Brief Encounter

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The centre of the old town of Lijiang is a picturesque labyrinth of narrow cobbled streets, little canals, stone bridges, and quaint old buildings. But nobody seems to actually live there anymore. Every building is now a souvenir shop, a cafe, a restaurant, a hotel, or a travel agent. And even in mid-December, which is supposed to be low season, the narrow cobbled streets are packed with Chinese tour groups, with a few puzzled-looking westerners thrown in for good measure. On the main square, KFC and Pizza Hut are doing a roaring trade. Welcome to Disneyland Lijiang!

In order to escape from all this, at least for a day, we took a minibus out to the small village of Baisha, which is about 6 km from Lijiang. To our relief, we seemed to be the only outsiders visiting the village that morning. We wandered down the main street and came by chance across the residence of Dr. Ho, a man made famous by Michael Palin - but Tracey will tell that story in another blog. After Dr. Ho, we had lunch and had set off to look for the famous frescoes of Baisha when we were approached by a little old lady.

The little old lady wore a rather smart blue embroidered jacket, black trousers, and a grey peaked cloth cap that sat on her head at a jaunty angle. She was about 75 years old. She tugged at my sleeve and shoved a small grubby notebook under my nose. She jabbered at me in a language that could have been Mandarin, but was more likely her native language, probably Naxi. Either way I could not understand a word. But the notebook had a handwritten message in English. I glanced at it quickly. It said something along the lines of "Come and sample the authentic traditional hospitality of tribal people, in their own home, food and drink, ....." etc. etc....

"Oh, no", I said to Tracey "Its the old Authentic Tribal Hospitality Scam! Gimme a break!"
I did not care whether the old lady could understand me or not. I had had my fill of touts and scammers in Lijiang. Tracey frowned at me disapprovingly. Anyway, we had just had lunch, so we declined the invitation, and continued our search for the frescoes.

After a while we came across the building that housed the famous frescoes. There was a large car park with only a few vehicles, and a small ticket office. The man in the ticket office spoke a few words of English: "30 yuan entrance fee plus 80 yuan conservation fee, per person".
I turned to Tracey "That's 13 euro's each. We could get into the Rijkmuseum for that. Or the Musee d'Orsay. Or the Hermitage. What are these frescoes - Michelangelo? I don't think so. No wonder there's no cars parked here."
We pointed out to the man that this was very expensive, and couldn't he give us a student discount, but he eyed my grey beard suspiciously and shook his head. We turned round and walked away. The man in the ticket office went back to reading his newspaper. Why should he worry, the government paid his wages anyway.

We decided to walk to the other end of the village. In no time the little old lady was at our side again, and this time there was no escape. It seemed that our route took us past her house. She followed us along the street, chattering away and tugging at my sleeve. Suddenly she turned up an alleyway and beckoned vigorously.
"Come on" said Tracey "How bad can it be?" I had heard that phrase often before.

We followed the old lady up the alleyway, through a door into a garden courtyard, through another door into a small house. It seemed to consist of a single room. I scanned the room quickly - no gang of cut-throats hiding in the shadows - maybe the old lady was on the level, after all. The room was sparsely furnished, like most rooms in this part of the world. A low table, a sofa, a chair, a cupboard, a TV set. We sat on the sofa and the old lady bustled about bringing things to the table. Cups of tea, big plates piled with peanuts, sweets, pumpkin seeds. She sat opposite us and chattered away. I looked at her more closely. Her face was old and wrinkled, but she had a certain attractive quality that you see occasionally in old women: a girlish quality. She laughed a lot, her eyes sparkled, and she had an endearing lop-sided grin. The cap on her head at a jaunty angle added to the effect. Slowly I began to take a liking to her.

Relaxing somewhat, I took a big mouthful of pumpkin seeds. After a few minutes of chewing I found that I had half a mouthful of tough fibrous residue. I looked around the room for a suitable receptacle - there was none. I chewed slowly on the residue, unable to speak, and tried to smile at the old lady. Again she bustled about, and this time she brought a pile of notebooks to the table. Notebooks of various shapes and sizes and ages, some more dirty and dog-eared than others. She opened one of the notebooks and shoved it under my nose. I saw that it was filled with hand-written messages in many languages.

