Category Archives: Uncategorized

My Father’s Afghan

My Father’s Afghan   —by Jinny V. Batterson

A friend asked a group of us last fall to write a poem or lyric about a favorite memento. Before his memory was badly damaged by Alzheimer’s, my father in retirement took up knitting and crocheting, making scarves and blankets and afghans, giving at least one to each of his children. He also used his carpentry skills to make furniture out of pieces of wood he’d found on beaches and in woodland walks. Dad’s spirit persists, and we cherish the mementos he left us.

My father’s afghan’s worn, a loop pulled here and there,
But when I shrug beneath it, it envelopes me like prayer.
Dad’s gnarled hands were large, his knitting needles clicked–
They timed his slowing rhythms in a world obsessed with quick.

My father’s lamp burns bright, its bulb and shade are new,
Its base a set of gifts from autumn forests he walked through–
A branch entwined with vines, an interesting grain,
Within the lamplight’s glow I see those autumn woods again.

As his memory gradually died,
Confusion mocked Dad’s earlier pride–
His steps grew halting, his eyes grew dim;
By the time his body quit, there was little left of him.

My father’s spirit rests, his good and bad days done,
His ashes fondly buried near the house he last called home.
His legacy lives on, in loving songs like mine,
In crafts, and in concerns he shared with those he’s left behind.

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An Inconvenient Spotlight–Tiananmen 1989

An Inconvenient Spotlight: Tiananmen 1989   —by Jinny Batterson

A somewhat blurry video of an unarmed Chinese civilian approaching a line of military tanks near Beijing’s Tiananmen Square on June 5, 1989 has become iconic for Western China-watchers. The man wore a white shirt and dark trousers. He carried a small sack in either hand, as if in the midst of a shopping trip. He emerged from a large crowd and at first stood before the lead tank, then maneuvered to stay in front of it as it swung right or left. Finally, the tank stopped. The civilian climbed up onto the tank and tapped on its turret. For a minute or two, he then conversed with its driver, presumably asking him to alter course and turn back. After that, “tank man” climbed back down and disappeared into the crowd. Before long, the tanks began rolling again. Few are sure what happened to tank man after that.

Parts of what many Westerners know about events at Tiananmen in spring, 1989, exist because the photojournalists who shot the tank man video footage were in Beijing to cover a historic diplomatic event—a meeting between the heads of state of China and the then-U.S.S.R.  These journalists also shone a spotlight on the other events that transpired that tumultuous spring. Events from central Beijing in May and June of 1989 have been in an inconvenient spotlight in the West ever since. Whenever I’ve traveled to China post-1989, I’ve been cautioned to avoid mentioning Tiananmen 1989. I comply. I’ve heard that security at Tiananmen Square is especially tight around the anniversary of the military crackdown there.

The one at-length Tiananmen discussion I’ve had with someone from China occurred around our American kitchen table one night in autumn, 1994.  Then, our house’s  bedrooms were filled with my husband and me, our high school aged son, plus a high school exchange student from France and an international exchange teacher from southern China. I’ll call him Mr. Huang. During the period from 1984 to early 1989, we’d had nearly a dozen short and long-term visitors from China, but Huang was our first Chinese long-term visitor since.

The evening’s exchange of views was probably prompted by a televised American news clip about the debate over annual renewal of the U.S.’s “most favored nation” trading status with China.  U.S. media coverage nearly always included archived footage of June, 1989 events in Beijing. Huang paid careful attention to the footage and the TV commentary. So did the rest of our temporary international family.

Once the news clip ended, our French visitor commented, “It’s a shame that so many of the surviving protesters had to flee to Hong Kong or overseas. They could have helped a lot with economic development if they’d been allowed to stay and contribute without being threatened or jailed.”

Huang at first said nothing.

“From what we saw on television, there must have been a lot of casualties,” our high school aged son chimed in.

