正文
無比震撼，一個美國人在中國的真實經曆。
作者：憂傷de豬 .
中國最孤獨的人
在一個毫無特色的鄉村飯館，一個外國人折服於一個當地人的誠實。
…………………………………
BY PAOLO BACIGALUPI
在去四川三峽的路上，住著我所見過的最孤獨的中國人。
當時我們都在一個小館子裏，眺望著長江。那是在夜間，我在等著一條帶我離開巫山鎮，也就是三峽的渡船。當我計劃我的旅程時，我曾經臆想過，在三峽慢慢逆流而上，乘坐渡船來回於各小鎮之間探訪美景是多麽的酷。現在，在經曆過許多個鎮以後，我對這個想法感到厭倦，打算離開這個鄉下，回到成都，一個有著美味的食物，悠閑的茶館，以及逐漸對外國人司空見慣從而不去打擾的人們的大城市。
我盯著黑暗中那些溯流而上的船隻的搜索燈掃過茫茫黑夜，等著那條能把我帶離此地的船。
經營飯店的女人一直告訴我，船不會馬上就來。我應該放心，放鬆（也就是把心放到肚子裏），當船來的時候她會提醒我的。我看不出她如何能在尋找那條船上麵比我強，而且我以前曾在依賴他人關注我自己的問題時吃過虧，所以，我一麵讚同她，一麵繼續我的觀察。
鄰桌的男人來得早些，而且居然沒有叫菜就吃上了。他半心半意地聽著那個女人的丈夫拖著一個號哭的小男孩來到店裏，並且大聲叫著問我的所有問題。那些問題在他妻子早先發現我會一點中文的時候已經問過了:你從哪裏來？你多大了？你在美國掙多少錢？。。。你的中文很好，他叫喊道。
然後就到了主題。
每個在中國的人都知道那些主題。電視台和報紙在整個國家報道著那些政府編造的一模一樣的故事，而中國人根據這些多少受控的來源產生他們的觀點。這次的熱點是美國人是多麽的種族主義和帝國主義王八蛋以至於轟炸科索沃。不管我跟誰說話，對話總是不可避免地轉向這些話題，而觀點總是一樣的。我對這些政府媒體獻上我由衷的敬意。
這個丈夫結束了關於美國人是多麽狗屎的討論，對此失去了興趣，再次留下我一個人看著黑色的絲帶一樣的河流，等待著我的逃難船的蹤跡。在樓梯上的某處傳來他兒子的哭喊聲。
鄰桌的男人遞給我一支煙。我拒絕了。他給自己點上，扔掉了空盒。他平靜地問我：“你對中國怎麽看？”
我考慮著可能的回答。我想到了那天跟著我的攬客者們，試圖說服我訂一家旅館-—而且在失敗後爭著賣船票給我。他們的堅持和跟蹤技巧騷擾得我最終威脅他們要帶他們去公共安全專家局讓他們在警察麵前表演他們的合唱。
我想到了那天在公汽上針對我的秘密欺詐，和在一邊安靜地觀察進展的中國人們。當欺詐失敗，小偷們下車以後，我的同車者們說小偷不是本地人，但是他們不敢提醒我因為他們不知道這些陌生人是否帶著刀。
我想到了那個跟我最近一次渡船上同船的商人，活力十足地控訴著種族主義者美國人和科索沃問題，臉紅耳赤地大聲談論，話說得快得我隻能聽懂一半。盡管如此，我還是能從他的表情裏猜出剩下的內容。毫無疑問，如果我們在兩周後--在我們轟炸了他的大使館以後--碰到，他將會更加怒火萬丈。然後再次，在兩周以後，我將不得不撒謊，告訴他我是個加拿大人。
我想到了這些遭遇和其它類似的一大堆事情，然後充滿熱情地說：“中國很偉大！”
總而言之，這就是我一貫跟在中國的中國人民說的。這是他們想聽到的：對文化和國家的肯定，以及對他們初生的強權感的撫慰，而這已經逐漸變成一個曖昧的混合物。“中國是偉大的” 我再次說道，“我很高興以後能有機會回來旅遊，看到新的景觀。三峽很偉大，非常美”。
我就是這樣的一個撒謊精。
我並不為此自豪，但在我的旅程中我是個了不起的說謊專家。我微笑，撒謊，然後事情就變得容易了。每次我一旦不是為了辦事方便而說謊，我就為了找樂子說謊。有一次，我告訴一個出租車司機我已經學了一個禮拜的中文。其實那時我已經痛苦地學習了這門語言四年之久加上已經在北京生活，工作（和說謊）一年了。我記得我甚至告訴他中文是一門容易學習的語言。也許大多數人認為這沒什麽可樂的，但那也許是唯一的一次一個中國人說我的中文非常不錯，而且是真心地說。
