I Grew My Boobs in China (19 page)

“That doesn’t sound any better! That’s almost like saying girls are friggin’ disabled!” said Bree, quick to take offence.

“They are! Try living with the lot of you! It’d handicap anybody.”

“Damn, you are such a jerk!” she said, throwing her hand across the table. “I’m not playing anymore!”

“What the hell!?” Ammon said. “Good to see
you’re
in a good mood.”

“Oh, you two! Stop it,” Mom piped in, seeing Ammon growing more aggravated. “Now Bree, you’re not quitting. You have to at least finish the round,” she said, gathering up Bree’s cards. “Now, did you have two fives or just the one?” Mom asked, trying to find them all.

“I’m not playing if he is,” Bree said, folding her arms and glaring at Ammon.

“See what I mean?” Ammon said. For such a smart man, he somehow didn’t have the sense to drop it. “Insane! And if this “man” were not here, what would you do tomorrow?”

“We’re almost done,” Mom went on trying to smooth over the conflict.

“Well, she forfeited the last round anyway!” Ammon said.

“I found all her cards. It’s fine,” she said, putting Bree’s cards back in her hand. “And don’t listen to him. The reason they want sons is so they can work the fields and help the family survive. More hands working the fields means more food and money,” Mom explained before adding a little white lie to ease Bree’s mind, “so they can buy nice things for their wives.”

“But the other thing is the whole ‘4-2-1 Problem,’  ” Ammon continued.

“Hey, this isn’t my card!” she said, showing a low six of hearts.

“Well, too bad. You shouldn’t have thrown them all in,” Ammon said, making me cringe in anticipation of the next outburst.

“And just what does 4-2-1 mean?” I asked to please him and keep the conversation going, since Bree seemed not to hear him.

“It means that if couples are only having one kid, then that one kid needs to support both his parents and as many as four grandparents when he grows up. You see how that works? So the poor seniors are being left with less support, and many have to fend for themselves entirely.”

“It’s in their culture to take care of each other. I’m so lucky to have four of you guys,” Mom said as she laughed a bit too agreeably.

“Right now, male-to-female ratios are high everywhere. Doesn’t matter if it’s rural or urban. They’re saying there will be thirty million more men than women in 2020, so you can imagine the social instability that will cause.”

“Good, so then women can start having harems,” Bree said with a vengeful laugh.
At least something pleases her,
I thought, thankful she hadn’t blown up again.

“What was that last round? Who came in first on that one?” Ammon asked, jotting down the card scores and ignoring her comment.

Mom beamed as she called out, “Me!”
No wonder she was so eager to keep that round going!
I almost had to laugh.

“Okay, so speaking of girls and boys, does anyone know which bathroom is which?” I asked, while Ammon shuffled and dealt the next hand.

“Does it matter? Just go in whichever one you want,” he said.

“I’d like to know, at least. For future reference.”

“You’ve managed just fine so far,” he said, not understanding my concern.

“Yah, because we always followed the crowd. Just look in your little booky-book there and tell us,” I insisted.

“It hardly matters here,” Mom said, reminding me that there were hardly any people in the compound.

“Well, it does to me! Especially since the showers have no doors!!!!” I protested.

“Aaalriiight, then” he said, drawing out his vowels to emphasize how much he does for us. “So here it is,” he opened up his
Lonely Planet
to those translations and laid it on the table. “Here. This one is women 女人, and this is men 男人.”

“Which is which?” Bree asked.

Leaning over to take a closer look at the little symbols, she burst out laughing, “Yours looks like a blockhead!!! HAH! One with legs!”

“Well, that makes sense,” Mom joked along, happy that the bickering ended on a humorous note, and we played until the sky turned a beautiful, dark lilac colour with splashes of citrusy orange. We were just ordering our last round of banana pancakes when the crickets started to come out, and I was sure I heard the distant croak of a frog or two.

“Go, Mom. It’s your turn,” Ammon said, waiting anxiously to throw in what could only be yet another winning hand. Fanning her cards and waving them at the flies, Mom threw in two queens.

