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’.”

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.