I Grew My Boobs in China (30 page)

“By the way, I’m still bummed about my go-kart!” Bree said.

“They would never have let you do it anyway, so your dream was shot before it started,” Ammon said realistically. Bree had always dreamed of driving a go-kart on the Great Wall of China, but her fantasy was immediately crushed the moment we saw The Wall. Unlike the wide, smooth, city wall we’d seen in Dali, the town where we’d spent Mom’s birthday, the Great Wall was a bit on the narrow side for any go-kart, even if it hadn’t had extremely steep, broken brick stairs. If anyone out there has similar crazy ideas, I’m here to tell you it’s not going to happen! I’d imagined that The Wall would be a smooth masterpiece of cobblestone paths gliding along like a silk snake, complete with accessible ramps, so this was another reality check for me. I grew up in a glossy world where everything was pristine and exact, one where almost nothing was more than two hundred years old.

“I heard they buried people in the walls!! Alive!!” Bree announced to change the subject.

“Oh, c’mon, Bree! Stop with your horror stories,” I said.

“Hang on a minute. This time she’s actually kinda right,” Ammon began.

“Sweet!” she said, once she’d recovered from her initial surprise at being right for a change.

“They
say
that archaeologists unearthed the bodies of a bunch of workers who were buried inside the walls. I sorta doubt they were alive at the time, ’cause they needed them to work, but who knows?”

“They dug up The Wall?!” Bree asked, “Isn’t that, like, bad??”

“Not really. You see how worn this wall is?” Ammon said, as he made his way down another steep stairway littered with rubble. “And this is the part that’s preserved and taken care of. I mean, this thing is looong. Most of it stretches over mountains and remote grasslands and desert. It’s been exposed to rain, snow, wind, and such for thousands of years. Some parts are collapsing and lots of parts were buried in sand before anyone discovered them. But if it makes you feel any better, a lot of the workers were criminals,” Ammon stated, more to present the other side’s argument than because he truly felt that made it any better morally.

“That does make me feel a bit better!” Bree said seriously.

“Criminals.Pft! For what crime, I wonder?” I asked. “Stealing a rice cake? They were probably just looking at someone funny and got arrested.”

“Well, now I feel bad again,” she said, looking back and forth between me and Ammon.

“Speaking of rice, did you know that they used rice to build The Wall?” Ammon went on. “In the last phase, they used a sticky, rice-pudding-like compound mixed with slaked lime.” He opened his book for a split second to check his facts and then continued, “It was the main ingredient for their mortar. And it’s super-strength stuff that even weeds can’t grow through. You know how tiny sprouts can somehow grow up through the concrete? Well, this rice stuff they used is better. It’s stronger and a lot denser!”

“Holy crap!!!! I thought that was just a joke!” I said.

“How much rice would that take, though?” Mom asked.

“That’s such a waste of food! They make them use all their food while they’re starving. Oh, that’s so mean,” Bree said.

“Well, that’s the thing. The farmers and commoners would’ve been pretty upset. First the ruler takes their men, then he takes all of the harvest in the south to make The Wall and to feed the men working on it,” Ammon said. “During some periods, boys of all ages were forced to join. It got to the point where the women were afraid to have sons. With the men all gone to The Wall, it was nearly impossible to keep the fields and manage the rest of the required household chores. Those who lost their husbands or sons were left without the support or manpower they needed to manage their farms. Many died as a direct result of that, too.”

“Yikes! That is just horrible! In a sense, even the women were slaves to The Wall,” Mom said.

“Of course they were. It’s a ripple effect. How could they not be affected?” Ammon said. The whole story just kept getting worse and worse, and I began to doubt just how “great” the Great Wall was.

“Isn’t it stupid that people worship things that people suffered to make? You know? Do you ever think like that??” Bree asked.

“Yah, I do. And isn’t it insane that millions of people will go along with one crazy person’s idea?” Ammon added.
How is it that the manpower of millions of people cannot right a wrong? How can they be controlled like helpless sheep that way? Surely the forces of a million people would be enough to stand against one man and his army. But how would they get the army in the first place? Shouldn’t they be the first to realize and try to protect the weak? How does it get to that point?
I could not wrap my head around that kind of power dynamic.
Or is it justifiable because it was under the name of protection? Maybe they really felt they were protecting their families.