“If only these stupid flies would go away!!” she said, bothered by the numerous insects still landing on her hands and plate. “Whoa, wait, wait,” she said with an outstretched hand to stop us in our places. Her eyes circled as she watched a few more little flying friends land on the table. She slowly leaned in and then suddenly slammed her open palm down. CRACK! Her brand new bracelet flew off in two pieces as if she’d planned it to hit both Bree and Ammon, who instinctively ducked. Any remaining tension broke as we all roared with laughter.

Her immediate “Oh no!! My bracelet” reaction was quickly followed by, “But doesn’t that mean I get a wish or something? Isn’t it good luck in China if it breaks?”

“Well, it was
your
bracelet,
so I wouldn’t be surprised,” Ammon said. Everyone in our family and all of Mom’s five brothers were convinced that she had “lucky horseshoes up her butt.”

“As if you need anymore! Why don’t you share some of that luck with the rest of us?” I asked.

“No really! That is what she told me! That I get a wish when it breaks,” Mom insisted

“Well, then, Happy Birthday!” Bree congratulated.

Chapter 19

Wrinkles and Dimples

Only one thing marred our enjoyment of the luxurious pleasures of taking a few days’ rest in Dali. Bree had unintentionally brought an unwelcome little hitchhiker along from Vancouver, and we all caught a cold. As if that weren’t enough, Mom’s left lung became inflamed from a case of pleurisy she developed. She had also tripped on a stair on the overnight bus to Yangshuo, and her right ribcage crashed directly onto a bedrail. The next few weeks, both sides of her upper body were in excruciating pain.

Once we’d all rested and mostly recovered, I found myself hobbling awkwardly down the narrow stairwell of the bus to Lijiang on my sore feet. Like wounded gladiators shoved unceremoniously into a colosseum, we tackled the next challenge. I was not, in any way, looking forward to the inevitable walk ahead, long or short. My backpack and I were on pretty rocky terms at the time, and I’d have been happy never to see it again. “Do you know where we’re staying tonight?” I asked Ammon, ever the worrywart.
Of course he doesn’t.
As we expected, though, a few people waited to solicit our business, complete with pictures of the accommodations they offered. Some carried poster-board signs, while others held brochures. With nothing planned or booked, we were free to go with the flow.

Mom coughed. With each gasp and harsh expulsion she cringed in agony and tried to hold her ribs and lungs together.

“Hey, if it is getting worse,” I started sympathetically, “then maybe you need to go home to get that taken care of.”

“Yah. Nice try,” she scowled, rolling her dark eyes.

While Ammon tackled the issue of accommodation, the bus driver tossed our luggage from the under-carriage. Bree and I grabbed the four backpacks in midair as they came flying out. I stumbled backwards with an “oomph!” as I caught mine. I sat the thing upright before reaching my arm down into one of the straps to once again hoist it onto my back. Ammon lifted and held Mom’s pack for her as she slipped an arm through one strap, sneezing repeatedly. Ammon asked the little woman he’d procured how far the guest house was.

“No far, no far. Close, close,” the lady started in English. “Wu. Wu.” She held out five fingers to signify five minutes.
My hands were too sore to carry anything, my feet were too dry and cracked to walk, I could hardly talk between chapped lips, and my back was so stiff my stomach hurt. I felt like death warmed over! And yet, there was Mom huffing along next to me, clenching her hands at her sides. I honestly don’t know how she managed at all. Ammon claimed his throat was too sore to swallow. As for Bree, well, Bree probably had something wrong with her, too, but it would be nearly impossible to tell which symptoms were new.

Every street and alley we approached held hope before we’d inevitably pass it by. Our lady guide didn’t even glance down any of the side streets. She was still humming along, practically running with her stubby legs and showing no sign of stopping any time soon. As we rounded every corner, I would perk up and think that this had to be the one! But we just kept walking and walking
.
I looked hopefully and seemingly endlessly at every building that just might be a guest house.

I contemplated slipping into the back of the line and casually dropping my pack off and leaving it in a canal, or at least dumping a couple of the books. I wondered how much trouble I’d be in if I could get up the nerve to actually do it. I could so easily imagine the floating pages drifting in the opposite direction.

