by Paul Theroux
I said, "Does it seem to you that the Chinese people are too impatient for changes to come about?"
"Some are very impatient," he said. "Especially the students. What do these students know about democracy? They are speaking in a very abstract way. They lack concrete ideas."
"Do you think the students don't understand democracy?"
"In each country there is a strict definition of democracy," he said. "You have yours in the United States. We must have ours in China."
"So you think student demonstrations are really dangerous?"
"Some elements could get out of hand," Comrade Hu said. "They could bring disorder. If there is no control there could be chaos—everyone doing as he likes. That could produce another Cultural Revolution."
I did not see the logic in this. Wasn't it the other way around? If the government kept the lid on and the so-called ultraleftists succeeded in suppressing the students, a Cultural Revolution was much more likely. He was using the Cultural Revolution as a frightener. But I got nowhere in trying to pursue this with him.
"You must read more," he said. "You must examine our Four Guiding Principles."
"I have read them," I said. That particular pamphlet, in five languages (including one of China's favorites, Esperanto) was in the waiting room of most railway stations. I had plenty of opportunities to read it. "I meant to ask you about that. Guiding principle number four mentions Marxism-Leninism and Mao's thought."
Comrade Hu's eyes were fixed upon me. The name Mao in China always concentrated people's attention. It was probably the single most powerful syllable in China.
I said, "I was wondering which of Mao's thoughts seemed especially pertinent today."
"One cannot summarize Mao's thought," he said smoothly. "It is too subtle and wide ranging. Mao wrote about everything." But when I pressed him, he said, "His essay 'On Practice' is one which contains the essence of his thought, and that is something we can be guided by these days."
That essay is an argument for action, I found, when I read it later. It is about learning by doing; and "practice" is like a synonym for living, in this down-to-earth approach to running a society. It is a tract against handbooks, against bookishness of any kind—Mao loved literature but hated books. Mao seemed to sum up the essay when he wrote, "All genuine knowledge originates in direct experience." It was a struggler's motto, and rather a good one, I thought: action was everything. It was also a good motto for a traveler.
"You must remember that China is unique," Comrade Hu said. "There is no model for China. We have to solve our problems in our own way."
I said, "Do you think it's a problem that China seeks the West's technology but not its ideology or influence?"
"No problem at all," he said breezily.
"But surely there have been negative influences that have come to China with the new technology."
"We have to educate people to make a distinction between what is good and what is bad influence."
The word educate in China always seemed to me somewhat ambiguous. Education was sometimes classroom work; but just as often it was prison, the workhouse, exile or even (as Deng had frankly emphasized) a bullet in the back of the neck.
"What do you think is especially decadent about Western culture?" I asked, hoping to provoke him.
"The music of Beethoven is good, and so are many other things," Comrade Hu said. "And I don't think drugs or violence are specifically Western. They are by-products. We can do without them—and prostitution, too."
Remembering what the taxi driver had said, I asked, "Will the reforms continue to increase or might they diminish?"
"They will continue as they are," Comrade Hu said. "We want to keep our open policy. We want trade with the United States to expand. We believe in reform—we want a growth rate of seven or eight percent."
There was an idea current among Chinese bureaucrats that the sole purpose of political reform was to produce economic growth. It had nothing to do with enlightenment, or people's minds, or the happy imagination. If liberalization did not yield material prosperity—a chicken in every pot—they would just put the screws on again. I talked around this subject but I was not sure where Comrade Hu stood on the issue, and indeed I had begun to be rather careful in my questions, for what they revealed about me.
He made me feel young, somewhat reckless and sceptical in just the same way my father had when I was sixteen. We were uneasily like father and son. There is something in the very nature of Chinese authority that makes anyone who asks questions seem childishly naive and credulous, not to say dangerous.
We talked about travel in China. He asked me about my experiences, and were they favorable? I said yes they were, and I gave him a few examples from the various trains I had ridden.
Comrade Hu said, "You have been to more places in China than I have."
