboats for market day. Buying and selling rice and other grains, wicker baskets and brooms. On one street there was a lady with a sewing machine set up on the pavement. Hamish bargained for a pair of shorts, choosing the most garish material she had. Half an hour later they were ready and he was thrilled to find that the pockets had been lined with a completely different but equally gaudy fabric. He changed into them right there and then. They are a bit too small and he looks ridiculous in them, but he proudly parades around with his hands in the pockets.
It reminds me of a story his mum told me about when he was a little boy. His aunt had given him a truly ugly shirt for Christmas. “Don’t worry”, his mum had assured him when he opened his gift and saw the hideous garment within. “You don’t have to wear it. We can give it to a charity shop.”
“No, I’ll wear it,” 6 year old Hamish said as he took the shirt out to look at it. “I feel sorry for it.”
I love that story. The image of a little boy feeling sorry for an ugly shirt. He may not be neat, but he’s got compassion.
And he’s got enthusiasm. He is loving the Chinese countryside. Probably because it is so different to Britain's. He goes on and on, full of almost as much purple prose as I am when I get my romantic head on. About the same really, for when I comment on it he says it reminds him of how I gushed about England when I first met him. “When you waxed poetic about country pubs and grand gardens I thought you sounded like a travel brochure.
“But England is a lovely place.”
“Not all of it. Not the England I have seen – working class urban midlands. The gardens and literature, that’s your England – the ‘Jane Austen England’.”
“The what?”
“There are two kinds of England in my opinion – the ‘Jane Austen England’ and the ‘Mike Leigh England’.”
“Mike Leigh?”
“Yes Mike Leigh, the filmmaker – you know.”
“I know. I love his films.”
“Yeah but his England, the ‘Mike Leigh England’, is like his films, grey and gritty, sad people with sad lives. You see the difference, don’t you? Your England, the ‘Jane Austen England’, is a green and pleasant land, full of culture, gardens and refinement. Mine is the ‘Mike Leigh England’, a bit unfriendly and bitter. The class system at its worst, everyone pigeon holed by their accent and where they went to school. Full of snobbishness and negativity.”
“Ok,” I laugh, “but the ‘Mike Leigh England’ does have humour and doesn’t preclude enjoyment of the ‘Jane Austen England’.”
“True but it’s a rueful humour. And only in small doses. And spread far apart.”
“That could be true of other places. Perhaps there’s a Chinese version of ‘Jane Austen China’ and ‘Mike Leigh China’.”
“Mike Leigh?”
“Yes Mike Leigh, the filmmaker – you know.”
“I know. I love his films.”
“Yeah but his England, the ‘Mike Leigh England’, is like his films, grey and gritty, sad people with sad lives. You see the difference, don’t you? Your England, the ‘Jane Austen England’, is a green and pleasant land, full of culture, gardens and refinement. Mine is the ‘Mike Leigh England’, a bit unfriendly and bitter. The class system at its worst, everyone pigeon holed by their accent and where they went to school. Full of snobbishness and negativity.”
“Ok,” I laugh, “but the ‘Mike Leigh England’ does have humour and doesn’t preclude enjoyment of the ‘Jane Austen England’.”
“True but it’s a rueful humour. And only in small doses. And spread far apart.”
“That could be true of other places. Perhaps there’s a Chinese version of ‘Jane Austen China’ and ‘Mike Leigh China’.”
Hamish considered. “’Bruce Lee China’ and ‘Mao Tse Tung China’.” What about Canada?
I considered. "Anne of Green Gables Canada and Duddy Kravitz Canada."
"Aren't those fictional characters? Not real Canadians."
"You want to split hairs with my country's iconic personalities now?"
Well, of course the rest of the afternoon was spent figuring out the two sides of everywhere.
Well, of course the rest of the afternoon was spent figuring out the two sides of everywhere.
Thursday, May 24, 1990
chapter 7 - tourists are not all the same
We had a wild bus trip crushed between locals and several boxes of squawking chickens. Those startling hills in the distance gradually surrounded us and I began to feel I was part of an old painting, becoming a watercolour version of myself blending with this romantic landscape. We like Yangshuo, a small town with a big market, overlooking the wide green Li Jiang river. The place attracts two disparate types of tourists, a few bedraggled Western backpackers and swarms of Chinese daytrippers. The backpackers we’ve met are holdovers from another era, hippies, hanging out in bohemian coffee bars and cafes that serve pizza. They don’t travel at all really – many have been here for years, just hanging out in a town that now caters to their American tastes in food. Even their language is unlikely, American surfer dudes stranded in inland China telling each other old stories. “So then they told me, no way!” “And they’re all, y’know, negative and stuff.” “So then I go, no way dude.” “They go, wow man that’s a drag.” “Gnarley.” “So then I go, like, bummer, man.” They remind me of Niki, like she used to talk and still does when she's excited about something.
The Chinese tourists, on the other hand, arrive on buses bursting at the seams, shop, eat and disappear within three hours. The market is flooded with them, everyone bargains and buys and then whooshes out, draining the market of life as it lethargically packs itself up within half an hour of the tour bus departures. That half hour is our favourite time. We are getting the hang of this bargaining thing and have developed a routine. First, we spend a lot of time in front of something we like, looking at everything else but always coming back to the one thing that attracts us. We ask the price. The seller tells us something exorbitant. We sigh and shake our heads. They shrug. We walk on. In awhile we come back. The seller suggests another price. We say still too high, but make eye contact. He shrugs and looks away. We converse between ourselves in low voices, then suggest a price, quite a bit lower than his previous offer. He laughs and shakes his head, we go up a bit in price, he comes down a bit. Ready to close, we give a price, he looks tempted but shakes his head. Then we mention the magic letters “F.E.C.”. He repeats “F.E.C.”? The tourist currency is more valuable and less available to locals. We nod. Ok it’s a deal. We smile, he smiles, everyone is best friends. 
I’m not as good at it as Hamish. I cave in too soon, and feel I’ve paid too much while the seller is just as unsatisfied because I didn’t play the game right. Hamish knows just the right amount of charm to use, just the right amount of time to pause in between musings. He loves it, too, you can tell. It’s like he’s just discovering some new talent. Mind you, he’s much better with money than I am in general. I have never really understood the concept of money. It flows through my fingers like quicksilver. To me it’s something to spend and forget, not something to value. Hamish bought me a triple strand of fresh water pearls and I bought him a very old chop he can use to seal his letters. We both know we still paid too much, but it’s a poor country. Besides, the bargaining is the best bit.
I’m not as good at it as Hamish. I cave in too soon, and feel I’ve paid too much while the seller is just as unsatisfied because I didn’t play the game right. Hamish knows just the right amount of charm to use, just the right amount of time to pause in between musings. He loves it, too, you can tell. It’s like he’s just discovering some new talent. Mind you, he’s much better with money than I am in general. I have never really understood the concept of money. It flows through my fingers like quicksilver. To me it’s something to spend and forget, not something to value. Hamish bought me a triple strand of fresh water pearls and I bought him a very old chop he can use to seal his letters. We both know we still paid too much, but it’s a poor country. Besides, the bargaining is the best bit.
Tuesday, May 22, 1990
chapter 7 - Guilin
As we stepped off the train at Guilin we were immediately inundated with students wanting to show us around the city for a fee and offering dubious assistance in many and various other capacities. In the end we agreed to go with one of them who spoke a little more English than the others, and who offered to take us to a restaurant as we were rather starving. It was his sister’s place, a tiny dirty place filled with old Christmas decorations (Christmas decorations in China? in May?) and one filthy round table. The food was good however, and we stuffed ourselves with a variety of things washed down with three big bottles of Guilin beer and tea poured continuously all over the table, regardless of how full our cups already were or in fact where they were. The sister was a real character with several teeth missing, a wild laugh and a total of eighteen English words. Everyone in China seems to have sidelines: hers is changing money at terrible rates, which we declined. as gracefullya s we could.
The best part of the evening was the conversation, which took place in a mixture of languages and arm movements and drawings. We heard many things, including the generation gap in China and how difficult it is for Chinese youths. Inflation, low wages, older people feeling things are changing too rapidly and younger people feeling things are not changing rapidly enough, a nation of boys who will grow up to be men unable to marry because girls are often aborted or killed by their own parents, newspapers that hide the truth, radical students in the north, a government made up of old people, prohibited foreign travel and glimpses of life elsewhere - all these have bred dissatisfaction wiht our hosts.
