Mid Autumn Festival

There’s extra anticipation as we approach Mid Autumn Festival for this is the first time that it’s marked with a public holiday. Our friends tell us it is a day to spend with family, to give and eat moon cakes (a solid paste, of varying flavours, covered with moulded pastry), often with pomelos (a large citrus fruit), and to view the full moon. Of course on this side of the hemisphere, where the seasons are back-to-front and the moon is upside-down, we have the woman-in-the-moon and a rabbit too. I’ll be looking out for them both!

Moon cakes, often in elaborate packaging, have been on sale for several weeks and the commercial opportunities have not gone unexploited. Wal-Mart’s marketing material is full of promotions and their front entrance clogged with displays, complete with spruikers. The bakeries and chain tea shops are producing some very modern and upmarket versions, and there are stalls set up in the streets selling boxes and loose cakes too.

My limited Chinese reading skills diminishes my enjoyment of moon cakes; I can end up eating savoury seaweed ones, or stick sweet fruit ones or ones with egg yoke without any idea of what I’ll get. But I will be eating moon cakes, lots of them, as we’ve been given quite a number by colleagues and friends, and I also acquired a big box at the street party organised by our apartment complex.

The party, one of two we went to on the Friday of the long weekend, was a large affair. The apartment complex managers cordoned of one of the internal streets, set up a stage, and organised stalls and games on the side. Earlier in the day I had seen about 10 security guards lining up blue plastic stools and another 20 or so practicing a marching routine. The performance involved celebrity presenters, singing and dancing, included traditional forms and the very popular contemporary break dancing, and games and giveaways. As the only foreigners at the event I was soon invited to play and, to my embarrassment, singled out by the hosts and asked a lot of questions, in Chinese! Even more embarrassingly I then won, but was later told that, as I was a guest, many of the audience were hoping I would win the expensive wine and moon cakes.

The other party, an invitation-only event for government officials and potential investors, was at the partially finished apartment complex next to ours. It was a glamorous occasion with an imposing main stage for speeches and a band lip-syncing jazz favourites. Other groups of classical and traditional musicians were scattered through the planting and water features with dry ice adding to the atmosphere. Huge platers of fruit and sweets were offered as well as traditionally made green tea, but most importantly there were opportunities to win prizes. Finally, just when we thought it was all over, an impressive firework display was launched.

Both these parties had games based on the local tradition of moon cake gambling. This involves a bowl and six dice; the aim is to get lots of 4’s and prizes are given through the game on different winning combination. At the end the person who has thrown the highest combination wins. Prizes range in value and might be sweets and different sized moon cakes or household goods such as small packs of tissues (vital in an environment where toilet paper is frequently not provided), shampoo, cooking oil (expensive and often used as an offering to the gods), and bed linen or even much valued electrical appliances. Gambling events may be organised by family groups, or companies, and of course the marketing potential is exploited with shops developing versions you can participate in, if you spend enough money!

We are, of course, keen to see the moon on Mid Autumn Festival so head for the river. Along the bank, just for summer, are a string of open-air restaurants that are packed with festive groups of families and friends of all generations. We congregate at one of the many round tables, protected by a thin red plastic ‘table cloth’, and pop open the plastic wrapper on our vacuum packed tableware. Cold beer is organised, with a little difficulty, and a seafood meal is ordered and fished live from the tanks lining the cooking area. There is little breeze to mitigate the sticky weather, or ripple the river allowing it to reflect the gaudy building lights and the occasional bursts of fireworks. Heavy clouds blank out the sky and it looks like we will be disappointed, but they part, intermittently and momentarily, to reveal the full moon. Small orange lights drift through the heavens and after some debate we identify them as hot air balloons. Silently the sky fills with the paper constructions fuelled by small flames, and we notice several being launched behind us. Our local friends say this is a new trend and we, with them, are soon excitedly purchasing and launching our own balloon. As we watch it fill with hot air and float up to the higher cross currents I reflect that, however enjoyable they were, the elaborate parties are eclipsed in by this simple activity undertaken with friends.

A Chinese road trip

For a foreigner with little Chinese, the restrictions to life in a Chinese provincial town are very real. Zhāngzhōu, Fújiàn Province, has been our home for the last two years and, with a lǎowài population of less than 15, contact with native English speakers is limited. Yet through this limitation emerges one of the joys of our situation; close interaction with locals who are often keen to exercise their English language skill and offer assistance, friendship and insight.

Our friend Tony is typical. He has helped me register with the police, invites us for home cooked meals, and even acts as a tour guide. During a recent phone conversation, hindered by communicating across language and cultural differences, we gather we’re invited on a road trip. The destination is unknown and the means of transport uncertain; though Tony is a proud owner of a scooter he doesn’t have a car and is reliant on borrowing one from family or friends.

On the designated day Tony turns up at our apartment in his sister’s car with another friend, Lynda. We will head inland to Nánjìng to see the tǔlóu that litter the valleys a couple of hours from home.

Lynda and Tony’s English skills are well above usual levels, improved largely through their own private study that shames my undisciplined attempts to learn Chinese. We joke in English, make Chinese/English puns and often share catchy proverbs. As we drive we swap ‘reinventing the wheel’ for ‘huì shé tiān zú’ or ‘adding feet to a painted snake’. I reflect my Chinese might not be improving very fast but my English gets stretched as I have to ensure my meaning is clear, find alternative words or provide definitions to assist a Chinese audience.

I also contemplate our different cultural prejudices. As we drive I see a long row of large green-glazed terracotta pots and exclaim with pleasure, but note Lynda’s somewhat puzzled look. I see artefacts of a craft culture producing attractive and useful products. Lynda sees heavy rough pots worn and dirty with age. Laughing she reminds me of the colourful metal thermoses, reminiscent of a passing era, which we hunt down and display at home. She and her friends have discarded their old fashioned metal thermoses for nice new hygienic plastic ones.

Arriving at the ticket booth above ‘Snail Pit’ village (Tiánluókēng) we stop to view the four circular tǔlóu surrounding a square one, referred to as ‘four dishes and one soup’. On a previous trip this classic view was obscured by low freezing clouds, so we are pleased to return and are keen to see the buildings up close again. Tony has other ideas. No amount of suggestion can shift him and he determinedly drives on. I am certain he has not understood us and this is another example of miscommunication. However Tony’s dogged resolve had just cause. We pull up beside a single round tǔlóu, not as pristine as ‘Snail Pit’ village but just as, if not more, interesting. Yùchānglóu, said to be around 700 years old, has an interior crooked with age and its inhabitants, still resident, are serviced by a central temple and individual wells in each kitchen. A small river runs beside it reflecting its muted colours generated from the local soil, stone and timber. Now I see Tony’s silence stemming not from misunderstanding but from his intent to surprise, and I am surprised as again I am overwhelmed by the practical majesty of these buildings.

Our last stop is a stunning waterfall, even more dramatic in un-seasonal and monsoonal-like rain that drenches us in moments. Back at the associated tourist facilities we drink the local oolong tea, tiěguānyīn, from traditional tiny cups, to warm up, and try to dry off. Tony takes the opportunity to smoke and muse about building a villa in the forest, a sentiment I can share, while Lynda engages with the staff and is soon wearing borrowed clothes allowing her to dry her dress with the manager’s hairdryer.

At times I might yean for the art galleries, ‘real’ bread, and other sophistications of a large city like Běijīng or our neighbouring Xiàmén, but I fully appreciate how lucky I am to live in Zhāngzhōu where I too can engage closely with locals and gain much more than the loan of a dry set of clothes and a hairdryer.

Written for 'Beijing Review'.