(1) Journey
The bus from Chengdu takes around three and a half hours, travelling to the north-east. We set off around lunchtime, and from the window I see a different Sichuanese landscape: not the snow-covered peaks and hairpin bends of the west, nor the plains of the south, nor even the beguiling mountains of Liangshan. The landscape we pass through is hilly, fertile, sliced into interesting shapes by its many waterways. The planted fields glow green and yellow. In the distance, we see small groups of people hoeing. A woman's bright red scarf stands out against the brown earth that she is working. Chengdu was its usual hazy, misty self when we left, but here the spring sun is bright. Even the rows of well-tended graves set among the farmland barely cast a shadow.
In the two aisle seats opposite me a family has been switching seats. Three generations: grandfather, mother and small boy, perhaps two years old. The boy has been eyeing me fiercely throughout the journey. The grandfather is no match for him. Earlier on, he spent minutes massaging the boy's back with the edge of a comb, only for the boy to wail mutinously as soon as he put the comb down. The grandfather picked up the comb again and massaged the boy's back for another few minutes. As soon as he stopped, the boy piped up again, shooting angry looks at his grandfather. This carried on for some time. I gave the grandfather a sheepish, sympathetic look, which he returned.
Now, the grandfather sets the boy down in the aisle, and the boy starts urinating. There is no toilet on the bus, and in any case, the other passengers seem not to mind. The water sloshes in the aisle. Another passenger points out that one of the straps of my rucksack is trailing in the aisle…too late.
The boy urinates a second time. We are getting close to our destination: Langzhong.
The mother, who has been watching me write English in a notebook, addresses me in Chinese. Where am I from? What am I planning to do in Langzhong? Am I really going there on my own? I chat, a little guardedly.
I warm to her, because she is gentle with her son, and because her friendliness seems sincere. She tells me that Langzhong is famous for its fengshui and for its connection with Zhang Fei, a general in ancient times. She tells me that she was originally from Langzhong, but that her husband is from Chengdu, so she has a home in both places now. She asks me about my job. I tell her a little ("medicine…public health…research") and she remarks that in China people don't feel they can trust things - she mentions a recent scandal about immunisation which has been in the news, and also the uncertainty about food quality. China is too big, and too difficult to manage, she says.
Do I know any English teachers? I regret not. She has a 12 year old daughter, who is in an "aristocratic" (贵族) middle school in Mianyang, and she would like to find a native English speaker to give her private lessons. I say I cannot help. We carry on chatting. She says she can put me in touch with a guide who can show me around Langzhong - maybe 150 yuan for one whole day. She asks for my contact details. I give them to her. The bus is arriving now. She tells me her family name is Zhu, like the Communist general Zhu De. Sorry that my boy made the aisle a little dirty, she says, as we get off the bus.
(2) Kindness
Two fellow passengers approached me after I got off the bus. They were in their early twenties - at least ten years younger than me - university students, a boy and a girl, quite possibly a couple. They offered to take me into the old town with them: "You are not from here, you might get lost", the boy said. He had a trusting, open face. The girl looked shy to be talking to a foreigner. Hardly Bonnie and Clyde.
They waited patiently for me outside the bus station while I bought my return bus ticket to Chengdu. I imagined we would at least share the cost of a taxi together, but in fact, they had already booked a car through Uber. It was all paid for. I protested, feebly. "You don't know the city, you might get lost", the boy insisted, as he gestured for me to get in the front seat. We talked a little in the car, the girl flushing bright pink whenever I spoke to her. It turned out the boy was from Langzhong, and had come home because another friend (from Dalian, far away in the north-east of the country) had arrived to visit him. He asked me if I would like to join their group the next day. He said he would be happy to show me around the city.
The boy asked me where I wanted to get off…I hesitated, not wanting to reveal that I had not booked accommodation, in case this made him feel responsible for solving that problem too. He didn't insist, and merely told the driver to take me to a certain place near the centre of the old town. They got off first, after swapping contact details with me. I got off a few minutes later.
(3) Reunion
At the entrance to the historic quarter I saw a sign that, among the historical dates, proudly declared that "Langzhong is the capital of fengshui and a fairyland".
I walked down a ye olde Chinese street, hoping to see fairies. A little way down, I came across a large, handsome building that had been made into a high-end cafe. Inside it was surprisingly lively, so I went in.
I sat down in a spot where I could observe what was going on. The building was as handsome inside as out: large exposed wooden roof, slatted wooden windows which cast bars of late afternoon sunlight across the room. There was a loud gathering at the far end…perhaps thirty people, but it was not clear if they all belonged to the same group. Although they moved around, they were still too far from me to get a sense of what was going on.
After a while, people started to leave. A smaller group of half a dozen people detached itself from the main group and drifted close to my table. They stood there, talking noisily. They were all middle aged or older, some as old as 70, and all of them had clearly made an effort to dress up. But it was their body language that struck me: expressive and direct and warm in a way that we (Westerners) probably don't think of as "East Asian". They prodded and jabbed each other in the stomach; they shot arms out to make emphatic "no" gestures; they suddenly grabbed one another round the shoulders.