“You are always doing things without telling me.”
“Little things maybe. Buying things. Going out with friends. Business trips." He arched his eyebrows at me which was infuriating. "I’m talking about the big things. Ambitions. Plans. Goals. I tell you all the time about things I want to do.”
“I thought that was just rambling. You do it a lot.”
“Well, it’s nice to finally have someone to talk to after all those years of no one. And I ask your opinion about everything. Because I value it. I don’t do that with everyone, anyone really, but I do it with you. I thought you valued mine. Opinion that is.”
“I do."
“But do you?”
“You know I do. Look, I have always felt a bit disillusioned. Fitting into one sector of society but feel like I belonged nowhere. Going from job site to job site. Mauual labour its not all it's cracked up to be. Can you wonder why I was so excited to meet you and hear the things that came out of your mouth? Telling me I can do other things, go other places.” He lay back and took my hand.
I looked down at our joined hands. I’m beginning to think I know nothing of the sort. Have I really given my heart to someone who is about to leave me? I can’t bear it.
We talked a little more, well Hamish mostly, who talked excitedly about his plans. We went for a cycle along the river and walked up two famous hills, Solitary Beauty and Fubo. Away from the grey city it is a remarkable and beautiful landscape. A curling brown river and distant stark hills rise out of nothing, many of them with little temples on top. Surprisingly free from the hordes of Chinese, Japanese and Malaysian tourists that we encounter everywhere, the hills were quiet and cool with breezes. Car horns honked and bike bells rang far below, but sounded not of this time and place. Almost musical. No wonder temples were built at the top of hills. I breathed in deeply and tried to get my equilibrium back, trying to figure out who this guy I’m travelling with really is. I thought I knew where I was with him, who he was. I should be happy that he wants a proper education, options, the things I treasure and take for granted. But instead I wonder if I want to travel with him at all.
The best part of the evening was the conversation, which took place in a mixture of languages and arm movements and drawings. We heard many things, including the generation gap in China and how difficult it is for Chinese youths. Inflation, low wages, older people feeling things are changing too rapidly and younger people feeling things are not changing rapidly enough, a nation of boys who will grow up to be men unable to marry because girls are often aborted or killed by their own parents, newspapers that hide the truth, radical students in the north, a government made up of old people, prohibited foreign travel and glimpses of life elsewhere - all these have bred dissatisfaction wiht our hosts.
They asked about us. When asked what I do, I told them about my curitorial work, but they couldn’t grasp that anyone would actually be interested in seeing a whole room full of maps let alone making up exhibits to take to other countries.
“Maps? What is maps?”
I showed them my map of Guilin. Then I had to explain that it was a map of Guilin. They looked at it with more interest but no comprehension. “Who wants to see this maps?” “People?” “Someone pay you money for that?” “A lot of money?” “Why?” It’s oddly disturbing to have people doubt there’s any value in your work.
Hamish enthusiastically told them he was going back to school to do an Engineering degree, which is the first I’ve heard of it. The others understood what enginnering was all about and spent the rest of the evening talking to him, while I drank tea silently.
“Maps? What is maps?”
I showed them my map of Guilin. Then I had to explain that it was a map of Guilin. They looked at it with more interest but no comprehension. “Who wants to see this maps?” “People?” “Someone pay you money for that?” “A lot of money?” “Why?” It’s oddly disturbing to have people doubt there’s any value in your work.
Hamish enthusiastically told them he was going back to school to do an Engineering degree, which is the first I’ve heard of it. The others understood what enginnering was all about and spent the rest of the evening talking to him, while I drank tea silently.
When we'd returned to our hotel room I asked him about it and he said it’s something he’d been thinking of for a while, and was so excited about actually making the decision. “All because of you, you know.” He pulled me down on the bed and kissed me breezily on the cheek.
I pulled away and sat up. “Me?"
I pulled away and sat up. “Me?"
"You've inspired me to look beyond. You are my muse."
I was suddenly feeling very unamused.
"How long will it take?”
“Three years.”
Three years! “How come you never mentioned it to me before?”
“I hadn’t thought it was something I could really consider. But this travelling thing has opened my eyes a bit. You are so right – I need to see more of this world.” He reached to pull me down again in a bear hug but I stood up.
“What do you mean - 'more of this world'?”
“Well, I’ll be in Germany.”
“What?”
“The best engineering program is in Germany. Of course I’ll miss the West Ham games, but I’ll follow them somehow, and then there is bound to be something going there. It’s a soccer nation. And change is good right?”
“Is that all you’ll miss?”
“Probably. England's on its way down, and Scotland - well it's there already. And German beer is excellent.”
“What about me? What about us?”
“Of course I’ll miss you. You can come and visit. Then I can show you around. You’ll be able to put away your maps and let me do the tour guide thing.”
“Three years.”
Three years! “How come you never mentioned it to me before?”
“I hadn’t thought it was something I could really consider. But this travelling thing has opened my eyes a bit. You are so right – I need to see more of this world.” He reached to pull me down again in a bear hug but I stood up.
“What do you mean - 'more of this world'?”
“Well, I’ll be in Germany.”
“What?”
“The best engineering program is in Germany. Of course I’ll miss the West Ham games, but I’ll follow them somehow, and then there is bound to be something going there. It’s a soccer nation. And change is good right?”
“Is that all you’ll miss?”
“Probably. England's on its way down, and Scotland - well it's there already. And German beer is excellent.”
“What about me? What about us?”
“Of course I’ll miss you. You can come and visit. Then I can show you around. You’ll be able to put away your maps and let me do the tour guide thing.”
I was crushed. Is this the guy I thought was the one for me? The father of my future children? This guy who obviously cares so little about our relationship that he doesn’t give it a single thought?
“I thought our relationship was good.”
He propped himself up on his elbows. “It is. Why do you think I want to do this? I’ll have more options so we can do more and go to more places. If it wasn’t for you, I’d be staying in a job I hate without realizing there’s more out there. Really out there. That all it takes is doing it.”
“But you haven’t said any of this to me before. I feel left out of your plans, your future.”
“These plans are all about my future, and that future, certainly the near future, includes you. You know that.”
“But how can I know that? If you don’t confide in me. Am I missing something?”
“So you’re allowed to do what you want and I’m not?”
“No of course not. But we need to communicate, to let the other one know."
“I thought our relationship was good.”
He propped himself up on his elbows. “It is. Why do you think I want to do this? I’ll have more options so we can do more and go to more places. If it wasn’t for you, I’d be staying in a job I hate without realizing there’s more out there. Really out there. That all it takes is doing it.”
“But you haven’t said any of this to me before. I feel left out of your plans, your future.”
“These plans are all about my future, and that future, certainly the near future, includes you. You know that.”
“But how can I know that? If you don’t confide in me. Am I missing something?”
“So you’re allowed to do what you want and I’m not?”
“No of course not. But we need to communicate, to let the other one know."
“You are always doing things without telling me.”
“Little things maybe. Buying things. Going out with friends. Business trips." He arched his eyebrows at me which was infuriating. "I’m talking about the big things. Ambitions. Plans. Goals. I tell you all the time about things I want to do.”
“I thought that was just rambling. You do it a lot.”
“Well, it’s nice to finally have someone to talk to after all those years of no one. And I ask your opinion about everything. Because I value it. I don’t do that with everyone, anyone really, but I do it with you. I thought you valued mine. Opinion that is.”
“I do."
“But do you?”
“You know I do. Look, I have always felt a bit disillusioned. Fitting into one sector of society but feel like I belonged nowhere. Going from job site to job site. Mauual labour its not all it's cracked up to be. Can you wonder why I was so excited to meet you and hear the things that came out of your mouth? Telling me I can do other things, go other places.” He lay back and took my hand.
I looked down at our joined hands. I’m beginning to think I know nothing of the sort. Have I really given my heart to someone who is about to leave me? I can’t bear it.
We talked a little more, well Hamish mostly, who talked excitedly about his plans. We went for a cycle along the river and walked up two famous hills, Solitary Beauty and Fubo. Away from the grey city it is a remarkable and beautiful landscape. A curling brown river and distant stark hills rise out of nothing, many of them with little temples on top. Surprisingly free from the hordes of Chinese, Japanese and Malaysian tourists that we encounter everywhere, the hills were quiet and cool with breezes. Car horns honked and bike bells rang far below, but sounded not of this time and place. Almost musical. No wonder temples were built at the top of hills. I breathed in deeply and tried to get my equilibrium back, trying to figure out who this guy I’m travelling with really is. I thought I knew where I was with him, who he was. I should be happy that he wants a proper education, options, the things I treasure and take for granted. But instead I wonder if I want to travel with him at all.
