The Beautiful Tree (15 page)

In the morning, though, I met Xiang for breakfast, and he was the bearer of good news. He had risen well before dawn and had gone to the market just opposite our hotel where villagers from even the remotest parts of the district came to sell their produce. He had asked around and had finally located the names of four private schools in the villages! The quest was on again.

We drove out of the county town, into the bright autumn sunshine, to try to find Xu Wan Jia, the first of the villages that Xiang had been told contained a private school. Although we had rough directions, we traveled backward and forward along the now well-kept paved road, asking anyone—farmers tilling the soil with donkey plows, women walking along carrying water—where this private school might be. Because of our altitude, at 10,000 feet or more, the air was very thin, and I ran out of breath very quickly; Xiang got a headache. But the dialect was hard for Xiang to understand—and I began to fear that this might have been a problem in the market too. Perhaps we had come all this way because of a linguistic misunderstanding? (Thoughts of what Dennis Okoro had said in Nigeria obviously echoed in my mind.) We tried asking in the public schools that were present in every major village along the paved road, but no one seemed to know where Xu Wan Jia was—not even the village, let alone any private school therein. Many of the public schools had plaques besides their entrance gates, proudly announcing that they were recipients of foreign aid. I saw the gold stars and blue background of the European Union flag everywhere. The Japanese government was also well represented. The public school teachers, while being extremely friendly and welcoming, said that no private schools were out here—wouldn’t it be better to try in Lanzhou, the capital? Eventually, thinking that we might have to give up, we asked a woman bent double in the fields, weeding her crops, and she seemed to know the village (although again, Xiang laughed in frustration as she was difficult to understand, and I wondered again whether she had really understood the nature of our quest). Anyway, she would lead us to where the road to the village left the main road.

The red-cheeked lady went to fetch her baby boy, and we drove off in the car together. She guided us off the main road, and Driver Wang maneuvered us skillfully down a narrow dirt track and onto the wide riverbed below that doubled as a road, because at that time of year, the river was a feeble brook. But he was adamant; our vehicle couldn’t take us any farther, although I protested irrationally that I couldn’t see why. Anyway, the woman went off to see if she could find someone to take us farther. We waited. After an hour, she returned with her husband in one of the three-wheel trucks, appearing to be adapted from motorcycles, which were ubiquitous in rural China.

I was offered a share of the seat in the enclosed cab with the driver, but fearing that this would be too noisy, opted to travel in the truck’s open back with Xiang. As soon as we left the riverbed and began ascending into the mountains on a track only wide enough for the three-wheeler, we found we couldn’t sit down, the vehicle rattled so much with the deep staccato throb of the two-stroke engine. The views were superb, as we wound our way through hairpin bends, alongside terraced potato fields, bumping about in the back, exhilarated, higher and higher into the mountains. At times, we stopped precariously on tiny raised lay-bys, to let other similar vehicles pass. After 90 minutes, we finally arrived at the village, Xu Wan Jia, nestled into the mountains, with its neat brick and red-tile buildings. The village existed. And then, finally, down narrow dirt streets, barely wide enough for the three-wheeler, we arrived at the private school, nestled deep inside the village. I felt an extraordinary sense of elation.

Xu Wan Jia Private Primary School inhabited the proprietor’s courtyard home, with his office doubling as his residence and the classrooms taken over from his family. The proprietor and principal, Mr. Xing Ming Xin, was absolutely thrilled to have visitors; he couldn’t quite believe that anyone had come that far to see him. As was the custom here (we’d already experienced this in the public schools in the valley the day before), he searched crazily in drawers and cupboards, and had others searching too, until he found a brand-new unopened packet of Lanzhou cigarettes, reserved for any such occasion—clearly rare—which he opened and offered to me (although he didn’t smoke himself, until I offered him one of mine that I had bought that morning in Zhang County, realizing the custom from the previous day). He insisted we take off our shoes and sit comfortably on the raised earthen area that, I was told, was the shared family bed. I settled comfortably on blankets and pillows, feeling very warm and cozy. It turned out a fire was lit underneath. It was incredibly comfortable, quite unlike interviewing in tropical countries, where the heat was normally overwhelming.

