Scaling the great wall of language

MANILA, Philippines - Among the first snapshots of planet earth from outer space show a blue green marble bowling ball, and in that swirl could be deciphered a twisted biscuit that is the outline of the Great Wall of China. For a man-made structure to be visible many miles away is a testament to the endurance of that country’s national symbol, perhaps an exaggerated interpretation of the old saying, “good fences make good neighbors.”

On a Saturday early we set out for the Great Wall, located on the outskirts of the capital Beijing about an hour’s drive away, so smooth a ride that waking from a catnap we suddenly found the mountains on either side of us.

It was a cool, foggy day, much like Baguio weather, and our last day in the capital known for its character and haze. There was a slight drizzle, prompting some in our party to head for the souvenir shop for caps.

A steady stream of tourists in their rubber shoes and toting bottles of mineral water was moving up and down the ancient steps of the wall, stopping every now and then to catch their breath, take photos, admire the view, whatever could be seen through that misty morning hop.

There was a sign up near the clouds that read, “Strictly no talking on cellphone during thunderstorm,” and another sign past midpoint of the climb that read, “those with heart condition warned against proceeding further.”

One could run out of film documenting the sights at such a height, where we were reminded of some rough lines from the poet Cesar RuizAquino: “There was no north, south, east or west; it was all mountain, pure vertigo…”

Just as the documenter could take endless shots of gaffes in usage and syntax and grammar of the Chinese English signs, a favorite forwarded humorous email with jpeg attachment: mind the step, no striding, we welcome you enthrusiastically!

The use of interpreter or translator, however, is part of the Chinese protocol, as we were never without one or two of them during a weeklong visit to China last September, before the deluge in the home country produced Mad Max-like scenes of aftermath.

During courtesy calls on officials of the state information council and editors of newspapers and online editions, the visiting Philippine media were on one side and their Chinese counterparts on the other, a translator between them facilitating the exchange of ideas and greetings, question and answer and the mutual pat on backs, even if the Chinese official most probably knew basic functional English, how but in custom and ceremony are innocence and beauty born (Yeats), and the language barrier another way of saying, “distancia, amigo.”

Our translator, Zhang Shuangfeng alias Michael of China Radio International, said it would help if the visitors had knowledge of survival Chinese, beyond the usual “Ni ha” or hello and “Sheshe” or thank you.

Michael himself would pick up a Tagalog term, “parusa,” amid the somewhat hectic pace of itinerary that called for tongue-twisting resilience.

Closer to sea level, away from the great wall of language that separates us and also brings us together, we visited the Maritime Museum in Quanzhou, city of trade that was the original maritime silk road. Marco Polo and Iban Batuta were here.

Pure vertigo

In Xiamen by the sea we encircled Gulangyu Isle by electric cart driven by a pony-tailed young lady of the communist party, viewing the quaint sights and visiting the piano museum uphill with its assembly of pianos, from the first classic grands to the uprights and pianolas invoking Walt Disney cartoons, to the corner piano and double pianos and harpsichord, the ghost of Glenn Gould was alive and well.

There was a troubadour by the winding path singing for everyone and no one, and encircling the island was like going around the great wall, but at sea level.

All mountain

At a street corner in Fuzhou City similar to the Recto intersection in Sta. Cruz only cleaner, there was a vagabond rummaging through some garbage under the pedestrian overpass. It was the same city where we took a walk down a hutong or alley, in search of souvenirs and all the tea in China.

Our last night in Beijing which was deep in preparations for its 60th national day in the nippy weather, after the rounds of interviews and toasts and tasty dinners, parusa, we finally found time to take a stroll a kilometer or two from our hotel, where people filled the streets and there was a general air of excitement.

“It is an honor to take part in the celebrations,” our guide a party member had said earlier, as busloads of participants and performers were ferried to the rehearsal and parade sites.

At a pass where the road curved away from a creek side promenade, we thought we heard the sound of crickets in the night, or was it just the buzz from the celebratory alcohol.

No north, south, east or west in the modern, storied city

Back at the Great Wall, there was a faint smell of urine in one of the ramparts, where one could get a good view of the mist coming in.

We declined to make the last stretch up the wall, which was already covered in clouds. A few Chinese tourists were taking a rest and bantering in a singsong manner, also pondering whether to proceed.

If one fell off the mountain what stories would be left unsaid? From outer space or on the wall itself, it felt like scaling the back of the dragon inscrutable.