Monday, May 21, 1990
chapter 7 - the perils of punctuality
We’ve heard stories of full trains leaving early, so left for the station immediately after checking out. Or maybe it was just me. I got so impatient waiting for Hamish to pack. He had socks scattered all over the room and it took him ages to find everything and squish it in his pack. I rushed him out before he could find another reason to sit down again.
“Why do we always have to get to places so early?” Hamish moans.
“I’m worried about being late.”
“But we’re not anywhere near that.”
“I guess it’s from my childhood. My mom was always late for things and I hated it.”
“You missed a lot of trains?”
“Why do we always have to get to places so early?” Hamish moans.
“I’m worried about being late.”
“But we’re not anywhere near that.”
“I guess it’s from my childhood. My mom was always late for things and I hated it.”
“You missed a lot of trains?”
“Yes. No, not trains specifically. But it was the anxiety of it all, and the attention, everyone staring at me when we turned up late. I always hated it. Come on, move it!"
"I'm coming as fast as humanly possible! Why don't you focus less on me and tell me more about this phobia of yours."
"Ok, if you promise not to daudle. I know, ok, I promise. I don't know where it started. I guess the worst time,was during spring break when I was about 15. I know I couldn’t yet drive, and it was after the trip to London I had made with my band class, so I must have been 15. Babby was in Reno, you know she always used to spend part of her winter there. Anyway, she was still there at Spring Break and had invited me to join her, to fly down on my own, and we’d come back together. I was thrilled. Just me! A jet setter! And with the rest of the family going to Victoria which we did every year.”
Hamish smiled. “I can just imagine you all dressed in 70s glitz gambling with your Babby.”
"Well you have a pretty good imagination because it never happened. As usual Mom was fussing around with what I should wear and what I should take. She kept tucking more things into my suitcase, bringing me scarves and other things of hers to add, trying them on me first to see how they’d look and to show me how to wear them. I probably wasn’t much help standing there like a stick of rhubarb. I hated being dressed up by Mom. She never seemed to see me. I was just some mannequin to her. Anyway, then she fussed around with her own clothes. I mean she was only taking me to the airport! But in the end I went and sat in the car getting more and more stressed. Finally she was ready to go, we got to the airport and had a tearful goodbye, which you can imagine that I, at 15, just loved. Everyone else standing around looking sympathetic as if I’d never left home before.
Hamish smiled. “I can just imagine you all dressed in 70s glitz gambling with your Babby.”
"Well you have a pretty good imagination because it never happened. As usual Mom was fussing around with what I should wear and what I should take. She kept tucking more things into my suitcase, bringing me scarves and other things of hers to add, trying them on me first to see how they’d look and to show me how to wear them. I probably wasn’t much help standing there like a stick of rhubarb. I hated being dressed up by Mom. She never seemed to see me. I was just some mannequin to her. Anyway, then she fussed around with her own clothes. I mean she was only taking me to the airport! But in the end I went and sat in the car getting more and more stressed. Finally she was ready to go, we got to the airport and had a tearful goodbye, which you can imagine that I, at 15, just loved. Everyone else standing around looking sympathetic as if I’d never left home before.
"I heard the final boarding announcement for my flight and tore away from her, only to find a long line to get into the passenger area which seemed to take forever. I didn’t dare tell anyone I was in a hurry. They’d either make a big deal about it in front of everyone else, or they’d make comments about how I shouldn’t have left it so late. Finally I got through and ran as fast as I could to the gate, bumbling along with a ton of hand luggage. I got there at last to find the gate had closed, the plane had already moved away, and the lounge area was totally deserted. I didn’t know what to do, so I sat down and cried. I was so mad at Mom for making me miss the plane and now I was stuck here at the airport. The rest of the family would be off to Victoria without me and I had nowhere to go or stay and Babby would be at the Reno airport waiting for me and she would be all worried that I didn’t arrive and think I had died in a plane crash.”
“You must have been hysterical.”
“Only on the inside. Outside I was just this teary, blotchy teen who was mortified at the prospect of asking someone for help.”
“You must have been hysterical.”
“Only on the inside. Outside I was just this teary, blotchy teen who was mortified at the prospect of asking someone for help.”
“What on earth did you do?”
“Oh someone came by, asked what the problem was, took me to a lounge full of people where they phoned my home. Of course my family hadn’t left for Victoria yet. I was put in a special area until they came to get me. Mom phoned Babby and told her I’d missed the plane, and we all went off to Victoria as usual. My sisters were merciless to me that trip, making fun about me missing the plane. I felt like a total loser.”
“So you never got to Reno.”
“I never got to Reno. Not that that was the worst part of it. It was the whole being centre of attention thing. Mom never realized how much I always hated standing out. She was the one who loved to make entrances, who loved to dazzle the crowd with unexpected drama. I know she was wanting me to swirl in too, get noticed by everyone and then spell the pants off them, or fly off in style, so she could bask in reflected glory. But all I wanted was to blend in.”
“Poor baby. Let me give you a hug and dry those tears. If getting to the train early helps you deal with childhood trauma, and prevents you from getting so worked up, then I will happily sit in a waiting room for hours on end.”
Which we did. In a crowded #6 waiting room we waited for train #282. And waited for hours. At least we knew we were in the right room Numbers are universal, and the Chinese travel authorities seem to love them. The waiting room was packed as usual, with a horde of people sitting on and near numerous boxes and bags, nets and bowls, all pushing forward despite a closed door at the end of the room.
By the time the train was ready, it was madness. Sheer panic on every face, elbows and shoulders in force. Having designated seats doesn’t seem to matter, everyone pushes and shoves to get on first. I’ve never seen anything like it before arriving in China. Now a bit more prepared we let ourselves get swept among them like a stick on a river, and I was able to only glance at our train. Magnificent. New and shiny, freshly painted and chugging energetically with steam pouring out. Yes, here it is 1992 and we are travelling on a steam train! This must be the last place on earth that steam trains are used as a modern mode of transport.
Our carriage is long, with a narrow corridor along one side and bunks stacked up on the other, six bunks to a section, and ten sections to the carriage. The walls dividing each section stop before reaching the ceiling, so the whole carriage is open and full of chatter.
Our carriage is long, with a narrow corridor along one side and bunks stacked up on the other, six bunks to a section, and ten sections to the carriage. The walls dividing each section stop before reaching the ceiling, so the whole carriage is open and full of chatter.
We have a middle and an upper bunk, both hard and narrow but with sheets, a blanket and even a grubby looking pillow. The corridor has folding seats and several little folding shelves used as tables, a thermos placed on each. Trolleys of rice in white Styrofoam boxes trundle past, along with sweets and water. We were rather horrified to see everyone toss the empty food boxes out the train windows when they were done with them, where they joined a mountain of white plastic along the track. Before long we settled into the rhythm and the rattle of the train, people shuffling around making tea and going to the toilet, a smelly, wet squatter that opened right out onto the tracks rushing below. We determined to keep tea consumption to a minimum if only to avoid visits to that hideous spectacle.Little villages with red brick buildings flashed past. Tiled and thatched roofs and unshuttered windows glowed with candles or weak light bulbs. Old people in blue suits and wicker hats squatted over gardens, young men in white singlets and trousers with rolled up cuffs walked by with yoked baskets, and girls with long braids crouched over fields of rice or cucumbers. An old man rode by on a bicycle. Valleys of terraced rice fields, emerald green. Further on, the land gradually became rockier, the soil lighter in colour, houses now of stone, landscapes fading into the grey air. I had previously associated China with the colours red and gold, but now I’ll always think of it as green and grey.
We ate buns and oranges and made friends with a family of three that shared our section, a father, daughter and friend travelling to Luzhou. We showed photos and tried out our Chinese, filling in with gesticulations and smiles. The father is a purchaser at a Malaysian-owned hotel and hoping to improve his English so he can become a receptionist and earn 250 yuan a month, which is only about $10US. He said he has learned a lot about people while working in a hotel, and when we asked what particularly he had learned, he answered that he had discovered homosexuals. He looked amazed even just telling us, and added that he had never heard of such a thing before! Not quite what we were expecting when we asked the question.
