westlake

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Mon Oct 24
I happen upon the fabled West Lake, one of china’s main tourist attractions during an early afternoon stroll. I am surprised to discover it here one block away from the studio. Shimmering in the afternoon glare, tourists saunter along its edge. Tourist boat operaters wait patiently for the next client interested in taking the trip to the manmade island across the water. The usual curio shops, common to any tourist destination, dot the esplanade.
An old man intercepts me from behind greeting me and inviting conversation. I am startled and a bit humbled at the same time by his presence and his interest in me. He struck me as more than just another curious native. His English is functional and we are able to communicate. His face is ageless, his comportment reverent and portly. His hands, left hand over right, rests gently just below his navel. He moves them frequently gesturing as a communication aid, his sparkling eyes never wandering from my face.
As we stand there in the middle of the pedestrian path, I am aware of the added attention that this brings to me from the passing strollers. Several of them slow down and drift closer as if to eavesdrop on our conversation. As if emboldened by the old man seizes this as an opportunity to get closer to the stranger in their midst. A closer look, the sound of his voice, his accent perhaps. His smell? The expression on their faces reflects a mixture of awe, admiration, curiosity and amusement. Like the lake beside us reflecting the sky above, we are mirror to each other. Inside I feel the same sentiments.
His questions are sincere and probing, some quite common, but never perfunctory.
“where are you from”?, “ where is Jamaica?”, “why are you living in the u.s?”,
“ what job do you do’? . are you married”? “no children?!” why no children?”.
I shrug.
“How come you don’t know why?” his eyes widening. I am a bit embarrassed, but still very tolerant of his probing.
Then he drops the bombshell question, “why is your face black”? I am stunned by the innocence and poignancy of the enquiry. I try to explain to him my history and my heritage. “Ahhh”, he says, bringing his hand to his chin in a contemplative way, “I see”. After a while we respectfully say our parting words and I continue walking wishing I could have spoken to him more. Wishing I could find out more about him. I feel like he feels the same way about me too. The small audience around us slowly disperse also, bemused and as curious as before.
After a few steps, with short, quick, energetic strides he catches up with me again.
He holds up one hand, gesturing. “Mister, one more question please”?, “Sure”, I said happy to be in his presence again so quickly.
“ your hair,” he said gesturing with his hand, “why is it so long”?
I think for a while . “it’s my way, my way of life. My spiritual tradition” . I observe the question mark on his face. “my religion”, I said, for want of a better word but hoping to bring a clearer understanding.
“Your religion”? he repeated. “Yes”, I said, dissatisfied with my own response.
“and the women too?” he inquired, surprisingly. “Yes”, I said, smiling.
“Ahh!, I see”, the contemplative look returning to his face. Then he smiled, charming and light as a child, a twinkle in his eyes.
I smile too, basking in his radiance. Again, for the second time, we part respectfully, but the feeling of incompletion remains.

Small crowds gather under the shade of magnolia and other unidentified trees listening to performers , usually a singer accompanied by a trio or quartet band of musicians on indigenous instruments, deliver what I assume to be patriotic songs and ballads of legends and folklore. Groups of old men congregate, some seated, others standing in concentric circles behind them holding counsel on matters that, by the expressions on their faces, are of much importance.
I am on time for the water ballet, a la Versailles, but this does not disturb the general, pervading serenity of the early afternoon at the edge of West Lake.

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