One of the many conversations that always crops up in the group is the variety of people we have come across on our Wild China trip. Old people and babies are a particularly strong category, so much so that Arianna and Miryam have mentioned devoting a tumblr to them. Other people have also spent time marveling at haircuts (Chinese mullets anyone?) and t-shirts (those inescapable Chengrish head-turners).
For my part, there has not been a singe catchall group that has caught my attention. Instead, there a have been a cast characters who have stuck out. Some memorable ones:
Two Miao ladies, fifties, Wugao Miao minority village
They labor around their houses while wearing traditional Miao attire—hair in a bun, comb tucked in back, dark jacket and long pants. They laugh and sing while they do work, and are kind enough to teach foreigners their songs and dances, one of which requires clapping small stools together. They even extend their hospitality to the point where they transform one Westerner into a Miao princess. But most amazing of all is their friendship—after what seems a lifetime in a village together, they always have someone to laugh with.
My host mom, sixties, Wugao Miao minority village
A force to be reckoned with. She belts out the words Ni hao! with tones uncharacteristic of standard Mandarin and a loudness that penetrates the thin wooden walls of her traditional Miao house (you can hear everything, even the son that groans at her orders from his bedroom). One afternoon, she affectionately threatens to beat me to death with a hoe (Wo da si ni!), but I am saved by her realization that I look like a white pilot in a war drama she watches at night (Ni men liang ren yi yang!). Her home is plastered with pictures where various aspects of famous world cultural sights are photo-shopped together (i.e. the White House with the Capitol Dome in a British garden). Her ear lobes are long from repeated wearing of heavy jewelry. I never got to say goodbye to her.
Woman, early thirties, Dali Dong minority village
It’s evening time, just after dinner. She sits in a concrete clearing just beyond the bridge one must cross to enter the village, selling homemade tofu out of a plastic bucket. Two young girls cluster around her. They cling to her shirt and glare at their mother’s customers. There is a trace of worry on her face. When approached and asked how one makes tofu, she smiles and says, “How does one even begin to explain that?”
My host father, thirties, Dali Dong minority village
Interactions with him are limited, but certainly noteworthy. He shows us how the key to the bathroom is hidden in the pocket of a white shirt hung at the back of the house, and helps us in getting a basin, towel, and sandals for a rather wet and muddy Eliot (I’m sure someone else will detail the events surrounding this in a blog). He has the tact(?) to laugh at Eliot’s misfortune.
Our driver, forties, the bus
No one has thought to ask his name or where he is from, but we feel like we know him anyway. He has a wrinkled, expressive face and an uncanny ability to navigate unfinished backwater roadways—with the occasional expletive, of course. He shovels down rice at meals so that he can get back to the bus to move it or watch our stuff. Perhaps the most underappreciated group member.
– Cameron