Thursday, February 24, 2005
Thank You
Thomas Villalon and I sat crunched in the nook of two low tables, compressed by similarly seated folk and sharing a tangerine. My legs, begging to be stretched, sought impossible angles of relief. Perhaps if I just move, slightly, like this and then put them under the table like…this. My right hip abruptly signaled that it too was not enjoying the performance. Tom, annoyingly, seemed to be enjoying himself, being a good four inches shorter than me.
Next to him sat an old man with a beige brimmed hat strapped on his head suitable for keeping the bright Himalayan sun from his brow. Strapped across his waist was a bright-eyed girl of two or three years of age who was successfully winning the prize for Most Active Accoutrement. She alternated between toying with her Yeye’s chinstrap, reaching for the woman beside her, and timidly goggling at the laowai (Tom) sitting next to her.
Tom murmured his intention to me and turned to ask the two for a picture. The girl looked skeptical but the old man kindly consented. The skepticism, and timidity, soon vanished as the camera captured her imagination.
“That’s you!” Tom informed her in Mandarin after snatching one shot, pointing at the back face of the camera. Upon understanding a transformation overcame her. She now desired this object above all other objects, thought of no other. The old man’s hat was a toy of the past. Picture after picture had to be taken to satisfy her hands and eyes. Her tiny fingers clutched at the silver skin, yearning for the self-revelation brought by the tiny pixilated image. But, as with all unrequited infatuations, the camera turned its gaze on another and the girl sought delight elsewhere.
I turned my gaze back upon the colorful scene just in front of me and marveled at the staying power of these kids. For the past half hour, these boys and girls with their long pink sleeves had been taking part in a strenuous aerobics workout. Around them sat onlookers sipping tea and peeling fruit, and apparently enjoying the torturous ballet in their midst. One carefully choreographed routine after another had been danced on that stage to the shake-yo-booty beats of conspicuous non-Naxi (or any other local ethnic) origin. I was just happy for once to not be the center of attention.
An hour before, all eyes had most definitely been focused on me. I blushed under the gaze of the spectators and reddened slowly under the touch of the glaringly bright sunlight, both things that I had grown unaccustomed to while living in Shanghai. I spoke my best apology.
“Duibuqi, bu hao yisi, bu hao yisi, duibuqi!” I said quickly to the man beside me, trying to apologize to the whole village through the ears of one man. My ears popped finally and now I could hear the hubbub around me. I had caused quite a stir. Tom grinned at me and I looked up to see my handiwork.
The rusted metal hoop was bent down about three inches from its former position; reminding me to shut my mouth, jaw hanging slack as I stared. Maybe it had not been such a good idea after all.
I pulled Tom aside in line and proposed the idea. Tom, an agreeable fellow, was wholeheartedly in favor of the plan. So on Tom’s next go, I ran up to the goal and crouched down about three feet from the base of the goalpost, elbows locked into my knees for maximum support. I looked back once to show readiness and then prepared for the brunt, which turned out to actually be nothing at all. Tom glanced off my back and shot into the air, just short of accomplishing the intended effect. The crowd had the idea, though.
Upon the next round of lay-ups, I decided that I was my turn. Tom, again, was down. Once positioned, I took a deep breath and surveyed the scene. To my left and right were at least sixty locals who had come to watch the basketball game, seated on the dusty ground. Scattered around the packed-earth court were the athletes, soon to be my teammates or the opposition. The court itself reminded me of a little league infield, small rocks scattered everywhere threatening to make a grounder skip or bounce high into the crotch. That would be the first obstacle to overcome.
I wasn’t blind to the fact that I was an American about to dunk on a goal in rural China, nor to the fact that dunking off of someone’s back is hardly impressive. The only thing I wasn’t really sure of was if I could actually accomplish the feat at all. The goal looked awfully high and I had been convinced earlier that it wasn’t regulation size. The one thing I was absolutely sure of was that I couldn’t hesitate. Representing a race that I was sure would soon disown me I stepped forward and bounced the ball toward the target.