"Oh, no" I thought to myself, "Its the old Fake Testimonial Scam. Gimme a break." But I did not say this out loud, because Tracey would not have approved, and anyway my mouth was gummed up with fibrous residue.

I started scanning through the messages, at first just to satisfy the old lady, but then, increasingly, with genuine interest. There were many messages that I could not understand at all: Chinese, Japanese, Korean. But also many others in European languages that I could understand to varying extents: Spanish, Italian, German, French, Dutch, English. The oldest book was dated 2000. So the old lady had been luring people back to her home for at least 10 years. As I read through the messages I started to notice an extraordinary consistency among them. All of these people had fallen in love with the old lady. A few, like me, had been suspicious at first, but had come to realise that she was perfectly genuine.

"A beautiful person, we had a wonderful afternoon"
"She is a tremendous person - warm, spontaneous, genuine and giving"
"Amazing to discover such authentic traditional tribal hospitality"
"The incredible generosity of such simple ethnic people is really moving and humbling"
"A fascinating interaction with another culture"
"The best experience I have had in China"
"This restores one's faith in humanity"
"Awesome. A totally enriching and life-affirming experience"
And so on. That last one was an American, of course.

But it was, typically, a Dutchman who got to the heart of the matter and came right out and wrote exactly what everybody else was thinking but did not want to say:
"It does not seem as though she wants any money from us."

Gradually, as I read through the notebooks, I realised that this could not possibly be a fake, as the old cynic in me had initially assumed. There was too much, it was too good, there were too many languages. She was indeed the real thing. I noticed that her sparkling eyes were examining my face, searching for my approval. And then quite suddenly a thought occurred to me: Good God, she has been keeping these books for years, but she cannot understand most of what is here, maybe only the Chinese. What a terrible irony that she cannot appreciate all the praise, all the good wishes, all the kindness, all the love that is expressed in these pages. As I had this thought, I looked again in her sparkling eyes and suddenly my heart went out to her. I could feel that I was on the edge of tears. With a supreme effort I swallowed the pumpkin-seed residue and stammered "Good. Its very good. It's all very good." It was woefully inadequate, I knew. Rarely have I felt the barrier of language so acutely.

But there was more to come. She scuttled away again and came back with a pile of photo albums. Family pictures. Her son, who, we gathered laboriously by sign language, worked in Lijiang. Grandchildren. Old pictures of herself as a young woman, with the same sparkling eyes. Bizarrely, a picture of herself seated on a camel. After a long discussion and much laughter, we decided that it must have been a stuffed camel. It was all - there is no other word for it - heartwarming. A unique glimpse into another life, another culture, another world. We both felt honoured that she had shared this with us.

After several cups of tea, and more peanuts and sweets (I gave the pumpkin seeds a miss), it was time to leave. Tracey wrote a message in the newest notebook, echoing the appreciation of our predecessors in that room. I felt genuinely moved at saying goodbye. The language barrier again. How to express thanks? Impulsively, I threw conventions aside and grasped the old lady's hands in mine. Maybe the gentle pressure of my hands could express something where words failed.

I paused awkwardly in the doorway - I had to step over the high door sill, that high door sill that is intended to deter evil spirits from entering the house. And there, suddenly, the old lady came up to me, her arm outstretched. She said something. Her right hand was under my nose. She rubbed her thumb and first finger together vigorously. The meaning was unmistakable.

In that instant, everything changed. I felt my blood turn cold. Mechanically, I fished a 20-yuan note from my wallet and gave it to her. I turned and walked away, Tracey followed. At the courtyard door we turned and looked at the old lady. She was still chattering, smiling her lop-sided grin, her girlish eyes sparkled. She waved, and we waved back. But everything had changed.

