County Market
Oct 9th, 2006 by Michael Max
It’s a 2.5 RMB ride to 福利, and it’s faster to hail any north bound transport from the intersection at West Street, than sitting in the monoxide steeped bus station.
Anything with four wheels, or two for that matter, will be happy to pull you up the road.
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The tinfoil on wheels microvan drifts out of traffic to the side of the road.
How much to 福利?
10 kuai.
You’re pretty funny, no, really, how much?
OK, 5 kuai.
I’ll give you 3 and let you take advantage of me.
Um.
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Of course she must ask what country I’m from. I’ve picked up a new sidestep, “I live here”.
“No really”, is the shocked that would be impossible response.
The counter- “I’m from outside the country, it’s all about the same out there anyway.”
“Um” the sound of Chinese agreement.
Even if they are visiting in our countries.
They are still the Chinese, and we are still the foreigners.
Such is thought in the Middle Kingdom.
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福利， 興坪， 陽朔 they all have a revolving “county market”. Costco of the peasant of world. Mountains of emerald green vegetables drip chlorophyll. Iron farm tools, plastic spray tanks, broad leaf tobacco, non choke proof children’s toys, soap and sundries for village life arranged in a morning patchwork quilt of motion and exchange.
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Beijing opera VCD’s compete in volume and color with latest in mando-tech accompanying booty shaking mini-skirted xiaojie DVD .
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There are rows of the usual assortment of
muscle, organs and fat.
Haired burnt carcasses and wagons of hides. Bones that glisten a ghostly fresh white trimmed in crimson. This part of the foodchain is hidden from our Western eyes with trays of Styrofoam and cellophane.
Here inseparable, the cycle of life and death.
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The county market invades all the senses, and knocks down the doors of any western preconceptions. Within the seeming chaos of vendors and blood, food and smoke, gossip and commerce there is a palpable thread of connection. There is something that I thirst for in my own country, a scent of it is caught here.
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I float through like dust in the wind, but the people of this dreamscape water and mountain country carry the stories of lives in their posture and in the play of their faces.