Author: Sheri

The busy streets were even more congested than usual because it was the May Holiday, Laodong Jie. We weaved in and out of the crowds as we walked along the road toward the Taoist temple. One of the University students accompanied us, and it looked as if all the extra people in the city came along, too. At the main gate of the temple complex we were silently greeted by a stone god in a little building. Vendors were nearby to sell candles and incense for visitors to present to the gods. We walked up concrete trails that wound through the trees thick with lush foliage and climbed multiple flights of steps that led to the temple. Through openings in the trees, we got glimpses of worshippers offering sacrifices to various idols that were scattered throughout the temple mount. Dragons perched on the ridgelines of roofs symbolized imperial power, wealth, good fortune, and power over the weather. It was believed the dragon brought rain for the crops and extinguished fires. There were big gods in the main temple area and smaller gods set along the walkways and outcroppings on the slopes that overlooked the city below. Big potbellied decorative iron cauldrons with xieshan roofs looked as if they were on fire. Some worshippers knelt before stone idols housed in booths where they offered food sacrifices. Others placed burning incense of varying sizes and candles in sandy troughs, hoping to please their god. Smoke rose to the stone nostrils of the statues.

The foul odor of rotted fruit mingled with the smell of burning incense. Clouds of smoke hung heavy in the air as people bowed before cold lifeless images. Thick smoky haze filled the temple as well as the mountain valleys and peaks. The student who went with us told us some of the beliefs of the Taoists as well as other ancient religions. It was an interesting and new experience for me.

As the week came to a close the crowds lessened though it wasn’t very noticeable. On Sunday, we went to church. It was much different than when I was a kid. Mama would get us six kids clean, neatly dressed, ready to go, and to church on time. If we talked out of turn or wiggled or giggled in church, she would thump us on the head. That was not the way it was in the church we visited. No, on that particular day church was quite different.

To get to church, we walked. In fact, we walked almost everywhere in Chongqing, and it seemed everywhere we walked was up. The streets were busy as people were headed to who-knows-where. We dodged vehicles and people to even get to the street that led up the mountain to the church building. Up, up, up we went. The church came into view, but we still had a steep climb ahead of us. About halfway up, our noses were met with a horrible stench. Some kind of brown liquid poured out of a pipe from the side of the hill. It gushed into a ditch that flowed down the steep roadside giving no indication as to where it stopped. Apartments were on both sides of the road. It was hot and smothery. There was no escape and not one whiff of fresh air. The horrendous odor hung like lead in the air intensifying the smell even more. It was then we realized what gushed from the pipe was raw sewage. By the time we got to the church, some of us were about sick.

We entered the Three Self Church and climbed five more flights of stairs. One service was still in session, so we waited for the second service. We found our seats and after a greeting from the minister to the congregation, there was a time of praise and worship. Of course, I couldn’t understand what was being said. The only word I recognized was “hallelujah.” I guess that is universal. Even though the words of the songs were not familiar many of the tunes were. We were able to sing along to most of the songs in English which was a stark contrast to the Chinese words that were sung. The minister delivered his preapproved message to a somewhat distracted congregation. My mother would have had a heyday in there!

During the service a lady swept the floor, people talked on cell phones, ladies got up from their seats to see and touch our little girl, a dog wandered in, communion cups fell to the floor while at least a dozen people got up to see what was going on, a lady scolded a girl across the aisle for something, and the same lady visited at least three other women and chatted with them, and I watched – every bit of it. When the service was over, I decided that even though I didn’t understand the language, I understood as much as anyone else in the congregation. Yes, if my mother would have been there, boy oh boy, she would have had a good time!

After church, as we walked back through the busy streets to get lunch, I thought of all I had seen and experienced. One thing was for sure. The culture and beliefs of these people were evident in their day-to-day lives – their gardens and farms, the markets, the courtyards filled with dancers, the grandparents tending the children, their worship, and even those things considered inappropriate in our corner of the world. Yet, there were likenesses, one of which was taking time to worship.

It was a steep trek up the mountainside. When I heard we were going hiking in the mountains, I was excited. I thought it would be nice to get away from the masses of people for a bit. We started out for our morning walk up the mountain behind the university campus. Chongqing has been referred to as “the city of stairs,” and I can attest to that truth. Steep paved trails and steps from all directions led up the slopes. As we climbed, we passed farms and gardens tucked in every valley, nook, and hollow. We saw women hoeing and tending the crops. Large round metal buckets held human refuse used for fertilizer. The stench was quite awful. Everything except for what was in the buckets was green. Just that morning as we left our hotel, we saw ladies from the mountain farms headed to market carrying their freshly picked produce that was still wet from their morning washing.