“It is an incredible structure. It’s so impressive to think that mankind can create such a monument, even without cranes and stuff, but it’s pretty awful to think about the sacrifice it took to do it,” Mom said, looking slightly depressed by the notion.

“But how did it protect anybody? I mean, if it took hundreds of years, wouldn’t the enemies have been a little quicker than that? Or did they just stand around and watch while it was being built?” I asked.

“I think that they started with the assumption that it was going to protect them, but it obviously turned into some kind of obsession,” Mom suggested. I couldn’t fathom it. All the land around me exuded history, and my head ached from the strain of trying to picture all those men working so hard and giving their lives to build it over the centuries. I tried to imagine the personal sorrows that went into The Wall. Thousands of years ago, people left their marks on the same stones and rubble I was walking on. I couldn’t help thinking that only a few could claim any credit for the masterpiece, but that the credit should go to those who sacrificed their blood, sweat, and tears for a project that led to so many early deaths.

Was it built to protect their homeland and to please their emperor, or did they try to please him to save their heads? The rulers didn’t care about the people. They certainly wouldn’t have sent a million horses with a million letters to tell people when their family members died. They just wouldn’t have done it. I bet many of the families assumed their loved ones would die on the wall and weren’t coming back, but there is always some hope left if there’s no proof of death, or at least a written letter. They probably sat for days at their doors waiting, then weeks looking up at the sound of every horse, and years just wondering if he would suddenly come walking through the front door.

I began to suffocate under the strain of trying to grasp the sheer enormity of the lives lost and the pain and suffering of the families who were left wondering forever. I laid my palm flat against the worn bricks, imagining I was touching the hands of those who created it. I wished I could uncover the thousands of lost stories. I tried to imagine somebody digging up
my
story in two thousand years and wondered whether even
I
would remember it that long from now?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In five hours, we’d conquered only ten of The Wall’s 6,400km (3,977mi), and it really helped put things into perspective. When we’d seen enough, we chose to take the zipline across the river where we could catch a small boat and then find a bus to take us to Beijing. The way the zipline’s platform was suspended somewhat precariously off the wall gave Ammon even more incentive than just the budget to suggest that we should walk the rest of the way. Despite his fear of heights, we successfully combined our female powers and overruled our leader.

A year ago, I never would’ve guessed I’d be doing this. It’s crazy what the future can hold.
I turned and watched the wall disappear into the smog behind me. The river below was sparkly and perfect. For a minute in time, I was alone up there, literally hanging between earth and sky in the zipline’s harness. It was the furthest I’d been from my family in weeks, and I was enjoying hearing nothing but the soft, zipper-like sound of metal scraping cable above my head. The deep fog obscured where we’d been, but I knew what was behind me. My destination was also hidden, but I somehow knew that there was a foothold waiting for me there. Some would call it faith, and I guess, in a way, that was how Mom felt about the whole trip. She knew there was going to be something waiting for her on “the other side,” and that everything would work out. She didn’t need to see to believe.
One hundred percent. That’s how strongly Mom must feel. She just doesn’t doubt for an instant.
I couldn’t see the platform until just before my feet touched the hard surface, and I had a feeling I wouldn’t be seeing the end of this journey until I tripped over the finish line.

Chapter 28

A Series of Beijing Events

We arrived at a dinky bus station in Beijing late at night, and even at that time, it was incredibly hot and muggy. The following days were no less smothering. Each time we went out to explore the city and surrounding sites, the sun seemed to get hotter and the shade less plentiful. At times I truly believed the skin on my back must be bubbling up like a thin slice of bacon on a hot frying pan. Temperatures reaching as high as 38°C (100°F) sizzled upwards from the pavement, roasting our bare legs.

The humidity and the ever-present layer of smog over the city only added to our suffering. From the moment we’d arrived in Xi’an, the major city we’d visited the week before, a thick cloud of pollution descended upon us, and we hadn’t seen blue sky since. The ground-level cloud of cigarette smoke added to the deadly combination. We had been coughing constantly to try to clear our chests, especially Mom.