And so I interviewed the principal of probably the most remote private school I had ever found, then and still. Xiang wrote all my questions in his notebook and translated; when he encountered difficulties, he wrote the Chinese characters in his book, and the two of them argued over their meaning. The school, he told us, had 86 students, precisely 43 boys and 43 girls. So why did he open the school? He said that he had been aware that the public school test scores were very low, and the villagers didn’t want all their children to be illiterate; they wanted him to help bring up the standard of education. He was the only person then in the village with a high school diploma, so he was under pressure to do so. He finally opened his school in 1996, and has since, he said, offered a higher standard of education than in the public school. Why did he say this? He said he worked hard and honestly to ensure that his good reputation was maintained. He and his wife also ensured that the students had food and drink, which didn’t happen in the public schools. The children took the public examinations in fifth grade—he had had five cohorts of students tested up to now, and their scores were always better than those in the public school. They went to the county to take these exams.

Was this why parents sent their children to his school rather than the public school? He replied that it was one reason. But there were two others. The nearest public school was over an hour’s walk away. Children could walk that far at this time of year. But when it rained or snowed, the route was impassable. For most of the year, he told me, the public school was simply inaccessible to the children here. And when I asked the children themselves why they came to this school rather than the public school, all said that it was because of the inaccessibility of the public school.

But second was the issue of expense. Tuition in his school was 60 yuan (about $7.50) per semester; on top of that was 25 yuan ($3.13) per semester for textbooks and exercise books. The nearest public school charged 75 yuan ($9.38) per semester, plus roughly the same charges for textbooks and exercise books. So his school was less expensive than the public school, even though it received none of the public school’s government funding!

Getting fees from parents, all of whom were, needless to say in this remote village, peasant farmers, was a struggle. His biggest problem, however, was finding anyone able and willing to teach because people with high school diplomas didn’t want to come to a village such as his. Even young people from the village who had gained their high school diplomas didn’t want to return. So this year, because of teacher shortages, he had to “delete” the fourth and fifth grades, teaching only the first three grades with two other remaining teachers. They were both men with high school diplomas. They were each paid about 200 yuan (about $25) per month. So I calculated in my notebook while Xiang translated other questions, if he had 86 students paying 75 yuan ($9.38) per semester, his income was about 6,450 yuan ($806.25) per semester, or 1,075 yuan ($134.38) per month. So he probably took home slightly more than the other teachers and spent the remainder on school facilities, heating, chalk, books, food, and drink. Not a hugely profitable business, but nonetheless enough to keep it all running, if only he could find other teachers.

What did he do before becoming a principal? Mr. Xing, translated Xiang, was “doing fieldwork”—that is, he was a peasant farmer in this village. His wife now did the fieldwork while he ran the school. They kept pigs (later I met them, sharing the same shack as the open-hole latrine) and bees for honey, and grew maize, potatoes, spinach, and beans. I didn’t see any chickens, which surprised me.

I asked whether there were other private schools like his? He didn’t know, apologizing that he only rarely left his village. He thought there might be one or two, but not more: “Other people have different hobbies. This is my hobby, to run a school. It would be impossible for me to give up this occupation for any other!”

When our interview was over and we had visited the school and spoken to the extremely shy and nervous children—all with very ruddy cheeks and a multitude of different-colored and irregularly fashioned clothes: no uniform here—the wonderful rural hospitality kicked in. No, we couldn’t leave yet. He herded us back to the warmth of the bed, insisting we remove our shoes again, and his wife nervously and shyly served us “pie,” broken-up, very greasy fried pastry, cooked in an oil called
you bin
, a culinary delight here, Xiang told me, but one which I found exceedingly bitter, rather too bitter to enjoy. A jar of honey was brought in, and Mr. Xing took a spoon and liberally spread it over the pastry. This was a real delicacy, said Xiang; I felt very guilty when Xiang told me that it would probably provide them with enough income for a month or more. But there was no stopping this hospitality. Mr. Xing then made us honey tea, over a tiny stove the size of a small teacup. In a filthy metal dish he heated up tea leaves and water, and then spoonfuls of honey were liberally applied. Relatives and villagers came to visit and share in banter and cigarettes while the children gazed in through the curtained windows.

