What the Chinese Don't Eat (8 page)

My father told me it was only Mao who rescued us from a war that lasted years, otherwise we could have lost more lives in the fighting. I don’t know very much about that period. But I know that when I was little sometimes we had a poor harvest, and then Mao would send food. But now who cares about the poor low peasants?

I couldn’t understand why such a large number of people
followed Chairman Mao, but in such a short time it had changed, and no one carried such kindness to our peasants at all. I couldn’t give her my thoughts, maybe I couldn’t have any, because my thoughts were limited by a different time and experience, and a different life.

In 1992, I was quite shocked by another woman in her 40s, called Xie Dong, meaning ‘Thanks Mao’, named by her mother in 1950s. She said her mother gave her this name because it was the first time for women in that area to have the right to name their children and keep their own name after marriage.

I asked her ‘Do you believe Chairman Mao liberated women?’

‘No question about that!’ Her voice was so determined.

‘But why do you still live in such poor conditions, still no electricity and running water more than 30 years after his rule?’ I pointed to her unbelievably poor house.

‘This is not his fault. This is because of those corrupt officers! He didn’t know. He was so old and sick …’ She sighed.

Partly, she was right. Since the 1990s, the Chinese had been encouraged to give alms to poor peasants at every traditional festival and national date, but most of their contributions were taken to those officers’ relatives’ pockets; very little reached the poor in the countryside.

This kind of conversation helped me understand a little bit more than before why Mao – who in many people’s eyes, especially in the west, is seen as a bad man who made fools of his people, killed millions and let China fall into poverty is still loved and revered by many Chinese – not only peasants and farmers. Because he brought peace to China after the 40 years’ war (1910–1949), understood and gave what those peasants and farmers (more than 90% of the population by then) needed.

In 1995, I asked a woman who lived near Mao’s hometown – Shaoshan: ‘If you had a choice of three things which one
would you take: money and land, husband and children or democracy and freedom?’

She batted her eyes and said ‘Money and land? That always belongs to men; husband and children are women’s life, my god and duty. What was the last thing you said? Some oil and pigs? How much per kilo is it?’ she asked.

(In Chinese, ‘oil’ – ‘
you
’, is pronounced the same as part of the word for ‘freedom’ – ‘
zi-you
’, and ‘pig’ sounds the same as part of the word for ‘democracy’ – ‘
min-zhu
’.)

Can we really help someone who doesn’t have adequate living conditions and education to understand concepts like ‘political freedom and democracy’?

Anyhow, I’m delighted that in Wen Jia-Bao’s report to the opening National People’s Congress, the prime minister of China pointed out the gap between city and rural life. The government seems to be starting to pay more attention to the poor west of the country: peasants’ and farmers’ lives could be improved by cutting tax over the next five years and 1.2bn RMB would be spent on schooling in the area. If it works.

The story of the Red Guards, the forgetful ferryman, and the cat that reunited a family

Mr Chopsticks had a cat called Mimi – a very Chinese lady cat. Mimi was very frightened when the Red Guards came to the house and destroyed everything of value – original paintings by famous artists such as Xu-Beihong; Tang and Song dynasty potteries; Ming dynasty furniture. But she helped Mr Chopsticks hide some old family photos in her basket.

A few days later, the Red Guards returned to ‘clean up’ the empty house in which only beds, tables, chairs and some simple cooking utensils remained. One guard noticed they hadn’t checked Mimi’s bed, so he stepped on her tail and Mimi cried and ran away. They found the photos hidden in her bed. They were so angry that they caught Mimi, and gave her a ‘revolutionary lesson’: they hung her from her front feet in the tree in Mr Chopsticks’ yard, with a notice reading ‘Capitalist Cat’ tied to her collar, poured chilli sauce into her tiny nose and beat her body with a leather belt. A few minutes later Mimi couldn’t miaow any more. Mr Chopsticks was forced to watch to the very end, when the soldiers took her away. His heart ached.

Mr Chopsticks became very ill afterwards and none of his children could look after him because most of them had been sent to the countryside to be ‘re-educated by peasants’. In fact, some of his children were ashamed of being a capitalist’s child and didn’t want to contact him in that Red time.

