A Boy of China

by Richard Loseby

  Anhui had been one of the provinces worst affected by the floods that brought so much despair to the region in the mid-2000s. Millions of people had been made homeless and hundreds of thousands of houses had been destroyed when the Huaihe River burst its banks after three days of constant downpours. Some three-storey buildings were entirely submerged.

  It’s almost impossible for foreigners to fathom the scale of natural disasters in China, to grasp the human, material and financial damage catastrophic events can inflict when the number of people involved is so great. In a single disaster, thousands can perish, millions may be displaced and billions of dollars are often required to make even the most basic repairs. Even now, several months on from what the local authorities called the worst flood in 50 years, the evidence of its impact on Anhui lay just outside the window. Moments before the sun dipped below the distant mountain ranges, I caught sight of a man on the doorstep of his wooden home, fishing for his evening meal in the expanse of water that surrounded him.

  It was dark when 007 came down the passageway, banging a metal trolley laden with food and drink against the iron bunk heads. Pot noodles were the main course, with a side of lukewarm rice and skewered meat if you were game enough to try. I opted for the noodles, sprinkled on the various powders and sauces that came with it and then went to the hot-water tap in the next carriage to fill up the pot. A sign attached to the metal cylinder warned me:

  Dangerous section. Pay your attention.

  Somewhat unwisely, perhaps because I was having a quiet chuckle to myself at the errant translation, I failed to heed the instruction and scalded myself when the incredibly hot water splashed over my hand. Nursing the injury and a full pot of cooking noodles, I went back to one of the fold-down seats by the windows that lined the passageway. It was then I noticed the elderly man sitting in another seat a few metres further on. As I poured a little cold water from my water bottle onto the burn, he smiled and nodded in sympathy. Then he raised his arms, showing that one of his hands was missing. A leathery stump stuck out from his navy blue jacket and looked like a small, tightly clenched fist. In his other, good hand he held a tiny wicker cage, from which came a soft chirruping sound. The old man pointed at the cage with his stump and, through tobacco-stained teeth, cheerfully said: ‘Cu zhi, cu zhi.’

  A man delivers coal bricks in Gansu Province

  I had no idea what he was saying, but it didn’t take a genius to work out that he was referring to his pet cricket. For 2,000 years crickets have had a special place in Chinese culture. They’ve long been prized by farmers, who say they can read the change in the seasons based on the insects’ behaviour. Emperors kept them for the beauty of their song and also for their fighting ability, although an imperial cricket was more used to living in a cage of gold rather than bamboo. As a boy in Australia I’d made pets of blue-tongue lizards, grass snakes and even a funnel-web spider once, which lived only a short while before meeting an untimely end under the weight of my father’s shovel. But never had I befriended a cricket.

  The old man got up from his seat and came over to perch at the end of one of the bunks. Again he stabbed at the cage with his handless wrist and repeated the words ‘Cu zhi,’ much to the growing amusement of the other passengers who were watching. Then he pointed outside the windows before pulling an imaginary blanket round himself and shivering.

  A deep voice sounded from the corridor behind me.

  ‘It is an old Chinese expression.’

  It was Liu, stirring his own pot of noodles and standing with his head ducked down so that he wouldn’t hit it against the overhead luggage rack.

  ‘Cu zhi means to start making clothes for winter,’ he continued. ‘The cricket makes this sound in autumn, warning people to get ready for the cold.’

  I was amazed. Not just at this interesting piece of local folklore, but also at the way Liu was now speaking English. I told him this and he shrugged his wide shoulders.

  ‘My English is very bad, but since we met I’ve started to remember my lessons.’

  As it turned out, my gargantuan travelling companion was just the kind of person I would ideally choose to spend my first days in China with. As the kilometres passed beneath us, we were each able to gain answers to all kinds of questions. Mine were to do with conditions in Xining, which he had travelled to on several occasions; his were regarding peculiar English sayings, for which he clearly had a penchant.

  ‘What is it when I say, “Bob’s your Uncle”?,’ he asked at one stage. ‘Is this disrespectful to a person’s family?’

  Happily, I explained that that was unlikely to be the case and that he could use the expression freely to suggest something was going to be fine and dandy.

  ‘Dandy?’ he quizzed.

  ‘Dandy also means something is good,’ I replied.

  He beamed with delight at this new-found knowledge and rolled the words silently round his tongue. Liu was clearly interested in practising and improving his English. The reason, however, wasn’t clear until later that evening when we were turning in for bed. He was reaching up to take his suitcase down when the lock broke and sent most of his possessions flying. Apart from a few clothes and a toothbrush, his bag was filled with red Chinese basketballs, airless and flat-packed, by the dozen. Slightly embarrassed, he scooped them up and stuffed them back into his case, but not before the interest of every other passenger was kindled. For the next half an hour they questioned him, as I listened, trying to catch on to the conversation. Most of it was beyond my comprehension, but I did make out one thing that was repeated over and over: the name ‘Yao Ming’. I knew he was the famous 230-centimetre Chinese basketball player who had turned pro with the Houston Rockets, a top NBA team in America, and was now China’s great hope to lead the national side to a gold medal at the Olympics. I was intrigued to know if Liu was an exponent of the game — he certainly had the physique, after all. Eventually I got the answer, after the pestering subsided and I was able to ask a few questions of my own.