The loudspeaker continuously plays very loudly, mostly Chinese songs but we did hear renditions of “Edelweiss” and “Auld Lang Syne”. We wondered if it stayed on all night, but it abruptly went out at 10 pm along with the lights. Thank goodness we were already in our bunks armed with torches, for it was dark as tar. Hamish reached down and took hold of my hand and gave it a squeeze. I kissed his hand and held it next to my cheek, then let him take it back for the rest of the night.
Saturday, May 19, 1990
chapter 7 - amity interruptus
I got so mad at Hamish today. We had planned on going to Foshan for the day, but in the morning he rolled over in bed, saying he was exhausted and wanted a day of doing nothing.
I tried to conceal the dismayed surprise I felt at his sudden change of plans, but know in my heart I was not very good at it. “We are only here for a month and there is so much to see!”
“A month is long enough for us to take a day off now and then. Why do we have to go go go every day?”
“I just said. We are only here for a month and there is so much to see.”
“Well you can go if you like but I am sleeping in and just hanging out today.”He knew damned well I wouldn’t go to Foshan on my own. Hard enough to get anywhere in China as a twosome. No one will sell a lone white girl a bus ticket.
“Why didn’t you say this yesterday? I could have made alternate plans. You are being really selfish.”
“Hello Miss Pot, I'd like to introduce you to Mr. Kettle. Everything about this trip has been about you – where you want to go, how you want to get there, what you want to see.”
“I thought you were enjoying it as much as I was.”
“I am enjoying it, but I doubt very much if it’s as much as you are. No one can enjoy this guerrilla travelling as much as you do. Every day another bus trip to another town to wander around for hours, six museums, sixty shops, factories, libraries, ‘just another stop’, you say, ‘I want to check this out’. You are obsessed and I can’t keep up. Today I am choosing what I want for a change.”
I slammed out the door furious. Stomping around the neighbourhood I entertained dark thoughts. Ok, maybe this trip has been engineered by me, but I told him right from the start that he could do whatever he wanted. All he had to do was ask. But everyday he says, “I’m happy to do whatever you want to do.” I’m the one that made the plans, did the research, got the maps, made the notes, checked the details. And he’s never so much as questioned it before now. He never mentioned his feelings before. Why all of a sudden does he say this now? Why not yesterday or a day before? Surely he would have felt this way before this morning.
As I fumed it came to me that this isn’t really the first time he’s done something like this. Not often, but occasionally he will go along just fine and then, without warning, dig his heels in.
When I got back to our room he was watching TV and drinking tea. I sat down and confronted him calmy. “Look, we need to talk.”
He rolled his eyes.
Ignoring him, I went on. “I have no problem with you doing what you want, but why can’t you tell me in advance? I get so upset when plans change suddenly.”
“I don’t always know when that is.”
“But you must have known that you wanted to slow down a bit.”
“Yeah of course, we’ve done nothing but charge ahead since we got here.”
“So why couldn’t you say to me that you were finding the pace tiring and wanted to slow down a bit?”
“Would it have made any difference?”
“It might have. How would you know unless you try?”
“I think you’re being unreasonable. I can do what I like. I’m allowed. I'm a grown man.”
“Of course you are. That’s not the point.”
Or is it?, I wondered. Perhaps it's part of the point. But no, there really is more. “You can communicate your feelings to me. We are both equal in this trip and both equal in our relationship. I will really try to make it work for you but I can’t read your mind.”
“Whatever. Ok. Anything to make the peace.”
Anything to make the peace! Is this what he thinks of our relationship? Is this how we will always have to communicate? Just to keep the other from freaking out? I am not for the first time questoning if our relationship - am I cut out to be with someone else at all?
I tried to conceal the dismayed surprise I felt at his sudden change of plans, but know in my heart I was not very good at it. “We are only here for a month and there is so much to see!”
“A month is long enough for us to take a day off now and then. Why do we have to go go go every day?”
“I just said. We are only here for a month and there is so much to see.”
“Well you can go if you like but I am sleeping in and just hanging out today.”He knew damned well I wouldn’t go to Foshan on my own. Hard enough to get anywhere in China as a twosome. No one will sell a lone white girl a bus ticket.
“Why didn’t you say this yesterday? I could have made alternate plans. You are being really selfish.”
“Hello Miss Pot, I'd like to introduce you to Mr. Kettle. Everything about this trip has been about you – where you want to go, how you want to get there, what you want to see.”
“I thought you were enjoying it as much as I was.”
“I am enjoying it, but I doubt very much if it’s as much as you are. No one can enjoy this guerrilla travelling as much as you do. Every day another bus trip to another town to wander around for hours, six museums, sixty shops, factories, libraries, ‘just another stop’, you say, ‘I want to check this out’. You are obsessed and I can’t keep up. Today I am choosing what I want for a change.”
I slammed out the door furious. Stomping around the neighbourhood I entertained dark thoughts. Ok, maybe this trip has been engineered by me, but I told him right from the start that he could do whatever he wanted. All he had to do was ask. But everyday he says, “I’m happy to do whatever you want to do.” I’m the one that made the plans, did the research, got the maps, made the notes, checked the details. And he’s never so much as questioned it before now. He never mentioned his feelings before. Why all of a sudden does he say this now? Why not yesterday or a day before? Surely he would have felt this way before this morning.
As I fumed it came to me that this isn’t really the first time he’s done something like this. Not often, but occasionally he will go along just fine and then, without warning, dig his heels in.
When I got back to our room he was watching TV and drinking tea. I sat down and confronted him calmy. “Look, we need to talk.”
He rolled his eyes.
Ignoring him, I went on. “I have no problem with you doing what you want, but why can’t you tell me in advance? I get so upset when plans change suddenly.”
“I don’t always know when that is.”
“But you must have known that you wanted to slow down a bit.”
“Yeah of course, we’ve done nothing but charge ahead since we got here.”
“So why couldn’t you say to me that you were finding the pace tiring and wanted to slow down a bit?”
“Would it have made any difference?”
“It might have. How would you know unless you try?”
“I think you’re being unreasonable. I can do what I like. I’m allowed. I'm a grown man.”
“Of course you are. That’s not the point.”
Or is it?, I wondered. Perhaps it's part of the point. But no, there really is more. “You can communicate your feelings to me. We are both equal in this trip and both equal in our relationship. I will really try to make it work for you but I can’t read your mind.”
“Whatever. Ok. Anything to make the peace.”
Anything to make the peace! Is this what he thinks of our relationship? Is this how we will always have to communicate? Just to keep the other from freaking out? I am not for the first time questoning if our relationship - am I cut out to be with someone else at all?
Tuesday, May 15, 1990
chapter 7 - warm inside
Every country has its great inventions. In China it’s the thermos. It took a few days for us to properly learn the etiquette. If you place an empty thermos outside the door to your room it is miraculously filled with boiling hot water within fifteen minutes, no matter what time of day or night. And, there is always a fresh thermos outside the door in the morning with another one put in the room during the day. No matter how long it sits there, the water is nothing less than scalding hot. We simply had to buy one. I love that we are buying permanent things together.
“It’s lucky you and I seem to like the same things.”
“It’s not luck at all. I know you have good taste and I want it to rub off on me.”
“No. Really?”
“Of course. You’re so refined.”
I laughed. “Refined!”
“You know my buddies have a nickname for you: ‘refined white sugar’. They are constantly asking how I managed to find someone like you. They think I must have won you in a raffle.”
“It’s lucky you and I seem to like the same things.”
“It’s not luck at all. I know you have good taste and I want it to rub off on me.”
“No. Really?”
“Of course. You’re so refined.”
I laughed. “Refined!”
“You know my buddies have a nickname for you: ‘refined white sugar’. They are constantly asking how I managed to find someone like you. They think I must have won you in a raffle.”
Monday, May 14, 1990
chapter 7 - Guangzhou
Guangzhou is dirty and huge, smog so thick even a sunny day is hazy and soupy. Enormous new buildings are open for business below, their upper stories still being constructed by old men with wheelbarrows and wicker hats. Plaster on the shiny main floors already going mouldy, new signs looking old and curled at the edges, drips from the ceiling falling into large metal pans. New construction that won’t last more than a few years. We’ve only been here a few days and already I know this is typical.
