In Honor of Family Day
December 16th marks the 3rd anniversary of La Nina joining our family. Last year on La Nina's Family Day, I wrote about meeting her in China. This year I am writing about another experience we had in China in the Spring of 2004.
As I stepped from the van into the crowded market, my senses were assualted with the sights, sounds and smells of Anqing. On my right was an open air soup stall with four, gritty men hunched over steaming bowls of soup. Directly behind their wooden table, a toothless woman wrapped in a filthy apron from the chest down stirred a steaming pot of soup under a beat up red and blue striped canopy. On my left a young woman, old before her time, hawked pan fried flatbread with green onions and peppers from an American hot dog cart. The urgent sound of horns from cars passing on the nearby street echoed off of the building and creating a din that served as the back track to the merchants whistling to get the attention of passersby. The smell of decaying vegetables, cigarette smoke, unclean bodies and raw sewage struck my antiseptic American sense of smell like a sledge hammer. No, this wasn't big city China anymore. We were in the city my daughter was found and we were visiting the market where she began her journey to us. For me, this place held the significance of the Great Wall.
As we entered the market, our group drew stares. The smallness of our group-just my husband, a translator and myself- should have made us inconspicuous, but our white skin, our stature and my husband's blue eyes set us apart immediately. People dressed in all shades of gray, young, old, women, men, most missing some teeth gaped, "Why would 'waigoren' (foreign devils) set foot in this unremarkable market?" In the soup stall, the men, hats now askew, peered over their bowls pointing our direction and chattering among themselves. A group of followers materialized from no where, some pushing bikes, others carrying groceries, and began tracking our every move. Our translator leaned over, his voice tense, and warned, "Watch you purse". I tried, but I was too distracted by the scene to watch it closely.
As we pressed further into the narrow lane between the building, we saw small stalls lining our path. Some were covered with bed sheets doubling as canopies and many were fronted by a simple wooden plank from which vegetables, fruits, and housewares were sold. The opening left for us to pass was no more than 5 yards wide in places and we stayed close together as we wove our way through the throngs. My husband was easy to spot: he towered over the others in the market. I kept my eyes on hi and my elbows out, ready for use, as I pressed forward at the same pace as my group.
The alley came to an end at a small square lined by several store fronts containing a barbershop and a pharmacy and others whose function I couldn't discern. Another passageway jutted to the right and we followed it, not knowing where it would lead us. This new alley was darker than the first: Tall buildings lined it, blocking the daylight. Discarded, semi-collapsed boxes of all shapes and hundreds of rusting bicycles lined the walls of this new path. On our left, we could see the gloomy underbelly of the building held more marketplace stalls to be explored, so we turned into the bottom floor of the building at the first gap in the refuse.
Once under the buildings we entered an eerie world. Between the haze of cigarette smoke and the pollution stained buildings created a dusky hue to the air despite the time being mid-afternoon. The ground under our feet was puddled in spots with fetid water of unknown origin. The center of the buildings surrounding us were open and above us, we could see apartments lining the floors. A sea of black heads in pairs and trios gazed down at us from above until we looked up when, like turtles, they withdrew their heads into their high-rise shells.
The glow of yellow lights cast a haunting spell on the markets. Several of the sellers had attached flimsy walls with unconvincing doors to the front of their stalls behind which green-lit card rooms were filled with gamblers. We laughed these intent players were the only people not to notice our arrival. The group following us had now reached 50 and as we investigated the bins of rice, distilled liquor and live food of all manner for sale, the mob spoke amongst themselves in hushed tones. It was clear our type didn't venture to this part of the market often, our mere presence was a newsworthy event. Our translator stopped at some point and asked the crowd if anyone knew of a baby found among these sellers. The crowd grew quiet until an older woman spoke. Following her lead, several others spoke up and our friend became so busy diffusing the tension, he did not bother to interpret for us. I know not what was said, but the tones of displeasure did not need much translation that day.