我的餐館同伴更近地看著我，問道：“那你認為中國人怎樣？”
冷漠而且毫無心肝，但如果你是他們的小圈子裏的朋友，那是相當友善的。“他們也棒極了。” 我說。
“真的麽？”
恩。。。我避免正麵回答，然後說哪裏都有好人和壞人，中國人也一樣，但是總而言之，我喜歡他們。這實際上是真實的，至少在我那些愉快的時光。然後，因為厭倦了反複說著相同的話題，我問他關於中國人他怎麽看。
他看著我，然後移開了目光。我等待著。他不是一個富人。不像那些城市裏的臨時工那麽窮，但也不像那些受益於經濟改革的暴發戶。他穿了一條軍綠色的褲子，高領毛衣，皮夾克。看著他我想起了老百姓“老的一百個姓”: 中國的普通人，國家的脊梁。
他說,“我認為我們中國人缺乏素質。”。
我張口結舌，隻能說,“哦”，然後坐在那裏，為我在早先的談話裏撒的謊羞愧，感覺自己是個徹頭徹尾的傻瓜。
我最後終於可以出聲問他為什麽他會這麽說。
他聳聳肩。“我以前是開卡車的。給軍隊開，在非洲。我們在那裏給非洲人修建大壩和諸如此類的項目，大部分是水利和電力工程。非洲人黑頭發黑皮膚，非常黑的皮膚。他們很窮。
他沉思著搖頭,“窮得很”真的窮。“但他們對我們非常好。我們中國人比不上他們。他們是更好的人。我們富裕些，但他們素質更高。比不上他們”。
我曾經站在北京的公汽上，看見中國人拒絕坐在一個非洲留學生身邊，不管車子多麽的擁擠。我也曾經跟昆明人交談，他們在控訴我這個種族主義的美國人之後，興高采烈的接著解釋黑人為什麽是這個地球上最笨的人。在中國所有的外國魔鬼中，黑人得到了最差的待遇。現在，我坐在一個貌似農民的人身邊，他穿著軍綠色棉褲和肮髒的皮夾克，而且剛剛說到中國人比不上非洲人。我很好奇，究竟是什麽使得一個中國人說任何人，哪怕是黑非洲人，也強於他自己的種族。
最後我說，“我從沒聽任何中國人這麽說過。”
“他們從未離開過這個國家，”，他說，“如果你總是呆在你自己的國家裏，你就不會知道外麵如何。你沒法比較。但一旦你出去了，你就看得很清楚。經濟上，我們中國人做得還行。但作為人，我們缺乏素質。沒人這麽看。他們沒去過任何地方。他們不知道外麵是什麽樣的。他們無從比較。”他搖著頭。
我沒法回答。但他的經曆提醒我該回到美國而且試圖告訴人們我在國外的見聞。這使我憂傷。為他的經曆傷心，也為我自己。我花了如此多的時間痛苦地說謊，穿越整個中國，總是在中國人麵前掩飾的很好，而現在我要離開了，我才找到我真的想結識的中國人。
我們在一起又坐了一會，他抽著煙。我的船來了，我離開了。
現在我回到了美國的家中，覺得自己像個外星人。我想起這個人。我想起他坐在那個隻有一個房間的飯館裏，抽著煙凝視著黑夜，身邊環繞著他的國人，卻仍然孤獨。
作者：憂傷de豬回複日期：2007-8-262:00:00
附原文在此。我的翻譯已經盡量準確。無奈原作者水平太高，為防有不確切之處，原帖在此：
The loneliest man in China
In a nonde rural restaurant, an expat is humbled by a local\'s worldly honesty.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
BY PAOLO BACIGALUPI
The loneliest Chinese man I ever met lived halfway up the Three Gorges, in Sichuan Province.
