6:30 a.m.
We were up with the sun for the second day in a row. I don't know how those pesky roosters had sniffed our trail for all those miles, but somehow they were there again, summoning us from dreamland with their obnoxious crowing.
Steve's an army guy. Being awake this early was his routine. I'm a college student on spring break, the last category of people you would expect to rise with the roosters. It took a lot to help me peel myself from that rock-solid mattress in our 80-yuan (about $10 U.S.) hotel room.
For one, the roosters were unbearable. They were like that pesky roommate who can't sleep so he makes sure no one else does either. Secondly, Steve's baritone voice had already pleaded with me to get up. But most of all, the call of God got me moving. I had really begun to focus on the urgency of the hour that we live in and my role in bringing the antivenom to a poisoned world.
There were people outside the walls of the hotel that would hear the gospel through the pieces of plastic I carried in my pack. Someone's eternal destiny could be hanging in the balance. Although I still struggle living and walking in that reality today, for the few days we were on mission, I grasped it. Was it possible to distribute some 1500 VCD's and see no fruit whatsoever? Of course. But it was also possible that one, two, or even three or more people would respond to the gospel presentation with faith in Christ, and in that instant, turn from eternal death and suffering to everlasting life and peace. Then, they could bring the peace and life they have found to surrounding villages, and revival could spread like wildfire. How selfish it would be if I let a little fatigue hinder me for fulfilling such a great calling. Success is not how many people convert, but how faithful we are with the task God has given us.
Jesus, being one with the Father, knew what would happen when he crossed the Sea of Galilee into the region of Gadara. He would soon be rejected by the town's inhabitants, men and women who feared his supernatural power and cared more about their pigs than a broken man's soul. But he crossed the sea anyway, just to reach out to one demon-possessedman. He liberated a Gentile, a man outside his fold, from spiritual oppression.
I find it interesting that the story above is found in Mark 5, the exact passage that was depicted on the VCD we were handing out. We were following Jesus' example, striving for the same kind of reckless abandon to the will of God, venturing out in love to people that don't resemble us at all culturally. Hopefully, God will honor our attempts to imitate his Son.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Good Night
The first order of business at the hotel, at least for me, was a shower. After taking full advantage of the limited supply of hot water, I emerged from the shower and put on some fresh clothes and my Teva's, which gave my feet some well-deserved relief. They had supported 30-40 lbs. more than usual today, and they had been trapped inside clunky Timberland hiking boots all day.
The day's events had really worked up our appetites, so we set out to find somewhere to eat. In this town, the only "fast food" they had were the stray dogs running down the street. There were no KFC's or McDonald's. As we thought about our options, we remembered our trainers' advice: "Food off the street is generally safe; you select the ingredients and they cook it in a big skillet right in front of you," they had told us.
Sure enough, about a block away from our hotel, an elderly woman had a stand set up with a large pot boiling on a wood-burning stove. On the table next to it, she had set up all kinds of unrecognizable foods and strange vegetables, spices, and meats. Steve hovered over the broad bowls. He squinted in the faint streetlight, struggling to make his selection. You could tell which items were the most popular, because some of the bowls were almost empty, while some were overflowing. I guessed that our best bet would be to go with the items that the locals weren't very fond of. Every time I eat in China, it seems like I can't stand the stuff they like most.
The woman nodded and smiled at me, revealing wide gaps where many of her teeth should have been. She waited patiently for Steve's request. Then they started conversing, Steve in his loud English and the woman squawking suggestions in Chinese, pointing to various bowls to answer Steve's questions, which I'm sure she couldn't understand. The two of them were quite a sight.
As entertaining as it was to watch, I felt obligated to intervene. I kept it simple and relatively safe, ordering chicken, spicy beef, and a variety of vegetables served over a bed of noodles with a side of fried rice.
A woman in her early thirties and her young son watched the exchange from a shop on the corner. A mixture of light from the fire and the lone streetlight danced on her face, which was clothed with an amused half-grin. I noticed that she had drinks for sale, so I walked over to purchase two large bottles of water. We would drink some with our meal and use the rest to pre-hydrate ourselves for tomorrow's hike.
The little boy peeked out from behind his mother as I approached.
