Five Bestselling Travel Memoirs Box Set

by Twead, Victoria

  Just as we were going to cross the street, we were cut off by a donkey-drawn cart full of bamboo shoots, forcing us to stop and let my trailing friends catch up to me again. This time I was positively cornered and pinched from all sides. The determined woman with the hairclips had managed to stuff yet another one in my hand! She continued to drop her asking price. “Forty? Okay, okay. Thirty-five, thirty-five!!” I had two options: buy it or just walk away from her. I still didn’t want it, and I had no money. I didn’t know what to do, so I froze. Geez, I have to stop for them, but I can’t be left behind. I’d feebly try to return the items, but the women were relentless.

  “Stupid woman! If you don’t take it … Ergh, I don’t want it!” I stomped. Of course she did not understand me, which made it even more frustrating. “I can’t wait any longer. If you don’t want it, then I’ll keep it.” All I knew was that I didn’t want to lose the others. I kept walking away, and the one with the loudest voice kept lowering the price. The other voices seemed to blend into a babbling of numbers, but the “hairclip” gal’s voice was like a shadow I couldn’t escape. When her price dropped to the teens, I began to think I could actually use a hairclip. My long, flowing hair was nothing but a burden in this heat and under these circumstances. How nice it would be to tie it up off my sweaty back. I could already feel the cooling difference it made.

  I repeated her latest offer of fifteen yuan, and then grabbed Mom’s arm and asked if I could have it.

  “Fifteen yuan?!!” she gasped when I told her, as if it were a fortune.

  “Okay, okay. Ten. Ten,” the woman said, in a reflex as natural as breathing.

  “How much was that again? What was the rate?” Mom asked predictably. I looked at the woman and with raised eyebrows held out a fist which translated to ten without speaking. When she nodded, I turned back to Mom. Meanwhile Mom was having a moment of realization.

  “There are six yuan to a dollar, Mom! It’s less than two bucks.”

  “Ten, eh? How about five?” she said, cautiously flashing five confident fingers.

  Sold! The woman nodded and waved at me to keep it for five.

  “We’ll take three of them,” Mom said pointing three times.

  “Three?!”

  “Yah, I want one,” she told me, reaching in her pocket for a few spare bills, “and Bree probably will, too.”

  “Wow Mom. You sure are fun to shop with. You do realize that started at forty-five!” I said, as the mob miraculously dispersed.

  “Can you believe they reduced the price from forty-five to five!” Mom rushed to tell Ammon, happy to have bested his earlier success at purchasing water.

  “Well, I’d say you guys learned your first lesson of bargaining today. Act like you don’t want it, that’s the trick. Because as soon as you look like you want it, they have the upper hand,” he said wisely. Having conveniently stumbled upon this technique, Mom adopted it enthusiastically. From then on, everything was always too expensive because it could always be had for less.

  After a successful day of “window” shopping and sight-seeing, we returned to the guest house with Mom, who had purchased both a full, hour-long massage and a pale green, jade bracelet. We sat in the lovely courtyard later that evening beneath the shade of the straw hut and played our ongoing card game of Daifugō, the original Japanese version of the game Asshole, infamous for requiring players to get up and change their seats according to relative rank at the end of each round. Endless flies swarmed all over our chocolate banana pancakes to ruin what would otherwise have been a perfect setting amidst the lush, inviting gardens and the warm, tropical weather.

  “Two Jacks,” Bree said, throwing her cards onto the pile in the middle of the stone table.

  “Okay, so I read somewhere before I left that in China, people are only allowed to have one kid,” Mom brought up what was a touchy subject for her, with her four kids. “Is that true. Ammon?”

  “Yah. It’s the Family Planning Policy, also known as the one child policy,” Ammon said. “Urban people living in cities are only allowed one child, but the rural people living in the villages are allowed to have more. Ethnic minorities can, too.”

  “But I thought it was for all of China,” Mom said, sweeping the pile and starting with a low, single four.

  “Nope. Only something like thirty-five percent of the population is subject to the one-kid rule.”