We were both in a restaurant, looking out at the Yangtze. It was night. I was waiting for a boat to get me out of Wushan town, and out of the Gorges in general. When I had planned my trip, I had imagined how cool it would be to go up the Gorges slowly, taking river taxis between towns and savoring the scenery. Now, many towns later, I was sick of the idea and ready to get out of the countryside and on to Chengdu, a big city with good food, relaxed teahouses and a populace that had grown bored with foreigners and so left them alone.
I kept looking out into the darkness and watching the searchlights on the ships as they came up the river, sweeps of light on blackness, waiting for the one that would get me out of this place.
The woman who ran the restaurant kept telling me that the boat wouldn\'t come for a while and that I should fangxin, relax (literally, set down my heart); she would warn me when the boat was coming. I didn\'t see how she could tell one ship from the next any better than I could, and because I\'d made the mistake of depending on others to take care of my problems before, I agreed with her that I could relax, and then kept on watching anyway.
The man sitting at the table next to mine had come in earlier and was fed by the woman without his asking or ordering. He had listened with some half interest when the woman\'s husband came into the restaurant, a little boy howling in tow, and shouted at me all the questions that his wife had asked before when she found out I could speak some Chinese: Where are you from? How old are you? How much money do you earn in America? Your Chinese is very good, he yelled.
Then came The Topics.
Everyone in China knows The Topics. The television stations and newspapers run the same state-generated stories all across the country, and the Chinese form their opinions based on these somewhat controlled sources. This time, the hot topics were how racist Americans were and what imperialist bastards we were for bombing Kosovo. It didn\'t matter whom I talked to, the conversation inevitably turned to those topics, and the opinions were always the same. It gave me a real respect for the power of state-run media.
The husband finished up the how-shitty-Americans-really-are discussion and then lost interest and left me alone again to watch the black ribbon of the river below for signs of my escape boat. Somewhere up the stairs, I heard the son yelling.
The man at the next table offered me a cigarette. When I declined, he lit one for himself and put the pack away. He asked quietly, What do you think of China?
I thought about possible answers. I thought of the touts who had trailed me that day, trying to convince me to book into a hotel -- and when that failed, vying to sell me a boat ticket out. Their insistence and trailing tactics annoyed me enough that I finally threatened to lead them to the Public Security Bureau and let them do their pitch in front of the cops.
I thought of the confidence scam that had targeted me on a bus, and of the Chinese who had silently watched its progress. When the scam failed and the thieves got off, my fellow bus riders said that the thieves weren\'t local, but that they were afraid to warn me because they didn\'t know if the strangers carried knives.
I thought of the businessman, riding on my latest river taxi, who had vigorously pursued the Racist American and Kosovo Topics, getting red in the face and talking loudly and so fast that I only understood half of what he said, even though I could guess the rest from his expression. Undoubtedly, he would have been even angrier if we had met two weeks later, after we bombed his embassy. Then again, two weeks later, I would have lied and told him I was Canadian.
I thought about those experiences and another fistful like them and then said enthusiastically, China\'s great!
In the end, it\'s what I always say to Chinese people in China. It\'s what they want to hear: an affirmation of country and culture and a stroke for their nascent sense of superiority, which these days they\'re nursing into a full-blown complex. China\'s great, I said again. I\'m so glad to have a chance to come back here and travel. See new scenery. The Three Gorges are great. Very beautiful.
I\'m such a liar.
I\'m not proud of it, but I\'m a great liar when I travel. I smile and lie and things are smooth. Every once in a while I don\'t just lie to smooth the way, I lie for fun. Once, I told a taxi driver in Beijing that I\'d been studying Chinese for a week. This, after having painfully studied the language for four years and lived and worked (and lied) in Beijing for another year. I think I even told him that Chinese was an easy language to learn. Perhaps most people wouldn\'t think that\'s funny, but it was the only time a Chinese person ever told me my Chinese was very good and really meant it.
My restaurant companion looked at me more closely and asked, And what do you think of the Chinese people?
Cold and heartless, but nice if you\'re in their clique of friends. They\'re great, too, I said.
Really?
Well ... I hedged and said that there were good people and bad people everywhere, and China was no different, but still overall, I liked them. This was actually true, at least on my good days. Then, because I was bored and tired of having the same conversations over and over, I asked about his own opinion of the Chinese people.
He looked at me, and then he looked away. I waited. He wasn\'t a rich man. Not poor like the transient laborers pouring into China\'s cities, but also not one of the new rich stomping around China courtesy of the economic reforms. He was wearing green army pants, and a turtleneck, and a leather jacket. Looking at him made me think laobaixing, old hundred names: China\'s average man, backbone of the nation.