"I'm sure that's not true," I said.
"It's true," he said. "I haven't traveled much."
"Have you been to Urumchi?"
"No."
"What about Langxiang in Heilongjiang?" It was a small logging town in the far north that I aimed to visit.
"I have never heard of it," Comrade Hu said.
"Tibet?"
He shook his head: No. "But I have traveled abroad a great deal."
He clawed his cuff in an obvious way and conspicuously consulted his watch. So I said that I was grateful for his valuable time, but that I had to go. He rose and took me to the door.
"You have interesting views," I said. "I am sure people will be fascinated by them."
"No, no, no," he said, smiling for the first time since I had entered the room—but it was of course a smile of anxiety. "Don't quote me."
"Not at all?"
"No. This is a private conversation."
"What about your mention of Mao's essay. 'On Practice'? I thought that was rather pertinent."
"Nothing," he said, and the feline look left his face. "And don't mention my name."
When he left me, Comrade Bai materialized among the sofas and the teacups. Comrade Bai escorted me to my taxi. "You heard what he said"—how did he know?—"Don't use his name. And don't mention the Ministry of Truth."
I said, "But what the official said was interesting. Why doesn't he want me to write it? You know I'm a writer!"
"Yes. You can write it. But just say, 'A Chinese official.'"
What was this, the Ming Dynasty, with all the mandarins scurrying around, whispering and shifting blame and doing it with mirrors? It was not a question of being bold but simply of not wishing to be held accountable.
"Okay," I said. "Can I quote you—that you said that?"
"Ha-ha! Better not!"
I changed the names, but as you can see I left that part in. As the Great Helmsman had said, All genuine knowledge originates in direct experience.
14: The International Express to Harbin: Train Number 17
I wanted to see Harbin at its most characteristic: in the middle of winter, frozen solid. It is in the far northeastern province—part of what used to be called Manchuria. Now it is Heilongjiang, Land of the Black Dragon River. The Russians refer to the river as the Amur. It is one of the disputed frontiers between the two countries, and over the past twenty years has been the scene of armed conflict as well as low farce—the Chinese soldiers provoking incidents by dropping their pants and presenting their bare bums northward, mooning the Soviet border guards.
The train I took was going on to the border town of Manzhouli and then into Siberia to connect with the Trans-Siberian. I took it because it was the quickest way to Harbin, and also because I wanted to see who was continuing into the Soviet Union. In the event I discovered that very few people were crossing the border. It is the most roundabout route to Moscow, and no one ever goes to Vladivostok.
I left Peking on a cold afternoon, the train traveling through a landscape of black and white—trees and light poles and furrows set into relief by the snow. The countryside looked like a steel engraving, an
d it grew sharper and fresher, for the dusty snow of Peking gave way to a snow of intense brightness in the clearer air of the Chinese hinterland. It was exciting to be heading north in the winter, and I intended to keep going, beyond Harbin to the forests in the north of the province. I had been told there was wilderness there—real trees and birds.
Three swarthy Hong Kong Chinese joined me in the compartment. They said they were cold. They wore thick nylon ski suits that screeched when they walked or moved their arms, and the noise of the rubbing fabric set my teeth on edge. This sleeping car was all Hong Kongers in screechy ski suits. They had traveled nonstop from Kowloon. They had never before been to China, had never seen snow; their English was very poor—and yet they were colonial subjects of the British Crown. They did not speak Mandarin. Like most Hong Kongers I had met, they were complete provincials, with laughable pretensions. Was it the effect of colonialism? They were well fed and rather silly and politically naive. In some ways Hong Kong was somewhat like Britain itself: a bunch of offshore islands with an immigrant problem, a language barrier and a rigid class system.
"Going skiing?" I said.
They said no—they had picked these ski suits up at a cut-price department store in Causeway Bay.
They were looking out of the window at a fat woolly sheep that was nibbling at a hank of brown stubble it had found sticking out of the snow. The sheep glanced up and stared back at them.
What did they think of China so far?
