We drove here through miles of white windmills whose sleek and giant arms spun across the background of a perfect blue sky. Stretching out into a beautiful summer day like wings of a plane, they rose above the flat line of the horizon. Hundreds of windmills, a species I had never imagined seeing in China.

Through the herd towards the sea, looking up and wondering if we had any idea where we were at. Yes, we were in China, but no one had told us about the windmills. We’d heard of the environment and the pollution in the air, the burning of coal, the wearing of the mask. We had heard of the smog death haze, but never of the windmills.

Their scattered beauty inspired us.

_


In Jiangsu one of our hosts tells me the land we stand on has been the bread basket of China for hundreds, thousands of years. It’s a province sitting at the place where the Yangtze meets the Pacific Ocean. It’s China’s longest River and the third largest river in the world. It comes in from the mountains and far regions of the West to flood and bubble over into the land with silt making the place where it meets the ocean a valuable mud. You might as well call it China’s Mississippi Delta.

And it all reminds me of my father and the Georgia he called home. Here in Jiangsu, we were one day attacked by a gnat cloud in the middle of a field. There were so many, some got in my eyes and I fell back into a memory of my father standing outside the old home place in Waynesboro: gnats misted around our heads. He casually moved away, swatted a few, and kept talking to my Uncle. They confused me; annoyed me, and I fought and smacked continuously. I don’t know how many I killed, but each time I got some I looked into my hands. So tiny, but big enough for me to see their wings and legs and know they were dead. He laughed as though my fight was foolish and said, “Nothing Like Georgia gnats.”

That scene was just like the field in Jiangsu. The monument looked like an oversized tomb stone rising to about eye-level with an inscription which appeared to be wearing away. The field was overgrown with weeds. It seemed such an odd and unusual place for honor. The edge of the field was shaded by trees, but you had to stand directly in the sun to see it. Mr. Lee, one of our guides, read and translated. He explained it was for the good son, and at least five centuries old. The filial son.

We all were sweating like we’d been working and the gnats came hovering around us. We gave up too easily. My father would have laughed again. In just moments we were in the car with the air conditioning on and the windows rolled up and headed again towards the sea.

_

As we get closer, its smell grows in the air and raises our spirits even more.

But we find mud at the place where water meets land. It seems logical. Water and earth mix to make mud, but the beaches we know are full of sand. It takes the breath out of us. Less than inspiring. Again, we had imagined China, only to find something different.

-

Being here has worn down the traveler in us with a persistence that seemed to be everywhere. First, too few foreigners to suggest you were really vacationing. More than once, I’ve felt a finger poked into my back and turn around to see a little boy hiding his head in his mothers leg. I’m different enough to touch. I know this is not a normal tourists spot. They have never seen me before. There’s awe and wonder, etiquette and care, but it is not a paid for distance.

At a bar in Yangzhou, I stepped out briefly to pay my bill. The owner said, “It’s ok, there’s nobody else like you here. If you don’t pay, I’ll find you.” He laughs and smiles. I smile back. It is hard to fathom but true.

I am not known as much as stepping into the unknown.

-

The memory here is beauty that is simple, not the four star and the imported food. Not the carrying what you already have with you and being reminded of it with rankings and the size of the bed, what you have afforded.

For me it seems to be the difference between colonialism and fair exchange. Colonialism leverages what is to be known and leveraged in the empire or by the empire against whatever anybody else has. For that known is advantage and education-money. The known world is the thing everyone secretly aspires to. The Chinese do this too, but they have something else.

You catch glimpses, like the little boy’s hand touching you, or the people who take pictures with you in the background or straight up pointing the camera in your face. They don’t know the etiquette of the empire; and you can take it whatever way you want; but you are here-not there.

So many solemn stares that quickly evaporate into smiles. The hesitancy and awe reserved for the stranger. It is not Xenophobia, though who knows what would happen if a busload of me and my homies show up.

The government handles that though. It won’t happen. We can imagine, but there are laws. The small towns are like that. They are the place where the old China begins to meet the new. One might call them an outpost, but there can be no outpost in a country so old, with so many people with rural roots. It is most likely the inverse, as if the cities are the outpost and the interior is the exterior. So it is with what has not been destroyed. What remains intact. Not in the annals and the edicts; but in the people. The people are the monument.

There have been times I have given up and indulged. There’s my tiny bug lamp at night I refused to use because of pesticides. But after itching and unable to sleep for a few nights, I relinquished. Little things matter, but people matter more. So it is with mud. Suddenly, even discomfort and the unusual became as beautiful as the windmills.

-

We arrive at the sea.

There were pools of water settled between the waves and the land that looked like giant puddles with some that could pass for ponds or small lakes. At one of them, we stood on the edge and watched a man wade slowly through the water with a net gripped in his hands. He held the edge in his hands and you could see the tiny squares stretch above the water as if he was pulling something out of the water by the head or pulling silk in Taiji. One could see the weight and mass demanded his strength, but he walked slowly as if he were doing magic.

slowly
through the water
into the beautiful

A day’s weight
Heavy as silk
Is fine

Not far off on the edge of a water, a beautiful mother stood in the sun with an umbrella above her head. A small child stood by her side rising up. Both of them face the sea and stare out into the water. Her black dress waves in the wind. The bright red lipstick works against the white of her face. The image sparks.