The Writers' Circle

Look beyond what you already know and see the world.

	I saw a landscape beyond what I knew. I saw a patchwork of paddy fields and vast mountains. Littered amongst the ivy greens and rustic browns, huts nestled into the mountainsides. Their doorways framed with red and gold, a prayer, protection. The walls were made from breezeblocks, the roof from corrugated iron. No cement, just carefully balanced. Mud and dust lined the floors, earth tiles. The yard was little more that a patch of darkened ground. But the people smiled, they laughed and the children played. I could hear the women chatter, I could hear them gossip and giggle. I could hear the sound of Mah-jong tiles against the soft earth as men sat and played together. I saw children run and dance. They were all free, freer than me. 
They had a single temple, with room for little more than twelve people. This was for all the village, their sanctuary. It housed a sacred idol and the scent of sweet incense. It was decorated with red and gold, tucked into the corner of the mountain, hidden away, protected and protecting them. The steps to the temple were roughly hewn from mountain stones and gave way under foot. The roof hid the mountain peak from view, hiding the ominous threat. The roof had faded to a dull brown and the red paint was peeling from its tiles. The phoenix and the dragon clung to the corners and a large doorstep greeted me in the doorway, prevention against the demons. I let the incense swirl about me, surround me and intoxicate me in a smoky haze. I felt myself merge with my surroundings, with the mountains and fields, with the people that had greeted me. The land about me was so filled with wonder and awe that I felt myself immediately sucked in to the culture of this small village.
On entering the village I was greeted with ni hao, the local greeting, and I was shown the houses of the people and their families. I saw children play in an old car, a rusted climbing frame. An old red Ford, its upholstery ripped from it and the metal bent and misshapen, a shell. I asked an old widow how the car came to be in their remote village. She told me that it had belonged to her own son; he had gone into the city for work and had made so much money. It was little more than a few pounds a day. She said her son was like a hope for these people, a light at the end of the tunnel.  After making his fortune in the city he had bought a car for the village, but with no money to repair it and no one to know how to drive it, the car just sat and wasted away. On further inspection of the huts I found old satellite dishes and microwaves. No one knew where they came from. Technology lay to waste whilst working cattle and wheelbarrows prevailed. It was beyond me, it was all beyond me, beyond what I knew and even what I thought I knew. 
With a few goodbyes I travelled on into the heart of the nation's capital, Beijing. I was in a metropolis of diversity, the rich and the poor, the hungry and the bloated, the heard and the unheard. Car horns blared and drivers cursed and yelled. Fists were waved and pedestrians dodged between bumpers, red lights passed by unnoticed and striped roads were merely for decoration. Buildings grew high in grey stone with cold windows. People swarmed in mass from place to place, black suits with briefcase in hand. A heavy fog of pollution hung foully in the air. White facemasks were scattered in the crowds. Cigarette smoke choked lungs. I could feel my chest, tied too tightly. I moved with the crowd, I let them carry me. As the flood gave way I saw before me the Hutongs.  
They wound around the side of the city. A maze of alleyways, of siheyuan linking house to house. The stench was overpowering, open drains and human waste. I could taste the dirt, the grit and the mud gently covering my lips. Flies buzzed and swarmed about the entrance to the Hutongs, their black bodies lumbering clumsily through the air. The hum of city life dronned on  about the secret town, the ramshackle huts nestled together, a comfort to each other. I passed through the first archway, by back pressing against the wall as a couple passed by. It was dark, the narrow walkways not letting in the sun. Shivers ran down my spine and my skin was covered in small dimples. The shadows kept the little city cold and people huddled on their doorsteps ragged blankets hanging from their shoulder. I passed by an open courtyard, the people gathered about a single fire. It was the start of winter, many of them would die. I walked on with the eyes of the people on me, they judged me. 
After a while I had walked a mile through the winding alleys and the cold, I had to travel on. I was going to leave the Hutongs and Peking behind me. I was venturing into the mountains in to Chengdu, land of the panda. I boarded my coach and watched the city lights fade away into the night sky and let myself drift into a sleep. The trip was long but I soon arrived at the bottom of the mountain road, 30 miles from Wolong. The river rushed by to my left and the face of a mountain stretched up to my right. The crash of the water rang in my ears and I could feel the spray damp against my face. The power of the torrents swelled about me, the power of nature flowing. The mountain face reached away to my side, the brown earth balancing upon the nearly vertical face. Boulders lay precariosly across the open and trees were clustered together. The air was fresh, I felt it fill my lungs, cleanse me. The wind blew against me, it was clean, refreshing to feel it rip against my skin. I could see the clouds in the sky and the sharp blue that filled the world above the horizon. Nature was around me, its power and its beauty. 
The road before me was dusty, a red carpet filled with deep holes. Last weeks rain still filled the bottoms of some of the potholes. As my foot slapped against the ground a small cloud of red dust covered my shoe in a hazy fog. Another swift breeze and the dust cloud was gone. I followed the road. It was peaceful, the image of serentity, with no one passing me for at least 12 miles. A tractor passed by, it was very small and looked well used. The paint was dull and faded, the tyres looked worn and the engine groaned under the strain. Ten men were sat upon the red metal box, they had smiles on their faces and waved kindly to me. They beckoned for me to join them so I squeezed myself on to a patch of red. The journey took a few hours but the locals talked the whole time. Telling me stories of their lives, of their work and of their families. They showed me the scenery and wildlife that lived about them. I saw great eagles soar in the sky and wild hares scamper into hiding. Trees began to creep down the mountain side, their small clusters merging into one another until the entire face was covered in thick foliage. 
Then we arrived at Wolong, the panda sanctuary. Local women stood outside the front gates, their stalls brimming with colours and smells. I could see goat heads, braded bracelets, painted bottles, metal bowls and ape hands, but it wasn't time for the tourists yet. Thick smells of smoked meats and opium filled my nostrils, their flavours dancing in my mouth. The women stood and waited in hope. These items all their own or stolen from naïve tourists by their quick fingered children. I could see them look at me expectantly, I had no money. The men greeted their wives then travelled on, later that day the women would have to walk another 6 miles with their belongins to get home.
It was the afternoon by the time I had passed through the gates of Wolong. Instead of the rusty red road I was met with gold and bronze statues on mowed grass. A fountain trickled in the centre and the chinese flag flew in the wind. Gold on red, a contrast, diversity. I crossed the bridge over the water, letting my gaze fall into the running water, letting it wash me away. I could see another set of gates but higher, they had coils of barbed wire running along the top. The gates opened and a man walked towards me. He greeted me, shook my hand and led me into the reserve. On first sight I could see the reserve in its entireity, enclosure after enclosure, cage after cage, it was all confined in a 2 mile square radius. Keepers were working, mucking out or feeding or helping in the breeding pens. Bamboo stores were filled and everyone went about their day. Pandas lolled about in the afternoon sun, basking in the heat. I followed my guide about the reserve. First the breeding pens, then the nursery, the adult enclosures and finally the rehabilitation enclosures, where they hoped to prepare the pandas for the wild. These enclosures were empty. I also saw Mimi and Mumu, two pandas being sent as a gift to Hong Kong. They looked liked black and white sheep, lazy, just laying in the sun. The enclosures all had metal bars and deep moats, it was more like a fortress than an encloure. I began to get cold as the sun set. I was going to stay, to do what I could for this place, for Wolong, for the people and for China.