“My feet are killing me. They’re completely dead,” I broke out instead, hoping it would somehow lighten the load. I knew I didn’t have any right to complain, seeing Mom tough it out, but I couldn’t dismiss the fact that I, too, was in pain. I hurt everywhere, actually, from my groggy head down to my feet, where the pressure of the pack’s extra weight began splitting the already opened cracks even more.

It was not knowing how far it would be that made the walk so torturous. I began to curse the lady under my breath for lying to us. This was not – in any way, shape, or form – five minutes. We had already been walking for over fifteen minutes.

My stomach roared at me. I wasn’t food deprived by any means, and yet I felt starved! A step, a limp, then growls from my midsection, followed by a slow, rebellious moan from my parched throat.
Oh shut up!
I tried to discipline my body and its constant complaints.
This isn’t my fault! I didn’t do this to you. Take it out on someone else, why don’t you!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Finally, we arrived at the gates of our destination. A tiny old woman wove her way through the natural beauty of the dainty courtyard to welcome us, but my heart quickened a beat or two, and I stopped dead in my tracks at the sight of her.

An unfortunate encounter only days earlier with an old Chinese woman was one I would not soon forget. We had been waiting at a bus stop, fully laden with our backpacks as people went about their daily routines. Men passed by with squawking chickens in hand, women danced by sweeping the road with bushy brooms, and little kids ran past collecting empty bottles for refunds.

One peddler stood out from the rest of the pack. When I first saw her, I bit my lower lip. Her wicker basket was blooming with what looked like homemade marshmallows melting in the sun. Her basket hung in the crook of her arm, half hidden beneath her cloaks. She brought to mind the wicked queen in the Snow White tale carrying white, poison apples as she shuffled towards us, despite my efforts to ignore her. Judging from the condition of her few remaining teeth, I guessed that the anonymous white blobs were probably a staple of her diet. We had no interest in finding out what they were, so we all shook our heads and politely said, “No, No thank you. We don’t need any,” before trying to wiggle away to avoid confrontation.

Though she could not understand our words, our body language was quite clear, yet she didn’t simply slip back into the crowd as we expected, and before I knew it her hand, knobby, rough and crow-like, reached out for me. She grabbed me and sank her claws deep into my arm. I was caught off guard and was too surprised to cry out. My terror blocked my air supply for about ten seconds. I wanted to run, but my pack and the crowds limited my options. Had I forcefully pulled away from her, I’d likely have fallen on my back like an awkward turtle. I tried tugging to resist her, but she didn’t budge.
Why me? Why is it always me?
I asked myself. The slightest conflict was enough to push me overboard at this early point of the journey. She clung there desperately, her grip becoming stronger and her nails pinching deeper into my arm. I tugged again, looking frantically for help from my family, who were close by but failed to notice my dilemma, let alone rescue me.
Whatever happened to sticking up for each other?
I thought furiously at I tried to either attract their attention or to pivot away from the old crone, but I was trapped. It felt like she and I hovered in the eye of a whirlpool as the rest of the world spun around us. I didn’t know what else to do.

In desperation, I finally gave up on the idea of escape, at which point an inner strength came over me and I turned to her, still angry and terrified. Facing my trepidation directly, I experienced an adrenaline rush that seemed to reveal a completely different facet of this encounter. Suddenly, I became aware of what a rough life she must have had. Her hunched back, her weathered, wrinkled face, and her rotted, gummy snarl told me I knew nothing of her pain.

We somehow stood alone in time, and I imagined her peeling her cloak back and emerging from the shadows of her ancient roots to reveal her inner core. In her eyes, I saw a playful and innocent childhood and began to hear a story of her once shiny black hair and a cheery grin that boasted small, pearly white teeth.
What has this world done to her?
She was screaming at me with her eyes and I stood very still and listened to words only I could hear. It seemed an eternity before she was gone. Had I not had proof in the form of the bloody scratch she’d left behind, I might’ve thought she was a figment of my imagination.

And now here I was, having to deal with a second old lady. I cautiously stepped deeper into the garden courtyard of the guest house. I still felt a bit shaken by, and not quite able to grasp the full significance of, that first encounter. Sensing my hesitation and nudging me along, Mom advised me, “Don’t let past experiences affect your view of new people.”