He said, I think that we Chinese are lacking in quality.
I managed to say, Oh, and then sat there feeling like an asshole for lying through the earlier part of our conversation.
I finally got my voice back and asked why he would say such a thing.
He shrugged. I used to drive trucks. For the army, over in Africa. We were over there building dams, projects like that for the Africans. Water and electricity projects, mostly. The Africans had black hair and black skin, very black skin, and they were poor.
He shook his head thoughtfully, Qiong de hen. Really poor. But they were very good to us. We Chinese couldn\'t compare to them. They were better people. We were richer, but they had more quality. Bi bu shang tamen. We can\'t beat them.
I\'ve stood on buses in Beijing and watched Chinese people refuse to sit next to an African student no matter how crowded the bus got, and I\'ve talked to people in Kunming who, after accusing me of being a racist American, cheerfully went on to explain how black people were the stupidest people on earth. Of all the foreign devils in China, blacks get the hardest treatment. And now I was sitting with a guy who looked like a peasant, dressed in green cotton army pants and wearing a dirty leather jacket, and who had just said that the Chinese couldn\'t compare with the Africans. I wondered what it cost a Chinese person to say that anyone, let alone a black African, was better than his own kind.
I finally said, I\'ve never heard anyone in China say that.
They haven\'t gone out of the country, he said. When you\'re always in your own country, you don\'t know what\'s out there. You can\'t compare. But after you go, you see clearly. Economically, we Chinese are doing OK. But as people, we lack quality. Nobody here sees it that way. But they haven\'t gone away. They don\'t know what it\'s like on the outside. They can\'t compare. He shook his head.
I didn\'t have any answer, but his experience reminded me of going home to America and trying to tell people what I had seen abroad. It made me sad. Sad for his experience, and sad that I had spent so much time blithely lying my way across China, always well-shielded from the Chinese, and now that I was leaving, I had finally found a Chinese person I wanted to know.
We sat together for a while longer while he smoked, and then my boat came, and I left.
Now that I\'m back home in America and feel like an alien, I think about him. I think about him sitting in that one-room restaurant, watching the darkness and smoking, surrounded by his countrymen, and all alone.
作者：憂傷de豬 .
中國最孤獨的人
在一個毫無特色的鄉村飯館，一個外國人折服於一個當地人的誠實。
…………………………………
BY PAOLO BACIGALUPI
在去四川三峽的路上，住著我所見過的最孤獨的中國人。
當時我們都在一個小館子裏，眺望著長江。那是在夜間，我在等著一條帶我離開巫山鎮，也就是三峽的渡船。當我計劃我的旅程時，我曾經臆想過，在三峽慢慢逆流而上，乘坐渡船來回於各小鎮之間探訪美景是多麽的酷。現在，在經曆過許多個鎮以後，我對這個想法感到厭倦，打算離開這個鄉下，回到成都，一個有著美味的食物，悠閑的茶館，以及逐漸對外國人司空見慣從而不去打擾的人們的大城市。