  “It’s still kind of terrible, though, isn’t it?” I asked, waiting for my turn as I shook some flies off my fork.

  “Well, surprisingly, they say it has prevented around two hundred and fifty to three hundred million births since 1978 when it was first implemented,” Ammon told us. I eyed him suspiciously, wondering if he was giving us correct information. Looking at her cards, Mom folded her hand and passed. She then whacked the air in front of her in a vain attempt to clear the air, but I was still stuck on trying to understand how this seemingly drastic plan worked.

  “Really? That’s only like, like, no time at all. I thought this was like hundreds of years ago?!” I fanned my fly-infested pancake with my cards before tossing a single ace of hearts onto the pile.

  “Yah, that’s why they’re only starting to feel the impact of the policy now,” Mom said, clearing the table for the next round.

  “But think about it. Everyone wants sons, so what does that mean for the daughters? If you only get one shot at it, what do you think happens if you get a girl?” Ammon said, planting an unthinkable seed in our heads. “I’m not saying it happens every time, but records show a definite increase in abortions and in the number of unwanted orphans, which still only accounts for fifty percent of the statistically “missing girls” in the 1980s.

  “I hate men!” Bree growled.

  “What do they do if they DO have more? I mean, it’s kind of hard to stop that kind of thing,” Mom said.

  “They can only screw them over financially by levying fines and taking away benefits, that sort of thing. So yah, if a family is really rich and they want more kids, they can just absorb the cost and have more,” he guessed.

  “So sad that money rules the world,” Mom said.

  “Yah, but you’d be surprised. Somewhere it’s reported that seventy-six percent of the population supports the policy. I wonder if that number will crash drastically when the negative effects start catching up. And if you don’t live in the city, you can just apply for a permit to have a second child if the first is a girl.”

  Violently throwing her next cards onto the pile, Bree growled, “Why are they so sexist?!”

  “Look who’s talking, Miss ‘I Hate Men!’ But anyway, they can also apply if the first is handicapped in some way.”

  “That doesn’t sound any better! That’s almost like saying girls are friggin’ disabled!” said Bree, quick to take offence.

  “They are! Try living with the lot of you! It’d handicap anybody.”

  “Damn, you are such a jerk!” she said, throwing her hand across the table. “I’m not playing anymore!”

  “What the hell!?” Ammon said. “Good to see you’re in a good mood.”

  “Oh, you two! Stop it,” Mom piped in, seeing Ammon growing more aggravated. “Now Bree, you’re not quitting. You have to at least finish the round,” she said, gathering up Bree’s cards. “Now, did you have two fives or just the one?” Mom asked, trying to find them all.

  “I’m not playing if he is,” Bree said, folding her arms and glaring at Ammon.

  “See what I mean?” Ammon said. For such a smart man, he somehow didn’t have the sense to drop it. “Insane! And if this “man” were not here, what would you do tomorrow?”

  “We’re almost done,” Mom went on trying to smooth over the conflict.

  “Well, she forfeited the last round anyway!” Ammon said.

  “I found all her cards. It’s fine,” she said, putting Bree’s cards back in her hand. “And don’t listen to him. The reason they want sons is so they can work the fields and help the family survive. More h
ands working the fields means more food and money,” Mom explained before adding a little white lie to ease Bree’s mind, “so they can buy nice things for their wives.”

  “But the other thing is the whole ‘4-2-1 Problem,’” Ammon continued.

  “Hey, this isn’t my card!” she said, showing a low six of hearts.

  “Well, too bad. You shouldn’t have thrown them all in,” Ammon said, making me cringe in anticipation of the next outburst.

  “And just what does 4-2-1 mean?” I asked to please him and keep the conversation going, since Bree seemed not to hear him.

  “It means that if couples are only having one kid, then that one kid needs to support both his parents and as many as four grandparents when he grows up. You see how that works? So the poor seniors are being left with less support, and many have to fend for themselves entirely.”

  “It’s in their culture to take care of each other. I’m so lucky to have four of you guys,” Mom said as she laughed a bit too agreeably.

