Out of the Gobi

by Weijian Shan

  Although I had never treated animals, I thought there should not be much difference between a pig and a person, as we are both rather advanced mammals. It was too bad that they could not complain or allow their temperature to be taken. Otherwise, the only difference was that pigs were a little heavier, warranting a proportionally larger dose of whatever I would give a human, or so I thought.

  But since we only had a fixed allocation of antibiotics, there would not be enough to treat the pigs. Besides, antibiotics would be ineffective in case it was a viral infection. I decided to try Chinese folk medicine.

  In Chinese medicine, one type of treatment for common diseases is guasha; gua means scratching and scraping, and sha means a rash or redness. The patient lies on the bed, facedown. The doctor holds a coin, dips it in water, and scratches the patient’s back, one stroke after another, dipping the coin in the water after each stroke to make sure that the coin does not cut the skin. After a while, the back becomes very red. According to the theory of Chinese medicine, some types of disease, such as coughing, are the result of an imbalance between cold and hot or yin and yang; guasha gets the hot “fire” out of the body and restores the balance. In medieval times, European doctors performed bloodletting, draining the blood of their patients, which was probably the same idea.

  It was difficult to imagine how I could treat the pigs with guasha. I consulted a veterinary book and found there was a related technique that involved letting out some blood by cutting the pig’s ears. I decided to give it a try.

  It was fortunate that Huang Shurong was with the pig squad now. He was the only one with enough strength to tie down a pig. According to the description in the book, I carefully made triangular cuts on the ears of each of the patients, who did not know what was good for them and screamed loudly.

  It worked. A few pigs started to eat almost the next day and recovered quickly. For those that did not totally recover I did use antibiotics, as I suspected a bacterial infection. Huang got hold of some genuine veterinary syringes. They were made of steel and functioned like an impact drill. I would walk near a pig and push the needle in when it was not paying attention. Before it had time to respond, the injection was over. I wished it were so easy with humans.

  Pigs were much more responsive to antibiotics than humans. Within a few days, all the patients were happy and noisy again. After this episode, the three of us, Old Yi, Huang, and myself, became self-taught veterinarians. Whenever there was a problem with the pigs, we would discuss the symptoms, consult some books, and figure out what to do.

  * * *

  The pigpens were located at the back of the compound right behind the kitchen. Several pens were built around four sides of an open yard, where the pigs would walk around and feed. Each pen was half-covered by a roof, under which the animals would sleep. Pigs may appear to be dirty animals as they bathe in mud, and they do excrete plenty. In fact, the pigs always kept their sleeping quarters under the roof clean, and even in raining or snowy days, they would get up at night to walk out of the roofed area to the farthest corner of their pen in the open air to do their business. They would go out if not confined. In this regard, they are not different from dogs.

  Adjacent to the pens was a small room that functioned as a kitchen for the animals. Old Yi and Huang would dump collected leftovers into a big pot—vegetable roots, pumpkin skins, and old cabbage leaves, mostly—and then boil them. As far as I could see, the pigs loved this food, or more accurately, whatever they were fed.

  The room that Old Yi and Huang shared was right beside the pigs’ kitchen. It was a small room with a kang, similar to mine. Although five or six of us lived together in my squad, there were only the two of them here. Two wooden luggage cases under the window served as seats, and another served as a table. Compared to my living quarters, theirs were much more comfortable and spacious.

  There were only a few rooms in the entire company that were adequately heated, because coal was scarce. The head office where the company commander and the political instructor lived was one. Another was the clinic. Because they had to cook for the pigs, the pig squad also had plenty of coal. In the deep winter, when it was extremely cold outside, it felt cozily comfortable to sit on Old Yi’s kang and talk. To this day, I have fond memories of Old Yi’s face reflecting the dancing fire and of the pigs making comforting noises on a heap of straw on the earthen floor.

  Although they could do nothing about the lack of food, the pig squad did good work. When a pig had a litter in winter, Old Yi and Huang would make a “bed” for them inside their own room so that they would be warmer.

  Old Yi was the best-paid man I knew at the time. As a reward for bringing aircraft back from Hong Kong, he and his coconspirators were given a salary paid in cash but pegged to a certain number of sacks of rice. Fixing salaries in terms of sacks of rice became common during the hyperinflation that marked the last days of the old regime. Although Old Yi had to take a big pay cut when the Cultural Revolution started, he was still paid 300 yuan a month, compared with the 5 yuan I was paid.

  We used to joke that Old Yi’s pigs were probably the most valuable pigs in the entire country, if not the world. The pig squad contributed three or four pigs to the company each year. Old Yi’s share was not more than two. Each pig was worth no more than 125 yuan. So Old Yi’s contribution to society was about 250 yuan. Yet his annual salary was about 3,600 yuan.

  What a huge waste of talent that such a highly paid aviation expert was made to raise pigs whose value was a fraction of his reduced pay. But such waste of talent or worse was on a national scale.