A couple of friends of ours from Guangzhou got up and left the performance, so we followed suit. Being cramped and watching a group of youngsters dance and move and stretch right in front of me was not my idea of fun. Outside we realized that our driver was still indoors, so we sat for a while, examining the dusty courtyard in front of the building, its main attraction being the rooting piglets.
Eventually, a few children who had been watching the performance wandered out into the courtyard. Tom, always up for a cute picture, ran up to the kids and asked them if they wanted to take a picture with him. There were about six of them, boys and girls, and they split right down the middle on the proposal. Three were dead-set on having a picture taken, whereas the other three shrank away and looked deathly afraid. After some introspection, and perhaps some reflection on the political implications of such a hasty schism, another two joined the picture. The abstainer looked on longingly as I snapped a quick shot of the group.
I returned the camera to Tom and the expected swarm of children clung to him like lichens expecting the tide to recede. One by one, he zoomed in on each face, showing the two-by-two image to its owner and getting in return a small look of wonder. After attaining immortality, each child would hear the call of the dusty ocean and float away from the flashing buoy. One stood by, waiting for his sister I presume. When she finally previewed her life of fame her look of joy was not overlooked by her older brother. He came up to Tom and used two words of the English language, perhaps two of the mere hundred that he knew, with more sincerity than I’ve ever heard an English speaker say them.
“Thank you.”
It wasn’t just the words that caught you off guard, but the look in his eye. I was back a couple of feet and so didn’t take it head on, but Tom was blown away. I could tell that he had never seen such an expression of gratitude before either. We communicated in a glance, marveling at the serious nature of this pre-adolescent and at the power of words. The boy walked off to look after his sister, his job done.
I hung from the rim for a good second, not realizing what I had just done. In the back of my mind, I think I didn’t expect to actually consummate the dunk. I let go instantly, but should never have hung on in the first place. Big fatty that I am, my downward momentum had served to give the goal a good makeover. For some reason I thought of that Aztec (or is it Cherokee?) ball game with the sideways hoop, though it looked nothing like it.
I was mortified and bumbled around trying to apologize and solve the problem all at once with my limited vocabulary. I bumped into one fellow that had an air of importance about him. I started into my apologies, but he stopped me quickly, a serious look in his eyes.
“Thank you,” he said, quickly adding, “but don’t do it again.”
Next to him sat an old man with a beige brimmed hat strapped on his head suitable for keeping the bright Himalayan sun from his brow. Strapped across his waist was a bright-eyed girl of two or three years of age who was successfully winning the prize for Most Active Accoutrement. She alternated between toying with her Yeye’s chinstrap, reaching for the woman beside her, and timidly goggling at the laowai (Tom) sitting next to her.
Tom murmured his intention to me and turned to ask the two for a picture. The girl looked skeptical but the old man kindly consented. The skepticism, and timidity, soon vanished as the camera captured her imagination.
“That’s you!” Tom informed her in Mandarin after snatching one shot, pointing at the back face of the camera. Upon understanding a transformation overcame her. She now desired this object above all other objects, thought of no other. The old man’s hat was a toy of the past. Picture after picture had to be taken to satisfy her hands and eyes. Her tiny fingers clutched at the silver skin, yearning for the self-revelation brought by the tiny pixilated image. But, as with all unrequited infatuations, the camera turned its gaze on another and the girl sought delight elsewhere.
I turned my gaze back upon the colorful scene just in front of me and marveled at the staying power of these kids. For the past half hour, these boys and girls with their long pink sleeves had been taking part in a strenuous aerobics workout. Around them sat onlookers sipping tea and peeling fruit, and apparently enjoying the torturous ballet in their midst. One carefully choreographed routine after another had been danced on that stage to the shake-yo-booty beats of conspicuous non-Naxi (or any other local ethnic) origin. I was just happy for once to not be the center of attention.
An hour before, all eyes had most definitely been focused on me. I blushed under the gaze of the spectators and reddened slowly under the touch of the glaringly bright sunlight, both things that I had grown unaccustomed to while living in Shanghai. I spoke my best apology.
