People Making the Places
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Architects can design incredible buildings. Artists can paint murals on the walls to make a dull city more esthetically pleasing. Museums can be built to honor the history. Yet, all of these places are nothing without the human spirit. Here in China, street vendors breathe life into the local markets while tuk-tuk drivers put excitement and thrill on the roads. The squeals of laughter from the local kindergarten echo down the street as the grandparents play mahjong throughout the entire afternoon. A house in only bricks and wood until the power of human love is infused, creating a home. Throughout my journeys, I have learned that the people are the true building blocks of any village.
As midnight was approaching last Friday night, I decided that it would be a good idea to catch a taxi back to Xizhou. The night was completely silent and the full moon was shining brightly on the mountain peaks. The action on the road was the complete opposite of the honks and sirens of the passing traffic only six hours ago. I had two choices while riding in the silent cab ride; I could either let the silence frighten me with its eeriness or enjoy the absence of noise pollution and close my eyes to follow my imagination. Following my imagination was a much healthier decision. As we wove through the narrow streets of Xizhou, not a soul was out on the street. Suddenly, I was able to imagine the street where I lived in Senegal, where the potholes overpopulated the streets and little dogs were running around, scrounging for leftovers. Then, the smells of the warm night reminded me of wandering the streets of Thailand. Without the familiar faces of the Xizhou locals and the culture seeping through the cracks, I could have been anywhere in the world.
The culture and traditions of an area are able to show the true human spirit. Those elements help paint the story of the town. Last week, I had the chance to be a part of a local Bai funeral in a nearby village. Brian Linden was invited to attend and he brought about ten other people with him. I had been to many weddings in the Chinese countryside, but never to a funeral. In the past, the funeral processions would pass by the Linden Centre, which were filled with the noises of firecrackers and wails from the women in mourning. Visions of white fabrics would sweep across my vision as the casket passed by, heading toward the ancestral grave site in the mountains. Being invited to this funeral was an honor, and I am glad that I was able to experience another facet of the Chinese culture.
When we entered the woman’s home, we shook the hands of her eldest sons and daughters. Everyone has sitting down for lunch, which included pickled vegetables with cold noodles, fried pork, bean soup, and a variety of mushrooms. Before the traditional ceremony could commence, the man leading the Buddhist ceremony asked anyone who was born in the year of the rooster to leave the building. Since the deceased’s Chinese zodiac sign was an enemy of the rooster, those people could no longer be a part of the funeral to make an easier transition for the woman into the after-world. The woman’s wooden casket was in the family room, where many of her family members were lighting incense and giving offerings. I knelt down and prayed with the Lindens to pay my respects to the woman and her family. As I was touching my head to the floor, the music from a horn-like instrument and drum eerily sang in the distance. Even though funerals are thought of as days to mourn the loss of someone, it is also a time to celebrate their lives.
Colorful crepe paper decorations blew in the wind as the eldest brothers prayed and gave thanks to their mother. The eldest son had to lead his two younger brothers to the table where all of the village elders sat and honored their lives as well. With the graceful stroke of the calligraphy brush, the local elder painted the woman’s name into their family’s ancestor tablet, where she will be remembered for generations to come. The music began to play again and that was everyone’s signal to put on their white clothes and prepare for the walk into the mountains.
The trail to the mountains was not an easy hike in black patent leather flats (clearly, I wasn’t prepared for the funeral procession). Since it had been raining the days before, I had to jump over the puddles and pray that I wouldn’t slip on the thick mud. Paper money was left along the path to help the woman as she traveled into the after-world. It is said that when someone is trying to make their way into the after-world, there are tolls that they have to pay and if their family members leave paper money along the path, it will make it easier for them to reach their peaceful ground. As we climbed higher and higher into the mountains, the switchback trails became less muddy and I was able to enjoy the spectacular view. The procession was humbling and I was able to reflect not only on the present moment, but also of the lives of people that I have lost. Being surrounded by such love of the family members and friends made me feel at peace and know that my loved ones were also shining down that day.
As we paraded through the village and up the narrow path to the mountains, I couldn’t help but remember how the Al Johnson’s staff paid tribute to our iconic boss. We dressed up in “ceremonial” outfits, which included dirndls, clogs, and flower wreaths, to honor to the late Al Johnson. During the walk to the church, we shared stories, laughed, cried, and held hands to support each other. The Swedish flag led hundreds of clogs in the memorial march. People came out of their businesses to watch this once-in-a-lifetime scene and pay homage to a man who graced us with his lively presence, pancakes, and goats for many years. The weather forecast said that it was going to be raining all day, but Al must have been smiling down on his staff as we stopped traffic in both directions and allowed the sun to shine. On that day, it was the human spirit that made the heart of the town.