And for the next three days, we visited similar private schools, finding five in total. Only one was in a less remote village—meaning that we could reach it by car, although that still required an hour’s driving off the paved road. This one was founded by an ex-villager who had made some money through business in Sichuan province, giving something back to his community. It had one classroom, in which the head and only teacher instructed all age groups together. A tiny boy sat next to his big sister at the same desk. The children paid no fees; it was only for those who were too poor to attend public school. But all the others were in the remoter villages like Xu Wan Jia.

On our second day, we found ourselves back in the town of Zhang County by midafternoon. Rather than try to find other schools, which would take hours, Xiang suggested we go to the Education Bureau, as a courtesy call, to begin the process of getting permission to do an in-depth study, and also to see if there was a list of private schools. The Education Bureau in Zhang County was just off the main street, close to the hotel, and seemed a superior-quality government office compared with those I was used to in India and Africa; but it was no more helpful. After waiting for awhile to see someone who might be responsible for private education, we were told that we first must go to the Government Office for “Helping the Poor” (Xiang’s translation) to gain permission before the list of private schools could be released to us. Fortunately, this was the imposing public building set back across the road right next to the hotel. We climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, to the “Office for Helping the Poor.” While cooling off outside, it was very warm inside; benefiting from the heat of paraffin heaters, two senior staff were reading daily newspapers. Along the wall, two brand-new computers, a printer, and fax machine sat, unpacked, and unused. The office contained no books, no files, just the unused computers and newspapers.

The man and woman were friendly and helpful, making us hot tea in paper cups, but said there were no private schools in Zhang County, rural or urban. In any case, they couldn’t give us the permission required from the Education Bureau; in fact, they didn’t see why we need its permission at all. They called in the “Helping the Poor” bureau chief, a very young, very smiley, and pleasant official. He concurred that there were no private schools. In any case, he couldn’t give permission; we’d have to talk to the regional office in Ding Xi first, and if they gave permission, he might then consider it. Xiang cajoled him for some time, even gently stroking his arm as appeared to be acceptable here in rural Gansu, but he left the office without agreeing, purportedly to ask his supervisors. When he returned, he was not smiling: what we needed was not regional permission from Ding Xi, he reported, but permission from the province itself, in the capital Lanzhou. His advice, however, was to simply return to the Education Bureau anyway, as they might let us have the information now that we had visited him.

Feeling relatively buoyant still, we headed back to the bureau, where we were told to wait while the dean of the office finished his meetings. We waited an hour. Finally, we were told that the dean of the office was not in today after all. Anyway, the junior official who had kept us waiting said that there were no private schools, so why did we want a list that didn’t exist? While we were waiting, I wandered around the spacious open office and stood admiring a map of Zhang County. When Xiang joined me, the junior official had coolly motioned for us to sit down. Outside, Xiang informed me that, on the map’s legend, there was a symbol for private school and there were two marked on the map, both of which we had already visited! Clearly, the local government knew at least some of these private schools. Equally as clearly, they didn’t seem to want us to know about them.

The final private school we visited was the one that had initially drawn us to Zhang County—for apparently some journalists had visited and publicized its existence, and that was how Xiang had heard of it. We drove a few hours from the town, over mountain roads where our vehicle served to thresh the villagers’ corn as we went—they would lay it out in the road for any vehicle or animal to pass over. Harvesting was under way everywhere. Villagers were also threshing their corn in their courtyards and fields, horses and donkeys moving slowly around in a circle pulling a heavy weight behind, often guided by a young child. Ahead of us, children herded ducks, pigs, and chickens in the road. Again, at a relatively prosperous-looking village on the paved road, we negotiated the hire of a three-wheeler for the final leg of the journey. We left again up a riverbed, then over more mountains, crawled along a valley floor where the track merged with a fast-flowing stream, and entered a gorge, with imposingly high rocky sides only as wide as the track itself. Then we headed through verdant pastureland on the other side through more villages, past a nice looking public school (one with no foreign signs indicating support), and, finally after another hour of moving slowly over the bumpy, meandering track, we reached the village hosting Xin Ming—People’s Hearts—Primary School.