Laowai and the Shoe Lady

Crossing a street in rural China is never easy, especially with half a million people living in the area. You wait for the cars, but act like the motorbikes aren’t there. Keep walking at the same pace, and they’ll just swerve around you. It takes confidence.
Once I’ve made it across the busy road, I wave at my Shoe Lady. She grins and waves back, calling out ‘laowai’. She can’t pronounce my name, and I can’t pronounce hers, so to me she’s Shoe Lady and to her I’m Foreigner.
She’s a small woman, not overly tiny, but with creases lining her face. Her skin is dark, much darker than what is considered beautiful in China. Her arms, however, possess muscle stronger than mine. In Australia, she would be nearing the age of retirement. Here she will work for years more yet.
I greet her in Chinese as I sit down on the tiny plastic stool. As she works on my two shoes, she chatters on in Chinese and, despite not knowing what she’s saying, I say ‘ah’ and grunt in the right places.
She works out of a large bag filled with leather and tools, which can easily be picked up and carted off if the police come. She starts filing down the shoes as my eyes drift.
“Cheng zi.”
I look at my Shoe Lady and she’s holding out a bag of tiny mandarins, gesturing for me to take some. I take one. She keeps holding it out, staring at me expectantly so I take another one. They are the definition of fresh, probably being grown under five kilometres away.
I end up with six little cheng zi floating around in my bag.
Eventually, the lady is finished and when I ask how much it is, she tells me 12 yuan. She begins chatter on, and I pick up the word ‘friend’ being said. I assume that she’s telling me that since we’re friends, she’s giving me a good price. I’m a bit sceptical about that, but I’m more than happy to pay. Repairing these shoes would cost me upwards of $15 in Australia, but here, it is $2.
I hand her the money, thank her and prepare myself to join the crowds once more.