“Duibuqi, bu hao yisi, bu hao yisi, duibuqi!” I said quickly to the man beside me, trying to apologize to the whole village through the ears of one man. My ears popped finally and now I could hear the hubbub around me. I had caused quite a stir. Tom grinned at me and I looked up to see my handiwork.
The rusted metal hoop was bent down about three inches from its former position; reminding me to shut my mouth, jaw hanging slack as I stared. Maybe it had not been such a good idea after all.
I pulled Tom aside in line and proposed the idea. Tom, an agreeable fellow, was wholeheartedly in favor of the plan. So on Tom’s next go, I ran up to the goal and crouched down about three feet from the base of the goalpost, elbows locked into my knees for maximum support. I looked back once to show readiness and then prepared for the brunt, which turned out to actually be nothing at all. Tom glanced off my back and shot into the air, just short of accomplishing the intended effect. The crowd had the idea, though.
Upon the next round of lay-ups, I decided that I was my turn. Tom, again, was down. Once positioned, I took a deep breath and surveyed the scene. To my left and right were at least sixty locals who had come to watch the basketball game, seated on the dusty ground. Scattered around the packed-earth court were the athletes, soon to be my teammates or the opposition. The court itself reminded me of a little league infield, small rocks scattered everywhere threatening to make a grounder skip or bounce high into the crotch. That would be the first obstacle to overcome.
I wasn’t blind to the fact that I was an American about to dunk on a goal in rural China, nor to the fact that dunking off of someone’s back is hardly impressive. The only thing I wasn’t really sure of was if I could actually accomplish the feat at all. The goal looked awfully high and I had been convinced earlier that it wasn’t regulation size. The one thing I was absolutely sure of was that I couldn’t hesitate. Representing a race that I was sure would soon disown me I stepped forward and bounced the ball toward the target.
A couple of friends of ours from Guangzhou got up and left the performance, so we followed suit. Being cramped and watching a group of youngsters dance and move and stretch right in front of me was not my idea of fun. Outside we realized that our driver was still indoors, so we sat for a while, examining the dusty courtyard in front of the building, its main attraction being the rooting piglets.
Eventually, a few children who had been watching the performance wandered out into the courtyard. Tom, always up for a cute picture, ran up to the kids and asked them if they wanted to take a picture with him. There were about six of them, boys and girls, and they split right down the middle on the proposal. Three were dead-set on having a picture taken, whereas the other three shrank away and looked deathly afraid. After some introspection, and perhaps some reflection on the political implications of such a hasty schism, another two joined the picture. The abstainer looked on longingly as I snapped a quick shot of the group.
I returned the camera to Tom and the expected swarm of children clung to him like lichens expecting the tide to recede. One by one, he zoomed in on each face, showing the two-by-two image to its owner and getting in return a small look of wonder. After attaining immortality, each child would hear the call of the dusty ocean and float away from the flashing buoy. One stood by, waiting for his sister I presume. When she finally previewed her life of fame her look of joy was not overlooked by her older brother. He came up to Tom and used two words of the English language, perhaps two of the mere hundred that he knew, with more sincerity than I’ve ever heard an English speaker say them.
“Thank you.”
It wasn’t just the words that caught you off guard, but the look in his eye. I was back a couple of feet and so didn’t take it head on, but Tom was blown away. I could tell that he had never seen such an expression of gratitude before either. We communicated in a glance, marveling at the serious nature of this pre-adolescent and at the power of words. The boy walked off to look after his sister, his job done.
I hung from the rim for a good second, not realizing what I had just done. In the back of my mind, I think I didn’t expect to actually consummate the dunk. I let go instantly, but should never have hung on in the first place. Big fatty that I am, my downward momentum had served to give the goal a good makeover. For some reason I thought of that Aztec (or is it Cherokee?) ball game with the sideways hoop, though it looked nothing like it.
I was mortified and bumbled around trying to apologize and solve the problem all at once with my limited vocabulary. I bumped into one fellow that had an air of importance about him. I started into my apologies, but he stopped me quickly, a serious look in his eyes.
“Thank you,” he said, quickly adding, “but don’t do it again.”
