In March of 1997 I was feeling trapped in my marriage and
burned out as a software engineer. In an attempt to find some relief, I booked
a trip to China
with my Chinese-American friend, Sarah, for a two-week vacation. It took some
doing - my husband was controlling and unwilling to let me go. I was
determined, though, and somehow I made it happen. China
seemed to call to me - my house was decorated in Asian style, and I had picked
up some rudimentary Mandarin over the years. One of my Danish cousins had
talked endlessly about the business opportunities in China when we were
teenagers, and I knew that he had since moved to Beijing
and was happy there. When I boarded the plane, I felt daring, independent, and
brave.
Fifteen hours later, Sarah and I landed in Hong Kong, only
months before it was returned to China.
We planned was to spend a couple of days there and then explore the southern
provinces, visiting Sarah's friends before taking a boat ride on part of the
Yangtze river.
I had no idea how difficult this trip would be for me, or how
it would awaken in me a strength I would use over and over in later years. I
thought I was looking for adventure, for the experience of a new culture, and
for a deeper friendship with Sarah. I did get some of that, but not in the way
I expected. More valuable, though, were the gifts I received from being pushed
to my limits, and beyond.
Hong Kong
left me feeling frantic. I caught the spirit of acquisitiveness, of competition,
and it tired me. I was relieved, two days later, to find myself enjoying the
rural Chinese countryside from aboard a ferry to Zhang Shan in Southern China. Here, Sarah's friend Yen
Hsiao lived with her husband in a sixth floor apartment without an elevator. We
went up and down those stairs too many times that day. I was so tired from
lack of sleep in unfamiliar places but my Chinese companions didn't seem to
notice any inconvenience. They were proud of their large, three-bedroom
apartment - most young Chinese do not have the luxury of their own place. Yen
Hsia's husband worked for the government, mainly because the job included the
apartment. The pay, Sarah told me, was not much. The apartment, to my Western
eyes, was not much either. Baseboards were cracked and water-stained, windows
were covered with pastel curtains pinned to the wall, and the floor was cold
white tile, which made me feel as though I were in a hospital. I tried to see
it through their eyes, but I was still too new to China.
The four of us sat in the living room. Sarah translated
everything that was said for my benefit, which quickly got tiresome for all of
us. This was the first time Sarah had brought a westerner to her home country.
She enjoyed the freedom of being able to converse in her native tongue
(Mandarin) with her friends, but having me there changed things completely. She
felt the need to take care of me, in that Chinese no-nonsense way, but I don't
think she had anticipated how helpless I would be without language or knowledge.
For my part, I had come here to establish my autonomy, and I
found myself completely dependent on someone else for basic things like
communication, food and shelter. I was not enjoying myself so far.
The next day, Yen came with us when we took a ferry to Shen
Zhen. This was a disappointment to me, because it meant Sarah would talk to Yen
all day, and I would not get to connect with her very much. After checking into
our hotel, we spent the rest of the morning sightseeing. After lunch, Sarah
announced that she wanted to see a European theme park called "Window to the
World." Yen agreed enthusiastically.
This was a disappointment, as my idea of a good trip involves
connecting with local people, learning the local language, trying new foods,
and having lots and lots of time to write and reflect on all these new
experiences. I should have mentioned this to Sarah before we left California,
because it was becoming obvious that her idea of a good trip involved seeing as
many tourist attractions as possible, and always being on the go.
I think I'll take the bus back to the hotel," I said.
She looked at me in horror. "By yourself?"
I don't want to see a European theme park, I replied.
Okay, we'll all go back, she said, including Yen in her
decision.
No, no, it's all right, just give me instructions and I can
go back on my own.
This was clearly not in keeping with Sarah's idea of what she
felt I was capable of. She had become somewhat maternal towards me since we
landed. Finally, with repeated warnings and instructions, she let me go, but
first she walked me to the bus station, saw me board, and talked to the driver,
who didn't care much. I was elated at being on my own at last, free to do as I
pleased. The elation lasted until Sarah and Yen were out of sight, and then I
got nervous, thinking of all Sarah's warnings.
Sitting next to me on the bus was a man who sat silently at
first, then casually asked (in English) "You go to Sea wa?" I said yes,
wondering if he was about to follow me and steal all my cash. Then I decided my
paranoid thoughts came from Sarah's over anxiousness, and showed him the name
of the place Yen had written on a slip of paper for me. He nodded and told me
he was a police officer. His way of speaking made me think he was offended or angry,
but it didn't stop him from going on at length in broken English about beauty
and politics at least I thought that was what he was talking about. He asked
me what words I knew in Chinese, and repeated my answers in English. We seemed
to be establishing a friendly rapport. The next moment, without a word of
farewell, he stood up and got off the bus. It wasn't unusual behavior, the
Chinese do not stand on ceremony, which can be refreshing, but it was still
shocking to me.