Air quality was not the only downside of visiting the big cities. Super-sized, baseball-capped American tourists wearing uniformly unattractive white socks with sandals tromped about with big cameras strung around their necks, many of which rested on surprisingly large beer bellies. They literally swarmed everywhere, their guides’ megaphones blaring as they flocked around the gates surrounding the Terra Cotta Warriors and formed long lines at sites such as the Temple of Heaven and the Forbidden City.

The Forbidden City was a palace used by emperors and their households for five hundred years. No one other than servants and lovers could ever enter, hence the name “Forbidden.” The whole complex had shiny, orange-roofed buildings and many big, open courtyards. I marvelled at the number of tourists, me included, wreaking havoc there as I imagined the old emperors rolling in their graves.

Despite my reluctance to be either a tourist or a backpacker, it was apparent, even to a novice like me, that there was a huge difference between the two. Tourists came fully prepared with all the necessary comforts of home. They were able to afford the extra weight of things like hair dryers, facial creams, high heels, and a clean pair of underwear for each day of their trip, maybe even more, and their travel is usually just for a limited time.

Backpackers, on the other hand, embrace discomfort. The ideal backpacker would fit everything needed for the entire journey in a pair of cargo pants – toothbrush and a change of underwear in one pocket, passport and money in the other. That would define the ultimate backpacker, AKA, a hardcore traveler.

I noticed another key difference. Tourists tend to drop in for a nice, leisurely vacation. They hit the main sites and are on their way, uninterested in other tourists, whereas backpackers, despite constantly seeming to play a game of one-upmanship about things like who packed the lightest or who travelled the longest or the furthest, are always watching each other’s backs and sharing information and stories. That part of it felt reassuring, but after nearly two months on the road skipping from village to village in rural China, the obese size of “my people” pouring in on tour bus after tour bus was embarrassing.

I found that the local city folk were noticeably larger, too. It had never been more obvious to me how much village and city lifestyles influence people. The farmers and villagers worked very hard and ate a healthy diet of rice and vegetables, yet they looked rather weathered and worn. They were very friendly people who always took the time to explain directions and seemed happy to help us. City folk were more fast-food oriented and physically inactive, and they looked very soft and stylish. They always seemed to be in a hurry and much too busy for us, evidently having something more important to do, with their ever-present brief cases and cell phones, and somewhere more important to be. It was really like living in two different worlds, and we found both experiences fascinating.

There were also a lot more beggars in the city areas where tourists flocked. We had seen very few, if any, in the five weeks before we reached Xi’an, but from then on, we saw more and more. Obnoxious kids chased us down far more aggressively than anywhere else, as did lots and lots and lots of cripples. They were scattered everywhere, many rolling themselves around on skateboards or crawling on their hands as they dragged lifeless limbs behind them.

Before travelling, I could remember every single beggar I had ever seen – all three of them. I recalled each face and how one held up a sign that read, “Hungry. Out of work. No food. Help.” When I was only ten or so, a bearded man had actually asked me for some spare change in Seattle. This was one of the most traumatic things to have happened to me up to that point in my life, but China was a whole new ballpark. It made the poor man sitting on cardboard begging with his dog and his upturned baseball cap pale to insignificance in comparison.

When I first saw limbless beggars, I tensed up and shied away from them as if they might be leprous. Their knobby limbs looked to me like they were disintegrating right off their bodies. The pungent smell of greasy sausage cooking in the streets made me nauseous, as I imagined I was smelling their rotting limbs and fatty tissues sizzling on the concrete. I knew I could not continue to jump like a spooked mouse every time a one-armed woman approached me or run out of my flip-flops if a man with two stumped knees wheeled over to grab my ankle. This inescapable reality was another challenge I had to overcome. I learned to acknowledge the brutality of these all-too-common scenes and develop thicker skin and a new mindset.
How can I fear someone who is so helpless?
Even when my legs ached to the bone, I grew ever more appreciative of what I had and was truly grateful for even things as basic as my ability to stand up and walk.