“Thank God there’s beer,” Hamish says. I’ve never seen someone put away so much of the stuff. Two or three big bottles with every meal. Another as a between meal snack. One more at bedtime. “I’ve got to keep my strength up” is his response to my no doubt pointed looks. Beer makes him snore.
One night after ambitious sex, we lay apart in the dark, looking up at the ceiling, not at all ready for sleep, and started talking about things from our childhood.
“What on earth attracts you to go-karting?” I asked him after he had told me of this boyhood passion.
Yesterday we explored the Qingping market, a narrow tunnel crammed with stalls selling the usual dried fish and vegetables and something that might have been seaweed. This led to the meat and fish section, where animals were sold cut in half, hearts still beating. There were also turtles, puppies, kittens, rabbits, squirrels, monkeys, frogs, snakes, lemurs, an opossum-like creature and a curious weasel/badger thing as well as ducks and chickens, all in little wire cages stacked up on top of each other and we mourned their woebegone eyes and sad fate.
“That’s really disgusting,” Hamish said.
“Shh, not so loud.”
“Why are you shushing me? Don’t shush me. They can’t understand me anyway, and even if they could it would be good for them to hear how other people feel. Some of these animals are rare, maybe even endangered.”
I steered us away from the food area. I agreed with Hamish it’s hard not to pass judgement on things that seem awful to our eyes. I mean, who wouldn’t find the idea of eating kitten crushing?
At the edges of the market we saw several people that looked different from those in the streets. Their cheekbones were higher and more prominent, faces darker and rounder. They were dressed in bright red coats and fur hats, played juggling games with sticks and small balls, and sold animal skulls and bear paws. Mongolians? Tibetans? Both places embroiled in conflict with the current Chinese Government. Locals gave them ugly looks and avoided coming near them.
Hamish asks me about Canada a lot these days. He never showed any interest in going before but now he wants to climb mountains and ford rivers. And visit Las Vegas.
“Why are Brits so enamoured of Las Vegas?”
“It sounds so bizarre, like nowhere else on Earth. I have to get there to see it for myself.”
"Well it's in the States, not Canada, so you'd need to pack an overnight bag"
"What are the highlights of Canada then?"
"Mountains, prairies, seas, rocks, plants, ice, sun, rain."
"Not cities? Not people?"
"Some of the cities are beautiful - Montreal, Quebec, and of course my hometown Vancouver. There are some great towns - Nelson, Maple Creek, Whitehorse, Kenora, Perce, Lunenburg. I've not been to the high North yet so don't know about that. According to general opinion the most interesting Canadians seem to either have died or have left to live somewhere else."
“Canadians are so cute with their low self-esteem and majestic landscapes.”
“Huh, ” I say, “Fine if you like hearing every statement said like it’s a question.”
“Yeah right, eh?”
“Good, your inflection is improving. You’ll be able to wear a plaid shirt with pride before you know it.”
“You mean tartan, wee lassie.”
“No, I mean plaid you fool,” as I threw a pillow at him laughing. "I probably know more about Scottish history than you’ve had hot haggis.”
Easy to joke but I was quite glad to leave off talking about Canada. I’m not sure I’m ready to go back yet. I need it to be on my terms, not just because someone else wants to see Las Vegas and the Rocky Mountains.
The air is sticky with humidity in Guangzhou. We take respite from heat and crowds at temples. My favourite is the Temple of the Six Banyan Trees, actually several buildings in a sort of courtyard with golden Buddhas smiling calmly. We thought climbing the Pagoda of Flowers’ 17 floors would be hot work, but it was actually cool inside the stone tower. From the top Guangzhou stretched out as an endless sea of gray, the great view an oddly depressing sight. The smell of smog gets to you and I leaned over an incense stick to breathe in its perfume, but I got too close I guess, because next I heard a sizzle and Hamish leaped up, battled my head with his hands and hurled a nearby bowl of water in my face. I looked at him in shock and found everyone in the tower staring at me and prattling in horror. It seems my hair had caught on fire and caused a minor sensation. Thank goodness Hamish is a man of action. I hadn’t felt a thing, but as I smoothed out my hair a lot of it came out in smelly, blackened hunks. Hamish passes off his heroism by wondering aloud whether or not the bowl had actually contained water.
Night transforms this city and even the polluted river looks beautiful and mysterious in reflecting paths of light. 'Kissing couples' come out. Or at least that’s what we call them. Couples are always smooching in public places, presumably because there is so little room indoors with large families sharing living quarters. Tai chi practitioners also emerge as do shady fellows whispering ‘change money’ in a sort of rhythmic mantra. Restaurants open with their little cages of kittens, puppies and snakes out front, a sort of ‘choose your own dinner’ option. We avoid any possibility of accidentally ordering Fluffy or Spot by sticking to vegetables and rice.
“Thank God there’s beer,” Hamish says. I’ve never seen someone put away so much of the stuff. Two or three big bottles with every meal. Another as a between meal snack. One more at bedtime. “I’ve got to keep my strength up” is his response to my no doubt pointed looks. Beer makes him snore.One night after ambitious sex, we lay apart in the dark, looking up at the ceiling, not at all ready for sleep, and started talking about things from our childhood.
“What on earth attracts you to go-karting?” I asked him after he had told me of this boyhood passion.
“It’s fun. A rush of adrenaline. Like playing soccer.”
“Another thing you spend an inordinate amount of time on.”
“No more than you and your maps and books.”
“But they give your mind something to do.”
“And your body absolutely nothing to do.”
“Hmm.”
After a pause he surprised me. “I was in a play once.”
I rolled over to face him, even though I could only see his outline in the dark. “Really? You never told me.”
“Och aye.”
I pinched his nose. “Don’t start that again. When? What play?”
“Another thing you spend an inordinate amount of time on.”
“No more than you and your maps and books.”
“But they give your mind something to do.”
“And your body absolutely nothing to do.”
“Hmm.”
After a pause he surprised me. “I was in a play once.”
I rolled over to face him, even though I could only see his outline in the dark. “Really? You never told me.”
“Och aye.”
I pinched his nose. “Don’t start that again. When? What play?”
“The Three Sisters. By Chekov. In university. My roommate was in it and got me to go along and help out.”
“Wow. I’m impressed. What part do you play?”
“Lamp carrier.”
“What?”
“I got to carry the lamp on, and then carry it off.”
“You were a props guy?”
“Not just any prop. The lamp.”
“What was so special about the lamp?”
“It was worth 100 pounds.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That’s what the director said. ‘This lamp is on loan and is worth 100 pounds.’ After he told everyone how much the lamp was worth, no one else wanted to touch it."
“But you did.”
“I took the risk and was entrusted with a lamp worth 100 pounds. That’s got to count for something.”
“So your contribution to the cultural world is on record.”
“Yes, but I never met a bigger group of snobs. I never stayed to watch the play or anything. As soon as my job was done I left for the pub. Theatre and opera and all that muck. It’s so pretentious. Everyone who’s interested in that stuff thinks they are better than anyone else. Give me a good West Ham-Arsenal match-up anyday.
“Do you think I’m a snob then, for liking ‘theatre and opera and all that muck’?”
“No, you are ok, as long as you don’t make me go to that bullshit.”
“You mean never?”
“I don’t want to be in the company of such patronizing prats. That play you took me too was the worst experience in my life.”
“Ok I admit that taking you a Bertoldt Brecht for your first play was not a good idea. But not everyone interested in the arts is a snob. Just like not everyone interested in soccer is a hooligan. There are all sorts of snobbishness. You are seeing it from the outside.”
“It’s a class thing. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Rubbish.” I lay on my back again. “What is it with the Brits and their obsession with the class system? If you don’t like something that’s fine. Once you’ve tried it that is. But if you won’t do something or think you can’t do something only because of some vague notion that it is above or below your station in life, well that’s ridiculous.”
“Not everyone is like you perfect Canadians. Can you wonder why I was ok to leave Scotland? You can come in and do what you want because the class system doesn’t touch you. People don’t judge your intelligence because of your accent.”
“And who cares if they do? Can they stop you from doing what you want? Who gives them the power? Judging people before finding out their character is a form of prejudice pure and simple. We live in a multicultural society, and that means living with different aspects of cultures as well as colour and race.”
