Changes in An ShangVillage

By Nancy Pine

      Our small bus turned off the main highway and crossed the fields of the WeiRiver valley as I chatted with one of the Global Volunteers who was visiting China for the first time. I was headed for my second three-week stay in An Shang village. The spine-tingling anticipation I'd experienced a year-and-a-half ago had faded, replaced by my wondering what I would learn this time. I had returned to immerse myself a little more in rural China and to learn from that experience. I had a lot to learn about village life.
      Last time I had come in October when the corn ripens. Mounds of harvested ears piled up in family courtyards and were husked late into the night. In the fields whole families cut the stalks and tilled the land for the winter wheat crop that must be planted immediately after the corn harvest. The rhythm of village life had a pulse to it that we volunteers, there to teach English to teachers from the surrounding area, witnessed as we walked to and from our work. But there was so much we didn't know. Although somewhat aware of how ignorant we were, our time had rushed by. Mesmerized by the braids of golden corn that glinted and dried in the sun, I focused my free time on learning about farming. I found out how my host's tractor spread seed and watched him use it, weighted down by another man balanced on the back. I found out what commercial fertilizers the farmers spread from large hand held baskets as they walked across newly plowed land. I learned the size of a mu, and listened to the breezes rustle the drying shocks that crowded country lanes. The Autumn Festival came and went and the work continued. Villagers hauled enormous loads of cornstalks from the fields to their homes, and I began asking how they were used. I tried to learn how to husk corn correctly, leaving a few leaves for hanging it to dry. But there was so much I didn't learn. Were any crops marketed? Did the farmers' families earn money from the crops, and if so was it enough to buy farm tools? What was produced in the village and what was purchased outside? And what were the children learning in school? Did they start preparing for exams beginning in first grade? Did they have to pay school fees? We taught a couple of brief English lessons to children in the village school, but that just left me with more questions than answers even though I am a professional educator.
      After those all-too-quick weeks, I left, exhilarated by the experience in An Shang but wondering what I hadn't noticed or thought about. Those three weeks taught me that rural China is a fascinating world, and that I knew almost nothing about it. Now I was returning at a different time of year to learn a little more.
      Our bus turned onto the An Shang road, and I noticed the change immediately. Although a hard rain had just stopped, the bus wheels turned smoothly along the newly oiled road surface. Last time I was here it had been quite different. We had bounced along rain ruts, grabbing at dislodged baggage. I had walked on this road one rainy day through clawing mud. With every step, inches of water-soaked earth had clung to my hiking boots, weighting them down so all I could do was laugh at my inability to move normally.
      Rolling down the rain-washed main street, enjoying its concrete expanse, we pulled up to the wide, tiled courtyard in front of the new An Shang School. I was in awe. The school building had been an empty concrete shell a year ago, a promise for tomorrow, but casting a grey presence as we walked past it. Seeing it filled with children was a thrilling experience, its colorful flags flying proudly and carefully planted gardens decorating the front. But we didn't have much time to admire. Ninety visiting students from the Xi'an Translators College waited to greet us, their teachers. They had come to improve their English for they almost never have opportunity to talk with native speakers. It was hard to imagine how this small village could provide hospitality for so many students, but it had. They were already housed, and the village was about to absorb the eight of us also.
      By evening we were settled in and as I walked along the lane from my host's house I realized that two more village lanes had been paved with concrete and a few streetlights had been installed along the main road. What's more, a completed restaurant building now stood at the corner of the school yard. Its walls were just going up during my last visit. Now complete, it was feeding the 90 students three meals a day.
      As we got our teaching underway I began to sense a different village rhythm. It was not the peak of the harvest like last time; it was spring. Instead of rows of head-high corn, wheat crops rippled toward the horizon interspersed with dazzling yellow mustard. The warm weather, even though interrupted by a few days of strong, sand-bearing winds, seemed to bring a little relaxation to the village and to lend itself to more sitting outside.
      The children's school programs and other village events were now held in the modern school auditorium with a permanent sound system that no longer had to be brought in by truck for special events. Several people we got to know were pleased to have us take their photos which, I believe, requires a trust that we were taking them out of respect, rather than as objects of curiosity.
      Villagers had been cordial and polite during my last visit, but reserved in their greetings. Now it seemed that good cheer bubbled over to us. Groups of women gathered outside their homes in the afternoons chatting, knitting and embroidering. They often patted an empty stool and invited us to sit and chat. They encouraged us to have nodding, laughing and pointing 'conversations' with them. Their enthusiasm and good nature captured our own enthusiasm and broke through my shyness born of uncertainty of not wanting to bother them and not quite knowing how to sustain a conversation without a shared language. We pointed and taught each other words from our languages. We admired the children and enjoyed their responses, and we all laughed in delight.
      And what did I learn? My roommate, who had also been to An Shang once before, and I took walks before breakfast every morning and also when we were free from teaching. We began to get a sense of where one village ended and another began, and we became much more aware of the vendors and businesses. We recognized the call of the tofu vendor as he rode up and down the village lanes; we admired the brooms made by the man next door to where we were staying. One grandfather often had his grandchild on a colorful tricycle as we passed the village entrance, three children walked to school every morning across the fields from distant houses, and an elderly gentleman always fed his goat greens from a basket as our watches neared 7 a.m. We discovered the sawmill where logs were split into boards and watched different building techniques craft bricks and mortar into modern homes. We learned the locations of chicken farms, and one day we discovered an incense factory on the edge of the village making thousands of incense sticks for worship at Buddhist temples. Each day we set out eager to explore more.
      Our village host, An Wei, showed us the five discrete neighborhoods of the village. I had never realized there might be village divisions and that they each had representatives on the village council. I became increasingly aware of life's rhythms that probably go back hundreds of years, of land divisions and planting techniques that although continuously modernized also encapsulate traditions of an ancient land covered with feet of loess blown from the northwest for millennia.
      As my eyes began to differentiate the varied greens of the different grain crops, I also began to see more subtle patterns in village life. I began to notice those who swept the main road regularly, the times when the loudspeaker on the school sent messages out across the village, and which vendors came from other villages to sell fruits and vegetables along the main street. I noticed the shops that the children frequented before and after school, and I began to recognize the members of the school committee and others in the village. I had time to also recognize my Western perspective getting in the way, like when I found myself annoyed at the new street lights on the main road because they blocked out the stars. I had to admit, though, that they made it possible for me to see my way home from late-night activities on moon-less nights
      At the end of three weeks, I left the village knowing I had much more to learn. I went away once more filled to the brim with new experiences, with the good humor and enthusiasm of the villagers as they made us feel at home, and energized by the dynamism of the students and teachers we taught who are the future of China. I also left wondering what I might learn if I returned again. The generosity with which An Shang village residents share their lives with Global Volunteers has helped build a bridge of learning between East and West. As I and other volunteers return home to the United States we share our experience in An Shang and our new knowledge, as little as it is, with friends and family. In this way An Shang village helps others feel a little more at home with China, and especially with the rural villages of China

Nancy Pine is cordially received by student participants and her farmer friends upon her return to Anshang Village.		Nancy Pine and her team of eight are welcomed by the pupils and teachers of Anshang School.
Nancy is so pleased to stay in her host family again and posed a photo in front of the persimmon tree in the courtyard.		Nancy and her team mates are learning to make Jiaozi dumpling from her cook friends.