Our bus for the trip to Wugang was the same on the outside as most local and short-range buses -- boxy, travel-weary, beaten-up, and in need of washing. On the inside we were surprised to find bunks instead of seats. Each bunk was large enough for two people to stretch out comfortably. The ticket taker assured us we could have two full bunks for ourselves. The bus filled up and left on schedule. It seemed to be heading in the wrong direction -- east instead of southwest. We joked as we passed a certain traffic circle with a statue in the center; it was the fifth time that day that we had passed that statue. Before we got out of town, the bus suddenly stopped, made a U-turn, and reversed direction. Apparently he had tried to take some kind of shortcut that didn't work out. Well, we passed the statue yet another time and headed north across the river. Bus drivers are an independent lot, and change their routes for their own convenience or to make extra money. They often take the twisty, broken roads instead of a highway in order to avoid paying the toll, and they will stop the bus anywhere, anytime to squeeze in an extra body and collect more fare.
The bus followed a small road west along the river, stopping occasionally to pick up extra passengers. One man was standing by the road with about a dozen large sacks, woven in a kind of mesh with a sturdy handle at the top. Each bag contained about 25 live chickens, crowded together as tightly as any collection of bus passengers. Heads and feet poked through the holes in the mesh. Recruiting some help, the man tied each bag to a rope and hoisted it onto the top of the bus. The bags were tied down and the bus drove off, squawking and clucking.
More stops for more passengers. The other bunks were getting crowded; people were standing in the aisles. Not wanting to make others stand for four hours on a jolting bus, we made room on our bunks for a few more people. Within a few miles we came to the road construction. We drove through it for hours. At dusk we stopped in one small town for a short rest. Dozens of vendors assaulted the bus in waves; some charged onto the bus and others attacked the windows. Many of them were selling slices of watermelon. We bought some watermelon through the window and gave some of our snack candy to the kid vendors. The bus drove on, into the hot summer evening.
The chicken man got off before we got to Wugang. Again, ropes were tied around the handles and the sacks were lowered to the ground. The poor chickens were flipped topsy-turvy and heaped on top of each other inside the sacks. Again, heads and feet flailed through the holes in the mesh. Two men picked up the sacks by the corners, shook them a bit to flatten out the mass of chickens, and arranged them in rows beside the road. The squawking faded into the distance as the bus accelerated.
At about 10 o'clock we pulled into town. It was too late to catch a local bus to Ernest's home, which was well out into the countryside. In Wugang the taxis are of the three-wheeled motorcycle variety, with a wide seat behind and a fiberglass shell to give a facade of shelter or security. We all piled into one taxi and headed out. On the outskirts of town we noticed the driver looking backwards. Finally he stopped; his tire was flat. The buildings were dark and the road was deserted. Luckily the driver had what he needed to fix the tire. With our help, he tilted the taxi on its side and leaned it against a tree -- who needs a jack, anyway? He put in a new tube, inflated it with a small hand-pump from under the back seat, and we were off again. Several miles out of town, we turned off onto a narrow dirt road. Several bumpy miles later, we pulled up at the house of Ernest's aunt. We unfolded ourselves and removed our bags. The driver announced the fare. Ernest rose to the occasion and flared up in indignation. A loud and unremitting argument ensued. The driver probably was saying how much trouble he had had with us, with our extra weight and having to pay for a new tube. Ernest was probably talking about the inconvenience and delay we had suffered. With no end in sight, I handed the man his due and thanked him. He quickly got back into his taxi and puttered off into the darkness.
Ernest's aunt lived in a newer farmhouse, probably about 10 years old. It was built solidly of brick and faced with white tile. It was two stories high, with a few extra rooms on top of that. It was close beside another farmhouse and a very small shop and "doctor's" office. It was late; we were shown to our rooms and introduced to the toilet. One end of the farmhouse was used as a barn, with a hay/tool shed in front and a pig sty in the back. We were pointed to a tall bucket in the hay shed -- the toilet. We nodded with practiced nonchalance. Our beds were in the old countryside style. They were boxed in with a frame and roof, with mosquito netting on the sides. We welcomed the protection of the netting, but it effectively cut off any air circulation.
In the morning we looked around at our view. The sky was blue; the hills and fields were various shades of green. So peaceful and natural and quiet! We didn't even see any trash lying about. A group of men rode by on bicycles, heading into town to work. An old local bus clattered by. Dogs stretched, a few women washed out clothes in the little irrigation ditch by the farmhouses, and farmers were already in the fields. In the daylight I explored the farmhouse a little more. The main entrance led into a large, fairly empty central room. On each side were bedrooms. At the back was a stairway that bent around a small area used for cooking. The stairwell was open in the center, allowing any smoke to rise. Upstairs were another bedroom and some more rooms used mainly for storage. A second-floor balcony ran the length of the house. The walls and floors were bare concrete and stucco. The barn/sty was part of the main building, but it had a separate entrance.
