There is an amazing cadence, a wonderful, cyclical nature to what goes on here. I'm always stunned by the work ethic in various pasrts of Asia, China being no exception.
So, tonight, the street vendors closed up shop late - right around 3:00am. And, no, an hour later, the street rises, slowly, to life. I'm beginning to hear carts and the sounds of cans and bottles and just the sounds of life, of movement. I've just heard the first bird and the sky is one-tenth in its progression towards dawn. And there is a mounting energy, a palpable sense that some people who have been asleep for an hour or less are back at it. As I write this, I hear gathering of wood and I can imagine the smells from the metal vats and massive iron skillets that will slowly rise four floors to my room.
So I wonder what the sounds are tonight is the villages near Beichuan? Are there sounds of and in the earth? Can people hear wood and stone moving, settling? While I've spent the night smelling charbroiled mutton and spices, are other smelling rotting animal bodies, acrid winds of the disaster and the ongoing aftershocks?
Which leads me to the topic of sleep. How could you ever again have a restful sleep once you've been in a natural disaster? Tonight there remain people all over Sichuan Province - even the very modern capital, Chengdu - who have chosen to sleep on the street rather than in the homes, even their undamaged homes. So what does every sound, every creak, every natural movement evoke?
I've walked many kilometres in this neighbourhood over the past three days. I've walked at dawn and I've walked late at night. In my broken, very elementary mix of Mandarin and English (to my amusement, a word or two of Spanish, French and even Swedish creep in as I try to explain what should be a simple concept) I try to connect to the people. Whether that is something as simple as nodding appreciatively when the woman on the street cuts me a chunk of the fresh pineapple she's carving or giving a thumbs up as I walk by a huge series of grills with parts of every animal you can imagine, there is a sense in China or a genuine appreciation of things new. Different. Foreign.
It's natural, I think, to have an overwhelming fear of the unknown. The interesting and borderline ironic thing here is that over the several years I have travelled through this fine, fine nation, I've never felt that anyone was afraid to meet or get to know me.
I just remembered my first trip to an important world capital, somewhere south of Texas...and, say, north of Patagonia :) Someone I was with said "You never leave the hotel. Ever." So, ready to soil myself, I spent that first trip in the sterile American hotel, miserable, probably munching on club sandwiches or the Big Beefy Burger. Now, when I visit that same city, I revel in the stimulating company of friends and colleagues. I know world-class chefs. I cherish a picture taken two years ago with the country's President. I revel in the smells and sounds and goodwill of the people. It's one of 40 or so places in the world that I'm happy to call home, if even for a few days at a time.
So it's always disappointing when people ask me "You actaully went to place x?" "I've heard that it's really dangerous there!" What I want to hear is "What's it like? How are the art galleries? What's the music scene like? What do they eat in the streets? What's their THING, you know? How do they define themselves?"
As I finish this note I can hear the multitude of birds through my iPod headphones. The wind is brutal today, literally throwing piles of dust through the open window (my choices are dust and a bit cool or no dust and heat). It has laid a thick film on my black wallet and I can feel it on my face, I can touch the grit on my arms and I know that I'm here and the day begins...."
ANS
