For a foreigner with little Chinese, the restrictions to life in a Chinese provincial town are very real. Zhāngzhōu, 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
Written for 'Beijing Review'.
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