About three months later, early on a dark winter’s morning, Mr Chopsticks heard a noise at the door. He got up, opened the door, and was shocked by what he saw: his cat, Mimi, lay
there bony and dirty, with dying eyes. Mr Chopsticks couldn’t save her; she died a few hours later. He couldn’t bring himself to bury her, so he stayed with her cold body for many days, holding her and stroking her again and again. Suddenly he found something in her hair and feet: pieces of dry rice straw, boat lacquer with fish smell, and corn dust.

Where had she been? Mr Chopsticks lived in Nanjing, a city near the Yangtse river, but not on the north side where there were rice fields. How was this possible? Had she been taken to the other side of the river and back by boat? He sent a telegram to his seven children to say he was dying and that he wanted to see them. He told them the only thing he wanted to know before he died was where Mimi had been. His children held a meeting and made a plan: they would retrace Mimi’s journey home.

At first they couldn’t find any information. But when people on the north bank of the river heard about the ‘cat hunt’, many people who knew Mr Chopsticks joined the search because he had helped them in the past when they were in difficulty, or short of money, or jobless, or their houses had flooded. A fisherman’s son said he had heard about Mimi from a boat factory worker. One day he saw a cat with a name tag of Mr Chopsticks’ hidden in a bale of rice straw on his way home from the factory. He had heard his family talking about Mr Chopsticks’ cat, so he took her back home. His mother said the cat was very ill and needed treatment before she could go home, so she fed her with rice liquid every day. But the cat looked very unhappy all the time. After two weeks, the family, worried that Mimi would soon die, gave her to the owner of the river ferry to take her back across the river. The worker didn’t know what had happened next, but he gave the name of the ferryman.

Mr Chopsticks’ children went to talk to the ferryman, who
looked very guilty. He told them: ‘I had no idea how to look after a cat. It was cold, so I thought we should put her near the engine stove. Then she disappeared. I didn’t worry about it because the boat was still on the river, but then someone shouted: ‘Catch that cat! It stole my food!’ I had forgotten to feed her! I ran out of the engine room and tried very hard to find her. But I couldn’t. I’m so sorry.’

How had Mimi got off the boat and back home from the river bank to the city centre, full of cars and people? No one could find out.

But the next Chinese new year was the first time all Mr Chopsticks’ children had spent new year with their father for a long time. They talked about Mimi’s journey and their search, and their faces were full of respect. They were proud to be Mr Chopsticks’ children.

Mr Chopsticks is my grandfather; I read this story in his diary. He wrote: ‘I have got back my children, my love and my family, all from Mimi’s journey home.’

They move millions to a new town, replant entire mountains – the Chinese are amazing

‘Is it chicken?’ an editor from Portugal asked. ‘No, it’s fish cooked in wine,’ answered the waitress. ‘Is it fish,’ asked an Italian agent, pointing to another dish. ‘No, it’s steamed pork.’ ‘Is it meat?’ asked a Norwegian publisher. ‘No, it’s tofu …’

There were endless such questions from my 14 western friends on the first day of our trip to Beijing. We were there as part of a tour called ‘Open Your Eyes to China Today’, and although they ‘knew’ China from anecdotes, guides and history books, none of them had been before.

‘I am naming the world all over again,’ said a French editor. Despite being Chinese, I felt the same.

‘Is that really the Beijing hotel – the famous party hotel,’ I asked my Chinese guide two days later.

A five-star hotel, located in central Beijing next to Tiananmen Square and Wang-Fu-Jing high street, it used be the largest and best in town. It was also the tallest building in China and, before 1990, every Chinese person visiting Beijing had their photo taken in front of it. I remember the first time I looked up at it, in 1984, and what people were saying: ‘Look, look, there are some golden hair and black faces in it.’ ‘One, two, three … oh, my God, there are 18 stores.’ ‘I heard only chairman Mao’s guests can stay there.’ ‘Come on, we’re in the queue. Get out if you’ve taken your picture.’ ‘Keep away from the front gate. Go away.’

Now I have returned and can actually stay in it with my western friends, even though none of us is a guest of Mao Ze Dong or Deng Xiaoping or Jiang Zemin. Some of the voices
are still the same, though. A crowd of farmers, peasants and guards stands in front of the building. ‘What a busy hotel,’ they say. ‘A real party hotel.’