“For the average Brit. multiculturalism means eating Chinese food on Friday night and an Indian curry on Saturday.”
“That’s not multicultualism. That a complete lack of culture at all.”
“Exactly. It’s a country that still thinks it’s top of the heap, only it’s a heap of rotting old phobias.”
“If I were to say something like that I’d be chastised as an ignorant foreigner.”
“Well, I live in a country that proudly exerts the double standard.”
Hamish sounded rueful. I didn’t know what to say after that and felt terrible. I had only wanted to know about go-karting.
Friday, May 11, 1990
chapter 7 - across the border
Slow train from Mong Kok to Lo Wu at the border, a 40 minute commuter trip of a journey. Prepared for the worst, it only took one smooth hour to go through immigration and customs. So much easier than expected. We got our ticket to Guangzhou and had about an hour to kill in a big and impersonal waiting room. People bought whiskey in bottles and biscuits in tins, read newspapers, and ate noodles with loud slurps. When the train came in everyone surged forward in one swarm, each acting as if they would be left behind if they weren’t the first one onboard, elbows out, pushing and shoving. We managed to get to the right seats in the right car without injury, then spent the next few hours going backwards.
It was obvious the train was getting close to Guangzhou long before it arrived. Buildings became more prolific, and uglier. Smoggy air got smoggier. At the station we met some other travelers who told us we could follow them to their hostel, good and cheap, and close by. This ended up being an hourlong bus ride followed by another hour’s walk, although it would have been less if the fellow leading us had remembered the way. Hamish sensed my impatience and took my hand as we walked, which sounds nice but was really rather awkward as our bulky packs made our bodies wider then usual. The hand hold became it bit of a death grip at times.
Down by the river we found a little restaurant with tables outside under strings of white lights. According to the menu and our shaky Chinese, the specialty seemed to be crispy fried chicken, but what we got was tough, meatless fowl lying on the plate with the head still attached. Thank goodness for rice and vegetables and little dishes of pickled vegetables and nuts. And wonderful cold beer. We got silly.
Hamish started it. As usual. “Guess the vegetable.”
“The what?”
“The vegetable. I’ll say something with the name of a vegetable in it. Guess.”
“You’re really rather weird you know.”
“I’m unbeatable.”
“That’s debatable.”
“No, guess the vegetable.”
“Oh, unbeatable, ‘beets’. But being British shouldn’t it have been beetroot? Okay, don't look at me like that ……How about, ‘Are you just going to let that rusty car rot in the lane?’”
It was obvious the train was getting close to Guangzhou long before it arrived. Buildings became more prolific, and uglier. Smoggy air got smoggier. At the station we met some other travelers who told us we could follow them to their hostel, good and cheap, and close by. This ended up being an hourlong bus ride followed by another hour’s walk, although it would have been less if the fellow leading us had remembered the way. Hamish sensed my impatience and took my hand as we walked, which sounds nice but was really rather awkward as our bulky packs made our bodies wider then usual. The hand hold became it bit of a death grip at times.
We finally turned into a beautiful little street on the island of Shamian, with a wide boulevard of flowers, grass and Banyan trees, the first real trees we’ve seen since leaving London. The buildings look Mediterranean, probably Portuguese given the history. The leader walking with us said this was originally the colonial part of the city, now full of government offices, residences and a few hotels, including the Guangzhou Youth Hostel, an ugly grey five-storey affair. We were given a ‘suite’ for 65 yuan on the fourth floor that looks out over the river through the trees.
Our door was opened by a key-wielding girl who did not smile and who sat at a desk at the top of the stairs with a huge ring of keys. I guess in a communist country everyone has a job, and every floor must have such a humourless key-wielding watchdog. Our suite's door opened into a severe little sitting area tiled from floor to ceiling and lit with a florescent light. A unit with two chairs on either side of a little table held glasses, a tea pot and an enormous thermos full of boiling hot water. A wooden screen opened into the bedroom. There was a mosquito net over the bed, a table, two bedside lights and a coat rack, an electric fan and a television. We noticed the far wall was made of glass blocks, dividing the bedroom to another tiled room surrounded by windows, doing double duty as our bathroom and our verandah. Interesting concept. There’s the usual hole in the floor at one end (the toilet), a pipe sticking out of the wall at the other end (the shower) and a less usual view across the street to the posh White Swan Hotel.
Our door was opened by a key-wielding girl who did not smile and who sat at a desk at the top of the stairs with a huge ring of keys. I guess in a communist country everyone has a job, and every floor must have such a humourless key-wielding watchdog. Our suite's door opened into a severe little sitting area tiled from floor to ceiling and lit with a florescent light. A unit with two chairs on either side of a little table held glasses, a tea pot and an enormous thermos full of boiling hot water. A wooden screen opened into the bedroom. There was a mosquito net over the bed, a table, two bedside lights and a coat rack, an electric fan and a television. We noticed the far wall was made of glass blocks, dividing the bedroom to another tiled room surrounded by windows, doing double duty as our bathroom and our verandah. Interesting concept. There’s the usual hole in the floor at one end (the toilet), a pipe sticking out of the wall at the other end (the shower) and a less usual view across the street to the posh White Swan Hotel.
Once we’d unpacked and seen a bit of Chinese telly (15 minutes is enough. I love watching television in foreign countries, it provides an inkling of the country. Like going into grocery stores. If I can go into a grocery store and watch 15 minutes of TV in a place, I have a handle on the current cultural character), our stomachs rumbled. I changed into fresh clothes before setting out in search of food and, noticing Hamish had not, asked, “Aren’t you going to change?”
“Why? I look all right.”
“It looks like you slept in those clothes.”
He smoothed his rumpled shirt and ruffled his hair. “There, that better?”
I was wearing the new skirt I’d bought in Hong Kong. Hamish noticed and said, “You look nice. Very kempt.”
Typical Hamish, my own personal wordsmith. I replied, “And you look positively gruntled.”
“Thank you. I am.”
“Why? I look all right.”
“It looks like you slept in those clothes.”
He smoothed his rumpled shirt and ruffled his hair. “There, that better?”
I was wearing the new skirt I’d bought in Hong Kong. Hamish noticed and said, “You look nice. Very kempt.”
Typical Hamish, my own personal wordsmith. I replied, “And you look positively gruntled.”
“Thank you. I am.”
Down by the river we found a little restaurant with tables outside under strings of white lights. According to the menu and our shaky Chinese, the specialty seemed to be crispy fried chicken, but what we got was tough, meatless fowl lying on the plate with the head still attached. Thank goodness for rice and vegetables and little dishes of pickled vegetables and nuts. And wonderful cold beer. We got silly.
Hamish started it. As usual. “Guess the vegetable.”
“The what?”
“The vegetable. I’ll say something with the name of a vegetable in it. Guess.”
“You’re really rather weird you know.”
“I’m unbeatable.”
“That’s debatable.”
“No, guess the vegetable.”
“Oh, unbeatable, ‘beets’. But being British shouldn’t it have been beetroot? Okay, don't look at me like that ……How about, ‘Are you just going to let that rusty car rot in the lane?’”
“Not bad – carrot. I see you are trying to intellectualize my game by splitting syllables. All right, two can play at that. ‘Don’t you find this queue cumbersome?’”
“Cucumber! Um, to get to Larry’s house we need to turn up this lane.”
“Turnip. You’re not trying hard enough, that was too easy. ‘You haven’t often knelt beside me.’”
I thought a while, perplexed, then shrugged my shoulders. “I give up.”
“Fennel. O-ften knel-t! Get it?”
“Only if you don’t pronounce the ‘t’ in often.”
“Not nececelery.”
“Oooh. Touche. You win. Not ‘nececelery’. You tricky bastard! That’s good.”
“Feel free to use it if you wish.”
“Cucumber! Um, to get to Larry’s house we need to turn up this lane.”
“Turnip. You’re not trying hard enough, that was too easy. ‘You haven’t often knelt beside me.’”
I thought a while, perplexed, then shrugged my shoulders. “I give up.”
“Fennel. O-ften knel-t! Get it?”
“Only if you don’t pronounce the ‘t’ in often.”
“Not nececelery.”
“Oooh. Touche. You win. Not ‘nececelery’. You tricky bastard! That’s good.”
“Feel free to use it if you wish.”
I really do love this man.