"It's thirty years behind," one said. This from a person who lived in one of the last colonies on earth. In a political sense Hong Kong had hardly changed since the time of the Opium War.
"Thirty years behind what?" I asked.
He shrugged. It was probably something he had read.
"Do you think there's any difference between a Chinese person here and one from Hong Kong?"
"Oh, yes!" several of them said at once, and they were incredulous that I should ask such an ignorant question. But I pressed forward nonetheless.
"Can you recognize a Hong Kong person when you see one?"
"Very easily."
"And a person from the People's Republic?"
"Yes," he said. And when I asked for details, he went on, "The Chinese here have rough faces."
"What sort of faces do Hong Kong people have?"
"Gentle."
He said the way they talked and dressed were dead giveaways. Well, even I knew that. The Hong Kongers were either overweight or else stylishly skinny. They yelled a lot and wore brand-new clothes and trendy eyeglasses. They fancied themselves up-to-date, and they believed in the myth of their modernity. They were often all elbows, very impatient and demanding. They fussed over each other, they were philistines. A great number of their traits were the result of being British colonials. The colonial system really is paternal in an almost literal way. By treating the people like children it turns into a messy family, and some of the children are favored, others become spoiled brats, and still others delinquents and rebels.
I did not bore my compartment-mates with this reflection. I simply sat there wondering why they didn't take off their ski suits.
One of them was engrossed in a palmist's manual. Before dinner, he read my palm.
"That is your star line," he said. "Notice it is connected? You are very emotional. That is your life line. You will live to be about eighty or eighty-five."
"Tell me more."
"I cannot," he said. "I am only on chapter five." And he went back to his manual.
Dinner in the big steamy dining car was a noisy affair. At first it was full of Hong Kongers, but they hated the food, found it uneatable, and left in a huff. There were about forty of them altogether on the train. They screeched back to their compartments and stuffed themselves with chocolate cookies.
Their mistake had been in ordering the expensive 20 yuan meal. The one for 10 yuan was better—no boney fish, no fatty pork, no canned Spam; just vegetables and soup. I liked the mob, the nagging waiters, the spilled food, the people stuffing themselves. It seemed like chaos, but really a strict routine was being observed: the progress of the courses could not be interrupted. Most waiters on trains had a sort of surly friendliness. They weren't ill-natured, merely bad-tempered because they worked so hard. They were not servile, they weren't hustling for tips—there weren't any; they were single-minded and offhand without being actually rude. If someone barked at them, they barked back.
We stopped at Shenyang and Changchun in the night, and I woke because of the cold and the noise. The attendant had given me a quilted bedroll and a horse blanket, and yet the train was very drafty. There was snow tracked into the corridor and thick frost on all the windows. When I pissed into the Chinese toilet, which was just a hole in the floor of the train, a great gust of steam shot up, as if I had pissed on a hot stove.
The young men from Hong Kong shivered in the compartment like prisoners in a dungeon. They drank hot water. I offered them some of my green tea (Zhulan brand: "A tea from ancient kings for those with kingly tastes") but they said no; they preferred drinking hot water. "White tea," the Chinese call it, bai cha.
At five-thirty in the morning the door banged open and the attendant came in, put down a thermos of water and yelled, "Get up. Time for breakfast."
When she had gone I switched off the light and crawled into bed again.
She returned a few minutes later.
"Who turned off that light?" she demanded, switching it on. She stood in the doorway, breathing hard—steam was coming out of her nose and mouth. "I want the bedding. Now hand it over!"
But the young men from Hong Kong were too cold to surrender it, and I saw no reason to—we weren't due at Harbin for four more hours. It was the usual rigmarole: they wanted to have everything folded and accounted for long before we arrived.
"They need the bedding," one of the young men said.
"Maybe she wants to wash it," another said.
"No," the third one said. Were they talking in English for my benefit or did they normally converse in this almost incomprehensible way (Dey nee da baydeen, and so forth)? He explained, "A Chinese guy told me they only wash it every fourth day, even if four different people use it."
