adventures in china

At first glance, Menglun appears as a lazy riverside town. Men carry their days catch in woven reed baskets, Dai women giggle to each other as they float down the street in colorful dresses. First impressions are sometimes misleading.

Sunday night: I’m walking the streets alone. Kids scream as they run through garbage piles, past slot machine casinos packed full of men and brothels with exhausted women glowing red in the light. I hear yelling approaching from behind, but I don’t turn around. Drunken teenagers on red motorbikes often hoot at one another at this hour. Then they pull up next to me.

I glare through the dark. Who could this be? Familiar faces smile back. “heeellloow” they say. It’s my former landlords. The ones who installed worthless window locks on a brand new apartment complex, who thought it was a good idea to house americans (the only ones living in Menglun) on the first floor, the ones who could barely look at me or say “duibuqi” to me when the police showed up after the break in. It’s those guys.

“Ni hao” I say. I don’t know what is going on. Blurred colors float over their heads as stores advertise goods with fluorescent lights. At night, this town comes alive in ways you would never expect, and I’m part of it.

The wife hops off the motorbike and carriers her 2-year old daughter with her. “Go! Let’s go!” the husband yells at me as he pats the back of the seat, signalling me to get on and ride into the night.

I tried to decline. But what the fuck. Who cares at this hour. So I straddle the red motorbike and we speed off, leaving his wife and child in a cloud of exhaust fumes.

Moments later we pull into the parking lot of my old apartment. It’s too famliar. I told myself this was home for every second of every day until the break-in. He leads me to my old room and points proudly at the new security measures – chicken wire over the window bars – so that if someone wants to steal your stuff they better bring wire cutters! Great. I nod, smile, and try not to trip on things as I follow him around.

I have a seat in the living room and look at him. I mean I look at him. Dead in the face. I give him a look that transcends all language barriers. And I see how sorry he is, and how bad he feels, and how bad he has felt. I see this, and it all melts away. My anger towards this man is washed into the Mekong. Down through thick mud and sediment-filled shoreline. Flowing past gillnets and finally into green waters that lead to sea. All of it. Finally.

We sit and drink and chain smoke until our heads pulsate with nicotine. He teaches me the word for beer, for lighter, for telephone (not that I remember them this morning) and he tells me how Americans are different from Chinese people because we are big and like to shoot guns. He saw this on television. Well, I guess he is right, I am bigger than he is and I do like guns. He gives me his phone number and I give him mine, and we agree to meet again for another Chinese lesson. But next time, I must bring “my book” (Chinese/English dictionary)

Looking into his face again, I can tell what he really wants is for me to move back in. He wants rent, he wants his wife not to be angry with him. He wants this American to have not left his stuff on a table at night, and for his wife not to have placed a table near the window. Well, me too. And I give him a look that says so. Then we sit back in our chairs, finish the last of our drinks, and fade into the night.