We looked up the valley. It was wide, with lots of flat space and little need for terracing. The surrounding hills were about 100 meters high. Toward the far end was a large stone-and-concrete aqueduct, built in the 1970's to provide a more reliable water supply to the town and the local farms. Nestled near the bottom of the aqueduct was Ernest's home. It was quite modest and was in the old style. It had one storey, bare brick walls, and packed earth floors. Like most other farmhouses, the barn/sty was part of the house. A separate room on the left was used for cooking, and led back to the animals' quarters. All of the houses that we saw had electricity but no plumbing. A room may have a single overhead light bulb. Most houses now have a television and electric fan. Otherwise, they appear much as they did many years ago.
I'm told that 60 percent of the Chinese people are peasant farmers in the countryside. This is their lifestyle, and it isn't going to change much soon. Most of the people we spend time with in China are from the upper 10 percent of the social/economic scale -- teachers and people established in business. The main reason for this is that not many other people speak English. In the cities, workers have a difficult life. They work long hours and are paid very little. In the countryside the farmers have even less. The one thing that they have in abundance is rice.
We talked to Ernest about education. Most of the children there are able to go to the local primary school, but most don't go on to middle school. In a valley of 200 or more people, only two other youth have ever gone to college. They didn't pass the entrance exams and had to attend very small colleges as self-study students. Ernest is the only one who has ever passed the college entrance exam. His parents and his older brother were determined that Ernest should have a good education. His family has sacrificed to pay his tuition, and even then has come up short.
We arrived at Ernest's home in time for the late breakfast that the farmers eat in the summer. We met his parents and brother. His brother is married and has twin girls about 11 months old. We looked around, found the pigs, saw the ducks, and taught the swarm of neighborhood kids how to play Uno. One odd duck was in a pen by itself; Taalan and Tariqa made friends with it, confident that its loud quacks were attempts at friendly conversation. After watermelon, Ernest, Tariqa, and I went off to explore, while Taalan stayed to play cards and Anne played with the babies. We climbed the hillside and crossed along the top of the aqueduct. The valley was quite narrow at that point. We looked down at the peaceful, productive farmland. We scooted down the other side and stopped to play in the creek. Taalan and some other kids joined us as we waded and skipped stones.
After a lunch of mostly vegetables (we had made sure to explain to Ernest that we were vegetarians), followed by more watermelon, we explored some more. Just up from the aqueduct was a spillway on the creek. Some boys were swimming and playing at the spillway, while a mother washed her clothes. Upstream someone was letting their ox cool off in the creek. It was standing quietly, up to its shoulders in the cloudy water. We walked up a field path along the stream. We passed one of Ernest's neighbors. He was working in the field with his ox, leveling it before transplanting the second rice crop. He wore a broad round hat, and his legs were bare to the knees in the mud. We decided to go swimming. We stripped of a few clothes and jumped in. A few boys happened by and jumped in with us. We splashed around, jumped off the bank, and avoided the horseflies for awhile. Wet and happy, we headed back.
At supper that evening, Ernest's mother presented the main course -- our friend, the duck. Unwilling to cause hard feelings over what was a sacrifice on their part (and especially our friend's part), Anne and I ate a few bites and declared it tasty. Taalan and Tariqa refused to touch it. We sat around outside for awhile, had more watermelon, and walked back to the aunt's farmhouse. The sky was very clear, and I saw more stars than anytime since living in the boondocks of Nevada. We had to be careful, though, walking in the dirt road. Apparently one way to dispose of solid trash such as bottles is to toss it into the road and let the bus crush it into the low spots. On the way down I had picked a bottle out of the road and set it aside; returning, it had been tossed back into the road again.
The next morning we caught the bus into town to visit Ernest's "sister," another adopted relative. She had a small camera shop. As we waited outside the shop for it to open, the crowds flocked around us, like buzzards waiting for the victim to stop moving. The sister arrived and we went inside. The crowd followed. After waiting around for awhile, we took a taxi to the sister's mother's apartment. It was comfortable and, typically, we taught the children to play O-Pshaw. As we were talking about late-lunch/early-dinner, the power went off. Anne took a nap as we sweated and played more cards. Soon the sister's father came home. He made a few phone calls and whisked us downstairs to go out for supper. He said he worked in a bank and had some friends in the city government.
