Well, here I am, a month later. I’m hoping a lot of freelance writers have this problem: not enough time to write their own stuff. Anyone? Anyone? I’ve decided I have to post at least once a month (Ha! Flying in the face of all blogging advice) so here’s something I wrote years ago about one of my favourite travelling experiences.
It was an amazing twelve-hour bus ride—and by amazing, I mean terrible—to get to Xiahe, in the central province of Gansu. Only in China could the hills be so sprawling, so green, and so endless. The people, including masses of exiled Tibetans, were beautiful, too. Their wind-chapped cheeks gave them a doll-like beauty; their bashful curiosity enhanced it. I had spent two weeks there, walking up and down the main dirt road, among the monks, donkeys and pigs battling for space. Smiling at the locals had finally become smiling with the locals, a happy transition.
One morning, as I sat with the old men and watched the young men dig a hole, a procession of girls appeared in front of me. Beautiful girls in traditional costume, never ending, like a string of Christmas lights. Inevitably, they spotted my blonde hair, and a brave group of eight tumbled across the street to me. They went immediately to my hair, which I’d become used to. Braiding it, rubbing it, running their fingers through it.
We giggled plenty and pointed to each other’s points of fashion: the gold necklace from my parents, the exaggerated length of their sleeves to keep the cold out. And then, a camera appeared, someone’s mother was recruited as photographer, and an impromptu photo shoot erupted. We all took our places, smiled triumphantly…and realized Mum was holding the camera the wrong way, the lens to her nose. A teenager’s embarrassment is truly universal.
Anyway, after two weeks, it was time to go.
In fact, I’d been trying to leave for about a week. Everyday I went back to the spot where I’d been dropped off, and made my intentions known. Gesturing over my shoulder, walking on the spot. Whistling, “Let’s go!” Every day I got the same delighted reaction from the guy, laughing and waving his hands in protest. By day five, it was a couples’ dance, and we were doing the motions together. Conclusion: I definitely would not be leaving this town the same way I had arrived.
And so, I sat on my pack at an intersection just out of town. There were four other people just like me, hoping to thumb a ride out. Two were ancient, Tibetan women. Their eyes were tiny glittering points in the middle of wrinkles and crinkles. They had layers upon layers of clothes, all tremendously dirty but blindingly bright. In the way older women who’ve done their time do, they stared at me unabashedly. The other two hitchers were monks in fuchsia robes with knapsacks slung over their shoulders. Young enough to be freaked out by my presence, but old enough to know they should play it cool.
Soon enough, another typical occurrence in China, my bag was open and the contents strewn all over the ground. They took a quick inventory of my wardrobe: two t-shirts, one sweater, one jacket (made by a tailor in their village for the tidy sum of 60 quay, about $8), two pairs of pants and one long skirt. They seemed satisfied, as had all the others, and I remained befuddled.
An hour later, the sun was at its highest. We’d seen no traffic, save an old man on something not entirely unlike a motorcycle. My eyes were tired and I decided to take out my contact lenses. My new friends gathered in a circle and watched me take my glasses out. “Ohh,” they enthused.
“But wait,” I cried, and put my finger to my eye. Despite their cries of alarm, I pulled the contact off my eye and left it perched on my finger. No one breathed. We were all concentrating a great deal.
And then, it was too much for the skinnier monk and he exhaled in disbelief, “Phu!”
The contact launched off my finger into the mud. The monks dropped to the ground, found the contact, brushed and blew it off as best they could, and gave it back with hope. I shook my head and laughed, and then tore it into pieces, which they passed around, looking through them like a pair of glasses.
And I don’t live in Xiahe now, so I guess at some point we got a ride. I don’t remember how long we waited there, but I remember the wind, fresh and alive. And I remember not really caring if I ever did get out of Xiahe at all.
Gold Star Intentions 