Since I am uncomfortable in crowds, I was standing back, watching the scene unfold in front of me, clutching a binder with La Nina's picture on the front. An older man approached me and pantomimed a question, "Could he see my picture?" he gestured. I showed him. Next, he made the motion of rocking a baby with his arms as he pointed at me. "Was she my daughter?" I studied his face and nodded. He smiled and walked away. Did he recognize my baby? Did he know a part of her story? I wanted to cry out and stop him, but thought better of it given the conditions and the questionable nature of our visit.
Once our motives were revealed and the displeasure noted, the older members of the crowd faded away. Only the people under 30 stayed to ask questions: When was the girl found in this market? How old is she now? Did she live with us in America? Was she happy? Could they see her picture? Through our translator, my husband handled the questions. I was too busy studying faces. Where did the man go? Did that woman in the sweater have La Nina's eyes? Did the woman towards the back with the skirt have her smile? Did the girl about 6 sitting near the vat of grain resemble La Nina? My mind raced as quickly as my eyes scanned...No, No, No. I saw none of La Nina's sweet traits in this crowd, and yet, I kept searching.
After about an hour of hunting around the market, studying faces and talking with locals, we were exhausted and had seen all there was to see. My soul told me I was ready to leave: it was time to make our way back to the safety of the van. This visit confirmed the market was the perfect spot to leave a baby. Crowded, dark, lots of entrances and exits, easy for a desperate person to set down a box, watch it be found, then blend into the surroundings. I now understood why this site was selected.
As we started to leave this market a world away from our life with its well-stocked grocery stores and air-conditioned shopping malls, I felt a sudden, desperate urge to run. I wanted to be free of this place. La Nina was not here. She was at home, waiting for us. While we travelled the world trying to understand the history that brought her to us, she was waiting. As tears started to wash down my face, I quickened my pace. My husband grabbed my hand and asked if I was ok.
I nodded at him through my tears. I was fine. More than fine. A load had lifted from my shoulders in that hour. The unknown was now known, questions were answered, the all-elusive closure attained. La Nina's journey to us may have begun in this market, but this market held her no more. We held her now and always would. As we loaded into the van, I looked around and inhaled Anqing once more. I wanted to tell her about this someday.
As I stepped from the van into the crowded market, my senses were assualted with the sights, sounds and smells of Anqing. On my right was an open air soup stall with four, gritty men hunched over steaming bowls of soup. Directly behind their wooden table, a toothless woman wrapped in a filthy apron from the chest down stirred a steaming pot of soup under a beat up red and blue striped canopy. On my left a young woman, old before her time, hawked pan fried flatbread with green onions and peppers from an American hot dog cart. The urgent sound of horns from cars passing on the nearby street echoed off of the building and creating a din that served as the back track to the merchants whistling to get the attention of passersby. The smell of decaying vegetables, cigarette smoke, unclean bodies and raw sewage struck my antiseptic American sense of smell like a sledge hammer. No, this wasn't big city China anymore. We were in the city my daughter was found and we were visiting the market where she began her journey to us. For me, this place held the significance of the Great Wall.
As we entered the market, our group drew stares. The smallness of our group-just my husband, a translator and myself- should have made us inconspicuous, but our white skin, our stature and my husband's blue eyes set us apart immediately. People dressed in all shades of gray, young, old, women, men, most missing some teeth gaped, "Why would 'waigoren' (foreign devils) set foot in this unremarkable market?" In the soup stall, the men, hats now askew, peered over their bowls pointing our direction and chattering among themselves. A group of followers materialized from no where, some pushing bikes, others carrying groceries, and began tracking our every move. Our translator leaned over, his voice tense, and warned, "Watch you purse". I tried, but I was too distracted by the scene to watch it closely.
As we pressed further into the narrow lane between the building, we saw small stalls lining our path. Some were covered with bed sheets doubling as canopies and many were fronted by a simple wooden plank from which vegetables, fruits, and housewares were sold. The opening left for us to pass was no more than 5 yards wide in places and we stayed close together as we wove our way through the throngs. My husband was easy to spot: he towered over the others in the market. I kept my eyes on hi and my elbows out, ready for use, as I pressed forward at the same pace as my group.