“What did you hear about the protests, Huang?” I wondered, hoping to tamp down the teenagers’ rhetoric a notch.

“Not many people died,” Huang informed us. “Most of the ones who were killed were soldiers trying to put down a counterrevolutionary mob.”

“But most of the demonstrators were students or ordinary citizens,” our son retorted. “And we saw people who weren’t soldiers lying bleeding on the streets. We saw ambulances and stretchers. We heard gunfire.”

“How can you tell what happened?” demanded Huang. “You were thousands of miles away. I was at home in China. What I read in the newspapers confirmed that the soldiers were the brave ones. They were the main casualties. I’m glad not more of them were killed.”

“Your newspapers tell you only what they want you to hear,” responded the young Frenchman. “We saw the tanks and tracer bullets on television in France. We heard the explosions. How can we doubt what we saw and heard with our own eyes and ears? Were you in Beijing?”

“I’ve never been in Beijing,” Huang admitted, “but my father served in the People’s Liberation Army (China’s military) during the 1950’s. He was a brave soldier. He fought hard for our country. Our military would never harm another Chinese unless they were trying to destroy the revolution. Our military serves the people—in Beijing in 1989 they were only doing their duty to restrain counterrevolutionaries who wanted to bring down the government.”

After a few more exchanges, we realized that we would never convince each other. The media reports of the protests and any subsequent crackdowns by our respective communications outlets were selective and diametrically opposed. So were our respective backgrounds. By the end of the evening, all we could agree on was one underlying theme: good governance requires considerable self-restraint on the part of both governments and their citizens.

As media in both the U.S. and China become more omnipresent and more invasive, I wonder where the next inconvenient spotlight will shine. Periodic violence continues to erupt in both the U.S. and in China. Both our cultures continue to search for better ways to defuse violent potentials and to resolve differences. Tiananmen happened. It had and has consequences.  It haunts those of us who were alive and paying attention when it occurred. However, the incidents leading up to tank man in 1989 are no more all of China than footage of gun murders or police riots in U.S. cities are all of the U.S.  May all of us find ways to forgive each other and to forgive ourselves.

China Musings: Views from a Different Well

China Musings: Views from a Different Well    —by Jinny Batterson

Last September, I set out to post a weekly blog entry about some of my experiences and impressions of China. Now, as June begins, the school year is winding down. I have only a few weeks to go before I stop posting as regularly about China. I’ve tried to write what is true to my experience. I expect that once the year’s posts are complete, I’ll revisit some entries from time to time to update them and clarify them. Perhaps I’ll expand or prune some further as my experiences change. As this school year draws to a close, I’m nearly as puzzled by the vastness of China as I was at the year’s start, and just as intrigued as ever. Early on in my attempts to set some impressions on paper, I remembered a Chinese folk tale that some of my students in China had told me about a frog:

This frog lives at the bottom of a well. She finds there all the nourishment and beauty she needs.  From her vantage point in the well, it’s possible to see a small disk of sky. This is what she knows of the world above. One day, a large turtle happens to hear the frog croaking as he passes by the top of the well. He stops to chat with her.  The frog invites the turtle to climb down the well to share in the bounty she has found there, but the opening is too small for the turtle’s shell.

The turtle then tries to describe some of what he has seen to the frog—wide expanses of sky stretching to far horizons, a sea so broad and deep that it maintains its level despite the most massive floods or droughts. The turtle invites the frog to climb out and travel with him to view the wider world. The frog considers, then decides to remain in the security of the well, enjoying a more predictable life and viewing the sky she can see from the well’s bottom.

I like to think that, like the turtle, I’ve seen a bit of ocean during a fairly long life so far. However, I’m aware that, like the frog, I can still see just small parts of a larger sky—my views have been colored by my culture, my “American well,” and the times during which I’ve lived.