  “Right now, male-to-female ratios are high everywhere. Doesn’t matter if it’s rural or urban. They’re saying there will be thirty million more men than women in 2020, so you can imagine the social instability that will cause.”

  “Good, so then women can start having harems,” Bree said with a vengeful laugh. At least something pleases her, I thought, thankful she hadn’t blown up again.

  “What was that last round? Who came in first on that one?” Ammon asked, jotting down the card scores and ignoring her comment.

  Mom beamed as she called out, “Me!” No wonder she was so eager to keep that round going! I almost had to laugh.

  “Okay, so speaking of girls and boys, does anyone know which bathroom is which?” I asked, while Ammon shuffled and dealt the next hand.

  “Does it matter? Just go in whichever one you want,” he said.

  “I’d like to know, at least. For future reference.”

  “You’ve managed just fine so far,” he said, not understanding my concern.

  “Yah, because we always followed the crowd. Just look in your little booky-book there and tell us,” I insisted.

  “It hardly matters here,” Mom said, reminding me that there were hardly any people in the compound.

  “Well, it does to me! Especially since the showers have no doors!!!!” I protested.

  “Aaalriiight, then” he said, drawing out his vowels to emphasize how much he does for us. “So here it is,” he opened up his Lonely Planet to those translations and laid it on the table. “Here. This one is women 女人, and this is men 男人.”

  “Which is which?” Bree asked.

  Leaning over to take a closer look at the little symbols, she burst out laughing, “Yours looks like a blockhead!!! HAH! One with legs!”

  “Well, that makes sense,” Mom joked along, happy that the bickering ended on a humorous note, and we played until the sky turned a beautiful, dark lilac colour with splashes of citrusy orange. We were just ordering our last round of banana pancakes when the crickets started to come out, and I was sure I heard the distant croak of a frog or two.

  “Go, Mom. It’s your turn,” Ammon said, waiting anxiously to throw in what could only be yet another winning hand. Fanning her cards and waving them at the flies, Mom threw in two queens.

  “If only these stupid flies would go away!!” she said, bothered by the numerous insects still landing on her hands and plate. “Whoa, wait, wait,” she said with an outstretched hand to stop us in our places. Her eyes circled as she watched a few more little flying friends land on the table. She slowly leaned in and then suddenly slammed her open palm down. CRACK! Her brand new bracelet flew off in two pieces as if she’d planned it to hit both Bree and Ammon, who instinctively ducked. Any remaining tension broke as we all roared with laughter.

  Her immediate “Oh no!! My bracelet” reaction was quickly followed by, “But doesn’t that mean I get a wish or something? Isn’t it good luck in China if it breaks?”

  “Well, it was your bracelet, so I wouldn’t be surprised,” Ammon said. Everyone in our family and all of Mom’s five brothers were convinced that she had “lucky horseshoes up her butt.”

  “As if you need anymore! Why don’t you share some of that luck with the rest of us?” I asked.

  “No really! That is what she told me! That I get a wish when it breaks,” Mom insisted

  “Well, then, Happy Birthday!” Bree congratulated.

  Chapter 19: Wrinkles and Dimples

  Only one thing marred our enjoyment of the luxurious pleasures of taking a few days’ rest in Dali. Bree had unintentionally brought an unwelcome little hitchhiker along from Vancouver, and we all caught a cold. As if that weren’t enough, Mom’s left lung became inflamed from a case of pleurisy she developed. She had also tripped on a stair on the overnight bus to Yangshuo, and her right ribcage crashed directly onto a bedrail. The next few weeks, both sides of her upper body were in excruciating pain.

  Once we’d all rested and mostly recovered, I found myself hobbling awkwardly down the narrow stairwell of the bus to Lijiang on my sore feet. Like wounded gladiators shoved unceremoniously into a colosseum, we tackled the next challenge. I was not, in any way, looking forward to the inevitable walk ahead, long or short. My backpack and I were on pretty rocky terms at the time, and I’d have been happy never to see it again. “Do you know where we’re staying tonight?” I asked Ammon, ever the worrywart. Of course he doesn’t. As we expected, though, a few people waited to solicit our business, complete with pictures of the accommodations they offered. Some carried poster-board signs, while others held brochures. With nothing planned or booked, we were free to go with the flow.