One man in particular was a fascinating case-study: he was about 60, perhaps only five feet six, dressed neatly in a suit - his body language had all the confidence and swagger of a rooster, chest puffed out, head set back, his every movement was swift and forceful, almost percussive…his trademark gesture was to grasp the edge of his suit jacket every few minutes and yank it outwards, as if to make his chest appear even bigger than it was.
After a while one of the group realised I was sitting there, gave me a somewhat apologetic look, and asked me in English where I was from. I told him I was British, and asked if they were celebrating something. He replied that they were a group of neighbours, who had all lived in the yard behind this building long ago. Since then some had gone to Beijing, some had gone overseas, and this was their first reunion in thirty years.
I remain amazed by the warmth and familiarity of their reunion.
(4) Town
As the day was drawing in, I walked through the historic quarter, past crowds of vague Chinese tourists. I got to the West Gate, where there was a small, ancient tower that looked recently built. Beneath it a father and his young son were playing badminton. I climbed the tower and was rewarded with a view of the Jialing river. Like Chongqing, Langzhong is bordered by water on three sides, the river inscribing the town in an elegant "C" shape. However, where Chongqing is a mass of hills, Langzhong is flat, almost on a level with the water.
The sun had just set when I climbed the tower, and so the water was now burning back brightly, in pinks and oranges. The humpty-dumpty hills stood beyond, growing darker by the minute. It was quiet and perfect.
I walked by the river, like so many other people. A few looked at me, amused to see a foreigner, but meaning no harm. I looked at the water, which was so wide and calm - like the surface of a mirror - and it seemed like I was looking at the most watery water there ever was. Water that did not need to do anything. It didn't even seem to be flowing, it was so still. It had no purpose at all, nothing except being water. I looked and looked and looked. Meanwhile, bats circled over my head and feasted on the insects buzzing over the river. A teenage couple nuzzled each other in a pavilion nearby. There was a fresh breeze.
I followed the curve of the river, while it gradually grew dark. Fellow tourists thronged the river side now. There were fireworks on the other bank, perhaps a new business was opening? Fishermen sat patiently in the dark, lines dangling in the water. Wouldn't the fireworks frighten the fish? I turned inwards, and came to a square surrounded by ye olde Chinese buildings that had been turned into tourist lodges and hostels. A group of perhaps ten middle-aged Chinese women was dancing to a disco tune in the square, oblivious to everything but the music. I turned back to the river.
As always happens, and without any conscious effort on my part, my brain dredged up memories of other Chinese cities…Langzhong is like Chongqing, but smaller and less chaotic…like Shexian, but without the melancholy…like Korla, but with tourists and history…like Chaozhou, but…in fact, I have forgotten more places than I can remember.
(5) Uncertainty
And there will be time to prepare an answer for the people that I meet.
I still find it hard to get the balance right though, even now. People are kind and hospitable in ways that do not have equivalents in the UK, like the boy who gave me a lift to the old town. Of course, his solicitude can be looked at in other ways too - from one angle, it is hospitable, but turn it another way, and it becomes patronising. "Of course I can manage here without your help", I might storm huffily, as I sweep into a taxi of my own and slam the door.
I think there is truth in both perspectives. Having been here for some time, I am only too aware of how often Chinese people have underestimated my ability to do everyday things. But it would be churlish to see his behaviour only in this patronising light. And unfair to him, since I do not believe this was his intention.
In Chinese, there is a term called "人情", which refers to a kind of obligation that comes about when people help one another. People don't generally think of it as a strict quid-pro-quo, but the idea is that, if people help you, you ought to return the favour at some point in the future.
Sometimes I feel like I have too much "人情" in China. It's not so much the fact of people helping me out with things - when, in fact, on a day to day level I require little help to get by - it's more a certain friendliness that we (British) don't generally replicate towards foreigners. Hence, it's a debt that I cannot easily repay.
There are also instances of self-interest to contend with here that have no equivalent back home. The most obvious example is being asked to teach English, or asked to find English teachers, or simply being treated as a convenient person to practise or demonstrate English with. It isn't meant as an insult, but I find it wearing, in part because having been here for so long, I rather wish that Englishness wasn't my most salient characteristic.
But, of course, it is. And this is also why the boy earlier was so kind.
Yet, I persist in the belief that there is a level of kindness here, at least among some people, which goes beyond considerations of language and self-interest, and is just about sharing warmth with strangers. I am lucky to have access to it, not only because I can speak Chinese and can thus understand what people are saying to me, but also because I know it well enough to be open to it: in England, I probably wouldn't accept a lift from someone I had met two minutes ago in a strange city, whereas here it's quite possible that I would. In England, it's unlikely that someone I had only spoken to at the hairdresser's for two minutes would ask me for my phone number, whereas here it happens.
The challenge is knowing what to do with all that warmth. In many cases, the fizzling out is mutual, but I have also lost track of all the people whom I have met briefly, and who wished to stay in touch, only for me to drop them a little later. Not out of spite or superiority so much as out of laziness and a fear of being overwhelmed. This is the "人情" debt that stalks me in China.