Most Americans and Chinese I know tend to view the world from different wells, shaped by our respective cultures and histories. My aim with this year’s set of “China W(a/o)nderings” has been to show the small disk of sky that I can see, perhaps to broaden its edges a little, and to nourish conversations that may over time broaden the edges of other wells, too. Happy June!

The Dujiangyan Weir–Civil Engineering that Lasts

The Dujiangyan Weir: Civil Engineering that Lasts    —by Jinny Batterson

Civil engineering is not one of my skills. Even trying to understand basic maps, diagrams, and schematics can leave me scratching my head in confusion. So I’m sure that I cannot appreciate, in the same way a trained engineer would, the elegance of the design of the Dujiangyan Irrigation Projects site (also translated into English as the Dujiangyan Weir). A “weir” is a manmade structure to redirect a river’s flow. It is less restrictive than a dam, allowing water to flow over or around parts of it. I’ve visited the site twice during travels in the area—in 2004 and again in 2009.  I did, through a guide’s explanation and through direct observation,  develop a sense of awe for the crafters, builders and maintainers of this irrigation system built over 2000 years ago. The Dujiangyan weir is now the only remaining no-dam irrigation project in the world. It continues to provide both irrigation water and flood protection despite nearly 2300 years of wear and tear, countless downpours and droughts, and numerous earthquakes, including a very serious one in 2008.

The project was first built starting in 256 B.C., during the Warring States period that preceded China’s unification. It was masterminded by area governor Li Bing and his son, with financial and manpower assistance from the state of Qin (pronounced “chin”), which a generation later consolidated its power over the country we now call China. The aim was to relieve the periodic flooding of the Min River, at the same time providing irrigation water to farms in the fertile surrounding plains. The system includes three main parts: a “fish mouth levee,”  splitting the river into two parts at the head of a fish-shaped island, one part a deep, narrow inner channel, the other a wide, shallow outer one; a broad opening, “flying sand weir,” that allows excess water, plus silt and sediment, to swirl from the inner to the outer channel; and a “bottleneck channel” that distributes irrigation water through a narrow aperture toward area farmland, while holding back excess water to prevent flooding.  This final channel was constructed before the availability of dynamite. It was hewn out of its surroundings by successively heating and cooling its rock walls, probably through bonfires and drenching with river water, until the walls cracked and could be chipped away. Digging this part of the channel took eight years.

During dry periods, about 60% of the river’s water flows through the inner channel and bottleneck channel, providing much-needed irrigation water. During heavy rains, the proportions are reversed, with about 60% flowing harmlessly down the outer channel, protecting surrounding areas from flooding.  Although I do not understand all the engineering involved, I’m impressed at the combination of natural and artificial features that have kept this system working through earthquake, fire, and flood.

Since the project’s initial construction, several surrounding temples have been built to honor Li Bing. Several pedestrian bridges now span the river to make it easier to take in the scope of the project. In 2004, I visited the site with a group tour on our way back from mountainous northern Sichuan. On that trip, our tour bus was partway down the mountainous slopes when lightning started flashing around us. Thunder boomed closer and closer, echoing off the surrounding peaks.  Our bus driver hurtled through the gorges upstream of the weir down bumpy roads at the highest practical speed. When we reached the flash-flood-safe area of the irrigation project before the rains hit, everyone heaved a collective sigh of relief. We cheered our driver, who was the most relieved of all. In 2009, a local friend drove me out from her home near Dujiangyan to see the weir. Damage from the 2008 earthquake to the temples and to one of the bridges was still being repaired, but the structures in the river itself were completely restored after only minor impact. The Dujiangyan Irrigation Project is an important tourist destination for both domestic and international tourists.

My lasting impression of the dikes, levees and river are of clear, rushing water, and an engineering feat that continues to show remarkable beauty, practicality, and endurance.

The May 4 Movement

The May 4 Movement—Beginning of China’s Modern Evolution?