We walked quickly down the street. I needed to get away, away from the old lady. My emotions were in turmoil.
"Jesus! She certainly had me fooled! Tribal hospitality my arse."
"It's not much money" said Tracey.
"20 yuan - what we would pay in a cheap cafe. Nearly all profit for her, she can get that stuff down the market for almost nothing. Other people maybe give more. If she gets two or three punters a day, she's probably above the average income here. Tax free. It's a good business."
"You're missing the point. She was a nice old lady. We had a nice time."
"Sure, but it really is a business. Actually its a con. Did you see all those testimonials? All those stupid suckers thinking that they were getting the real thing. Authentic ethnic tribal generosity hospitality bullshit. She only asks for the money when you're leaving. That's the trick. After you've written all that sentimental bullshit in her bloody notebook. Christ, if only that Dutchman had gone back inside, turned round at the door, gone back inside and written some more: 'Of course she wants your money, you stupid suckers!'. Then we would have known." - I was getting slightly hysterical by now.
"You didn't have to pay anything."
"Oh no? Then what? You walk away without paying and then she starts screaming blue murder and her other three sons come running out of the back room with meat cleavers in their hands. Like John Cleese comes out of the kitchen in the 'Dirty Fork' sketch."
"Calm down! It's not a big deal. She was still a nice old lady."
"It is a big deal. To me it's a big deal. But its complicated. OK, so its not much money to us. OK, so she wants to make a buck. That's OK, so she's a poor widow, I get it. But the point is, it was not what it seemed, we were deceived. She is a con artist. God dammit, I was nearly moved to tears in there. I held her hands. I wouldn't have done that if I had known it was just a business."
"Calm down, you're exaggerating, as usual."
"You know what, actually she is the best kind of con-artist - she's a con-artist who has also conned herself, so she doesn't even know that she's a con artist."
"I haven't a clue what you're on about."
"Didn't you see, when we left, after I paid her the money, for me everything had changed, but for her it was business as usual. She jabbered on, she waved, she smiled, it was still the same for her."
"So what? Why shouldn't we pay her something? Why do you expect a old poor widow to feed all these rich tourists for nothing?"
"It's all about our expectations. We'd had lunch, we didn't need anything. But she lured us in. Look, why do you think we travel the way we do? Why do we travel on local buses, stay in cheap guest-houses, eat the local food?"
"To save money, you tight-wad."
"OK, but not only that. It's not only that. It's because we don't actually want to travel in 5-star luxury, in some comfy air-conditioned bubble, out of touch with the real world. That's not real travelling."
"So who are you, Marco Polo?"
"Real travelling is not going around with some tour group, ticking off the highlights. Taj Mahal, check! Angkor Wat, check! Having your photo taken standing in front of every damn thing, in case you might forget you've really been there. Real travelling is about having an authentic experience."
"Wow, really? Wait a minute while I write that down in my little black book of Wise Sayings."
"No, seriously, real travellers are all searching for something. You saw that in the testimonials. That yearning for something. Something beyond exotic. We're looking for stuff that we've lost in the West. We've lost our sense of community, lost religion, lost the extended family, lost ideology, lost our moral compass. That's why we like all this ethnic stuff. And occasionally, just occasionally, we get lucky and we do have such an authentic experience. We've had them before, after all. And when you have such an experience, it's like holding a beautiful jewel in the palm of your hand."
"How poetic." - By now Tracey was in full-on sarcasm mode.
"Exactly. And that's why I'm so pissed off with the old lady. Just now I thought I had such a jewel, and it turned to dust in my hand."
"You are such a prima donna."
"Yeah, and another thing. Those pumpkin seeds were shite."
"That's what the locals eat. You wanted to go native."
"I'll bet they don't. That was low-grade stuff for the tourists. They keep the best stuff for themselves."
"Now you're really getting bitter and twisted. Look, she was a nice old lady. We had a nice time. But you had to cough up 20 yuan. So what? That's it. End of. Now get over it. Don't let it spoil your day. Move on."

Of course I did get over it. This all happened several weeks ago now, and I never think of the old lady any more. At least, not during the day. But now and again I wake up in the middle of the night and stare at the ceiling. I see the lop-sided grin, the sparkling eyes. Those girlish, sparkling, deceiving eyes. And at that moment it seems to me that something happened back there in Baisha, something deep down, something mysterious, intangible, beyond words. But then I think: nah, this is just night-time nonsense, and I turn over and go back to sleep. After all, when all is said and done, it was only a brief encounter.

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