As we walked the trails, I wondered how they ever paved those walkways high in the hills. It must have been quite an undertaking. Looking back to the city below, we could see that every bit of land was used. Beyond the lush green gardens and farmhouses tucked away in the foliage and fences was the city of Chongqing shrouded in smoke and haze. The Yangtze River wandered through the valley like a huge mythical dragon slithering through the streets and winding around tall buildings. We saw the top of the Taoist temple above the trees on a ridge across the valley. The corners of the temple’s dual hip-and-gable xieshan roof swooped down and curved upward at the eaves to ward off evil spirits. Many people used the same roof style to prevent spirits from invading their homes. We saw roof ridges adorned with dragons and other mythical beasts that ancient Chinese believed would prevent fire and drive demons away.

Even on the mountain paths we saw many people. There were places beside the trail where worshipers had offered sacrifices to their gods. Ashes from incense, residue from rotted fruits and vegetables, and various trinkets remained on the sacred site that others dared not bother as they passed by.

We came to a high ridge where we could see the valleys on both sides. One side revealed the city below. On the other side were miles and miles of hills and jagged ridges that looked like spikes and scales along the backbone of an ancient serpent. A graveyard stepped down the slopes with what appeared to be mausoleums and tombs resting on steep tiers that descended into the gorge. Through the haze and thick growth of vegetation, we saw walls that meandered up and down the rises and dips of the hills. The tops of the walls that seemed to be a lesser version of the Great Wall were pathways complete with more steps.

The heavy humid air intensified the somber silence as we took in the scene before us. The quiet moment was a reprieve from the noisy streets that was short lived as we continued our journey. We followed the trail into some thick foliage but when we emerged, we were surprised to see we weren’t alone. It looked like a group of people were having a party on the top of the ridge. Chinese ladies were decked out in bright clothing and high heels. They wore hats and carried umbrellas to protect themselves from the sun. A couple of the ladies wore head coverings made out of bushes, one of which still had flowers on it. When they saw us, they swarmed around the cute fair skinned, green eyed, blonde curly headed little girl who rode on her mama’s back. The ladies all wanted to touch her and tried to shade her from the sun. To them, fair skin was preferred to their olive color, a belief that goes back to ancient China. Farmers and laborers had darker tanned skin. The elite, those of wealth, had paler skin because they spent days inside. White skin represented prestige and was the most desirable. When my daughter was expecting her “China Doll”, the Chinese women catered to her. They insisted she eat lots of tomatoes because they believed that would give her child lighter colored skin. As we turned back to the trail, I wondered how those women made the climb up the mountain paths in those high heels. Nonetheless, we left them to continue our walk.

Once again there was solitude. Then we heard voices and music and followed the sounds. There, below us in an opening through the trees was a restaurant. The walls of the building and lean-to were made of plastic or something similar. Their dining room was a few small tables and benches tucked in close to the building.  The roof was made of pieces of tin, plastic, and bamboo. Another building across the concrete yard may have been a home. I had to smile as I thought that even here on the mountainside were more people. The hustle and bustle of the city streets below made its way up the mountain.

It had been a good day discovering more of the lifestyle and culture of these intriguing people. We headed back down the mountain, tired but satisfied from our adventure. The streets teemed with life. I turned to look back at the mountain that appeared serene and quiet, but I knew that, yes, even the hills were alive.

The streets were crazy! There were cars, mostly cabs and private drivers, horns honking, and lots, I mean lots, of people. I immediately saw that pedestrians did not have the right of way. Street vendors scattered along the sidewalks sold their wares and food. A unit of uniformed soldiers marched in formation. I stood back and watched all that was happening around me. My initiation into this new culture was eye opening. All the sounds, sights, and smells combined to create the atmosphere that gave the city its unique character.   

The walk to the market that day was relatively short since we were only getting bottled water. Our little China Doll rode on her mama’s back. She held out her hand to me and said, “hand.” My heart simply melted. With her little hand in mine, I knew the twenty-four hours it took to get to Chongqing had already been worth it. As a bonus, she held my hand all the way back from the store, too.

