opinios

Zhang Jiu Gong

As mentioned previously, Kim and I visited the section of the Great Wall near Huang Hua. This stretch is much less developed than other parts - there is no cable car, a lot of the wall is still in its original state of rubble - and there are (thankfully) hardly any tourists.

But there are no escaping the entrepeneurs.

An otherwise Zen-like view of the wall as it meanders through the mountains was constantly interrupted by the constant pressure to buy water, medals, t-shirts, postcards and books. And on top of this some cheeky "wardens" were charging 2 Yuan to pass past various points or to climb up ladders for a better view.

I don't know if these "officials" were legitimately collecting money to restore the wall or just capitalizing on the naivete of unwitting foreigners, but considering that 2 Yuan weighs in at, oh about 33 cents, I wasn't too upset about handing it over. These guys probably hike up here from their home town every day, a few hours walk, to try and make a bit of cash out of the tourists so that they can try and alleviate their personal situation (which, judging by the way they were dressed, is pretty extreme poverty).

I got chatting to one such entrepeneur at the very top of a particularly steep stretch that was lined with labourers shovelling built-up dirt of the wall. His name wa Zhang Jiu Gong, and his English wasn't that much better than my Chinese (I speak about 5 words) but with gestures and context we were able to communicate a few basic things.

Zhang was an interesting character. He reeked of Vodka. The skin on his face was dark and leathery from untold hours in the sun, and he had an infectious laugh. When he turned on the entrepeneurial spirit I was more than happy to buy some of his postcards for 3 Yuan (I probably would have paid three times that if I had bought them anywhere else) and we formed a rudimentary friendship high above the rolling hills and cherry blossoms. It was quiet and peaceful and the two of us stood at the corner of a secluded turret to admire the stunning view.

As I turned to leave, Zhang wanted me to know his name, and wanted to learn mine. He tried to write his name on a piece of paper for me, but his pen kept running out, so I offered him mine. We shook hands and I insisted he keep the pen (I think it was a very plain, black BIC biro that probably originally belonged to my previous employer in Japan). He was eternally grateful and bid me farewell.

But when I had walked about 20 metres away I heard him call my name, and came running to me. His face was contorted with frustration and it was clear that something was wrong. When he got up close he thrust the 3 Yuan I had given him for the postcards into my hand and ran off. I was bewildered and tried to offer it back to him, but he was not having it.

"Pen, pen" he replied, and was insistent.

There was nothing I could do but just stand there, dumbfounded. I felt terribly guilty, like I had damaged his pride. 3 Yuan meant so little to me and so much to him, but this proud man had already marched back up to his turret to assume his position for the next tourist who came along.

I turned to one of the labourers, the look on my face searching for some kind of explanation. But the guy just shrugged, as if to say, "Don't worry about it. He's a drunk", and went back to his shovelling.

Stay tuned for more China stories tomorrow...