—by Jinny Batterson

This post lags May 4 by a week,  but may have some relevance even so.  What has come to be called the “May 4 Movement” was a series of demonstrations by students and workers in China, starting on May 4, 1919. It was part of a broader “new culture” movement that arose in China during and just after the First World War.  Both New Culture and the May 4 Movement played out during the ferment in China after the fall of the final dynasty of Chinese emperors, the Qing, in 1911.  The immediate trigger for the May 4 protests was news that during international negotiations in Versailles, France, to establish treaty provisions at the close of World War I, China had been denied the return of portions of Shandong Province that were occupied by Germany during the war. Chinese claims were dismissed despite China’s entry into the alliance against Germany in 1917 with the express claim of regaining German-held territory.  Instead, the territory that many Chinese thought was rightfully theirs was temporarily ceded to Japan (which had also fought opposing Germany, and was more advanced industrially than China). The Chinese students felt this was a betrayal, and demanded that China refuse to sign the Treaty of Versailles. According to the Wikipedia description of the May 4 movement, the students, gathered the morning of May 4 in Beijing, also wanted:

—to draw awareness of China’s precarious position to the masses in China.

—to recommend a large-scale gathering in Beijing.

That afternoon, several thousand students assembled in front of the Gate of Heavenly Peace (Tiananmen) in central Beijing, shouting slogans denouncing the terms of the treaty and demanding the resignation of three Chinese officials that they felt had sold out China during the Versailles negotiations.  Some of the students marched to the home of one of the despised officials and set it on fire.  They were later arrested and severely beaten.

The larger context for the protests and movements was a sense that China had fallen behind Western powers and Japan in its industrialization and economic growth, and that basic changes needed to be made in Chinese society and culture if China was to resume a central role in the world order.  Some Chinese intellectuals and writers talked of needing two “doctors” to help cure China’s ills: “Doctor Science” and “Doctor Democracy.”  As May turned to June, protests spread throughout the country, with workers and merchants joining in.  The Chinese government of the time eventually dismissed the three reviled negotiators. China also refused to sign the Versailles treaty, though Japan retained de facto control of portions of Shandong and some Pacific islands.

Some historical sources claim that the ferment of the May 4 Movement, its short-lived partial success, and the eventual rejection of many of its broader demands were factors leading to the establishment of the Chinese Communist Party in Shanghai in 1921. Others indicate that the behavior of the Western powers at the time of the Versailles Treaty in 1919 helped persuade many Chinese to reject Western-style democracy as self-serving and hypocritical.

The debate about the appropriate balance of tradition and of change has never been resolved, either in China or elsewhere. Perhaps it cannot be. Subsequent Chinese political figures as diverse as Mao Zedong and the student leaders of protests in 1989 have claimed the May 4 Movement as part of their inspiration.

This May, demonstrations have continued in some American cities to protest low wages for fast food workers, the death of Freddie Gray in police custody in Baltimore, and other police violence against civilians. Are we all, in a sense, inheritors of the May 4 Movement?

 

Du Fu’s Thatched Cottage

Du Fu’s Thatched Cottage     —by Jinny Batterson

China probably does not have a “National Poetry Month,” as is celebrated in the U.S. in April, but poetry is taught in schools across China from an early age.  Most university students can recite some of the most famous Chinese poems from memory. China reveres its poets, especially ancient ones.  During some of China’s more turbulent periods, poets gave voice to people’s hopes and concerns. They wrote about nature themes; they wrote about history, about dreams, about loss, about transcendence.  Du Fu, an itinerant poet who lived during part of the Tang Dynasty (712-770), was witness to one of its most disastrous episodes, the An-Shi Rebellion, which started in 756 and pitted the emperor at the time against several powerful warlords.

The rebels captured the capital of Chang’an (modern Xi’an), forcing many, including the emperor and the poet, who’d been living there for a decade, to flee.  Du Fu later moved to Chengdu, where friends helped him build a modest thatched home near a small stream.  There he wrote many of his most famous poems. His life was difficult. Bouts of relative poverty plagued him and his family. Social conditions continued to be unsettled in many parts of the country. He lived in several other locales after Chengdu, and was often on the road for extended periods.

