to race a tiger

Anything that walks, swims, crawls or flies with its back to heaven is edible

(Cantonese Proverb)

 

It is lunchtime.

In the markets the crowds are building and the air hangs thick with the smell of salt, oil, charcoal and meat. Hungry shoppers shoulder past each other on the look out for a bargain or their favourite snack, drawn in by price and colour and scent.

 

One stall sells seaweed wraps, another sweet pastries with kidney bean paste and sweetcorn stuffed in the centre. This one displays pale slices of melon, another chilli beef noodles, or pungent crab meat in dumplings. There are bowls of salted peanuts and bags of rice and spices.

 

 

But it is the shop down a covered alley and to the left where the crowds really are. Here there are young children and adults alike clamouring round and a shopkeeper who is kept busy handling customers.

For he sells starfish. Silkworms, brown and ribbed like tiny, misshaped cigars. Seahorse, stiff and glass eyed. Scorpions, three to a stick. They are still alive and wriggling.

And that tray of kebabs he has? Is it beef? Chicken? Mutton?

'Dog,' he confirms with a smile. 'Tastes good.'

 

 

Let me tell you a story.

Many, many centuries ago, the Jade Emperor, who rules from Heaven, decided that there should be a way to count the passing of the years. Sending out a proclamation across the lands he decreed that there would be a great race amongst all the beasts of the earth. The first twelve animals to cross through the vast forest and over the deep river would have a year named after them.

At dawn on the appointed day every creature assembled, and with the first rays of light the race began. Through a mixture of trickery and betrayal the rat won. He was followed by the kindly Ox, whom he had duped into carrying him across the broad river. The Tiger came next, dragging his powerful body from the water. Rabbit hopped after, having made his way over the water by rocks jutting from the river. The mighty Dragon was awarded fifth place, having stopped on his journey to bring rain to a drought riddled land. The Snake slithered from beneath the hooves of Horse to claim sixth place, forcing Horse backwards in fright and into seventh. Ram, Monkey and Rooster arrived together on a raft they had crafted. Dog appeared later, having stopped to wash himself in the river. Pig, having fallen asleep almost as soon as the race began was granted 12^th place.

Thus the shengxiao or Chinese Zodiac was born and the years named and measured.

It's a lovely story from Chinese folklore. But that's all it is. A legend. A myth. As with all myths it concentrates on the symbols and misses the details.

Like the fact that the Chinese have a complicated relationship with their animals. Like the fact that of all the animals in the story the only one that is not considered as food is the Dragon, which is both sacred to the Chinese and imaginary. That the Chinese may name their years after their animals but that doesn't mean they aren't still tasty. That though many people in the country are Buddhist and therefore vegetarian, considering the balance of all life to be sacred, many other people will eat anything that moves and they will eat all parts of it. The brain. The heart. The eyes. That many will happily eat dog and have a pet chihuahua at home, because there is a difference between restaurant dog and pet dog.

At feeding time at Harbin Tiger Park they pay homage to their folklore, but instead of assembling all the beasts of the earth to the race they only have two competitors.

One hungry tiger. One live duck.

The legend talks of Tiger, who came third, all grace and strength and power. But it does not speak of the smell of Tiger. The unmistakable scent that hangs, hot and tangible in the air, like a musky blanket pressed against your face. The smell of power and anticipation. 

The legend of the Zodiac does not speak of Duck. Unmentioned, Duck is too slow to have a year named after him and loses to the other competitors.

The keepers release the animals into the pen and the assembled tourists crowd round, munching on their own lunch, cameras poised to capture the finish.

Some things in legend will always remain true.

In a race, Tiger will always win against Duck.

 

the ghosts of Harbin

Harbin: 23rd August 2013

Where: North-East China, an 8 hour train ride from Beijing.

Population: 10 million

Famed For: The January Ice Festival



As I’m writing, someone has set off a box of firecrackers in the street opposite my hotel.