我盯著黑暗中那些溯流而上的船隻的搜索燈掃過茫茫黑夜，等著那條能把我帶離此地的船。
經營飯店的女人一直告訴我，船不會馬上就來。我應該放心，放鬆（也就是把心放到肚子裏），當船來的時候她會提醒我的。我看不出她如何能在尋找那條船上麵比我強，而且我以前曾在依賴他人關注我自己的問題時吃過虧，所以，我一麵讚同她，一麵繼續我的觀察。
鄰桌的男人來得早些，而且居然沒有叫菜就吃上了。他半心半意地聽著那個女人的丈夫拖著一個號哭的小男孩來到店裏，並且大聲叫著問我的所有問題。那些問題在他妻子早先發現我會一點中文的時候已經問過了:你從哪裏來？你多大了？你在美國掙多少錢？。。。你的中文很好，他叫喊道。
然後就到了主題。
每個在中國的人都知道那些主題。電視台和報紙在整個國家報道著那些政府編造的一模一樣的故事，而中國人根據這些多少受控的來源產生他們的觀點。這次的熱點是美國人是多麽的種族主義和帝國主義王八蛋以至於轟炸科索沃。不管我跟誰說話，對話總是不可避免地轉向這些話題，而觀點總是一樣的。我對這些政府媒體獻上我由衷的敬意。
這個丈夫結束了關於美國人是多麽狗屎的討論，對此失去了興趣，再次留下我一個人看著黑色的絲帶一樣的河流，等待著我的逃難船的蹤跡。在樓梯上的某處傳來他兒子的哭喊聲。
鄰桌的男人遞給我一支煙。我拒絕了。他給自己點上，扔掉了空盒。他平靜地問我：“你對中國怎麽看？”
我考慮著可能的回答。我想到了那天跟著我的攬客者們，試圖說服我訂一家旅館-—而且在失敗後爭著賣船票給我。他們的堅持和跟蹤技巧騷擾得我最終威脅他們要帶他們去公共安全專家局讓他們在警察麵前表演他們的合唱。
我想到了那天在公汽上針對我的秘密欺詐，和在一邊安靜地觀察進展的中國人們。當欺詐失敗，小偷們下車以後，我的同車者們說小偷不是本地人，但是他們不敢提醒我因為他們不知道這些陌生人是否帶著刀。
我想到了那個跟我最近一次渡船上同船的商人，活力十足地控訴著種族主義者美國人和科索沃問題，臉紅耳赤地大聲談論，話說得快得我隻能聽懂一半。盡管如此，我還是能從他的表情裏猜出剩下的內容。毫無疑問，如果我們在兩周後--在我們轟炸了他的大使館以後--碰到，他將會更加怒火萬丈。然後再次，在兩周以後，我將不得不撒謊，告訴他我是個加拿大人。
我想到了這些遭遇和其它類似的一大堆事情，然後充滿熱情地說：“中國很偉大！”
總而言之，這就是我一貫跟在中國的中國人民說的。這是他們想聽到的：對文化和國家的肯定，以及對他們初生的強權感的撫慰，而這已經逐漸變成一個曖昧的混合物。“中國是偉大的” 我再次說道，“我很高興以後能有機會回來旅遊，看到新的景觀。三峽很偉大，非常美”。
我就是這樣的一個撒謊精。
我並不為此自豪，但在我的旅程中我是個了不起的說謊專家。我微笑，撒謊，然後事情就變得容易了。每次我一旦不是為了辦事方便而說謊，我就為了找樂子說謊。有一次，我告訴一個出租車司機我已經學了一個禮拜的中文。其實那時我已經痛苦地學習了這門語言四年之久加上已經在北京生活，工作（和說謊）一年了。我記得我甚至告訴他中文是一門容易學習的語言。也許大多數人認為這沒什麽可樂的，但那也許是唯一的一次一個中國人說我的中文非常不錯，而且是真心地說。
我的餐館同伴更近地看著我，問道：“那你認為中國人怎樣？”
冷漠而且毫無心肝，但如果你是他們的小圈子裏的朋友，那是相當友善的。“他們也棒極了。” 我說。
“真的麽？”
恩。。。我避免正麵回答，然後說哪裏都有好人和壞人，中國人也一樣，但是總而言之，我喜歡他們。這實際上是真實的，至少在我那些愉快的時光。然後，因為厭倦了反複說著相同的話題，我問他關於中國人他怎麽看。
他看著我，然後移開了目光。我等待著。他不是一個富人。不像那些城市裏的臨時工那麽窮，但也不像那些受益於經濟改革的暴發戶。他穿了一條軍綠色的褲子，高領毛衣，皮夾克。看著他我想起了老百姓“老的一百個姓”: 中國的普通人，國家的脊梁。
他說,“我認為我們中國人缺乏素質。”。
我張口結舌，隻能說,“哦”，然後坐在那裏，為我在早先的談話裏撒的謊羞愧，感覺自己是個徹頭徹尾的傻瓜。
我最後終於可以出聲問他為什麽他會這麽說。
他聳聳肩。“我以前是開卡車的。給軍隊開，在非洲。我們在那裏給非洲人修建大壩和諸如此類的項目，大部分是水利和電力工程。非洲人黑頭發黑皮膚，非常黑的皮膚。他們很窮。
他沉思著搖頭,“窮得很”真的窮。“但他們對我們非常好。我們中國人比不上他們。他們是更好的人。我們富裕些，但他們素質更高。比不上他們”。
我曾經站在北京的公汽上，看見中國人拒絕坐在一個非洲留學生身邊，不管車子多麽的擁擠。我也曾經跟昆明人交談，他們在控訴我這個種族主義的美國人之後，興高采烈的接著解釋黑人為什麽是這個地球上最笨的人。在中國所有的外國魔鬼中，黑人得到了最差的待遇。現在，我坐在一個貌似農民的人身邊，他穿著軍綠色棉褲和肮髒的皮夾克，而且剛剛說到中國人比不上非洲人。我很好奇，究竟是什麽使得一個中國人說任何人，哪怕是黑非洲人，也強於他自己的種族。
最後我說，“我從沒聽任何中國人這麽說過。”
“他們從未離開過這個國家，”，他說，“如果你總是呆在你自己的國家裏，你就不會知道外麵如何。你沒法比較。但一旦你出去了，你就看得很清楚。經濟上，我們中國人做得還行。但作為人，我們缺乏素質。沒人這麽看。他們沒去過任何地方。他們不知道外麵是什麽樣的。他們無從比較。”他搖著頭。
我沒法回答。但他的經曆提醒我該回到美國而且試圖告訴人們我在國外的見聞。這使我憂傷。為他的經曆傷心，也為我自己。我花了如此多的時間痛苦地說謊，穿越整個中國，總是在中國人麵前掩飾的很好，而現在我要離開了，我才找到我真的想結識的中國人。
我們在一起又坐了一會，他抽著煙。我的船來了，我離開了。
現在我回到了美國的家中，覺得自己像個外星人。我想起這個人。我想起他坐在那個隻有一個房間的飯館裏，抽著煙凝視著黑夜，身邊環繞著他的國人，卻仍然孤獨。
作者：憂傷de豬回複日期：2007-8-262:00:00
附原文在此。我的翻譯已經盡量準確。無奈原作者水平太高，為防有不確切之處，原帖在此：
The loneliest man in China
In a nonde rural restaurant, an expat is humbled by a local\'s worldly honesty.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
BY PAOLO BACIGALUPI
The loneliest Chinese man I ever met lived halfway up the Three Gorges, in Sichuan Province.