  ‘Mr Golden’ had been his court name when he played the game at provincial level; indeed, it sounded as though greater glory would have been his had it not been for an injury that curtailed his playing career. Now he was setting his sights on selling locally made basketballs to offshore markets — hence the need for English — although this, he said, was a long-term business plan. At the same time he would continue promoting the game in the northern and western regions, where the average height of the population was a good deal taller than in the south.

  ‘The tallest man in the world was from Inner Mongolia,’ he said slightly wistfully, as the lights dimmed, warning us that we would soon be plunged into darkness for the night. ‘He was from Chifeng Shi, where my father comes from.’

  ‘And is your father as tall as you?’ I enquired.

  ‘Taller,’ came the reply. ‘Like a mountain.’

  In the morning I woke to the sound of a cricket chirruping and the slightly distant thud of a ball bouncing on concrete. Gone was the rhythmic clatter of train on track and when I opened my eyes I could see why. We were at a small station and, through the chintz curtains, I saw Liu on the platform teaching the old man with the missing hand how to bounce a basketball. Further down the platform I could see a few others exercising in their own way, mostly the elderly rather than the young, stretching and twisting vigorously to an inaudible beat. They slapped their shoulders to encourage blood flow, while Liu urged his new pupil to shoot for goal. He stood tall and held out his arms, the fingertips of his left hand touching those of his right to form an impromptu hoop. Unfortunately the old man’s shot went wide of Liu’s outstretched hands and bounced under the train. To make matters worse, the whistle sounded for the train to depart and the guards began shouting and urging the passengers to climb on board. Our own carriage attendant, the fearsome 007, blew her whistle loudly. There was no way Liu could fit under the train to rescue the ball and certainly the old man looked like the task was beyond him. However, with an agility
that belied his years, that is exactly what he did. In an instant he was under the carriage and back up on the platform holding the ball in his good hand and smiling broadly.

  As the train began to move away, Liu and the ever-belligerent 007 stepped on board, but the old man remained on the platform and waved. It was then I noticed the small, neat bundle of belongings in a faded red-, white- and blue-striped bag, placed on the platform not far from where he stood. No doubt everything he owned was in there — the worldly possessions of a one-handed man. All except for one small thing, however. From his tiny straw enclosure the wee fellow announced his presence with a resounding chirrup: next to my pillow was the cricket.

  It was a gift, Liu said later. This cricket had apparently won many matches at Shanghai’s Ti Lan Qiao cricket markets and earned a small sum of money for its elderly owner. On closer inspection I could see one of its legs hung at a peculiar angle and I assumed this was why the old man had given up such a valuable champion. But no sooner had this thought occurred to me than my new-found friend straightened out his leg and began to look every bit the fearsome fighter of his reputation. Maybe it was my imagination, but I had the distinct impression that the wounded warrior look had been a bit of a ruse.

  ‘What will you call him?’ asked Liu.

  I thought about this for a moment as the food trolley banged its way past the end of my bunk, pushed malevolently by our surly hostess.

  ‘Bond,’ I replied suddenly. ‘James Bond.’

  Liu looked at me strangely, no doubt thinking this was the worst ever name for a fighting cricket, but the moniker stuck and certainly my cricket didn’t mind. He was off on a new adventure, one that would see him vanquish new foes; crush, overcome and annihilate without mercy; lay waste to all contestants; and go down in history as the greatest, most supreme fighting insect of all time.

  Or at least something to that effect.

  FIVE

  THROUGH THE MIST-SHROUDED MOUNTAINS OF SHAANXI PROVINCE we journeyed, the region where the Long March had ended and where Mao had created a Communist stronghold. But in my case, fate and a rather lofty basketball player were taking me further west, past the multi-terraced hillsides of Gansu and, finally, up, up and up to where the red-earth cliffs of Qinghai are split by the muddy Huang Shui, one of the main tributaries of the famous Yellow River.

  From the eastern seaboard at Shanghai, you travel 2,200 kilometres to reach Xining and climb an almost equal number of metres in altitude. As Liu had promised, it was fine and cold the morning we arrived at the station, but not freezing. The air was thin, however, and my breathing rate was faintly heavier than normal, a product of Xining’s location at the foot of the Tibetan plateau — that vast area commonly referred to as the Roof of the World. Later there would be challenges far greater than this in terms of oxygen deprivation, including mountain passes as high as 4,700 metres, so I thought I should stay long enough in Xining for my body to start acclimatising to high altitude.

  Liu was adamant that he would be my guide and so, together, with my fighting cricket in his bamboo cage tucked inside a side pocket of my shoulder bag, we negotiated our way through the terminal and out onto the busy streets of the town. No matter where you go in China, you’ll usually find almost every form of transport available outside a train station, and Xining was no different. The buses may have been ancient but they were neatly parked in three rows, each one servicing a different direction. For one yuan you could go a long way, but Liu was unhappy with the quality of the vehicles, so he waved down a passing taxi. He squeezed in the back and I sat beside him, albeit with a lot more ease. The ceiling of the cab had been torn out and replaced by a deep blue lining dotted with stars. Orion’s belt hung over our heads and I reached up to touch Bellatrix, one of its brightest stars. Visible from almost anywhere in the world, this was the constellation I looked for each night when I was deep in the mountains of Afghanistan. With many hundreds of kilometres left to walk before I could reach the relative safety of Pakistan, I would gaze upon it before finding a rock to sleep under, drawing strength from something familiar in a strange land.