  Old Yi sent half his salary to his wife, who lived in Hohhot, and spent the rest. He was generous with us. There was not much to buy where we lived—the shelves of the small shop some distance away were usually empty. Sugar was sometimes available but most of us could not afford it. Whenever Old Yi bought sugar, he shared it with us. He would fill his tin box with sugar and put it on the windowsill. At mealtimes, people would come around to help themselves. He would, from time to time, also put out a bottle of hot pepper that was also popular.

  Huang was quite protective of Old Yi and said he should not waste money this way. There was no way for Old Yi to improve the living conditions of so many of us, so Huang figured, why waste the money on the wolves? A few spoonfuls of sugar would not make a difference for anyone. But I knew that everyone appreciated Old Yi’s generosity. Old Yi suffered from hemorrhoids, which were made worse by the coarse food and hard work. While most of us used newspaper, Old Yi had a roll of real toilet paper. Although it was rough, it was far softer than newsprint. That was the only thing he would not share.

  Aside from the hemorrhoids, Old Yi was legendary for his robustness. Even in his late fifties he still had perfect eyesight. He told me that when he was still one of the best-known pilots in the CAAC system, a newspaper reporter came to interview him about the secrets of his health. She expected him to talk about exercise. To her disappointment, Old Yi said that his secret was not to exercise much.

  That was Old Yi. He worked long hours at a slow pace. Otherwise, he would sit in his room, reading or resting with his eyes closed. I asked him why he thought there was no need for exercise. He said the human body was like a machine. If left idle, it would rust. But if you overworked it, it would wear and tear and break down. The best way to maintain it was to use it in moderation. A man would fall ill for lack of movement. But he would not live long if he overworked himself. Since a man’s work was already demanding, there was no need for additional exercise. I remember laughing hard about this. I did not know if he was pulling the reporter’s leg because Old Yi was not known to tell jokes. I was sure what hard laborers like ourselves required most was more rest, not more exercise; but an office worker or a pilot would probably rust without exercise.

  * * *

  Since I was one of the few close friends of both Old Yi and Huang, I liked to go to their pig-food kitchen to chat and read books. Their place was relatively secluded, s
o I could read away from the public eye, and it was quiet so I could concentrate without being disturbed.

  Old Yi was by far the best-educated person in the whole company, yet raising pigs required little of his knowledge or rich experience. In retrospect, his education had probably brought him more trouble than benefit. People from the CAAC told me that the Rebels accused Old Yi of being a “reactionary technical authority.” Because of this, he was sent to the Gobi to “reform himself.”

  Probably to avoid trouble, Old Yi did not possess any books, to my knowledge, except an obligatory copy of The Selected Works of Mao Zedong. But he took an interest in whatever I was reading and was happy to answer my questions if there were things in the book I did not quite understand.

  I subscribed to a popular-science magazine, Aviation, one of the few magazines still allowed at the time. At the same time, I was reading basic textbooks on physics, including aerodynamics. I remember feeling so happy after having understood how a pair of wings could carry a large aircraft into the sky, given the required speed. Old Yi would read every page of that magazine. I asked him why he was interested, as those articles must have been like kindergarten stuff to him.

  Old Yi smiled and answered simply: kai juan you yi, “Merely to open a book is beneficial.” He did not have anything else to read.

  The officially published four volumes of The Selected Works of Mao Zedong contained Mao’s writings only up to September 1949, a few days before he proclaimed the founding of the new People’s Republic. The thinking behind his policies after 1949, as reflected in his speeches in internal meetings, was thus largely unknown to the general public.

  I owned a few “rare” books. Among them was a set of volumes containing some speeches of Mao that had only been internally published for senior officials. But when the Red Guard ransacked homes and libraries during the chaos, these speeches attracted attention. One of my “rare” books contained Mao’s speeches and writings written since 1949.

  I had never thought of Mao as anything other than a wise leader. But when I read what he said during the 1950s and 1960s, I grew skeptical. He sounded unbelievably naïve, even to a 16-year-old like myself. For example, during the late 1950s, the “rapid growth” of the Great Leap Forward was followed by three years of the Great Famine. But leaders at various levels reported astronomical output to show the effectiveness of the policies. Annual industrial and agricultural output was said to have increased 10, 20, and sometimes more than 100 times. The figures were so ridiculous that even though I had been out of school only for a few years by then, it was obvious to me that they could not possibly have been true. But somehow Mao seemed to accept them as facts and take them as proof of the success of his policies.

  Mao also seemed to think China would soon achieve the ultimate state of communism, and with it the abundance of social and material well-being that Marx had envisioned. He was concerned about what to do with all the extra food and goods that the Chinese people would not be able to consume.

  Although I believed China was a strong country in the world, and that the oppressed people in capitalist countries were starving, I had begun to question how strong China really was. Looking around me, we did not have enough to eat. It did not take an expert to realize that we were not productive. If China was on the verge of communism even then, I wondered, why were we so poor? I did not dare think that Mao might have been delusional, but I felt sure he was overly optimistic about the economy under his policies.

  I let Old Yi borrow these works of Mao. From then on, whenever I went to the pigpens, Old Yi was deep in his reading. He was usually careful not to let other people see that he was immersed in something. But he did not have to hide now that he was reading Chairman Mao. Occasionally he would lay down the volume and chat with me about the contents.

