Will the Real Village Please Stand Up

After taking us to the Friday market, our host loaded us onto a local bus and took us to a second attraction. It was a theme village that a group of investors had developed in hopes of capitalizing all the tourism that comes to the area. It was beautifully laid out and all the buildings were perfectly proportioned. It had a bridge over a man-made canal with a reproduction wooden boat floating nearby just so. It made for a nice photograph. The village was staffed by costumed employees.

But the whole place was lifeless. It was a veritable ghost town. The whole time our host was escorting us around showing us various features, my eyes keep glancing across the rice field and across the lake to a village that lie about a kilometer or two away. Julie and the girls were being gracious, bot I was getting antsy. Finally, after about an hour, as we were preparing to depart this ornate ghost town, I asked if it would be possible to walk through that village over there.

Our host decided to stay behind and send us with our young Chinese friend from the guesthouse. We wandered into the village. The locals were riding their bikes through the streets, I could see cow in the courtyards of houses, laundry was hanging out. One house had an addition that was half built with a huge jumbled-up pile of bricks waiting to be used. Now this was more like it. This is what we came trekking though China for. I rolled my eyes at the misguided notion of building a fake village in the shadow of the real thing. It was like ogling an airbrushed billboard and ignoring the beautiful –albeit imperfect- woman on your arm.

Traditional Chinese houses are built in an “L” or “U” shape with a courtyard in the center. Since it was the middle of the afternoon, all the double doors to the various courtyards were open. Social protocol and good manners allow you to sneak a peek as you saunter by. Social protocol and good manners do not allow you to come to full stop and take a good look in. They certainly don’t allow you to flap your hand in an overwrought wave and call out “Hallo!” to the inhabitants. That –of course- was exactly what I was doing.

I generally got a wave and smile in return with an occasional “Ni hao.” Half an hour into our wanderings –bingo! The middle-aged man on the wooden porch waved us in. As I signal for the rest of our little group to follow me in, my daughters didn’t even bother to object. By now, they have learned that it wouldn’t do any good. Might as well get this over with. Thank heavens for Our Young Chinese Friend who was able to translate for us. The man on the porch lived in this house with his extended family. He made a living by growing rice and garlic, he was also a fisherman. He also generated income from his one dairy cow that lived a pen that was immediately adjacent to his house.

He invited us into his house where he happened to have a pot of tea on. We found out that this was a relatively new house that he had built himself. He told us that he had something he wanted to show us and told us to follow him upstairs. The entire second floor of his house was a dedicated space for air drying garlic. Garlic filled baskets that were covering the floor and garlic hung from all the rafters. The space was cool and dark and smelled earthy and of garlic. The man picked a clove out from a basket, peeled it, and handed it to me to try. Whole, raw garlic? Who was I to decline? I took a small bite. It was strong and garlic-y.

Back downstairs, as we passed a bucket of fresh cow’s milk, he offered to let me sample that as well. For a brief moment, I thought it might wash down the garlic, but then I graciously said no thank you.

I don’t care how well thought-out it is, you are never going to have an encounter like that in a themed village built by a committee of property developers. You can keep your costumed clerks selling reproduction trinkets. I’ll stick with raw garlic.