Walking the Streets

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  Zhongdian, China
Thursday, November 17, 2005

Life settles down back in Zhongdian, one of the few places on earth where a bar could be named "Artistic Space of the Sacred World," and one of the few places I know where public bus number 2 rolls down the evening streets, and all the passengers are singing.

After Yading I rested for several days: reading on the sofa at Noah's Restaurant, eating heaping plates of food, sleeping late, and generally relaxing. Coming back to the big city after days in the wilderness is sometimes the most difficult part of the journey: your body lets down its guard and all the pains and stresses of the jouney come to light. The smells, sounds, and sights of the city become pungent, blaring, and flashy as your senses have sharpened in the wilds; they need time to dull once more so that they can acclimatize to the sensory overload of urban life.

Now Gomba, Jinhui, and I are well settled into our apartment, nested in the north side of town behind a truck depot, where burning piles of plastic trash is the most common smell. We have learned to fear the electric wires around the buildings, as the electrocuted Chinese man told us, without speaking. We have learned not to leave too early or to come back too late, as the tall gate adorned with spears closes. And we have learned that blackouts are inevitable, so make sure you know where your headlamp is located.

We use little energy: a few lightbulbs and gas for the stove. Our hot water and most heat come from the sun. At night, when the indoor temperature approaches freezing, I turn on a small space heater, heat a Nalgene bottle full of water for my bed, and pull up the blankets. By ten in the morning, the hot and bright mountain sun has warmed our solar home to comfortable levels. Living with few things or needs is comfortable.

I take the buses around town, walk, or sometimes take a taxi back home after an evening in the old town or at Noah's. The three numbered buses circle the city; one is bound to arrive in due time. Hop on and watch the shops, markets, and people of the city flow by. When you reach your destination, call out to the driver and he'll stop. Drop a one kuai bill (about 12 cents) into a kuai-filled cardboard box near the driver and hop off.

Late at night, the streets slow and take on a James Dean quality. Metal storefront doors close down, revealing yellow paint with a stylized flower symbol. Several KTV (Karaoke) bars and nightclubs still throb with their neon lights. The Meat of the Street people emerge with their wares. I walk the streets at night, alone, often. It is peaceful and relaxing.

I enjoy the Meat on the Street people and stop frequently at night. Their skewered pieces of meat and veggies hit the spot after a late night walk across town, back to home. They are friendly and usually invite me to sit next to a small cauldron full of orange-burning charcoal as they grill the Meat of the Street that I have selected. The grilled intestines are good, but my favorite is the lamb and lamb's fat on a stick: red, white, red, white, alternating. The Meat on the Street people closest to our apartment no longer emerge with their wares; maybe it's too cold for them now and business is dwindling. Now I walk a little further to reach the first Meat on the Street people. I hope they will stay around longer, as the darkest nights are before us.

Once in a while, the winds shift to the northwest, the winds of the dry monsoon, telling us that colder weather is to come.

Still, however, almost every morning is blindingly bright and sunny and the oranges and produce of southern Yunnan arrives to the markets in abundance.

In the evening, I look for public bus number 2 to see if anyone is singing.

At night, I walk the streets.

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