"Ni hao!" I said, waving at him.
Although obviously a little sheepish, he mustered a "ni hao" of his own. His mother lovingly caressed his head with one hand and gave my change back with the other. Touched by their love for each other, I rejoined Steve at the plastic patio table where he sat. I glanced over at the mother and son every so often as we enjoyed a feast in the cool evening. It was great to be off the trail, and I couldn't think of a better way to end the kind of day I will one day tell my grandkids about.
The day's events had really worked up our appetites, so we set out to find somewhere to eat. In this town, the only "fast food" they had were the stray dogs running down the street. There were no KFC's or McDonald's. As we thought about our options, we remembered our trainers' advice: "Food off the street is generally safe; you select the ingredients and they cook it in a big skillet right in front of you," they had told us.
Sure enough, about a block away from our hotel, an elderly woman had a stand set up with a large pot boiling on a wood-burning stove. On the table next to it, she had set up all kinds of unrecognizable foods and strange vegetables, spices, and meats. Steve hovered over the broad bowls. He squinted in the faint streetlight, struggling to make his selection. You could tell which items were the most popular, because some of the bowls were almost empty, while some were overflowing. I guessed that our best bet would be to go with the items that the locals weren't very fond of. Every time I eat in China, it seems like I can't stand the stuff they like most.
The woman nodded and smiled at me, revealing wide gaps where many of her teeth should have been. She waited patiently for Steve's request. Then they started conversing, Steve in his loud English and the woman squawking suggestions in Chinese, pointing to various bowls to answer Steve's questions, which I'm sure she couldn't understand. The two of them were quite a sight.
As entertaining as it was to watch, I felt obligated to intervene. I kept it simple and relatively safe, ordering chicken, spicy beef, and a variety of vegetables served over a bed of noodles with a side of fried rice.
A woman in her early thirties and her young son watched the exchange from a shop on the corner. A mixture of light from the fire and the lone streetlight danced on her face, which was clothed with an amused half-grin. I noticed that she had drinks for sale, so I walked over to purchase two large bottles of water. We would drink some with our meal and use the rest to pre-hydrate ourselves for tomorrow's hike.
The little boy peeked out from behind his mother as I approached.
"Ni hao!" I said, waving at him.
Although obviously a little sheepish, he mustered a "ni hao" of his own. His mother lovingly caressed his head with one hand and gave my change back with the other. Touched by their love for each other, I rejoined Steve at the plastic patio table where he sat. I glanced over at the mother and son every so often as we enjoyed a feast in the cool evening. It was great to be off the trail, and I couldn't think of a better way to end the kind of day I will one day tell my grandkids about.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Movable Beds
We stepped out into a street bustling with activity as dusk settled in. Food vendors crowded the streets with little grills and pots, offering their greasy cuisine to everyone who passed by. The place was like a smalltown Chinese version of a mall food court. Some people huddled around tables, rested on stools or just stood there, but all of them were interacting with one another, sharing an evening with the community, not locking themselves inside their homes and hypnotizing themselves with TV. There was a buzz in the air, like something was about to happen. Or maybe it just felt like that because we had moved from the quiet bus out into an area overflowing with energy.
Steve and I stood there for a moment, just taking everything in. No one seemed to notice us until a truck honked to get us to move out of the road. We moved closer to the food vendors, and the smell of hot food was too much for Steve after all those Power Bars. He opted for some kind of grilled fish, skewered with a kabob on either side. I was too worried about finding a place to sleep to concentrate on snacking.
As Steve munched on his fish, I asked him if I could look at the map. He could only nod. He wiped his greasy fingers on his shorts and fished for the map in his pocket. He handed it to me, and I took a look. It made it clear that we were to continue down the road in the same direction the bus was traveling. Then we would make a few turns before arriving at the Dai minority park, the place where we were slated to stay the night.
According to our trainers, the minority park was sort of like an Indian reservation in the states. The Chinese government apparently pays Dai people to live there and carry on their indigenous lifestyle. Tourists from all over China come to visit the park to see how minorities live. If they so desire, guests can stay at one of the many traditional Dai homes located throughout the park, to experience authentic Dai cuisine and even help with a little farmwork. The park is famous for its elaborate celebrations of the water-splashing festival, the Dai minority's most important holiday.