  My doubts about Mao were forbidden thoughts. But we were quite secluded, and there were only pigs to hear us. By then, I had enough trust in him that I did not hesitate to share my thoughts.

  Old Yi’s judgment on Mao was reserved. In fact, he was reluctant to speak of Mao. I could understand this, because to criticize the great leader was too dangerous. But I kept asking questions about socialism and capitalism, about China’s past, present, and future, and her position in the world—all subjects that came up repeatedly in Mao’s works.

  I knew that Old Yi had been abroad and, as an expert on aviation, his students and trainees included dignitaries from the Third World countries. However, despite my curiosity, it was difficult to get Old Yi to talk about his past. He would always smile and say, “Read and study. You will learn more than I have.”

  He also refused repeatedly to teach me English, saying that he had learned a nonstandard dialect. In fact, he was protecting both of us from getting into trouble. I gradually realized that he was being careful not to put himself in a position where he could be accused of influencing my thinking. The risk was less if we discussed facts and concrete experience. I found he was less reluctant to answer questions if I made them specific.

  After Old Yi finished reading the volumes by Mao, I asked him his thoughts on Mao’s obvious optimism about China marching into the communist stage of economic development. Old Yi said he did not know what level of economic development communism was supposed to reach, and what “material abundance” in a communist society meant; China was still poorer than many capitalist countries in the world.

  I was surprised. China was poorer than many capitalist countries? I was brought up believing that China was a prosperous socialist country and that the people of the world looked up to Beijing as the center of world revolution. I knew that we were poor in the countryside, and there must have been other poor places in China as well. But I had thought that the oppressed people all over the world were much poorer.

  I asked Old Yi how he could be so sure. It was true that he knew little about other countries and their standard of living now, he admitted. But he had been to the United States in the 1940s as an officer under the Allied Forces command and had seen what that country looked like then. He said that if what I had just heard was shocking, he had more shocking news to tell me: The United States in the 1940s was much richer than China today.

  I found it impossible to reconcile this with what I had been brought up to believe. But there was no question in my mind that Old Yi was telling me the truth. I was grateful that he would share such a secret with me.

  He gave me an example to help me understand. He said that in the 1940s, US shipyards were turning out more than 15 ships every week as part of the war effort against the fascists. Even if fully mobilized today, Old Yi said, China could not produce that number of ships in a whole year.

  Through repeated questioning, I learned more from Old Yi about the foreign lands he had been to. It turned out that he had served on a US battleship and traveled all over the world. This was probably the “darkest part” of his personal history, as far as the authorities were concerned, as he had worked with “American imperialists.” But he said that the United States had been a friend to China in the war against the Japanese.

  I became very curious about the United States, our second-greatest enemy after the Soviet Union. My impression of the country softened after Old Yi told me that Americans were among the friendliest people in the world. I thought that Chairman Mao was right: You should always distinguish between a government and the people of a country.

  I asked old Yi about the poverty of the oppressed working people in capitalist society. It was true, Old Yi said, that there was a large gap between rich and poor in the United States. But it was also true even then, that the poor had a higher standard of living than an average citizen of China today.

  Subversive words. But Old Yi had to know about rich and poor. He was the highest-paid person I had ever met. If he said China was poor, how could I not believe him?

  The sudden realization that I had been misled all my life left me feeling disappointed and delighted at the same time. There might be other things I never
knew. Meanwhile, I felt fortunate that I could learn so much truth about the world from Old Yi. I was so ignorant. But I realized that the only way out of my ignorance was to continue to study and learn. For this, the conversations with Old Yi were very valuable. I found it ironic that I was supposed to be re-educated by the peasants in the countryside, yet I learned a great deal more from a “reactionary technical authority” with a counterrevolutionary background.

  * * *

  The pigs were generally allowed to roam free, but they had to be summoned to eat. So twice a day, Old Yi could be seen chasing his pigs with a stick while making a beckoning sound of “Lou Lou Lou.”

  I think it was Huang Shurong who had the bright idea of using a whistle to call the pigs at feeding time. Once the pigs learned the sound, they would rush to the trough when they heard it. But this was confusing for the people. While the pigs could distinguish the sound of Old Yi’s whistle, we confused it with the whistle that announced our own meals. So every time we heard a whistle, we would look to see if the pigs were rushing toward the pens.

  I liked to watch Old Yi feed the animals. Pigs were impatient. As he poured the feed into the trough, he would fondly reprimand them with the words “Naughty, naughty.”

  He was fond of his subjects, as we jokingly referred to his pigs, and had given each one a name. The one he was most fond of was a female named Cao Cao, after the politician-general of the Three Kingdoms period (AD 220–280). Perhaps because she was Old Yi’s favorite and was fed a bit more and better than the others, or perhaps because she was an enterprising forager, Cao Cao looked like a real pig, with a plump, round body. She would come whenever Old Yi called her name. But unlike other pigs, Cao Cao never ran to eat. She was always composed, just like the politician-general who was her namesake.