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Total entries in this blog:
Total entries in this category: 51
Published On: Mar 07, 2006 03:02 PM
Total entries in this category: 51
Published On: Mar 07, 2006 03:02 PM
Foreigners
In the Chengdu train station, waiting for my ride
back to Kunming, the vast majority of passengers are Han Chinese. But there are
a surprising number of men with faces that are much more western, almost
Semitic. I think they are Muslim Uyghurs from Xinjiang, the frontier province
where China meets the Central Asian Republics. They all look like migrants in a
Walker Evans photograph, carrying their belongings in plastic sacks, with tough,
weary eyes, beak noses, hard unsmiling mouths, and stubbly beards. They have a
wary, bottled-up nervousness that makes me a little uneasy. I have been curious
about traveling in Xinjiang, but it seems remote and foreign, compared to the
urban, educated China that I know.
After we board the train and travel several minutes out from the station, one of the men that I recognize from the waiting room approaches my sleeping compartment. He is with a woman and little boy that I hadn't seen before. I assume they are his wife and toddler child. They are wearing what must be their best clothes - western fashions - but everything is frayed and dirty. The child in particular has clothing smeared with stains, with a plastic nipple hanging on a string pinned to his shirt, and a penis dangling from his split bottom pants. The mostly middle-class Chinese on board the train either look away, or nail the family with scorn.
There are six beds in my sleeping compartment and five are already accounted for. Even ignoring the child, there's going to be an odd man out here, and I really hope it isn't going to be me.
The man sits on one of the bottom beds, the woman sits on the other, and the baby squats down on the floor and begins to pee. An older Chinese man nudges the woman, who sees the puddle and looks mortified. She immediately begins wiping up the wet linoleum with toilet paper. The baby staggers towards my window seat on the aisle, and with a cartoonish, popping fart, shits on the rug. Lots more toilet paper gets used, and the baby's bare bottom is (1) wiped and (2) spanked. All the other passengers try to be polite, but nobody looks happy.
Perhaps to distract and occupy the baby (or maybe just to refill him) the mother begins to prepare a bottle of milk. She tears off a small piece of a plastic bag and pours about a tablespoon of milk powder into the center. She then bundles it up like a hobo's sack, lines it up over the top of the bottle, and tears a small hole in the bottom of the bundle. She squeezes the powder out of the hole and funnels it into the bottle. I am impressed by how neatly and effectively this works. She goes off with the powder-filled bottle, to get some boiled water I imagine. When she returns, she gives the bottle to the smiling baby who feeds himself contentedly.
The mother then opens a plastic bag and pulls out a large, round flatbread. It is about the size of a dinner plate, delicately browned, and embossed with an elaborate geometric pattern. It looks delicious, and I briefly consider orchestrating a trade for some of my packaged, store-bought snacks. Before I can even begin to imagine how to negotiate this, she rips off a piece and gives it to her husband. She then rips off a second piece and begins to chew it herself.
The mother then draws the happy baby towards her and leans over to his mouth. At first I think she is kissing him, but after the kiss, the baby is chewing. I realize that she is feeding him like a mother bird, softening up the crusty bread in her mouth and transferring to him in small wads, mouth to mouth. I look to see if any of the other train passengers are as astonished as I am but no one betrays any emotion.
I begin to think more seriously about traveling to Xinjiang...
After we board the train and travel several minutes out from the station, one of the men that I recognize from the waiting room approaches my sleeping compartment. He is with a woman and little boy that I hadn't seen before. I assume they are his wife and toddler child. They are wearing what must be their best clothes - western fashions - but everything is frayed and dirty. The child in particular has clothing smeared with stains, with a plastic nipple hanging on a string pinned to his shirt, and a penis dangling from his split bottom pants. The mostly middle-class Chinese on board the train either look away, or nail the family with scorn.
There are six beds in my sleeping compartment and five are already accounted for. Even ignoring the child, there's going to be an odd man out here, and I really hope it isn't going to be me.
The man sits on one of the bottom beds, the woman sits on the other, and the baby squats down on the floor and begins to pee. An older Chinese man nudges the woman, who sees the puddle and looks mortified. She immediately begins wiping up the wet linoleum with toilet paper. The baby staggers towards my window seat on the aisle, and with a cartoonish, popping fart, shits on the rug. Lots more toilet paper gets used, and the baby's bare bottom is (1) wiped and (2) spanked. All the other passengers try to be polite, but nobody looks happy.
Perhaps to distract and occupy the baby (or maybe just to refill him) the mother begins to prepare a bottle of milk. She tears off a small piece of a plastic bag and pours about a tablespoon of milk powder into the center. She then bundles it up like a hobo's sack, lines it up over the top of the bottle, and tears a small hole in the bottom of the bundle. She squeezes the powder out of the hole and funnels it into the bottle. I am impressed by how neatly and effectively this works. She goes off with the powder-filled bottle, to get some boiled water I imagine. When she returns, she gives the bottle to the smiling baby who feeds himself contentedly.
The mother then opens a plastic bag and pulls out a large, round flatbread. It is about the size of a dinner plate, delicately browned, and embossed with an elaborate geometric pattern. It looks delicious, and I briefly consider orchestrating a trade for some of my packaged, store-bought snacks. Before I can even begin to imagine how to negotiate this, she rips off a piece and gives it to her husband. She then rips off a second piece and begins to chew it herself.
The mother then draws the happy baby towards her and leans over to his mouth. At first I think she is kissing him, but after the kiss, the baby is chewing. I realize that she is feeding him like a mother bird, softening up the crusty bread in her mouth and transferring to him in small wads, mouth to mouth. I look to see if any of the other train passengers are as astonished as I am but no one betrays any emotion.
I begin to think more seriously about traveling to Xinjiang...
Posted: Mon - October 13, 2003 at 09:13 AM