农家乐 (Farm Fun)
Photo by Drew Fralick
农家乐 (pronounced: nong jia le) – (English: “Farm Fun”) where city dwellers make a special pilgrimage to the countryside
It’s autumn in Shanghai and time to make our annual pilgrimage to the countryside. Driver Wang dutifully picks us up at 8am and we ride in a 16-passenger bus to the outskirts of Zhejiang province.
Life in the city is so disconnected from the land. Concrete, smog, a few sparse trees here and there gradually make us forget that nature still exists. Not so out here. The mountains are cool and as we climb higher, bamboo forests remind us that we’re almost to the farm where Auntie Zhang will be anxiously awaiting our arrival. Things have come full circle when city dwellers intentionally go to the countryside, as for most of human history the flow of people has been in the opposite direction. We marvel at how quiet the countryside is and dream about living in such a place. But that’s mostly empty talk- the day to day realities of farm life are far from ideal.
Upon arrival, we are fussed over by Auntie Zhang and given tea to drink in the first-floor lobby of this concrete and tile farmhouse. After forty-five minutes of pleasantries we are gently released to do whatever we want. The day is ours, save for the non-negotiable appointments of lunch and dinner. As with all of China, much of the rural life is anchored by eating.
The countryside is an amusement park to its urbanite tourists. We can choose to hike in bamboo forests, explore tea fields, or try to chat with local old people, many of whom barely speak Mandarin themselves.
By 1130 Auntie Zhang is rounding everyone up and beautiful scents are wafting from the kitchen. We sit around simple furniture, with an empty lazy susan in the middle of the table ready to receive its dishes. An expired calendar with Mao Zedong’s portrait hangs on the wall.
The dishes auntie serves are all a part of the Farm Fun, fried bamboo shoots cut from the forest, nian gao, and pumpkin baozi. Food is fresher in these mountains.
Auntie’s husband, a mischievous looking middle-aged man insists we try some of the homemade baijiu he’s been brewing. Baijiu, a common rice wine, is a sort of local moonshine distilled by farmers all over China. This particular batch is in a large glass jar and has all kinds of fruits floating in it in stasis.
A good-hearted banter starts between husband and us. He offers a cup and we initially refuse, claiming it’s too early in the day to drink. He insists and we relent easily. As we prepare to start eating, he pours a glass for everyone at the table then we all stand as he makes a toast. “To the enduring friendship of China and America!” Ganbei!
We all take a sip of his brew. A few of our more extreme companions drain their glasses as one large shot, then ask the farmer for another round. He beams. Everyone has gained much face.
After lunch we step away from the table, leaving behind a ruinous mess of half eaten dishes, tissues and spilt food. The baijiu has worked its way into our bloodstream, everyone is talking several degrees louder than is necessary, and we want to go for a hike or an adventure or on to the next thing. We want to see farm animals!, someone shouts obnoxiously. The farmer’s husband graciously decides to skip his daily nap to accompany us into the bamboo forests and make sure we don’t get into trouble. He hikes with us all day, while Auntie Zhang hangs back, cleans the mess, and prepares for the next round of eating at suppertime.
The entire day is a pleasant dream, we are shuttled around, cared for and fed. As the dinner ends and the day winds down, we load back into the bus to head home to the city. The first hour of the trip we sing and cackle, and shout at each other, still buzzing from the rice wine and fried bamboo shoots.
But slowly, one by one, people begin to grow quiet. Outside the window the sky has turned dark and we are still several hours driving from Shanghai. All of us settle in for the long trip back and drift off to sleep.
Driver Wang continues down the highway, finally alone with his thoughts. He patiently waited at the farmhouse all day while we ate and played, fiddling with cell phone mahjong and taking in the mountain air. But his day began even earlier than ours, he was awake at 4am eating a quick breakfast before driving into the city from his home in Shanghai’s outskirts. He won’t be back in his bed tonight until well after twelve am.
He glances into the rearview mirror and see the faces of roughly a dozen slumbering Americans. Taking a Zhongnanhai cigarette from his pocket, he lights up and stares off at the lines on the highway ahead of him.