In 2009, I had a chance to visit Du Fu’s cottage and the park surrounding it with one of my best students of English.  Having her to serve as translator increased my appreciation of the poet, his poetry, and the park.  The existing cottage is a replica, reconstructed several times, most recently during the 19th century, I think. It is a modest dwelling, with an actual thatched roof. The furnishings are sparse. One room is devoted to a gift shop/library with collections of poetry and calligraphy for sale.  I bought an English translation of some of Du Fu’s best known verse, but have since lost it in a move. I don’t know any Du Fu poems by heart, not even in translation.

As I recall, the cottage is a fairly small part of a larger oasis of greenery in this part of Chengdu. There is a hall of poets, with statues and inscriptions describing the life and work of other leading Tang and Song dynasty poets, including Li Bai, Wang Wei, Su Shi, and Lu You. In one section of the park, the sidewalk has been inlaid with short quotations from some of China’s most famous poets.  “Rebecca,” my student, tried translating a few of them for me, but poetry is notoriously difficult to render into a different language.

A number of Du Fu’s poems have been posted online in English versions.  One of my favorites is  “Lone Wild Goose,”  a poem he wrote near the end of a life disrupted by war, poverty, and frequent relocations:

Alone, the wild goose refuses food and drink,
his calls searching for the flock.

Who feels compassion for that single shadow
vanishing in a thousand distant clouds?

You watch, even as it flies from sight,
its plaintive calls cutting through you.

The noisy crows ignore it:
the bickering, squabbling multitudes.

There’s ample evidence that Du Fu’s troubles in later life made him more empathetic toward many of China’s peasants, whose lives had also been disrupted by the fighting and chaos of the period. But life was not uniformly severe. There’s also evidence that Du Fu and Li Bai (701-762), his slightly older contemporary, the most famous Tang poet, were at times able to spend evenings together among their fellows, drinking wine and challenging each other to poetry competitions.

 

Earth Day in China

Earth Day in China   —by Jinny Batterson

During the several years when I was in China in late April, I never noticed any hoopla about Earth Day, celebrated in the U.S. around April 22.  This holiday, founded by environmentalists in the United States in 1970, has yet to catch on in China.  A couple of times, I’ve broached the subject of environmental activism to some of my Chinese students and colleagues.  Over the past generation or so in China, there has been increasing interest in ecological education, as the Chinese economy begins to mature and its natural environment becomes more polluted.

I have mainly benefited from industrial progress in the U.S. for much of my lifetime, so I can find it awkward to discuss “earth friendly” development with Chinese friends.  After I’d given a somewhat glib critique of China’s polluted air at an evening Q&A session several years ago, one younger Chinese colleague retorted:

“Your country spewed great plumes and spurts of toxic chemicals into its air and water for over a century before you began efforts to clean up your dirty industries. What right do you have to criticize us when we’re still just getting started on our development?”

Reaching a consensus on steps our respective governments and cultures can take to reduce our harm to global air and water resources can be tricky.  The trade-offs between economic development and wise resource stewardship are not always obvious.  Citizens in both countries register alarm at some of the damage we’re causing, but what we can do to reduce the harm is not always readily apparent.

Progress toward mutual efforts to reduce some pollutants in our two countries, greenhouse gas emissions, got a boost in November, 2014, when Chinese President Xi Jinping and U.S. President Barack Obama signed a historic agreement with ambitious emissions reduction targets for both countries. The U.S. pledged to reduce its emissions by at least 26% below 2005 levels by 2025; China promised to cap its emissions by 2030, and earlier if possible. Greenhouse gases such as carbon dioxide and methane, coming from industrial, residential, and vehicular sources, are leading contributors to air pollution, as well as likely facilitators of global climate change. If early progress is made toward achieving these goals, it will help further advance broader international agreements at a global climate summit to be held in Paris in December, 2015. (You can read more about the U.S.-China agreement at http://www.washingtonpost.com/business/economy/china-us-agree-to-limit-greenhouse-gases/2014/11/11/9c768504-69e6-11e4-9fb4-a622dae742a2_story.html.)