Tuesday, May 8, 1990
chapter 7 towering buns
Yesterday we went to the bun festival on Cheung Chau with its parade of ‘floating’ children, marathon opera performances and pink-stamped buns piled high into thirty-foot cones. Hamish said at least the opera being outside meant you could just get up and walk away when you’d had enough. I bit my tongue. Hamish is no lover of the cultural life.Today we went to Lantau to see the Po Lin monastery with the world’s largest Buddha. Mist swirled in the damp air creating drama as the enormous golden statue would reveal itself before being swallowed up again. We bought a long red cord hung with a golden horse and teapot with a huge golden tassel at the bottom. It’s the Chinese ‘Year of the Horse' so this will be a good memory and we can use it as a Christmas ornament. Every year when I hang each of my Christmas ornaments, collected from the countries I’ve visited, I am reminded of when and where they came from. This is the first thing we’ve ever bought together. It feels a bit weird. But in a good way.
It was sunset by the time we took the boat back to neon central, big smiles on our faces. I’m amazed how easy this is really, this whole traveling with Hamish thing. We’ve only known each other a few weeks after all. Everything developed so quickly, and so easily too, like a flower opening in the sun. But sometimes, usually in the middle of the night, I wonder if it’s too quickly. I think I’m fine with it, the idea of having a boyfriend after all these years of single life, but then I get scared and clam up. How can I get close to someone else after Andrew? I feel such guilt. I can’t really remember how I told Hamish about Andrew, but I remember it knocked him sideways. He said he knew there was something holding me in but because I hadn’t said anything for so long he thought it was just my moods. When I finally told him he was the first guy I had dated in eight years it shook him. Later he told me he felt this awesome responsibility. All I remember is he got really quiet and I was afraid he wasn’t interested in me after all, that he wanted someone more experienced, more together emotionally. It was a few weeks later when we had The Big Talk that I found out differently.It seems every couple I know has had The Big Talk That first night you both stay up and just talk all through the entire night. Everything came out in a flood. Weeks of thoughts. Years of thoughts. He told me his history, his feelings and desires and susceptibilities. And drew mine out. All of them. By dawn there was no denying it. I knew, I just knew that this was someone I wanted to be with.
The first night Hamish stayed overnight, the night after The Big Talk actually, we lay there in the dark, breathing deeply, knowing what would happen next but feeling awkward about how to start, and I started to shake.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
I faltered. “It’s - been awhile.”
He seemed to understand, turned and simply held me, stroking my hair until slowly the shakes stopped. And the tears began. This was not the time I wanted to but I couldn’t help it. I had just let myself open up to someone after years of being pent up, tearing down all the walls that had been carefully if haphazardly constructed. And once the walls were down my emotions just overpowered me and I flooded. Without saying anything Hamish kissed my tears away slowly, one by one, on my cheeks, my eye lids, my lips. I could feel the solid lump in my insides start to soften, then come away in layers, unwrapped like an onion, one by one.
We spent the whole night like that, holding each other and just exploring slowly, cautiously. Touches, then caresses, then soft lingering kisses. In the early dawn we made love. Afterwards I lay there feeling raw and guilty. Hamish got up and returned with mugs of tea. I couldn’t quite look him in the eye. We sat in bed silently sipping, side by side, my head near his chest, our toes touching. I could feel the hairs on his legs and hear his heartbeat. After awhile Hamish broke the silence.
“I think I’m going to stay here tonight,” he said.
I didn’t say anything, but a piece of my heart grew back as I took another sip of tea.
We spent the whole night like that, holding each other and just exploring slowly, cautiously. Touches, then caresses, then soft lingering kisses. In the early dawn we made love. Afterwards I lay there feeling raw and guilty. Hamish got up and returned with mugs of tea. I couldn’t quite look him in the eye. We sat in bed silently sipping, side by side, my head near his chest, our toes touching. I could feel the hairs on his legs and hear his heartbeat. After awhile Hamish broke the silence.
“I think I’m going to stay here tonight,” he said.
I didn’t say anything, but a piece of my heart grew back as I took another sip of tea.
And now here I am in a full-blown relationship that scares the pants off me! I have to make sure this is it; that he is going to stick around before I fall irreversibly into the liquid brown of his eyes. I have to guard my heart as much as I can until I know. I pepper him with questions about his family, his history, his thoughts. He tells me about his parents’ divorce, his first kiss, his sister's distance, both geographically and emotionally, his lost brother (to cancer at age 12), his love of words and action movies, his favourite food (chip buttie) and sport (soccer), his dislike of working for idiots. I try to lay it on thick about my family, but he likes the sound of my parents’ passive squabbles, my sisters’ verbal arguments and tacit alliances. I find myself drawn closer to him the more I learn about how much he cares, how deeply he thinks, how restless he feels underneath his calm.
In the little boat back into Hong Kong harbour I stole a look across to see his long frame bent forward, a rogue lock of dark brown hair drooping over his brow while he read intently. I felt the urge to brush it aside, but didn’t want to interrupt his reverie, preferring to watch him, to just look at him. His cheekbones are high and delicate, more defined than on most men. A long nose, wide brown eyes, arched eyebrows. I am in awe that such a man as this cares for me. He must have felt my gaze then and looked up, smiling quizzically before folding me in his arms, and the rest of the evening was spent away from books and sightseeing.
Monday, May 7, 1990
chapter 7 - marketing
Our days in Hong Kong have been filled with smoky temples, markets streets, cramped shops and modern plazas. We eat poached lettuce, green and crunchy under oyster sauce. We ride double-decker trams that lurch along narrow streets. When we need to pee we opt for opulent. Mom always said “Find a posh hotel when you have to go”, the only travel advice she ever gave worth heeding. At the Park Lane Hotel there were attendants, wizened old things in white smocks who folded the ends of toilet paper into points, turned on faucets and placed towels out, all for small tips. I never feel comfortable with this servant side of countries. Awkwardly smiling thanks I left some coins and rushed out feeling ridiculous.The markets are the best: Hong Kong is a shopping mecca! Flashy department stores, little boutiques and handmade stalls stand side by side, so tightly packed one can only walk by in single file, but that at least affords an opportunity to see everything on both sides. The eggs are the most amazing. I have never seen so many varieties of eggs. There are tiny ones, others covered in black goop and semi-scraped over part of it to show charcoal grey, large ones with thick shells that look impregnable.
If you have a lot of eggs, it stands to reason you have a lot of birds. There are hundreds of multi-coloured songbirds in tiny bamboo cage in a special bird market. Elaborate cages too, beautifully carved even on the bottoms and with little porcelain pots for food and water. There were live grasshoppers for sale in plastic cases. I assumed they were meant as bird food, but some of them were larger than the birds!
At night the markets continue, sprawling over sidewalks full of people. Outdoor woks hiss as seafood morsels sizzle, served within minutes to those sitting on round wooden tables littered all over the street. T-shirts and jeans, watches and eyeglasses (who buys eyeglasses in the street I wondered?) toys, shoes, sex aids, jade and fortunetellers all available. Every once in a while we’d pass a place of such clanging and yelling - mah jong parlours, bright, full of smoke and noise as patrons slammed down their pieces on metal tables. Not the sedate parties my mother hosts.
What a wonderful place! I love this combination of east and west, rich and poor, day and night. My heart races and my eyes dart trying to see it all. If someone were to come by and offer me a job in Hong Kong I’d take it on the spot. I wonder what changes will take place in a few years when China takes it over again. Hamish likes it too. Once he got over the hurdle of dealing with a different language he was fine. Although he always starts talking in English first whenever we go into somewhere which drives me nuts.
“It’s not polite. You should try Chinese first. This is a foreign country.”
“Actually it’s considered British soil,” he says with an annoying smile.
“Oh that’s ridiculous, it’s not Britain.”
“Don't get your knickers in a twist. I feel so stupid saying something I know they can’t understand because I can’t get my tongue wrapped around the sounds.”
“It’s a courtesy.”
“But how courteous is it to mangle their language? It’s kind of obvious I’m not Chinese.”
“Can’t you just learn ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ then?”
“I will if you will.“
“What do you mean? I know how to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’.”
“Yeah but you never say it. You make me do all the talking.”
“Well, everyone just looks to you and talks to you as if I'm invisible because I'm a 'mere' woman.”
“Don't get your knickers in a twist. I feel so stupid saying something I know they can’t understand because I can’t get my tongue wrapped around the sounds.”
“It’s a courtesy.”