My friend, A, says they’re celebrating the birthday of someone important. A politician, or a god maybe. She’s not sure. They have too many. Here, there are gods and ghosts in everything. The kitchen, the sky, the grass… the past.

Yesterday, we passed people burning paper money in the streets to send to their ancestors.

In the city centre, the century old byzantine church, St. Sophia, sits crumbling inside from decay. Chandeliers hang, unlit, from the domed ceiling. The wall murals are mostly gone and in some places the plaster is missing, baring the brickwork. It is beautiful and bleak and without religion. Instead it contains a photographic exhibition of China before ‘the liberation’. It’s a museum to the god of the state, to China and its people.

And Harbin, like its famous church, is shabby and yet somehow lovely.

In the morning daylight, the outskirts are rather worn looking. Blocks of flats stand half built against the skyline. Piles of brick and sand and tubing are heaped and left on the pavement. Telephone wires are impossibly knotted round an overcrowded pole and dangle down across the street. A few watermelons from a street vendor have dropped into the road and lie, exposing their glistening pink insides on the tarmac. The smell of roasting meat mixes with car fumes. A man with a mouthful of phlegm looks for a place to spit. In the background half a dozen taxis sound their horns. A scraggly looking kitten wanders into a hotel lobby and is hurriedly shooed out. Someone hangs their washing out to dry on a tree in the street.

The city centre, meanwhile, is spotlessly clean. The pedestrianized century old street with its cobbled road and tree lined pavements sports an odd assortment of Russian goods shops and western retailers. Costa sits comfortably next to a Babushka store. In H&M there is a sale. The vodka shop next door is conspicuously full. A street vendor selling squid tentacles and other unnamed meats has parked outside McDonalds. At the end of the street, a colonnade rings a statue to the flood defence system protecting Harbin from the grey river that flows through it.

It starts to gently rain.

Night-time is when Harbin looks its best, when the worn edges are hidden by the softness of the dark, and the sky glitters with the light of skyscrapers and KTV bars, street lamps and advertising billboards. It is still balmy in the evenings and we sit out on the pavements, drinking the local pijiu and pointing at pictures of things we think look recognisable on the menu. Balanced on plastic chairs we tuck into noodles, pork with potatoes, tofu and prawns in a spicy sauce and something so deep fried the meat is unidentifiable. White lotus root, carrots and bean sprouts are heaped onto enamel plates and platters of skewered meats are arranged around our table and in the evening light everything is electric and wonderful.

At the end of the meal, as we count out yuan, the waitress, giggling, hands over her iphone to another server so she can pose for a picture with us. A group of Chinese men on the next table say something in rapid Mandarin and suddenly they are all up, cameras out, posing for individual photographs with each of us.  

We are a strange novelty, us laowai, or less politely gweilos, which means white ghosts. Strangers stop to take our pictures, thrusting their bemused children into our arms. We pause to watch a fashion show on the high street and the photographers turn to snap us instead. At the Tiger Park we are more of an attraction for the visitors than the beautiful white Siberian cats we have come to see. People do it sneakily, pretending to take photos of buildings behind us. Or they do it brazenly and herd us together like sheep, before proudly posing in front of us.

We absently wonder what they do with the photographs as we hail a taxi home.

We’ve just had a long day of lesson planning and most of us didn’t get more than six hours sleep the night before, or the night before that, too busy talking to think of bed. Our exhaustion may explain why we are able to fall asleep despite the fact we are doing 120km/h down the main road, weaving in and out of the traffic, narrowly avoiding pedestrians and other drivers. None of us are wearing seatbelts because they are tied in a double knot against the windows. The lock is buried under the fake Chanel covered seats.

We wake briefly when our taxi makes a u-turn across six lanes of traffic to the soundtrack of car horns. Twenty minutes later and we pull up at the hotel, carefully counting out yuan in the neon light of Harbin at midnight.We stumble out of the taxi and into the hotel, silently crossing the floor to the lift. 

The hotel receptionist is asleep, her head pillowed on her arms as seven ghosts go by.

Outside, the firecrackers burn on.