A non-governmental boost toward paying attention to China’s environment came recently from a former CCTV (Chinese state television) reporter, Chai JIng, who in 2015 produced an independent hour-plus documentary about air pollution problems in China. Chai’s TED-style documentary, “Under the Dome,” also provides historical context from different parts of the world. It cites Britain’s “killer smog” of 1952 (4 days of heavy air pollution in December that year that killed an estimated 12,000 people). It also chronicles Los Angeles’s smog problems. In the period just after World War II, smog in Los Angeles was just as dense and harmful as Beijing’s smog is today. A photograph taken of one of L.A.’s freeways on Christmas Eve, 1948, shows extremely limited visibility. Strict emissions standards strictly enforced have lessened smog there, even as the number of vehicles on area roads has increased.

Chai has said she produced her documentary out of concern for her young daughter, who was born with a benign tumor that may have been caused by pollution. Chai’s presentation was posted to the Internet and had received over 100 million views in China before it was removed from Chinese websites.

It may be slightly ironic that two high-profile recent public events in Beijing—the 2008 Olympics and the 2014 APEC summit (Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation), at which Obama and Xi signed their historic agreement—contributed to increasing expectations among Beijingers that cleaner air is possible.  For both events, polluting industries in surrounding areas were temporarily scaled back or shut down entirely.  Motor traffic into the city was severely restricted. Officials wanted to have “blue sky days” while Beijing was in the international spotlight.

When Earth Day comes around this year, I’ll do my part by increasing my efforts to be more sparing in my use of a car.  I’ll invest more in carbon offsets to reduce the impact of my airline travel. I’ll eat lower on the food chain more often.  I’ll revel in the “blue sky days” that still predominate in the part of the United States of America where I live. In addition to personal lifestyle changes, I’ll work harder toward public policy modifications in my town, county, state, and country to help protect the environment. I’ll think of Chai Jing and her daughter, of my own children and grandchildren. Each of us can do something to move toward a more livable planet for future generations of humans.

Sandstorms, Yellow Air in Xinjiang

Sandstorms, Yellow Air in Xinjiang   —by Jinny Batterson

When the weather finally began to warm during the year when my husband and I taught English at a small desert reclamation college by the desert in far northwestern China (2006-2007), at first we rejoiced. The days grew longer. Siberian iris began poking up along the edges of campus walkways. After months of bundling up in layers of heavy clothing whenever we ventured outside, we could finally wander our campus with only a light jacket. Spring was just around the corner, and not a moment too soon. Earlier in the year, some of our best students as well as some of the veteran teachers had warned us about spring’s 6-8 week period of “yellow air” in our oasis town in western Xinjiang. We still were not prepared for dust storm season.

March winds in Xinjiang pick up dust from the Taklimakan desert and blow it around, occasionally in strong storms. The year we were there, we heard about a severe dust and wind storm that had derailed 11 train cars negotiating a mountain pass. Over thirty people were hospitalized. There were several fatalities. Dust storms stir up a ubiquitous haze that can last for weeks, until an infrequent rain comes through to settle the dust.

By Beijing time, the sun in late winter and early spring rose about 9 a.m.  It was typically 11 or even noon before sunlight pierced the haze enough to form shadows.  The red disk then shone weakly for a few hours before disappearing into the westward haze bank about 4. We only experienced two dust storms directly, both of them mild—the first came up suddenly in early afternoon while we were in our apartment preparing for afternoon classes.  The school’s alarm system sounded, followed by an announcement that our Foreign Affairs Officer and minder soon translated into English for us via phone:

“Afternoon classes are canceled today. Please stay indoors.”