Going to market was an everyday occurrence for many of the people in Chongqing. During our short stay, it was for us, too. Beyond the street we crossed the previous day was the marketplace. We passed various shops and walked down an alleyway that led to other vendors and open-air restaurants. It was fascinating. We stopped to watch the noodle man. I stood still, mesmerized by his fluid movements as he worked the dough. He held a big ball of dough and stretched it in the air, working it back and forth in musical rhythms – kind of like pulling taffy when I was a kid. Another vendor made dumplings, JaoXi, dough stuffed with pork or other meat, onions, spices, etc. The dumplings were placed in bamboo steamers that were stacked on top of one another. We sat in front of the one of the restaurants and shared a meal with several of the English students my son-in-law taught at the university. Our meal consisted of rice (mi fan), chicken carrot dish (tie ban ji si), eggplant potato pepper dish (di san xian); Sichuan dry fried string beans (gan bian si ji dou) – this was my husband’s favorite food, potato pancake (tu dou bing) and Chinese tea. It is customary for everyone to eat out of the same pot, but I still dipped some out of the community pot and put on my own plate.

Gathering along the streets were bangbang men with their bamboo poles (bangzi) waiting for someone to hire them to carry goods – from produce, personal items, appliances, or whatever. Other men brought tools of their trade, laid them out on the sidewalk, and waited. Employers would drive up and choose workers for the day. As men sat on their bangzi and waited, some played games, some took a nap, and some just visited. We saw bangbang men carrying items that hung precariously, one even carried a TV.

Most days, one or more of the English students went with us on our adventures. They loved being with us and wanted to know all about our way of life. They asked about movie stars (of which I knew nothing), wanted to experience our food, talked of fashions, news, homes, and even architecture. In return, they shared their culture. One of our daughter’s close friends taught me how to knit like the Chinese women. This friend went with us one day when we crossed the city to visit some historical places and a couple more markets. I stepped into a little shop and when I came out, I didn’t know where the others had gone. There was a crowd gathered just across the street. Immediately I knew that our China Doll had drawn a crowd again. Sure enough, the rest of the crew was there with her. On that day, our friend came to my rescue when a store owner tried to charge me extra for souvenirs because I was American. She scolded him for treating me that way, spoke sternly to him, and said we would take our business elsewhere. As we left the shop, she stood at the top of the steps and told all the people in the shopping area not to do business with him.

One thing I wanted to experience in the marketplace was the meat market. Big slabs of raw meat (complete with flies) hung from hooks. Who knows how long they may have been hanging there! Intestines, stomach, tongue, pig snout, and other animal body parts were also available. Cages held live small animals, such as rabbits and chickens. There were containers with snakes and other things not too appetizing. Live animals were weighed on scales. Aquariums held fish and other water creatures. Further into the market were big bins of eggs – white eggs, brown eggs, bird eggs, eggs that had been buried in mud and fermented for a long time. Those fermented the longest were considered to be the best. Those eggs were transparent. I didn’t try any of those! We watched a lady pull silk worms out of spun silk. One man made sugared strawberries and created spun sugar art on a stick.

There was an odor in the air I could not distinguish and couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. My son-in-law said it was from one of the food vendors. How could anyone eat something that smelled like that? It was fried tofu and the smell was horrendous – and indescribable. I wanted to experience the smells – and I certainly did!

Everyone was busy at something, none were idle. Well, we did see one lady at her open-air shop who was taking a nap as we passed by. Vendors sold all kinds of wares and services. There was even a streetside seamstress, and a pedicurist.

Once again, I was enthralled at these industrious people. This would not be our last visit to the market!

Despite the time difference and jet lag, we were up early. There was little sleep to be had anyway because of the noise from the jackhammers, construction workers, and comings and goings of people outside during the night. I wondered, “Do they ever sleep?” At least it had warmed up a bit in the room. The first thing I did when we got there was close the windows. The locals believed if there was a window, it was meant to be opened.

Daylight filtered through the curtains. I pulled one back and peered out. The street was already coming to life as birds sang their songs to the coming day. I was dressed in no time at all. My request was to experience the sights, sounds, tastes, smells, and culture of Chongqing, China, and I was ready for the day’s adventures.

We went down the hotel steps and started the short walk along the street lined with trees toward our daughter’s apartment. As we started up the street, we saw two ladies each carrying baskets of fresh produce that hung from the bamboo pole (called bangzi) across their shoulders. Other vendors joined those who made their way down from hillside farms and gardens to sell their produce in the open market.

Chongqing, known as the “Mountain City,” was our home for a short time. People walk almost everywhere. The hills are so steep, it is impractical for bicycles. Because of the terrain, bangbang (pronounced bahng bahng) men (and women) carry the weight of the city on their shoulders, literally, as they haul goods hung from the ends of their bamboo poles. Bangbang men for hire is a fascinating part of the Chongqing culture which is now quickly disappearing. https://social.shorthand.com/chengwei_wang/j2ulvBo0cmf/chongqing-bangbang-man

I was immediately amazed at these people who lived day to day, simply. Doors opened as women and some of the men headed to the market to gather what they needed for the day’s meals. The next day, they would do the same. Soon, the streets, gardens, and small parks were swarming with people scurrying around like an army of ants on the move.