The alley came to an end at a small square lined by several store fronts containing a barbershop and a pharmacy and others whose function I couldn't discern. Another passageway jutted to the right and we followed it, not knowing where it would lead us. This new alley was darker than the first: Tall buildings lined it, blocking the daylight. Discarded, semi-collapsed boxes of all shapes and hundreds of rusting bicycles lined the walls of this new path. On our left, we could see the gloomy underbelly of the building held more marketplace stalls to be explored, so we turned into the bottom floor of the building at the first gap in the refuse.
Once under the buildings we entered an eerie world. Between the haze of cigarette smoke and the pollution stained buildings created a dusky hue to the air despite the time being mid-afternoon. The ground under our feet was puddled in spots with fetid water of unknown origin. The center of the buildings surrounding us were open and above us, we could see apartments lining the floors. A sea of black heads in pairs and trios gazed down at us from above until we looked up when, like turtles, they withdrew their heads into their high-rise shells.
The glow of yellow lights cast a haunting spell on the markets. Several of the sellers had attached flimsy walls with unconvincing doors to the front of their stalls behind which green-lit card rooms were filled with gamblers. We laughed these intent players were the only people not to notice our arrival. The group following us had now reached 50 and as we investigated the bins of rice, distilled liquor and live food of all manner for sale, the mob spoke amongst themselves in hushed tones. It was clear our type didn't venture to this part of the market often, our mere presence was a newsworthy event. Our translator stopped at some point and asked the crowd if anyone knew of a baby found among these sellers. The crowd grew quiet until an older woman spoke. Following her lead, several others spoke up and our friend became so busy diffusing the tension, he did not bother to interpret for us. I know not what was said, but the tones of displeasure did not need much translation that day.
Since I am uncomfortable in crowds, I was standing back, watching the scene unfold in front of me, clutching a binder with La Nina's picture on the front. An older man approached me and pantomimed a question, "Could he see my picture?" he gestured. I showed him. Next, he made the motion of rocking a baby with his arms as he pointed at me. "Was she my daughter?" I studied his face and nodded. He smiled and walked away. Did he recognize my baby? Did he know a part of her story? I wanted to cry out and stop him, but thought better of it given the conditions and the questionable nature of our visit.
Once our motives were revealed and the displeasure noted, the older members of the crowd faded away. Only the people under 30 stayed to ask questions: When was the girl found in this market? How old is she now? Did she live with us in America? Was she happy? Could they see her picture? Through our translator, my husband handled the questions. I was too busy studying faces. Where did the man go? Did that woman in the sweater have La Nina's eyes? Did the woman towards the back with the skirt have her smile? Did the girl about 6 sitting near the vat of grain resemble La Nina? My mind raced as quickly as my eyes scanned...No, No, No. I saw none of La Nina's sweet traits in this crowd, and yet, I kept searching.
After about an hour of hunting around the market, studying faces and talking with locals, we were exhausted and had seen all there was to see. My soul told me I was ready to leave: it was time to make our way back to the safety of the van. This visit confirmed the market was the perfect spot to leave a baby. Crowded, dark, lots of entrances and exits, easy for a desperate person to set down a box, watch it be found, then blend into the surroundings. I now understood why this site was selected.
As we started to leave this market a world away from our life with its well-stocked grocery stores and air-conditioned shopping malls, I felt a sudden, desperate urge to run. I wanted to be free of this place. La Nina was not here. She was at home, waiting for us. While we travelled the world trying to understand the history that brought her to us, she was waiting. As tears started to wash down my face, I quickened my pace. My husband grabbed my hand and asked if I was ok.
I nodded at him through my tears. I was fine. More than fine. A load had lifted from my shoulders in that hour. The unknown was now known, questions were answered, the all-elusive closure attained. La Nina's journey to us may have begun in this market, but this market held her no more. We held her now and always would. As we loaded into the van, I looked around and inhaled Anqing once more. I wanted to tell her about this someday.
posted by One Lucky Mom @ 8:31 PM
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