A military vehicle was waiting to carry us away. The father smiled and said we could eat in the private restaurant at the city government headquarters. Trusting ourselves to God's hands, we got in the back seat. Helmets were hanging on the rear wall and flak jackets were piled in front of us. After a short ride we arrived at the restaurant; it was empty. We were ushered into a very fancy room. More people arrived and we were served a fancy, delicious meal. We weren't exactly comfortable with the arrangements. In fact, we preferred a simple, low-key dinner, but such was not our fate this week. We expressed our thanks for their outstanding hospitality, ate some watermelon, and played more cards with various children. It was too late to catch the bus back to the countryside, so our new friend gave us a ride. We felt more than a little self-conscious arriving at the little farmhouse in a military vehicle. Safely back at Ernest's home, we were obliged to have supper. Left-over duck? No, thank you, but the vegetables are very good.
The next morning we rode the bus back into town and met Ernest's "sister" again. We planned to have a quiet day at a nature preserve, enjoying beauty and solitude. Alas, such was not quite our fate. By the time we left, a small crowd had gathered to make the expedition with us. We took a bus and walked the extra mile or so to the entrance of the preserve. We paid and started up the path. We were faster off the mark and walked a little faster than the others, so we had a little peace and quiet. Occasionally we stopped and let the others catch up for a few minutes before heading off again by ourselves. Actually the park was quite nice. There were several streams, a few small cascades, a small cave, some picturesque rocks, and a good-sized waterfall. The trail continued to the top of the mountain, but we were satisfied with our short hike.
We got back around sunset and Anne went to see the local "doctor." She had some kind of infection on one toe, and it was quite painful. Actually the pain had been rather more noticeable since Taalan had stepped squarely on it a few days before, and the infection was still spreading. The doctor was treating another woman. She had about a dozen quarter-sized red marks on the area below her neck. The doctor gently swabbed the marks, and the skin sloughed off. We were told she had scalded herself with boiling water. He treated her with iodine solution and something else. The woman grimaced slightly, but otherwise gave no indication of pain. The doctor looked at Anne's toe, put on some ointment, and wrapped it. Actually, it was several more weeks before it healed. The children also attracted some skin infections during the trip. Both developed sores around the nostrils and chin.
We spent our last, leisurely day in the countryside. We ate watermelon, hiked around the valley, went swimming, and watched the summer rice harvest, which was well underway. Ernest's family's rice wasn't quite ready, so they weren't busy yet with the harvest. His brother spent the day replacing wooden parts on their old rice threshing machine. It didn't have a gas-powered motor; you have to work it by treading up and down on a big foot pedal.
Rice farming in that part of Hunan province has only a few obvious differences from the system we have described near our university. Oxen provide the labor for working the fields. People shepherd the oxen around, grazing them on the hillsides, using them as lawnmowers along the field fringes and paths, and letting them cool off in the water. From what we saw, the farmers allow the rice seedlings to grow much taller -- about 18 inches -- before transplanting them. Otherwise we saw the same process of cutting, carrying the stalks to the threshing machine, threshing, scooping the rice into baskets, and carrying away the baskets with shoulder poles. After a field is harvested, it is leveled and quickly planted again with the seedlings. There is a beautiful rhythm to the process, and the valley is a patchwork of rich, harmonious colors -- the golden-yellow of ripening rice, the gray-brown mud after the harvest, and the deep green of the newly transplanted fields.
Ernest's family wanted us to stay for a few more days, but we felt the call of home. He rode the local bus with us to the bus station and helped us get tickets back to Shaoyang. We bid him farewell, and the standard-seat bus jolted out of the station. Anne sat in a front seat to have some leg room. Not far out of town, the bus stopped for a man along the road. After some haggling, he agreed on the fare and began to load a huge amount of goods onto the bus, into the open space in front of Anne's knees. So much for leg room. The pile was higher than her head.
We suffered through the road construction and reached town in late afternoon. Anne won the bet on how many times we would pass the circle with the statue -- only once. We took a local bus to the train station. A friendly lady approached and explained that there was no train until the next morning. Then she offered to show us a good, cheap, close-by hotel. (It's good to have children who can speak Chinese...) We followed her and made some good accommodations for the night. After a low- key dinner we retired to the room for an easy night. We didn't call Jeffery, because we knew he was visiting his girlfriend's hometown. It was July 13, and the TV showed live coverage of the IOOC meeting to vote on the host city for the 2008 Olympics. When Beijing was announced as the winner, we heard cheers resounding through the city.
Early the next morning we walked to the train station and bought some hard- sleeper tickets. The train wasn't crowded, and we had a pleasant trip back to our hometown. Home was still where we had left it. We retrieved Peek-a-Puff from our guinea-pig sitter and resigned ourselves to the sweltering heat of a Xiangtan summer.
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