We were both in a restaurant, looking out at the Yangtze. It was night. I was waiting for a boat to get me out of Wushan town, and out of the Gorges in general. When I had planned my trip, I had imagined how cool it would be to go up the Gorges slowly, taking river taxis between towns and savoring the scenery. Now, many towns later, I was sick of the idea and ready to get out of the countryside and on to Chengdu, a big city with good food, relaxed teahouses and a populace that had grown bored with foreigners and so left them alone.
I kept looking out into the darkness and watching the searchlights on the ships as they came up the river, sweeps of light on blackness, waiting for the one that would get me out of this place.
The woman who ran the restaurant kept telling me that the boat wouldn\'t come for a while and that I should fangxin, relax (literally, set down my heart); she would warn me when the boat was coming. I didn\'t see how she could tell one ship from the next any better than I could, and because I\'d made the mistake of depending on others to take care of my problems before, I agreed with her that I could relax, and then kept on watching anyway.
The man sitting at the table next to mine had come in earlier and was fed by the woman without his asking or ordering. He had listened with some half interest when the woman\'s husband came into the restaurant, a little boy howling in tow, and shouted at me all the questions that his wife had asked before when she found out I could speak some Chinese: Where are you from? How old are you? How much money do you earn in America? Your Chinese is very good, he yelled.
Then came The Topics.
Everyone in China knows The Topics. The television stations and newspapers run the same state-generated stories all across the country, and the Chinese form their opinions based on these somewhat controlled sources. This time, the hot topics were how racist Americans were and what imperialist bastards we were for bombing Kosovo. It didn\'t matter whom I talked to, the conversation inevitably turned to those topics, and the opinions were always the same. It gave me a real respect for the power of state-run media.
The husband finished up the how-shitty-Americans-really-are discussion and then lost interest and left me alone again to watch the black ribbon of the river below for signs of my escape boat. Somewhere up the stairs, I heard the son yelling.
The man at the next table offered me a cigarette. When I declined, he lit one for himself and put the pack away. He asked quietly, What do you think of China?
I thought about possible answers. I thought of the touts who had trailed me that day, trying to convince me to book into a hotel -- and when that failed, vying to sell me a boat ticket out. Their insistence and trailing tactics annoyed me enough that I finally threatened to lead them to the Public Security Bureau and let them do their pitch in front of the cops.