Later I inquired about this and found it to be a fact. That was why they were so finicky about giving every passenger a clean towel to place over the pillow.
The train attendant came back several more times and eventually just snatched the bedding in the usual way. It struck me that these attendants—usually women—would have made wonderful matrons at English boarding schools. They were bossy, they were nags, they were know-it-alls; they had piercing voices and no sense of humor; they were inflexible about the rules. They were more than tough—they were indestructible. They kept the trains running.
It was not yet dawn in Heilongjiang, but people were hurrying through the darkness, along snowy paths. I saw about fifty black figures moving through the snow, all bundled up and roly-poly. They were big and small, going to work and to school.
When the sun came up—fire crackling through frost—the sky was clear and the snow a pale northern blue. People cycled through the snow and ice on the uncleared roads, and men drove wagons pulled by shaggy horses. The great flat snowfields all had stubble showing through. That was the main difference between this province and Siberia, which was just next door (we were farther north than Vladivostok). This was all farmland, and Siberia was mostly forest and uncleared land. The trip to Harbin was essentially a trip across plowed fields. The snow was not deep enough to hide the furrows.
In some villages and little towns the houses had the look of Russian bungalows. And their most un-Chinese feature (as peasant huts) was their roof, steeply pitched because of the snow. Some of them were big brick houses with fat chimneys, like old American homesteads, and others were the sort of snug bungalows that I had seen along the route of the Trans-Siberian, made out of wood, and with stovepipes sticking from the eaves. Not much smoke was coming out of these chimne
ys. The reason was pretty simple. The frugal Chinese, even in this freezing place, always skimp on fuel, and take a certain pleasure in living in a cold house. Why waste coal, they say, when all you really need is another pair of long underwear?
In this land of red wind-chafed cheeks and runny noses, Harbin seemed an unlikely city. It looked Russian (onion-domed churches, villas with turrets and gables, office blocks with pompous colonnades), and it had that strange fossilized appearance that cities have in very cold countries—a sort of dead and petrified shabbiness. Its Russian ornateness was overlaid with soot and frozen slush. Here and there was a Japanese roof or a Chinese ministry or statue—mostly monstrosities, which added to the weirdness of the place, because in addition to their odd proportions, they were also hung with long, gnarled icicles. I liked the city best in the early morning, when it glittered with frost—little prismatic pinpoints on its ugly face.
It was not much more than a hundred years old. It was a fishing village on the Songhua River that had been turned by the Russian tsar into a railway junction when he extracted permission from the decadent Qing Dynasty in the 1890s to make a shortcut through Manchuria to Vladivostok. The city went on rising and the various railway lines kept running after the Russo-Japanese War (1904), and the Russian Revolution. The greedy Japanese presence was powerful—they had planned to take over Asia, beginning here—but their puppet state of Manchukuo lasted only from 1931 until 1945, when the Russians reasserted themselves after the Second World War. Harbin's boast had always been that it was only nine days, by train, from Paris; so it got the fashions and the music and the latest papers long before Shanghai. The striptease and the Charleston and Dixieland jazz were introduced to China in Harbin in the 1920s because of the Trans-Siberian link with Paris.
Times had changed. Harbin's sister city was now Edmonton, Alberta. You guessed that somehow, when you looked at Harbin. There was something in its severity and its dark and funless nights that resembled a remote city in Canada.
And yet in Canada people joke and gloat about the cold. In Harbin and in Heilongjiang in general no one mentioned it except outsiders, who never stopped talking about it. I bought a thermometer so that I would not bore people by asking them the temperature, but the damn thing only registered to the freezing point—zero centigrade. The first time I put it outside the red liquid in the tube plunged into the bulb and shriveled into a tiny bead. So I had to ask. It was midmorning: minus twenty-nine centigrade in the sparkling sunshine. By nighttime it would be ten degrees colder than that—so cold in the more familiar figures of Fahrenheit that I didn't want to think about it.