  Mom coughed. With each gasp and harsh expulsion she cringed in agony and tried to hold her ribs and lungs together.

  “Hey, if it is getting worse,” I started sympathetically, “then maybe you need to go home to get that taken care of.”

  “Yah. Nice try,” she scowled, rolling her dark eyes.

  While Ammon tackled the issue of accommodation, the bus driver tossed our luggage from the under-carriage. Bree and I grabbed the four backpacks in midair as they came flying out. I stumbled backwards with an “oomph!” as I caught mine. I sat the thing upright before reaching my arm down into one of the straps to once again hoist it onto my back. Ammon lifted and held Mom’s pack for her as she slipped an arm through one strap, sneezing repeatedly. Ammon asked the little woman he’d procured how far the guest house was.

  “No far, no far. Close, close,” the lady started in English. “Wu. Wu.” She held out five fingers to signify five minutes. My hands were too sore to carry anything, my feet were too dry and cracked to walk, I could hardly talk between chapped lips, and my back was so stiff my stomach hurt. I felt like death warmed over! And yet, there was Mom huffing along next to me, clenching her hands at her sides. I honestly don’t know how she managed at all. Ammon claimed his throat was too sore to swallow. As for Bree, well, Bree probably had something wrong with her, too, but it would be nearly impossible to tell which symptoms were new.

  Every street and alley we approached held hope before we’d inevitably pass it by. Our lady guide didn’t even glance down any of the side streets. She was still humming along, practically running with her stubby legs and showing no sign of stopping any time soon. As we rounded every corner, I would perk up and think that this had to be the one! But we just kept walking and walking. I looked hopefully and seemingly endlessly at every building that just might be a guest house.

  I contemplated slipping into the back of the line and casually dropping my pack off and leaving it in a canal, or at least dumping a couple of the books. I wondered how much trouble I’d be in if I could get up the nerve to actually do it. I could so easily imagine the floating pages drifting in the opposite direction.

  “My feet are killing me. They’re completely dead,” I broke out instead, hoping it would somehow lighten the load. I knew I didn’t have any right to complain, seeing Mom tough i
t out, but I couldn’t dismiss the fact that I, too, was in pain. I hurt everywhere, actually, from my groggy head down to my feet, where the pressure of the pack’s extra weight began splitting the already opened cracks even more.

  It was not knowing how far it would be that made the walk so torturous. I began to curse the lady under my breath for lying to us. This was not – in any way, shape, or form – five minutes. We had already been walking for over fifteen minutes.

  My stomach roared at me. I wasn’t food deprived by any means, and yet I felt starved! A step, a limp, then growls from my midsection, followed by a slow, rebellious moan from my parched throat. Oh shut up! I tried to discipline my body and its constant complaints. This isn’t my fault! I didn’t do this to you. Take it out on someone else, why don’t you!

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Finally, we arrived at the gates of our destination. A tiny old woman wove her way through the natural beauty of the dainty courtyard to welcome us, but my heart quickened a beat or two, and I stopped dead in my tracks at the sight of her.

  An unfortunate encounter only days earlier with an old Chinese woman was one I would not soon forget. We had been waiting at a bus stop, fully laden with our backpacks as people went about their daily routines. Men passed by with squawking chickens in hand, women danced by sweeping the road with bushy brooms, and little kids ran past collecting empty bottles for refunds.

  One peddler stood out from the rest of the pack. When I first saw her, I bit my lower lip. Her wicker basket was blooming with what looked like homemade marshmallows melting in the sun. Her basket hung in the crook of her arm, half hidden beneath her cloaks. She brought to mind the wicked queen in the Snow White tale carrying white, poison apples as she shuffled towards us, despite my efforts to ignore her. Judging from the condition of her few remaining teeth, I guessed that the anonymous white blobs were probably a staple of her diet. We had no interest in finding out what they were, so we all shook our heads and politely said, “No, No thank you. We don’t need any,” before trying to wiggle away to avoid confrontation.