I thought of the confidence scam that had targeted me on a bus, and of the Chinese who had silently watched its progress. When the scam failed and the thieves got off, my fellow bus riders said that the thieves weren\'t local, but that they were afraid to warn me because they didn\'t know if the strangers carried knives.
I thought of the businessman, riding on my latest river taxi, who had vigorously pursued the Racist American and Kosovo Topics, getting red in the face and talking loudly and so fast that I only understood half of what he said, even though I could guess the rest from his expression. Undoubtedly, he would have been even angrier if we had met two weeks later, after we bombed his embassy. Then again, two weeks later, I would have lied and told him I was Canadian.
I thought about those experiences and another fistful like them and then said enthusiastically, China\'s great!
In the end, it\'s what I always say to Chinese people in China. It\'s what they want to hear: an affirmation of country and culture and a stroke for their nascent sense of superiority, which these days they\'re nursing into a full-blown complex. China\'s great, I said again. I\'m so glad to have a chance to come back here and travel. See new scenery. The Three Gorges are great. Very beautiful.
I\'m such a liar.
I\'m not proud of it, but I\'m a great liar when I travel. I smile and lie and things are smooth. Every once in a while I don\'t just lie to smooth the way, I lie for fun. Once, I told a taxi driver in Beijing that I\'d been studying Chinese for a week. This, after having painfully studied the language for four years and lived and worked (and lied) in Beijing for another year. I think I even told him that Chinese was an easy language to learn. Perhaps most people wouldn\'t think that\'s funny, but it was the only time a Chinese person ever told me my Chinese was very good and really meant it.
My restaurant companion looked at me more closely and asked, And what do you think of the Chinese people?
Cold and heartless, but nice if you\'re in their clique of friends. They\'re great, too, I said.
Really?
Well ... I hedged and said that there were good people and bad people everywhere, and China was no different, but still overall, I liked them. This was actually true, at least on my good days. Then, because I was bored and tired of having the same conversations over and over, I asked about his own opinion of the Chinese people.
He looked at me, and then he looked away. I waited. He wasn\'t a rich man. Not poor like the transient laborers pouring into China\'s cities, but also not one of the new rich stomping around China courtesy of the economic reforms. He was wearing green army pants, and a turtleneck, and a leather jacket. Looking at him made me think laobaixing, old hundred names: China\'s average man, backbone of the nation.
He said, I think that we Chinese are lacking in quality.
I managed to say, Oh, and then sat there feeling like an asshole for lying through the earlier part of our conversation.
I finally got my voice back and asked why he would say such a thing.
He shrugged. I used to drive trucks. For the army, over in Africa. We were over there building dams, projects like that for the Africans. Water and electricity projects, mostly. The Africans had black hair and black skin, very black skin, and they were poor.
He shook his head thoughtfully, Qiong de hen. Really poor. But they were very good to us. We Chinese couldn\'t compare to them. They were better people. We were richer, but they had more quality. Bi bu shang tamen. We can\'t beat them.
I\'ve stood on buses in Beijing and watched Chinese people refuse to sit next to an African student no matter how crowded the bus got, and I\'ve talked to people in Kunming who, after accusing me of being a racist American, cheerfully went on to explain how black people were the stupidest people on earth. Of all the foreign devils in China, blacks get the hardest treatment. And now I was sitting with a guy who looked like a peasant, dressed in green cotton army pants and wearing a dirty leather jacket, and who had just said that the Chinese couldn\'t compare with the Africans. I wondered what it cost a Chinese person to say that anyone, let alone a black African, was better than his own kind.
I finally said, I\'ve never heard anyone in China say that.
They haven\'t gone out of the country, he said. When you\'re always in your own country, you don\'t know what\'s out there. You can\'t compare. But after you go, you see clearly. Economically, we Chinese are doing OK. But as people, we lack quality. Nobody here sees it that way. But they haven\'t gone away. They don\'t know what it\'s like on the outside. They can\'t compare. He shook his head.
I didn\'t have any answer, but his experience reminded me of going home to America and trying to tell people what I had seen abroad. It made me sad. Sad for his experience, and sad that I had spent so much time blithely lying my way across China, always well-shielded from the Chinese, and now that I was leaving, I had finally found a Chinese person I wanted to know.
We sat together for a while longer while he smoked, and then my boat came, and I left.
Now that I\'m back home in America and feel like an alien, I think about him. I think about him sitting in that one-room restaurant, watching the darkness and smoking, surrounded by his countrymen, and all alone.
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