It is tradition for grandparents to care for the grandchildren while the parents work. We saw grandfathers and grandmothers alike who carried a basket on their back with their little grandchild tucked away inside. Older women sat alongside the street making brooms and mops. Men and women sat at small tables playing cards and other games or gathered to play croquet. On the balconies of the apartment buildings, women tended their gardens, reeled in clotheslines laden with laundry, or knitted. Some ladies even knitted as they walked down the street. Other people carried baskets of sticks they gathered along the many trails for their cooking fires. One lady even carried a huge limb to be chopped up for wood. No one was idle.

Later, we walked to a park where grandparents took the kids to play. There was no language barrier with the youngsters! They quickly came up to our green eyed, blonde headed, fair skinned little girl to play. She always drew a crowd. People would try to give her gifts, usually in the form of food. Our daughter didn’t encourage that, but sometimes they found surprises tucked away in the baby carrier when they got home.  At a nearby courtyard, music played, and people danced. Laughter filled the air, and smiles lit up the faces of those who seemed to enjoy life to its fullest. 

The milkman rode down the street with a milk can strapped to his motorcycle, stopping to make his deliveries. A woman came down the street with her bangzi across her shoulders, going door to door to collect recyclable items. She stuffed them in the bags that hung from the bamboo pole.

Yes, these things were what I wanted to experience in China – to see the people as they lived – to appreciate their day to day lives – to witness their love for family. Already I had seen many sights, heard many sounds, and had a whiff of smells, some of which I recognized, some I had not yet figured out, some I didn’t want to know. The culture I had witnessed so far fascinated me. This was just the beginning, my first impression of a world new to me. I couldn’t wait to go to the marketplaces, eat street food, and experience more sights, sounds (and smells), in the coming days.

Touch down! Though the long flight had been fairly comfortable, since we both had three seats so we could stretch out, it was good to be on land. We scrambled off the plane and tried to follow the few signs we saw. The first order of business was to go through customs and then exchange our crisp new $100 dollar bills for Chinese currency. Now, if we could just find where to catch our next flight for the last leg of our journey, we would be all set!

Long hallways leading to and from various terminals shot off in all directions. The signs were poor at best. I know we looked completely lost. Our eyes darted back and forth as we tried to figure out where to go and what to do. A Chinese man dressed in what appeared to be an official airport employee uniform approached. No doubt he smelled fear oozing through our sweaty pores. He spoke to us in very broken, no, shattered, English. I’m sure in reality he was saying, “You look like a couple of suckers. Let me see your tickets and I can profit from this situation and, by the way, get you to your gate.” We gladly complied, the big X on our foreheads pulsating along with the beat of our hearts. He pushed his way forward, said some magic words to a Chinese airport employee, and led us to the front of the line. We quickly went through the crowd. As he left us at the gate, he held out his hand. How much should we tip? I had no idea. I wasn’t sure the value of the currency I had stuffed in my purse and pockets. I gave him what I thought might be a good tip and asked if it was enough. Only then did he grin and indicate that it was. Later we found out that we had given him the equivalent (plus some) of a month’s wages. Well, if it got us where we wanted to go, it was worth it. My imagination had already dreamed up several scenarios of us being lost in China amid myriads of people, horrible drivers, and not knowing what they were shouting at us. 

I wouldn’t feel satisfied until we got off our next flight. We sat there a while anxiously waiting to hear an announcement to board our flight. There was no such announcement – at least in a language I understood. An airport agent approached an American couple seated several rows from us who was traveling to the same destination. The couple grabbed their bags, headed through the door and down the hallway. We sat there a few minutes more and then decided we had better follow.

Entering the corridor, we were consumed by a sea of people. I wondered if that was how cattle felt being pushed through a chute into a trailer to be hauled off to the slaughter. We slithered through the crowd until we got beside the American couple. They told us we had to take a bus to where our small plane waited on the tarmac. We packed like sardines onto the bus and quickly jumped off when we neared our plane. It was evident they were waiting – impatiently – I might add. The flight attendants looked really perturbed, but we made it on, to our seats, and squeezed in past the passenger who glared at us as he sat back down in the aisle seat next to us. Whew! That was an ordeal! Now, if we could just relax a bit before we landed in Chongqing!