Somewhere miles behind us, Auntie Zhang is still doing dishes. She’s cleaning bowls and chopsticks by hand under the glow of a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. She tidies up the farmhouse, where rowdy 20-somethings have been kicking around and tracking dirt in from outside all day. She eats a few leftovers from dinner for herself and turns out the light. Brushing her teeth and climbing into bed, she’ll sleep deeply before waking up at five thirty to do it all again.
Farm Fun is so fun. But never do our minds wander to what or who is making all this fun possible. And who could’ve foreseen becoming a suburbanite Auntie Zhang ourselves just a few years later?
For it is now autumn in Detroit and we make our annual pilgrimage to the apple orchard for a school field trip. The volunteer moms and dads load noisy children into their vehicles and ride beyond the suburbs to a tiny town called Silver Lake. There we will pick apples, take hay rides, eat donuts, and try to prevent the kids from killing themselves while they climb up giant bales of hay. We spend copious amounts of the day just wiping. Wiping mouths, hands and tabletops. And it’s for a good cause, we love the children undoubtedly. But we also move closer to understanding the world of Wang and Zhang.
A tractor is getting ready to leave and all the kids are boarding. They shout and holler, half of them nearly falling off the trailer in the process of getting on. It is going to drive us through the orchards and around the farm. When it initially pulls away from the station, the kids all scream in excitement.
On the ride there is constant chatter and questions. The children marvel at all the apples, they’re filled with glee upon spotting a sheep, and when the farmer announces we’ve reached the pumpkin patch, pandemonium breaks out. The chant “pumpkin! pumpkin! pumpkin!” ripples through the group. They all want a chance to pick the biggest pumpkin, and when the tractor stops, they run pell-mell into the patch.
After the pumpkin patch we pick apples off the trees. The farm is Disney Land for fruit. All manner of varieties are here to satisfy even the most sophisticated of apple aficionados – Johnathon, Empire, Golden Delicious, Fuji, Mackintosh, Jonagold, Gala, Cortland, Honeycrisp. A sign on a pole informs us on “How to be a Savvy Picker”.
But the kids are like a roving mob, moving chaotically from place to place, throwing trash and causing property damage. Apple clusters are knocked off of trees with fallen branches, half eaten apple cores are being lobbed at rival classmates, there is falling and screaming and weeping.
The disorder boils up and spills over into the rest of the afternoon. A 4th grader loses her shoes in a corn maze. A pair of goats at the petting zoo are handled roughly by some kindergarteners. There is more wiping, and then even more wiping: blood, snot, and hay.
We finally head under a big tent for cider and donut time, a reprieve from the movement. The children guzzle their cider like a bunch of alcoholics. For some, the drink calms their nerves, makes them sharper. But other kids are sent even further into overdrive by this infusion of sugar. They’re teetering on the line between hyper and tired, enthusiasm and emotional meltdown.
Sugar always signifies the end of an outing. To parents this is illogical, but everyone else wants to send them home on a high.
Transitioning from one activity to another can best be described as an “idiotic process”. So, preparing to leave the apple orchard is not done linearly or in a pragmatic fashion. The children will run through all five stages of grief when they realize it’s time to go home.
But first, they are reminded that a place outside of where they currently are exists. Then come the subtle hints that nothing lasts forever and even apples have to sleep sometimes. This triggers the countdown clock – ten minutes more, then five. Soon afterwards we reach the two-minute warning where the kids are invited to consider: what’s one more activity they’d like to accomplish before moving on?
When the clock strikes zero they say goodbye to everything. Goodbye cow, goodbye barn. Goodbye friends and classmates, goodbye apples.
Even when transitions are gradual, there is grief and loss to be grappled with. There is anger and disappointment. Depression and sometimes rage. There is bargaining, subtle forms of resistance and civil disobedience – lost shoes, filthy jackets, conversational red herrings. But finally, there is acceptance – the final phase.
What is the difference between China farm fun and American farm fun? It’s all a matter of perspective.
Hours later, when the kids are in bed, and the dishes are washed, and the living room is picked up, I will head out onto the porch and take thirty minutes to smoke a cigar by myself. But for now, I stare off at the lines on the highway ahead of me, driving back into town. Looking in the rearview mirror I see the drooping faces of several kids, crashed off of sugar, sleeping in the backseat.