At the height of the storm, our efforts to take pictures out our apartment windows were fruitless. The camera’s flash went off, but all that showed in the resulting photograph was a foot or so of murky brown air. We couldn’t even see the willow trees in the quadrangle between our building and the apartment blocks maybe a hundred yards across the way.  The storm abated nearly as quickly as it had come up. By sunset, the air, though still somewhat murky, had returned to stillness.

Before the year we spent in Xinjiang, we’d only seen a sandstorm from a distance. On an earlier trip to parts of northern and central China in 2002, we’d just boarded an airline flight heading south out of Beijing when one of that season’s storms rolled in from the northwest. We could see an orange-brown haze spreading toward the capital, but were well aloft and further south before it began to affect the city. On the following evening’s television news, we saw that the storm had briefly cut visibility to a few yards, had left a heavy coating of grit on cars, buildings, and roads, and had caused respiratory problems.

Sandstorms have long been a feature of springtime in northern China. According to some sources, they have gotten worse in recent years, despite large-scale efforts to plant shelter belts of trees and grasses to stabilize the soil and sands of the Gobi and Taklimakan deserts, whose surfaces are stirred up by spring winds.  Another multi-decade effort has been to transfer massive amounts of water from China’s southern provinces toward the more arid north. One phase of this effort, bringing water to Beijing, went online during the winter of 2014-2015. In our small town of Ala’er, Xinjiang, responses to the storms seemed to be a combination of resignation, irrigation, grass and tree planting, and staying indoors.

On an afternoon in early May, the skies darkened once more, but this time they brought thunder and rain. I was amazed at the number of umbrellas that suddenly sprouted in this place of rare downpours.  After a couple of hours, first of drenching showers, then of gentler drizzle, the skies cleared.  That evening, the sunset featured streaks of rainbow colors against a crystal blue background. The season of yellow air was finally over.

Voyeur

Voyeur   —by Jinny Batterson

February—not just endless, but endlessly fickle.
One day teasing with early warmth.
Later freezing with near-zero chill.
As a departing insult, dumping three storms’ worth
Of ice, sleet, snow, freezing rain onto roads,
Trees, and power lines grown brittle with the cold.
Finally exiting, unlamented.

March blows somewhat warmer, yo-yoing toward spring.
Along parkways, Bradford pears pop open their pearly baubles.
Magnolias simper in front yards, flashing creamy white flesh.
Everywhere, daffodils lift their jaundiced cups to Saint Paddie.
On medians, apricots, plums, early cherries flounce their inverted tutus.

Abandoning these floozies’ displays, I stalk quieter innocence.
One morning, I spy four deer browsing in a nearby woods.
Nuzzling beneath fallen leaves, intent on tender twigs and shoots,
They pay me no mind.  After a while, they wander off.

Adolescent pines, some bruised and bent, line the wood’s edges.
Hollies stand stolid here and there, berries mostly gone.
In the understory, tucked back among oaks, maples, poplars,
Beeches cling to leaves bleached pale, worn thin by winter’s abrasions.

If I am quiet as the deer, if I am vigilant, always watching, watching,
I may get a glimpse, before later greenery masks their deshabille,
Of the young beeches, blushing, shedding their paper skirts.

Beach Time in Sanya

Beach time in Sanya     —by Jinny Batterson

The first time I traveled to China, in 1980, there was little concept of vacation or of visiting distant natural wonders among Chinese workers, many of whom had survived the famines and upheavals of previous decades by the skin of their teeth. Most were happy then to be alive, reunited with family members, and not starving. The industrial workers I saw during that visit worked six days each week. Days off were staggered. There was no such thing as a weekend. If the weather was pleasant, groups of workers from the same factory or work unit might visit a nearby urban park together on their one day off—anything further afield was unimaginable. Transportation infrastructure was minimal. A basic national rail passenger network existed between major cities, but getting around for long distances in the countryside was difficult to impossible.