“But how courteous is it to mangle their language? It’s kind of obvious I’m not Chinese.”
“Can’t you just learn ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ then?”
“I will if you will.“
“What do you mean? I know how to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’.”
“Yeah but you never say it. You make me do all the talking.”
“Well, everyone just looks to you and talks to you as if I'm invisible because I'm a 'mere' woman.”
I'm partly right and he's partly right on this point. When I’m on my own I just get on with it because there’s no one else, but with him I guess I do lean on him. Is it because I finally have a travelling companion? Or is it because he’s a man? Or is it because my old shyness hasn’t really left, but just lays hidden until it has a chance to reveal itself? Am I still that pathetic?.
I’m feeling a bit at war with myself these days. Like there’s something wrong with me. Just when I think ‘Ok, this is really it, he’s the one, let’s stop this nonsense and embrace it’, I panic and think ‘run away, run away!’ Our lovemaking is passionate, sometimes desperate. I made the mistake of telling Mom this trip is to test Hamish, to see how he likes travel and if he could survive it. She looked at me like I was from Pluto. “What are you going to do to the man? Why can’t you just get married like other women who are over 30 and won't get many chances at that kind of happiness?” No one understands. I’m the only one who worries about putting out so much feeling to someone that might die on me.
I’m feeling a bit at war with myself these days. Like there’s something wrong with me. Just when I think ‘Ok, this is really it, he’s the one, let’s stop this nonsense and embrace it’, I panic and think ‘run away, run away!’ Our lovemaking is passionate, sometimes desperate. I made the mistake of telling Mom this trip is to test Hamish, to see how he likes travel and if he could survive it. She looked at me like I was from Pluto. “What are you going to do to the man? Why can’t you just get married like other women who are over 30 and won't get many chances at that kind of happiness?” No one understands. I’m the only one who worries about putting out so much feeling to someone that might die on me.
Friday, May 4, 1990
chapter 7 - hong kong
We walked down busy Nathan Street, past designer clothing and jewelry stores intermingled with dens full of incense and aromatic herbs, taking a detour for dim sum at the Jade Garden. The trolleys were driven by unsmiling old ladies who treated the whole process as if it was a race to get back to the kitchen with as much food still on their trolley as possible, avoiding actually serving patrons. It took us ages to work out the Chinese characters on the little sheet at our table, and in the end we would just say the words for ‘shrimp’, or ‘pork’ or ‘peppers’ and hope to get something vaguely edible. The chicken legs were the only things that defeated me. They looked so pathetic sticking up in the air like that.
Preparing for our venture into China took a lot longer then expected, even though I knew it would take awhile. Most people travel in groups to well trodden cities and tourist sites, but I don’t do the group thing let alone the well-trodden path thing, so not surprisingly we are treated a little suspiciously. We are only allowed to visit certain cities and towns, so have agreed to use these as a base and try to visit the surrounding countryside once there. We have unfortunately had to veto Beijing and the Great Wall which seems a little sacrilegious to me. I can’t imagine visiting China without seeing the Great Wall. It’s an architectural and military marvel. Chinese maps of any kind aren’t common, and yet there’s an anonymous manuscript from 1609 that shows fifteen provinces with principal cities and the Great Wall in the British Library. I’ve gazed at that map for years and here I am in China, ready to see the real thing and now it looks like I’m not going to.
Hamish could see I was disappointed but reasoned, “We only have one month, and you said your priorities were the Guilin region and Shanghai and that we are to travel only by land. It will take days to get to each place by train. If we were travelling with a tour or by plane it would be different. Are you sure about what your priorities are? We could change them you know.”
I nodded assent. From a topographical viewpoint the Guilin area is most unusual. Sudden hills burst out of watery flatness, it’s the setting on countless Chinese paintings and photos; it’s what I always imagined China to look like. I have visions of floating down some river between those mystical hills with Hamish at my side. Shanghai has always held a certain fascination for me. The Paris of the East. Silk and Art Deco and international trade. We can take a local boat from there back to Hong Kong that is too irresistible to miss. Besides, everyone goes to Beijing. I want to see a China less seen. And that means travelling by land, by train and bus and bicycle even. We bought our first tickets and hoped the rest will go well from there.
Hamish has done all the organizing because everyone only responds to him; he’s the man. I tried, but failed, to treat it as an example of what it must feel like to be on the other side of prejudice and to use the experience to achieve a greater level of understanding. After we left the last office he smiled and asked, “Well, did I do ok? Did I pass?” I gave him a hug and kiss answer. I had been afraid that he’d find this whole “if we’re going to have a relationship together we have to be able to travel together” test thing offensive, but the first thing he said was “If this is what it takes. Besides, I’ve always wanted stamps on a passport.”
In the evening we took the Star Ferry across the bay to the Wan Chai district, gazing at the fabulous buildings. I really liked the Bond building, all knobby blue-grey glass, and Hamish favoured the Bank of Hong Kong, something out of a futuristic movie with its insides on the outside, the world’s most expensive building. A funicular goes up the Peak at steep angles and from the top we saw another paradox of Hong Kong, luxury apartment buildings across the street from overgrown vacant lots. Sitting on a ledge we could look down on the city below as dusk descended, grey mist swirling. Like watching a play. Or a poem. Planes landed and boats converged in a ballet of avoidance. Neon began to blaze. Birds and butterflies that flitted here and there in the softening light seemed surreal against the urban scape backdrop below. As darkness settled we left our ledge and rejoined the swarm.
Preparing for our venture into China took a lot longer then expected, even though I knew it would take awhile. Most people travel in groups to well trodden cities and tourist sites, but I don’t do the group thing let alone the well-trodden path thing, so not surprisingly we are treated a little suspiciously. We are only allowed to visit certain cities and towns, so have agreed to use these as a base and try to visit the surrounding countryside once there. We have unfortunately had to veto Beijing and the Great Wall which seems a little sacrilegious to me. I can’t imagine visiting China without seeing the Great Wall. It’s an architectural and military marvel. Chinese maps of any kind aren’t common, and yet there’s an anonymous manuscript from 1609 that shows fifteen provinces with principal cities and the Great Wall in the British Library. I’ve gazed at that map for years and here I am in China, ready to see the real thing and now it looks like I’m not going to.
Hamish could see I was disappointed but reasoned, “We only have one month, and you said your priorities were the Guilin region and Shanghai and that we are to travel only by land. It will take days to get to each place by train. If we were travelling with a tour or by plane it would be different. Are you sure about what your priorities are? We could change them you know.”
I nodded assent. From a topographical viewpoint the Guilin area is most unusual. Sudden hills burst out of watery flatness, it’s the setting on countless Chinese paintings and photos; it’s what I always imagined China to look like. I have visions of floating down some river between those mystical hills with Hamish at my side. Shanghai has always held a certain fascination for me. The Paris of the East. Silk and Art Deco and international trade. We can take a local boat from there back to Hong Kong that is too irresistible to miss. Besides, everyone goes to Beijing. I want to see a China less seen. And that means travelling by land, by train and bus and bicycle even. We bought our first tickets and hoped the rest will go well from there.
Hamish has done all the organizing because everyone only responds to him; he’s the man. I tried, but failed, to treat it as an example of what it must feel like to be on the other side of prejudice and to use the experience to achieve a greater level of understanding. After we left the last office he smiled and asked, “Well, did I do ok? Did I pass?” I gave him a hug and kiss answer. I had been afraid that he’d find this whole “if we’re going to have a relationship together we have to be able to travel together” test thing offensive, but the first thing he said was “If this is what it takes. Besides, I’ve always wanted stamps on a passport.”
In the evening we took the Star Ferry across the bay to the Wan Chai district, gazing at the fabulous buildings. I really liked the Bond building, all knobby blue-grey glass, and Hamish favoured the Bank of Hong Kong, something out of a futuristic movie with its insides on the outside, the world’s most expensive building. A funicular goes up the Peak at steep angles and from the top we saw another paradox of Hong Kong, luxury apartment buildings across the street from overgrown vacant lots. Sitting on a ledge we could look down on the city below as dusk descended, grey mist swirling. Like watching a play. Or a poem. Planes landed and boats converged in a ballet of avoidance. Neon began to blaze. Birds and butterflies that flitted here and there in the softening light seemed surreal against the urban scape backdrop below. As darkness settled we left our ledge and rejoined the swarm.
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