  ‘I like stars too,’ said Liu uncomfortably, with his shins pressed hard against the front seat. ‘But in the sky, not in this shitty taxi.’

  We drove along a wide and dusty road. The traffic lanes were indiscernible, so the horn was used at regular intervals to let people know we were coming. Carts pulled by donkeys were given particularly loud warnings, presumably because they might change direction at short notice, which they then invariably did, although this may have been a result of our passing so close and at such speed. Pedestrians were also made to think twice about trying to cross the road in front of us, and it was only the foolhardy or desperate that attempted to do so. Despite all this, we got to the town centre in just under a few minutes, still in one piece and all for just a few cents.

  Liu pointed out a hotel down a narrow passageway where I could stay. But, first of all, he announced, we would go and see his business partner, who lived in a small apartment a few blocks away.

  ‘He collects hubcaps,’ he said in a matter-of-fact way.

  ‘From cars?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course. Where would you collect them from in your country?’

  ‘Cars, I suppose,’ I replied.

  Liu nodded sagely, and then after a while said, ‘You see, our countries are very much the same.’

  Just then a bright yellow rubbish truck drove by, with the tune of ‘Good King Wenceslas’ blaring from a megaphone tied to its bonnet.

  ‘Yep,’ I said quietly. ‘Just like home.’

  The first-floor apartment, in a large multistorey residential complex of rotting concrete, was a single room with a freezer and free-standing air-con unit in one corner, next to a rather ornate goldfish bowl filled with live turtles. Sitting in a large leather sofa watching the television and wearing the traditional embroidered-silk clothes of a Manchurian was an extremely old man. An ancient white moustache hung down in two strands on either side of his mouth, making him look like the classic Western image of an elderly Kung Fu master. He was 90 years old but looked over 100, and was Liu’s partner’s grandfather, Song Yu.

  Liu’s business partner had greeted us warmly and was not surprised to see me — Liu had already phoned and told him we were coming. Song Jr was in his early thirties and wore his hair close cropped in a military style. He was half the size of Liu, which made them quite the odd couple, though what Song Jr lacked in height he made up for in enthusiasm. He was clearly the businessman in the partnership and his cellphone rang every few minutes as testimony to the fact. The old man paid no notice and invited us to sit in two leather chairs opposite him. With a croaky voice he ordered Song Jr’s daughter, a sweet girl still short of her teens, to bring bitter tea. Soon she brought out a steaming ceramic pot with a bamboo handle and four glasses. We sat in silence as the tea was poured, with the old man being the last to be served. After the first sip, the conversation started, with Liu acting as interpreter.

  Song Yu was of huge interest to me because he was old enough to remember the Long March. Broaching the subject wasn’t easy, however. There were political hurdles and sensitivities to get around — for example, had he been for or against the Communists? Did he remember Mao as a great leader or a great mistake?

  I decided to begin by asking more general questions relating to the time when Song Yu was growing up, a period of significant conflict. It transpired that he had fought against the Japanese in 1937. At that time the Japanese Empire was eager to seize land in all directions, most notably from its nearest neighbour, China, which it regarded as hugely inferior. Japan’s naval stranglehold on the China Sea allowed it to invade Shanghai, the perfect port from which to expand further and achieve the empire’s ultimate goal, total control of the Asia–Pacific region. It was men like Song Yu who had stalled and eventually blocked them, preventing a complete military victory over China that might have had significant consequences in the Second World War. H
ad Japan enjoyed unbridled access to China’s rich natural resources, it could have become an even more powerful force, and then who knows what might have happened? Was this old man, and the many others like him, the real reason we speak English in Australia and New Zealand today, and not Japanese?

  I felt guilty probing for more information because it was clear that revisiting this period was painful for him, and that his memories were deeply buried. The Japanese forces had been brutal, while the Chinese side had fought with equal ferocity. The nearly four-month-long battle for Shanghai was later referred to as China’s own version of Stalingrad, due to its intense house-to-house fighting. Although eventually overrun by the Japanese and driven all the way back beyond Nanking, the Chinese fighters had given the army of the Rising Sun a bloody nose. Before the invasion of Shanghai, the Japanese had perceived themselves as being like gods compared to their inferior Chinese combatants. Now, having been made to fight tooth and nail for every square metre of the city, they were humbled. They never really recovered their sense of cultural and military superiority and were something of a damaged lot afterwards, never again coming close to achieving the complete dominion over China they had once envisaged.

  We chatted politely about his time working in a bank and how he had subsequently moved to Xining to be close to his son, who worked in telecommunications, a burgeoning industry in this far-flung region, ironically selling, amongst other things, the latest cellular telephone technology from Japan.