The following morning, when my friends went to visit the Forbidden City and my room was being cleaned, I could not get a coffee because all three cafes were being used for government conferences. There was no space for my computer in the business centre – there was not even a chair to sit on while I waited for my room.

I went back to reception. ‘Why do you offer rooms for tours if you can’t accommodate them?’

‘We need to make a living,’ answered a manager, smiling nicely. I supposed she was familiar with this question. ‘But how about those staying here,’ asked another displaced guest.

‘Sorry about this. In China, the words of our leaders and bosses are law, and we can’t go against them. This is the Beijing Hotel.’ Her voice was soft and proud.

‘Corrupt,’ said a Chinese woman in her 40s, who was standing behind me. She wore a business suit and carried an armful of files. ‘What? Are you talking to me?’ I turned to her.

‘I’m talking to myself. I hate those corrupt people.’ She was looking at the crowded meeting areas.

‘Why? Do you know them?’

‘Have you seen anyone leave those meeting halls with empty hands?’ She still didn’t look at me.

‘No, but they might be carrying business files.’ I really didn’t want my enjoyment of the hotel to be destroyed by her hatred.

‘Are you really Chinese?’ And finally she looked at me, sharply.

‘Is this the Great Wall?’ a British editor, holding her guidebook, asked our Chinese tour guide. ‘In my book this area is rocky and barren, but look, it’s so green.’ She showed a page to him.

‘Oh, your book must be old. See? It’s published in 2000, it’s too old. Those are trees planted in the past few years.’

‘All of them are new trees?’ More loud voices, as we were joined by the Australian and American editors.

‘Yes. What’s wrong with them?’ I could see that the guide didn’t understand why these westerners were so surprised.

‘How many people and how long did it take to cover so many mountains with trees?’

‘It happened in just the past few years, after we were warned that Beijing could be buried in dust blowing from the north.’

‘I see, but this is such a huge area.’ My western friend still couldn’t believe it.

‘We are Chinese. We can move 30 million people from their poor old houses to the new buildings of our largest city, Chong-Qing, in just seven years, why can’t we cover a few mountains with trees?’

In fact, I’m not surprised westerners who know about Beijing should question whether the trees and flowers in this green and colourful capital are real – they often used to be made of plastic.

Twenty years after I first heard of it, I found myself scouring a Chinese street for a
HongDu-Dou

She was standing there quietly, with some wild flowers. It was 1984, and many city-dwelling Chinese could offer only plastic beauty instead of paying the price of time and water for real plants. Her eyes followed some colourful foreigners, then lit on me, the first Chinese who had come to buy flowers in the seven years she had been selling them.

‘How much is a bunch?’ I had never bought real flowers before.

‘Five fen [half a penny].’

‘Is it the same price for those
Lao-wai
[ foreigners]?’ I could not believe she would stand there all day just for this ‘between-the-teeth money’. I also knew lots of people charged those bignosed, golden-haired foreigners ‘heaven price’.

‘Why should I sell to them at a different price? They love flowers just the same.’

‘They really should be worth more, they are so pretty,’ I said.

‘I know. This is why I pick them up before they can be destroyed.’

‘Destroyed?’

‘They are digging to open up the Terracotta Warriors of the Qin dynasty, and so much is being destroyed. These beauties are gifts from heaven. Have you been to see the Warriors? You have to pray and protect yourself afterwards. I see you love flowers, which is why I tell you, I cannot let you be punished.’

‘Punished? By what?’

‘This is not allowed to be said, but every local knows it. The
Terracotta Warriors were discovered in 1974, then in 1975 the government decided to open it. Do you remember 1976? We lost our three heads: chairman Mao, prime minister Zhou Enlai, the head of the military, Zhu De – and there was the Tang-Shan earthquake with 300,000 lives lost.’

I was shocked. It was true that all these things had happened.

‘How should I pray and protect myself?’ I turned to her for help.

‘Don’t be frightened if you haven’t done anything terrible. Get some incense to burn, then pray as the smoke goes up to heaven.’

‘That’s it?’