The skies are clear and I so I bring the Nikon for the Muslim market. Instead I should’ve used my climatic powers to remember that it’s June and the beginning of typhoon season in the western Pacific. By the time our taxi reaches Suzhou Creek we are up the creek in lashing rain. The driver drops us off at the mosque, and with baby in arm, umbrella aloft, and now useless rickety stroller in tow, we seek refuge from the storm in the courtyard.
An elderly Chinese man smiles and shepherds us toward the gate, seizes the stroller, and watches me watch him gently set it down next to four men who sit eating hot noodles. The men nod to signify that E’s vessel is safe.
The gatekeeper leads us to a younger man who speaks some English, and I tell him we wish to see the mosque, not to worship, but to stand in the courtyard and view the minaret. He is surprised and delighted to learn this and says, “welcome”.
An older woman in a headscarf appears and leads us into a dark communal bath where water drips from old blue hoses and women bathe in broken tiled showers. This has become a misunderstanding that is entirely my fault. I am guilty of linguistic negligence. It is Friday, a sacred day. "We are not supposed to be here", I explain, pantomiming that in my skirt I am not properly dressed. My new friend interprets this to mean that I want to wash my face but have failed to bring a hand towel so she rushes out to the market to retrieve a cloth.
When she returns she is fully covered from head to ankle in black cloth. She wears a map of worry on her face. I try to explain that I only wish to see the walls of the mosque, and she shakes her head insistently that I must stay and wash. E looks restless and so I rush through these ablutions. "I have only a headscarf", I attempt to say, but instead she takes my hand and leads me up a long spiral staircase where orphan scarves await the use of drop-ins. It rains harder and we quickly step out of our shoes and stand in ankle deep water before entering the womens’ part of the mosque. The room is small. There is enough time for one prayer and I say it quickly, for a joyful woman back home who faces a long and undeserved road ahead.
A striking young Muslim woman enters and removes her black heels. She smiles and asks if I’ve washed, not once, but twice, before entering Huxi, and I confess “no”. She leads us toward the washroom to repeat the cycle of ablutions. I am holding my boy tight to my chest. Her English is good and my Chinese horrible. It is with tremendous relief when the older worshipper returns and ushers us back out into the courtyard. She turns and says: “I understand”. And at last I learn her name: Aysha.
We grab the stroller and spill out onto the main street where rain pours and angry taxis drive past steaming tents of fresh cooked lamb. This is the market – what we came to photograph. Aysha introduces me to Uyghur food vendors who converge upon us and raise their colored umbrellas until they form a circled roof above our heads. E rests against my shoulder and says, “umbre-bra” while others repeat after him and laugh. A slice of sticky watermelon is thrust into my hand and a small golden nectarine into his. He clutches it like a small trophy. I am standing outside a mosque in a rainstorm with full a heart and a heavy child and pondering the logic of taking a bite.
“Which way is the Metro?” I ask.
“Just over the bridge”, mimes one of the sunburned male vendors. He is a beam of light.
"Ten minutes", another gestures.
A safer bet than a Shanghai taxi.
I exchange handshakes with the men and the female vendor embraces me. I start to walk away when Aysha declares something with urgency.
“She says she will walk you to the Metro”, says the red-shirted vendor.
“Xie xie”. No, I protest.
But Aysha grabs my umbrella and holds it aloft to protect the boy and spirits me over the bridge and toward the subway. Once in the station she takes my backpack and puts it on the security scanner. I smile and start to say thank you and goodbye and add an “I can take it from here” gesture. But she speaks with the security guard and asks to follow me down the escalator to the train, ducking purposefully beneath the turn style with the stroller.
Down we go, and the train is here. And at last: goodbye. With one final gesture of authority Aysha instructs a Chinese passenger that he must help me onto the train. I have done this one hundred times but she is firm with him and so he obliges. We board and people shuffle seats so that the soggy mother and her sticky fingered boy may be seated. I remove the nectarine from E’s hand and wipe it clean because I’m supposed to.
“Be careful, honey." I hear my Dad’s voice murmur across the continents. We reach Century Avenue and I realize that we took no photographs.
An elderly Chinese man smiles and shepherds us toward the gate, seizes the stroller, and watches me watch him gently set it down next to four men who sit eating hot noodles. The men nod to signify that E’s vessel is safe.
