Country Driving [115]
In 2005, the government launched a development campaign to “Build New Countryside.” China’s national leadership had changed hands—in 2002, Hu Jintao became General Secretary of the Party, replacing Jiang Zemin. Jiang had always been known for favoring the cities, but Hu began to put more emphasis on rural development. Every morning in Sancha, the propaganda speakers blared reports about initiatives and campaigns, and then funds started to trickle into town. That year, the local county used some of the money to support rural businesses that catered to the new car tourists. Wei Ziqi found a way to profit from this campaign; he applied for and received a cash grant to remodel his kitchen. It was another perk of Party membership—he often figured out how to capitalize on government programs.
For the remodeling, he hired a crew of three villagers. In Sancha, anybody who hires laborers also serves them dinner, and one evening I joined the remodeling crew. A worker asked if there was anything I don’t eat.
“He doesn’t eat eggs,” Wei Ziqi said, before I could respond. “He won’t eat intestines or any other organs. He doesn’t like meat on the bone. He doesn’t like bean paste. He likes fish and he likes vegetables.”
Villagers spend a great deal of time talking about food, and over the years the family had studied every quirk in my diet. Tonight the men discussed the evening’s dishes, and then the conversation shifted abruptly to international events.
“Look how small Japan is,” one man said. “How many Beijings would fit inside Japan?”
I told him that I had no idea.
“Well, I’m sure it’s not very many,” he said. “Japan is such a small country, but they controlled a lot of China during the war. Look how small it is compared to Manchuria!”
“The Japanese are originally Chinese,” another man said. He was the tallest in the group, and he spoke forcefully, stabbing the air with his chopsticks as if carving out space in the conversation. “Qin Shihuang sent soldiers across the ocean,” he continued. “He was searching for ways to live longer. That’s how they discovered Japan—they didn’t come back and they settled the place. So you can say that the Japanese are originally Chinese.”
I mentioned that in the northern islands there are people called the Ainu who are racially different from the Japanese. “Some archaeologists believe that they were the original inhabitants,” I said. The man held his chopsticks still for a moment, as if processing this information. Then he said, “Qin Shihuang sent soldiers across the ocean. He was searching for ways to live longer. That’s how they discovered Japan. So you can say that the Japanese were originally Chinese.”
Point taken—I decided to abandon the Ainu. The man brandished his chopsticks and slashed another hole in the conversation. “The Koreans were originally Chinese, too,” he said.
“Korea was part of our country during the Qing dynasty,” somebody else said.
“So was Mongolia.”
“So was Vietnam. They were originally Chinese, too.”
“The Japanese also controlled Korea during the war.”
“Such a small country!”
When Sancha men are at leisure, their talk moves in unexpected spurts, like a hawk that hovers motionless until it catches some invisible air current. Usually the villagers discuss mundane matters—food, weather, prices—but at any time the subject matter can shoot into the stratosphere. The villagers span oceans and continents; they soar from ancient dynasty to ancient dynasty. They like to talk about China’s former greatness, especially in contrast to today’s nation, and they have a fondness for sweeping discourses. Foreign subjects tend to produce staggering generalizations. These remarks aren’t mean-spirited; the men are curious about the world, and they like to draw connections between China and the outside. But it can be confusing as hell to follow such talk as it zings back