Alone on the bus, I felt suddenly even more off-balance. In
this strange world, I was always on the outside. All my familiar structure was
stripped away, and I was left with only myself. I became aware of, and grateful
for, my sense of smell, my hair softly brushing my neck, my ability to think. I
was no longer anybody distinct, but only a westerner, an object of curiosity or
dislike to those around me. China's
population is over a billion, and my identity as a Canadian seemed
insignificant here. I clung to the familiarity of my body as if it were a
lifeline the only thing I knew intimately in this strange, unpredictable
place.
To my surprise, I had no trouble making it back to the hotel.
My confidence was restored and my energy renewed by my success.
That night, after Sarah and Yen had returned and we were all
in bed, I made a plan in my head. I would call my cousins in Beijing
and, if possible, change my plans to go and see them on my own, without Sarah.
I had no idea how I would manage to do this or if it was a good idea. I just
knew I had to do something different or the feeling of not being able to
breathe would make me do something drastic.
On the ferry to Zhuhai the next day, I went over the budget
and counted the money. We were under budget everywhere. I talked to Sarah about
my plan. I could see she didn't like the idea, but she had already had a taste
of how stubborn I could be, with the bus incident. She asked me to reconsider
during our trip to Zhang Jia Jie, a breathtakingly beautiful vast place that
puts the Grand Canyon
to shame, with its impossibly thin and tall spires of rock, topped by evergreen
trees and softened by ever-present clouds.
You don't know, Lisa, what the train is like, she
said with an unpleasant laugh. To get to Beijing,
I would have to take a 36-hour journey on the train alone.
On the bus ride in to Zhang Jia Jie, I watched colorfully
clad children walking to school along the side of the hilly road, carrying
their lunch pails. A big truck full of workers lumbered past. The trees here
were spindly and tall, a product of the cold climate. A man was out walking his
cow on a rope, with a small child toddling after him. I felt peaceful and
relaxed. I knew I would figure out what to do.
As we hiked up the mountain the next day, a man at one of the
snack stands we passed held his thumb up and said something. Sarah translated He says you are pretty. She explained that thumb up meant very good, and
pinky down meant very bad.
He asked if Sarah was my translator. She said yes. He said I
was very brave, to be traveling alone. I stared at him in shock. It felt as
though he was a signpost, telling me to strike out on my own or else he was
giving me a divine warning, that it wasn't safe to take the journey by myself.
I felt even more confused.
A few hours later, Sarah and our guide were chattering away
in Mandarin as we all walked along the trail. No one had spoken to me in a long
time. I felt unwelcome, and started to feel angry. What were they thinking, to
leave me out? Why didn't they notice how isolated I was feeling? Why didn't
Sarah talk to me instead of this stranger she hardly knew? What was the point
of traveling together if she was going to ignore me? My feelings grew larger
than life, and I knew something was going to break. I was embarrassed at the
thought of bursting into tears in front of them.
Suddenly, I started walking fast. All my anger and
frustration went into my legs, and they pumped faster and faster. I left my
companions behind, and I didn't care. Tears streaked down my face, behind my sunglasses.
I avoided looking at the people I passed. I got so far ahead of Sarah and the
guide that they were often out of sight behind bends or over a rise. I didn't
care I was on my own steam, my own agenda now. The frustration coalesced into
a sense of purpose and elation: I could do it. I could do anything I wanted. I
didn't need to follow other people's agenda I could make my own. My tears
dried up, and I began smiling at other people, remembering not to smile at men,
since that was considered provocative. See? I could take care of myself. I
could figure out how to act, even on my own in this foreign place.
After a while, I let my friends catch up. My anger was
completely gone. Sarah questioned me about why I had gone ahead, but I just
shrugged and diverted her attention.
I knew, now, what I had to do. Later that day, I stood at the
edge of a precipice and gazed out at a vast landscape of spires, topped by
bright green trees. It seemed to me I could see my life out there the
patterns that tied me down in my marriage and in my job and I could see a
different way. My own way. I would start by going by myself to Beijing.
A few days later, I boarded the train. I felt elated as I
waved goodbye to Sarah, who would go to the Yangtze river by herself. In some sense I
knew was saving our friendship, because it would not have lasted through
another week of being together constantly.
Alone on the train, I faced new challenges: it is not easy to
travel as a single female in China, and being fair-skinned and blonde
guaranteed that I would draw attention to my vulnerability. But the older
couple in my sleeper car took pity on me, and purchased food for me so I didn't
need to leave the privacy of our room after my first disastrous attempt. On the
train and then in Beijing, I learned how
to manage on my own, and how to find help when I needed it. I used my wits
more. I made many more friends during this part of the journey people I would
write to after I got home, some even for years. In Beijing
I found my independence.
When I landed in San Francisco
a week later, I carried with me the feeling I had in Zhang Jia Jie, when I
struck out on my own, walking ahead of my friends. It has sustained me, the
memory of that moment, through many small steps towards self-sufficiency. And
as I sit here, contemplating my small back yard where I live without my
husband, doing work that I love, I am grateful for China,
for Sarah, and most of all for that place in Zhiang Jia Jie where my
frustration distilled for the first time into a sense of purpose that carried
me forward.