The gatekeeper leads us to a younger man who speaks some English, and I tell him we wish to see the mosque, not to worship, but to stand in the courtyard and view the minaret. He is surprised and delighted to learn this and says, “welcome”.
An older woman in a headscarf appears and leads us into a dark communal bath where water drips from old blue hoses and women bathe in broken tiled showers. This has become a misunderstanding that is entirely my fault. I am guilty of linguistic negligence. It is Friday, a sacred day. "We are not supposed to be here", I explain, pantomiming that in my skirt I am not properly dressed. My new friend interprets this to mean that I want to wash my face but have failed to bring a hand towel so she rushes out to the market to retrieve a cloth.
When she returns she is fully covered from head to ankle in black cloth. She wears a map of worry on her face. I try to explain that I only wish to see the walls of the mosque, and she shakes her head insistently that I must stay and wash. E looks restless and so I rush through these ablutions. "I have only a headscarf", I attempt to say, but instead she takes my hand and leads me up a long spiral staircase where orphan scarves await the use of drop-ins. It rains harder and we quickly step out of our shoes and stand in ankle deep water before entering the womens’ part of the mosque. The room is small. There is enough time for one prayer and I say it quickly, for a joyful woman back home who faces a long and undeserved road ahead.
A striking young Muslim woman enters and removes her black heels. She smiles and asks if I’ve washed, not once, but twice, before entering Huxi, and I confess “no”. She leads us toward the washroom to repeat the cycle of ablutions. I am holding my boy tight to my chest. Her English is good and my Chinese horrible. It is with tremendous relief when the older worshipper returns and ushers us back out into the courtyard. She turns and says: “I understand”. And at last I learn her name: Aysha.
We grab the stroller and spill out onto the main street where rain pours and angry taxis drive past steaming tents of fresh cooked lamb. This is the market – what we came to photograph. Aysha introduces me to Uyghur food vendors who converge upon us and raise their colored umbrellas until they form a circled roof above our heads. E rests against my shoulder and says, “umbre-bra” while others repeat after him and laugh. A slice of sticky watermelon is thrust into my hand and a small golden nectarine into his. He clutches it like a small trophy. I am standing outside a mosque in a rainstorm with full a heart and a heavy child and pondering the logic of taking a bite.
“Which way is the Metro?” I ask.
“Just over the bridge”, mimes one of the sunburned male vendors. He is a beam of light.
"Ten minutes", another gestures.
A safer bet than a Shanghai taxi.
I exchange handshakes with the men and the female vendor embraces me. I start to walk away when Aysha declares something with urgency.
“She says she will walk you to the Metro”, says the red-shirted vendor.
“Xie xie”. No, I protest.
But Aysha grabs my umbrella and holds it aloft to protect the boy and spirits me over the bridge and toward the subway. Once in the station she takes my backpack and puts it on the security scanner. I smile and start to say thank you and goodbye and add an “I can take it from here” gesture. But she speaks with the security guard and asks to follow me down the escalator to the train, ducking purposefully beneath the turn style with the stroller.
Down we go, and the train is here. And at last: goodbye. With one final gesture of authority Aysha instructs a Chinese passenger that he must help me onto the train. I have done this one hundred times but she is firm with him and so he obliges. We board and people shuffle seats so that the soggy mother and her sticky fingered boy may be seated. I remove the nectarine from E’s hand and wipe it clean because I’m supposed to.
“Be careful, honey." I hear my Dad’s voice murmur across the continents. We reach Century Avenue and I realize that we took no photographs.
6 comments:
It is a shame you have no photos, but what a wonderful story! Thanks for sharing it!
I meant to add that J and V were the real inspiration for the market visit - they commanded us to try some Uyghur food or we'd be forbidden to return home in August.
Hi, Jim-a and Ven-m!
Nice post albeit without photos - sigh. So glad that you are having some fun and adventures and sharing them with me - I'm too timid to venture to such an exotic place.
XXOO
GTia
Quite an interesting journey. The fact that no photos were taken implies the degree of your mental engagement. Perhaps E would also remember some details. The problem could be mixing up all the events later, but who is there to argue besides E. :-) A lot of fun reading your post, thanks.
Lovely story, Karen! So many mistakes and so much grace in forgiveness. We all have a lot to learn.
I got lost in your perfect story. Sigh. What a lovely adventure. With only mental pictures to remember your visit by, your experience might be even more long lasting. I miss you!
Post a Comment