Et Tu?

JIJIAWAN, China -- One of the first I will need to do back in Beijing is send out pictures. One to the group of monks we met in Xiahe, another to the Tibetan painting agent who accompayned us through a snow storm near Tongren, and now several to a group of old women who live in this tiny village.

This morning I went to Xining's bus station without a plan. I had one more day left, no desire to check out the remaining tourist attractions in town (The Qinghai Provincal Museum?) The bus station displays a giant map of Qinghai province, with Xining in the center and different routes streaming out towards remote areas. Having already travelled west, south and east of the city, I picked a path that headed north and read the destination: Huzhu.

An hour later I was in downtown Huzhu, which resembled downtown Xining and every other moderately sized Chinese city: a collection of hairdressers, Muslim restaurants, tiny clothing shops and traditional medicine stores along a few wide avenues, occasionally interupted by an open air market. I wanted to explore the countryside, so I started walking away from the center of town. Thankfully Huzhu isn't a big place, and within 20 minutes the stores ended and the road narrowed to two lanes.

I passed trees, dialpated houses and idenitically named gas staions. Then on the southern side of the road appeared a confabulation of cureved Chinese roofs, red lanterns and neon flags. At the compoaund's gate stood four women in elborate costumes. They said that this was the Tu Minority Exhibition Center, and that for 40 RMB I could see the Tu sing and dance.

During the Cultural Revolution, China tried to eliminate the traditional culture of its minorities, labeling them "feudal." Economically liberal China is trying a different approach: the song and dance method.

Minorities are "mysterious," "wonderful," and "unique," exotic creatures that should be viewed from a distance of ten meters or more. Travel agencies are in on the act, flying in millions of tourists to country's fridges, plopping them in a bus and dropping them off at a minority entertainment center. Here dozens of people in dazzling customes will feed them, dance and even sing (in Mandarian!). Three hours later, the stuffed, drunk and tired tourists will be head back to their hotel, with a new "understanding" of minority culture.

Under the pretext of looking for a bathroom, I poked around the entertainment center. Down a long hallway, tucked away from the freshly painted dance stage, I saw a row of tiny rooms. Inside were four bunk beds, the place where the performers and cooks lived. They were dark, dank and in poor condition. Where would my 40 RMB go? I suspect mostly into the hands of a local government official or tax agency, not the people in the show.

I would feel guilty visiting a stage-managed version of Tu life when a real-life village was right across the street. I crossed the street and went down a dirt path into the village proper.

At first the road was lined with Tu dancing places, many with two or three women standing out in front looking bored. The Tu obviously have thrown their lot behind entertainment tourism, but I'm not sure if the northern Qinghai tourist circuit is busy enough accomadate them. I ignored their "hollos" and pleas to see them dance and purchase trinklets that were probably mass produced in Guangdong. At the end of the street were four old men, sitting in front of a small convience store. They appeared to be the town's senitels, historians and gossips.
"Don't climb that mountain," one said to me, pointing to a terraced hill right behind the store. "It belongs to someone else."

I thanked them for their advice and head perpendicular to the mountain. The tourist part of the village ended, and there were only small homes with mud-concrete walls. In between were small fields, many with an old woman or two planting this spring's crops. Agriculture is traditionally a man's job; the Chinese character for man 男 contains a field pictograph, but today the man have headed to the city and left the work for the women.

A group of old women were sitting in the shade of one mud-brick house and invited me to sit on a tiny stool. They were taking a planting, and were more than happy to chat with the village's first foreign guest in quite some time. One lady with six remaining teeth said her husband was a teacher in Huzhu. A couple others were widows, all continued to work in the field despite their advanced age.

They pointed to the warm Qinghai sun. "It's been a good year for farming," they said. One lady brought her 10-month-old grandchild, who saw my white face and started to cry. The women laughed, and then tried to comfort the child.

A spent nearly an hour with the women, and hour where I learned about how a Tu person might actually spend the day. I couldn't hum its tune, or take home a DVD copy of the occasion, but I think witnessed something a little closer to have these people live their lives.