By my more recent visits, much of that had changed. China’s booming economy had created a huge middle class—more than the entire population of the United States. Road, high-speed rail, and airport infrastructure was being built out at a breakneck pace. Many middle-class Chinese now owned private motorcycles or cars. Trips to exotic locales, along with advanced education, were the two luxuries most sought after by Chinese with newly available discretionary income. Nearly every middle class Chinese urbanite has a dream vacation spot, either in-country or overseas. The increasing in-country tourism infrastructure in China has made it possible for them and for me to see regions that were previously off-limits or just too hard to get to.

Some of my Xinjiang teaching colleagues in far northwest China in 2006-2007 were the Chinese equivalent of “snowbirds” (a term used to describe people in the northeastern U.S. or eastern Canada who spend at least part of the winter where the weather is warmer).  I discovered, as our long winter holiday break approached,  that  several teachers at our college had previously been to Sanya, a former fishing village on Hainan Island in the South China Sea now dubbed the “Hawaii of China”  and “Forever Tropical Paradise.” Their recommendations that I travel to Sanya, too, fell on willing ears—the chill winds blowing around our edge-of-the-desert campus and through cracks around our windows and doors made this tropical resort sound especially appealing.

My husband and I arrived in Sanya late one night, very tired from a long set of plane flights clear across the country.  We would spend most of our stay at an elegant 3-star guest house that was built into a hillside several blocks from a public beach.  Over the course of our several week holiday, this seaside town became one of my all-time favorite locales for “beach time.”  Our visit started with a first night’s sleep lulled by gentle warm breezes. The following day, I went shopping for a bathing suit—not generally needed in Xinjiang at any time of the year.  I found, though I am of average height and fairly slender size for an American woman (5 feet 5 inches tall, size 10), in Chinese sizes I’m an extra-extra-large. Nearly everywhere we went, we saw cascades of bougainvillea, most often in vibrant shades of pink, red, and purple. Twenty different varieties of the trailing shrub, with its three-sided blossoms, grow in the area, I was told. The flowers have become a symbol of Sanya, whose Chinese character name starts with “san,” or three.

We met other native English speakers in Sanya, but by far the largest international group in late January were Russian tourists. Most hotels, restaurants, and tour locations had signage in Chinese and Russian, with occasional English.  One was just as likely to hear a rendition of “Midnight in Moscow” in a local nightclub as a version of Elvis’s “Love Me Tender,”  as likely to find beef Stroganoff on the menu as hamburger. Sanya tourism officials had encouraged the influx of Russian tourists and their tourist spending, providing on-arrival visa services and several weekly direct flights from northern Russian cities.

Of course, Sanya was not totally paradisiacal —there were occasional signs of urban blight and of the boom-and-bust cycle of construction that seems to plague tourist destinations even more than other cities and towns.  Parts of town were off-limits, home to an extensive naval base. Some fishing boats of the former fishing fleet lay at anchor, gradually rusting and/or rotting away. Shops and attractions could be just as kitschy as beach towns anywhere else on the planet. Still, the town had all the amenities to provide a comfortable, welcoming, affordable stay.

A little east of the main part of town was an area of curving white sand beach called Yalong Bay. Site of the poshest resort hotels, the neighborhood was mostly gated and somewhat beyond our tourist budget. However, partly courtesy of a local government official who’d lived with us in the U.S. many years previously, we had a chance to visit one of the luxury hotels briefly and to share in a complimentary lunch on the terrace of the Sheraton Sanya.  Its widely traveled general manager plied us with excellent food and drink and regaled us with stories of famous guests he’d had and crises he’d averted. The view of the bay, the wide pristine arc of the beach, and the graceful rolling waves beyond was as beautiful as any I’ve seen.