The park was one of the main reasons Route 4 was my first choice. When I travel, I like to become more than a tourist. I like to understand the nitty gritty details of a society, how the people really interact with one another without all that canned, artificial nonsense they feed you at places designated for tourists. The way our trainers described it, I thought that even though the park was a popular tourist spot, it would be our best chance to get behind the outer walls of a Dai house and see from the inside how a household really worked.
After a few turns and almost a mile of walking, we turned left and were greeted with a huge, white concrete entryway with a booth in the center and traffic lanes running under two large arcs.
"This must be the park," I said.
Steve nodded, and we walked up to the window to pay the required entry fee. To our surprise, no one was monitoring the gate, which was standing wide open. Confused, we walked under it calling for help to any attendants that may have been nearby. Now that we were looking for people, we realized how desolate the place really was compared to the busy town.
Unsure of what to do, we started to venture into the park when a man with a security guard's badge cut us off. He didn't speak any English. Surprise, surprise. I did my best to tell him there was no one at the front office, and that we just wanted to sleep inside the park for the night. He seemed to understand, and I thought he said something about paying the entry fee upon our exit in the morning.
Steve butted in on our already frustrated conversation.
"Just tell him we want to look aroudn at the park for a minute, and then we'll come back to the gate," he said.
I relayed the message as best I could, and we started to walk in. A few seconds later, we had flagged down a three-wheeled motorcycle carriage, and we were heading away from the security gate and into the sights and sounds of the park.
It must have been off-season, because the inside of the park was just as deserted as the front gate. We saw a few Dai houses being erected on either side of the long, sinous road. We saw some large, ornate buildings that looked like restored Buddhist temples from ancient times. In the middle of the park, there was a round courtyard with a gilded fountain in the middle which we assumed was used in the dances of the watersplashing festival. All this, and almost no people.
We had been told the place would be hopping with activity. We thought there would be dancing and merrymaking, and music wafting over from one side of the valley to another. Unfortunately, the advertisments had been misleading, or at least meant for another time of year.
When our crowded vehicle pulled up to the authentic Dai house, we realized that there was very little about it that was "authentic." Steve and I had been traipsing through Dai villages all day. They were not about to pull a fast one on us. The wood on the house looked too new and manufactured, unlike the dark natural wood we saw in the villages. When we went inside, everything looked and felt plastic and generic, not like a home. The rooms were small, and they had no beds.
In Chinese, I asked the attendant, "Where are the beds?"
With a flurry of gestures and fast words, he conveyed that they would bring the beds in later. There's no telling what beds that could be moved that easily would do to our aching backs. I shot Steve a glance across the room, and his face said it all.
"We don't want it," I said in Chinese, and I walked outside and got back into our taxi. This was the most blatant tourist trap I had ever seen in China, and Steve and I were a little disappointed. It's not that we thought we were too high-class to stay there. Quite the opposite. We took one look at the prices and realized it was too high for our taste, especially with movable bamboo beds.
When Steve and the driver caught up, they asked me what I wanted to do. I looked up the word for hotel in the English/Chinese dictionary, and I told the driver to take us to the nearest one. In a few minutes, as we exited the park, we passed our friend at the security gate. He waved and smiled. In less than a minute more, the driver had stopped in front of a tall building. He pointed to it and repeated the word for hotel that I had just learned. I thanked him very much and paid him a little extra for his trouble. He still looked a little disoriented as he rode away, like he was confused about what had happened in the last 15-20 minutes.
I hope this place has real mattresses, I thought, and we trudged up the steps to our shelter for the night.
Steve and I stood there for a moment, just taking everything in. No one seemed to notice us until a truck honked to get us to move out of the road. We moved closer to the food vendors, and the smell of hot food was too much for Steve after all those Power Bars. He opted for some kind of grilled fish, skewered with a kabob on either side. I was too worried about finding a place to sleep to concentrate on snacking.
