A Crane in Flight Across China

The electricity was shut off,and the small fire that we sat around was the only source of light in the room.It cast ghostly shadows onto all of our faces, which danced along the peeling red walls. The seventy-five year old Naxi patriarch reached into the flames and set potatoes down on the burning embers, then shuffled back to the counter to grab mugs.I sat on a thin cushion,with Henry beside me.On the wall hung the body of a raccoon and some severed pig legs.To our right the old woman’s husband sat underneath a large Mao Zedong poster with his legs crossed, and his tan, wrinkled face tired and ancient. He took a drag from his cigarette and stared blankly into the fire.Across from us sat the old woman’s grownup son, wearing a dusty jacket and a peddler’s cap, the staple outfit of a peasant.His own eighteen-year old son sat to his left, and his thirteen-year old son stood to his right. All three of them were staring at us expectantly.The only sound was the occasional crackling of the burning wood.The younger brother, the only of who spoke English, broke the silence,“Do you like mai kul zha ka shun?”He asked us.Henry and I looked at each other blankly, and shook our heads. “Bu zhidao.”We don’t know.
“Mai kul zha ka shun music, very famerous in China.”
Then it clicked,“Michael Jackson!” We laughed. “Dangran.” Of course.“We also like him very much.”
The boy smiled proudly, and stared back into the flames. The old woman dropped a basket of sunflower seeds, apples and walnuts in front of us, and lifted the cast-iron pot from the fire to fill both of our mugs with steaming hot green tea. Without hesitation, she dove her hand into the fire and pulled out the ash-covered potatoes. Dropping them in front of me she smiled, displaying her mouth full of missing teeth, “Chi-ba, chi-ba.” Eat, eat.
The next morning a Tibetan man drove into the courtyard on a red motorcycle and told me to get on. He was going to take me to the bicycle repair shop in the village over. Outside the courtyard gates, I lifted the damaged bike onto the narrow back seat of the motorcycle. A small crowd of children, an old man, a couple cows and several chickens gathered to watch. Only the cows looked unconcerned. I carefully crawled aboard the motorcycle, not wanting to disturb our delicately held cargo, and we took off down the dirt road; me, my borrowed bike, and a complete stranger. The cool lake air blew against my face and I stared out at the lake and imagined I was flying.