It wasn’t long before a flight attendant came around to take our order for food. I had already looked at the menu online, so I quickly placed my order. My husband? That’s a different story. He tried to play 20 questions, asking her the various selections. On the first flight, we had Chinese food and he said he had already had enough, so he was very curious about the ingredients that were in whatever she was offering. She was already “put out” with us because we were late, so this didn’t help. I told him, “Just take something.” The guy sitting next to us was clearly not happy. He finally spoke to the attendant and basically said, “Don’t ask him what he wants, just give the guy something!” There may have been a few expletives inserted as well. She quickly handed him whatever she had in her hand. He may have eaten one bite.

We were sure glad when the flight was over. All we had to do was to find our son-in-law. When we walked out, there he was! “Now,” I thought, “I can relax.” We hopped in the taxi and off we went. Our son-in-law turned our direction and chatted away. I stiffened, clinched my teeth, and held on for dear life. You haven’t lived until you’ve ridden in China traffic in a taxi going supersonic speeds, horn volume on high, busses whizzing by within a half inch of you, on a four-lane road crammed with eight lanes of traffic, cars, buses, and motorcycles weaving in and out, none in a straight line. Getting through the airport to the next flight had been a breeze in comparison!

I wasn’t sure we would survive until the taxi came to a stop in front of our hotel. There to meet us was our daughter and our small granddaughter, our China Doll. When that little girl with big sparkling green eyes, blonde bouncy curls, and a sweet smile on her face ran and put her little arms around me and said, “Maga” (pronounced Mah Gah), I melted. The trip was already worth it!

I stood in amazement as I studied the formations in the cave. Big round boulders hung as if suspended from the ceiling and walls of the hollow cavity carved into the high cliffs. It looked as if the huge stones were put into a mold, secured by concrete, and set in place. I had never seen anything like it. I stepped back into the sunlight and looked around me. There were more of those same large shapes on the sides of cliffs along the skyline. My mind raced. What were those geological dome shaped figures imbedded in stone, and what caused them to form as they did?

Upon further investigation, I had a name for those fascinating wonders of nature. They were “concretions”, masses of mineral matter embedded in layers of rock, one of those minerals being a component of concrete. Hidden deep in the core of the rock was a bone, fossil, pebble, shell, or other object that served as the nucleus around which the concretion was formed.

It reminded me of another act of nature, that of a little oyster and a grain of sand trapped in its shell. The oyster releases a secretion to buffer the pain of the irritant resulting in a prized gem, a pearl.

As I pondered these things, a thought came to mind. Aren’t we like those “concretions”? Haven’t our lives been shaped around the experiences, and the trials that come our way?

I just finished reading the story of a family who endured horrific circumstances and defied all odds of survival. They were tested as if refined by fire and emerged as survivors of the atrocities they saw and experienced. All those events acted as secretions that wrapped their lives in stone and precious pearl to shape them into the people they became. A friend who suffered through many of life’s tests once said, “You have a choice – to emerge bitter or better.” 

We tend to base our opinions or beliefs in that which we see, not on what is hidden at the core. Our lives have been formed around events and obstacles that made us who we are today. Within each life is a story, and who knows what treasure you may discover!

The little man wore holey socks. His long bird-like talons cut the toe of the socks until a hole wore through. He then switched feet for the socks so there was a matching hole on the other side. Sometimes holes even showed up on the underside of the socks. If you happened to see those claw nails escape the socks, you would surely gasp at the atrocity. 

One job I said I would not do was cut the little man’s toenails. They were horrendous. Though I would have done it if there was no other choice, I declared emphatically, “I won’t cut his toenails! I’ll cook for him; I’ll clean up any messes he makes; I’ll shower him; I’ll toilet him; I’ll get up in the middle of the night and change his sheets; I’ll take him to his appointments. I’ll even administer his suppositories, but I won’t cut his toenails!”

I thought about calling a farrier, but then my tall daughter came to the rescue, “I’ll cut his nails.” I was relieved. Not only was she performing a job I didn’t want to do, but she was also getting training to cut my nails that look just like my dad’s. 

Oh, if you could have seen that little man when she came to the house with her clippers! She bought a massage soaking tub for his feet. Gently, she massaged his feet as she rubbed ointment on them, placing each in the tub to soak and soften those ghastly sharp misshaped weapons. She sang songs as she lovingly washed his feet and trimmed his nails. You would have thought he had been given the best of gifts. His eyes danced and a broad smile covered his face. The smile on my face was almost as big because I didn’t have to do that task. 

What I saw as a thankless terrible chore, she saw as an act of love, selfless service, and respect for the little man she held dear to her heart – foot washing.

By the way, “thanks Daddy for passing on your feet to me.” At least I know who can cut my nails! I, too, served a little man with respect and love even when I said, “Now bend over!”