As Steve munched on his fish, I asked him if I could look at the map. He could only nod. He wiped his greasy fingers on his shorts and fished for the map in his pocket. He handed it to me, and I took a look. It made it clear that we were to continue down the road in the same direction the bus was traveling. Then we would make a few turns before arriving at the Dai minority park, the place where we were slated to stay the night.
According to our trainers, the minority park was sort of like an Indian reservation in the states. The Chinese government apparently pays Dai people to live there and carry on their indigenous lifestyle. Tourists from all over China come to visit the park to see how minorities live. If they so desire, guests can stay at one of the many traditional Dai homes located throughout the park, to experience authentic Dai cuisine and even help with a little farmwork. The park is famous for its elaborate celebrations of the water-splashing festival, the Dai minority's most important holiday.
The park was one of the main reasons Route 4 was my first choice. When I travel, I like to become more than a tourist. I like to understand the nitty gritty details of a society, how the people really interact with one another without all that canned, artificial nonsense they feed you at places designated for tourists. The way our trainers described it, I thought that even though the park was a popular tourist spot, it would be our best chance to get behind the outer walls of a Dai house and see from the inside how a household really worked.
After a few turns and almost a mile of walking, we turned left and were greeted with a huge, white concrete entryway with a booth in the center and traffic lanes running under two large arcs.
"This must be the park," I said.
Steve nodded, and we walked up to the window to pay the required entry fee. To our surprise, no one was monitoring the gate, which was standing wide open. Confused, we walked under it calling for help to any attendants that may have been nearby. Now that we were looking for people, we realized how desolate the place really was compared to the busy town.
Unsure of what to do, we started to venture into the park when a man with a security guard's badge cut us off. He didn't speak any English. Surprise, surprise. I did my best to tell him there was no one at the front office, and that we just wanted to sleep inside the park for the night. He seemed to understand, and I thought he said something about paying the entry fee upon our exit in the morning.
Steve butted in on our already frustrated conversation.
"Just tell him we want to look aroudn at the park for a minute, and then we'll come back to the gate," he said.
I relayed the message as best I could, and we started to walk in. A few seconds later, we had flagged down a three-wheeled motorcycle carriage, and we were heading away from the security gate and into the sights and sounds of the park.
It must have been off-season, because the inside of the park was just as deserted as the front gate. We saw a few Dai houses being erected on either side of the long, sinous road. We saw some large, ornate buildings that looked like restored Buddhist temples from ancient times. In the middle of the park, there was a round courtyard with a gilded fountain in the middle which we assumed was used in the dances of the watersplashing festival. All this, and almost no people.
We had been told the place would be hopping with activity. We thought there would be dancing and merrymaking, and music wafting over from one side of the valley to another. Unfortunately, the advertisments had been misleading, or at least meant for another time of year.
When our crowded vehicle pulled up to the authentic Dai house, we realized that there was very little about it that was "authentic." Steve and I had been traipsing through Dai villages all day. They were not about to pull a fast one on us. The wood on the house looked too new and manufactured, unlike the dark natural wood we saw in the villages. When we went inside, everything looked and felt plastic and generic, not like a home. The rooms were small, and they had no beds.
In Chinese, I asked the attendant, "Where are the beds?"
With a flurry of gestures and fast words, he conveyed that they would bring the beds in later. There's no telling what beds that could be moved that easily would do to our aching backs. I shot Steve a glance across the room, and his face said it all.
"We don't want it," I said in Chinese, and I walked outside and got back into our taxi. This was the most blatant tourist trap I had ever seen in China, and Steve and I were a little disappointed. It's not that we thought we were too high-class to stay there. Quite the opposite. We took one look at the prices and realized it was too high for our taste, especially with movable bamboo beds.
When Steve and the driver caught up, they asked me what I wanted to do. I looked up the word for hotel in the English/Chinese dictionary, and I told the driver to take us to the nearest one. In a few minutes, as we exited the park, we passed our friend at the security gate. He waved and smiled. In less than a minute more, the driver had stopped in front of a tall building. He pointed to it and repeated the word for hotel that I had just learned. I thanked him very much and paid him a little extra for his trouble. He still looked a little disoriented as he rode away, like he was confused about what had happened in the last 15-20 minutes.
I hope this place has real mattresses, I thought, and we trudged up the steps to our shelter for the night.
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