Mountain Mantou

Bark scrapes beneath my fingers as I grab onto an oak sapling to break my fall. My feet slide against leaf mould, but I fight gravity and pull myself into a triumphant standing position. In the eerie cloud mist, tree limbs that are over 100 years old play hide and seek 4,000 feet above sea level. I am in the Baotianman Nature Reserve located in Henan, China, clambering awkwardly down a slippery ledge to eat lunch.
It is my fifth week in Henan’s luscious mountains collecting forestry data with local college students. The crowning moment of our day is at noon when we swap our measuring tapes for chopsticks and xian cai (pickled vegetables). Yang Jie, my research partner smiles at me and unfurls a battered pink rain poncho for us to place the food on. From my backpack I produce translucent plastic bags of mantou (bun), tea eggs, and xian cai. I rinse my hands beneath a stream of water Yang Jie pours over my palms, before repeating the gesture for him.
Cleansed, we reach for day old mantou and split them open. A humble steamed pillow of densely chewy goodness, mantou is a brilliant sandwich vehicle. Loaded with pungent morsels of cucumber and bok choy, they make a filling and tasty poor man’s meal. Squatting on our haunches, we begin the silly part of our midday meal. “Ni e si le ma?” literally, “Are you starved to death?” I ask Yang Jie. He nods ‘yes’ very seriously and clutching at his stomach begins reciting a long list of foods he craves in a sing-song opera voice. Laughing, I toss him a marbled tea egg and we chew quietly, mournfully dreaming of hot pot, dumplings, and fresh fruit.
We’ve been eating the same lunch for the past 32 days. Due to transportation costs our hotel only gives students cheap meals. Food is the gold standard of life in China, and I have come to respect that the ritual of a lunch holds even greater value on this ancient mountainside. I reach into my pocket and give Yang Jie a precious hard candy, before I reach for another mantou.