Something is always going on there: two days ago it was the usual scene – small groups scattered around the park, making music. For example; a guy with an erhu (stringed instrument) another with a flute, and a lady with a voice. These guys make good music.

Yesterday, it was an impromptu concert in front of a large yellow and red pavilion. Traditional music mainly. A few men with erhus, a pipa (something like a mandolin), a wooden flute or two, and a small lady with a big piano accordian. Plus a largish audience with nothing better to do.

I stayed for an hour. Listening, clapping when appropriate, and nodding hello to the workers and old folk who had eye-contact with me. Smiling, making faces to the babies in their mothers’ arms, and saying ni-hao to old folk in wheelchairs.

Today, after exploring the south wall of the city, I detoured again through the park. The same folks were there, relaxing in the usual fashion. Playing cards or mahjong, reading, or just sitting around doing nothing. Killing time and drifting along with the tide.

Cherry blossoms are blooming. Some small white flowers also. Colourful new life after the dull monochrome of winter. New green buds have heard a rumour that spring is coming, and a tired sun fights for air behind the blanket of smog that threatens to suffocate beautiful Xi'an. This lovely park. A small green haven in a big brown city.

Music. I hear it again. Loud this time. Amplified. There's a large crowd. A fellow in a suit is singing some patriotic song. He's pretty good too. He is followed by a child. A lovely little lady about nine or ten years of age chanting a familiar story to her audience who clap in time to the rhythm of her delivery. Chinese talking blues.

A middle-aged man who looks a bit like Wen Jiabao – the previous Chinese premier – taps me on the shoulder. He speaks and I think I get the gist of his conversation: he's talking about the young lady and how good she is.

I agree: "Ta shi feichang hao" (She is very good). 

He talks some more. I catch a word here and there, and because I can speak a little Chinese he assumes that I am fluent. Meanwhile, I assume that he is still talking about the girl. So I nod my head in agreement, being too proud to tell him that I understood about 20% of what he was saying. He returns to wherever he came from.

Then Premier Wen appears on stage after the girl finishes her performance. He has a microphone in his hand, and is telling the crowd that this laowai (me) is going to sing!

"Shenme?" (What?)…"Wo?" (me?)…"Changge?" (Sing?)

"Dui" (correct) …"Xianzai!" (now!).

Dammit, I should have swallowed my pride and admitted that I couldn't understand him. What do I do now? The crowd is clapping. Smiling at me. Waiting for me to go solo.

So I do my reluctant duty. My country's honour is at stake here, folks! I grind out a verse and a chorus of Waltzing Matilda, follow with an encore of The Wild Colonial Boy, then bolt for the anonymity of the crowd. After waiting a decent interval, I slink back to the safety of Ludao Binguan, my guesthouse

And on the way, for the third day running, a couple of working girls invite me into their gaudy hole-in-the-wall. And for the third day running, I tell them not to waste their time on me because I'm a 'taoyande wulide lowai!' (Effing impotent foreigner!). 

The cheeky tarts giggling themselves silly, and their minders on the footpath falling around the place laughing.

Bastards!

 

 

It was like this…..

I had been visiting Xi'an (think: terracotta warriors), and was taking  a shortcut through Revolution Park on my way back to my guesthouse near the old north wall of this ancient city. The park is a pleasant place, frequented by working class folk, retirees, the aged and infirm, and babes in arms.

Something is always going on there: two days ago it was the usual scene…small groups scattered around the park, making music. For example; a guy with an erhu (stringed instrument) another with a flute, and a lady with a voice. These guys can sing.

Yesterday, it was an impromptu concert in front of a large yellow and red pavilion. Traditional music mainly. A few men with erhus, a pipa (something like a mandolin) a wooden flute or two, and a small lady with a big accordian. Plus a largish audience with nothing better to do.

I stayed for an hour. Listening, clapping when appropriate, and nodding hello to the workers and old folk who had eye-contact with me. Smiling, making faces to the babies in their mothers arms, and saying 'ni-hao' (hello) to old folk in wheelchairs.

This afternoon, after walking from the south wall of the city to my guesthouse, I detoured again through the park. The same folks were there, relaxing in typical Chinese fashion. Playing cards or mahjong, reading, sitting around doing nothing…just drifting along with the tide.

Cherry blossoms are blooming. Some small white flowers also. Colourful new life after the grey of winter. New green buds have heard a rumour that spring is coming, and a tired sun fights for air behind the blanket of smog that threatens to suffocate beautiful Xi'an. A small green haven in a big brown city.

Music. I hear it again. Loud this time. Amplified. There's a large crowd. A feller in a suit singing some patriotic song. He's pretty good too. He is followed by a child. A lovely little lady about 9 or 10 I reckon, who chants a familiar story to her audience who clap in time to the rhythm of her delivery. Chinese talking blues.

A middle-aged man taps me on the shoulder. He speaks to me and I think I get the gist of his conversation…he's talking about the young lady and how good she is.

I agree: "Ta shi feichang hao." He talks some more. I catch a word here and there…and because i can speak a little Chinese he assumes that I am fluent. Meanwhile, I assumethat he is still talking about the girl. So I nod my head in agreement, being too proud to tell him that I understood only about 20% of what he was saying. He returns to wherever he came from.

Then he reappears on stage after the girl finishes her story.

The bastard has a microphone in his hand, and is telling the crowd that this laowai (me) is going to sing!

"Shenme?" [what?] ….."Wo" [Me?] ….."Changge?" [Sing?]

"Dui" [correct] …"Xianzai!" [now!].

Dammit, I should have swallowed my pride and "Ting bu dong"-ed him [I hear you, but don't understand].

What do I do now? The crowd is clapping. Smiling at me. Waiting for me to go solo.

So I do my reluctant duty. My country's honour is at stake here, folks!…. I grind out a verse and a chorus of Waltzing Matilda, follow with an encore of The Wild Colonial Boy, then bolt for the safety of annonymity amongst the crowd. After waiting a decent interval, I slink back to the safety of Ludao Binguan, my guesthouse.

And on the way, for the third day running, a couple of working girls invite me into their gaudy hole-in-the-wall, and for the third day running, I tell them not to waste their time on me because I'm a 'taoyande wulide lowai!'  [Effing impotent foreigner!].

The cheeky tarts giggling themselves silly, and their minders on the footpath falling around the place laughing.

Bastards!