Grittiness

A little grittiness isn’t a bad thing… once you’re used to it.

Walking across the paved one-lane road (but acting as a two-lane road), I dodge several incoming vehicles and a horse cart before safely breathing the noxious fumes of gasoline and burnt charcoal on the other side (how ironic). A steel frame stretches over this open mouth of a road, the words 寿宝庄 written on it. A vendor sells fruit, shielded from the dust by a few umbrellas boasting the words ‘Lenovo.’

To my right is the public bathroom, an inconspicuous concrete building with broken concrete tiles outside. Further along the road is a bathing facility and a local police station.

Sand and dust rises from the air, mixing with the pungent smoke swirling mischievously from a small stove. Taking the lid off a tower of wooden containers, steam from the newly made buns rises to join the smoke. A splash of water catches my attention, and I notice several fish swimming desperately in a tiny concrete pond. The owner fetches one with a net hanging from a stick and hands it, still flipping, to a customer.

A cigarette hangs precariously from the mouth of a worker shoveling gray-yellow sand from a pile the height of his waist onto a small frame, which acts as a filter. Caked with sand and bits of cement, bricks are piled in stacks that remind me of a game of Jenga. The whole community glows from the vibrant shade of orange dye that permeates the cloth sky, a bright glow in the west fading gently light blue in the east.


Bicycles vie for space with pedestrians and motorcycles, a rather curious mix of buzzing, clicking, spinning, clacking (high heels, I imagine), and tapping. Vendors occupy “tables,” which are essentially bricks with a cement slab laid over them, hawking goods from winter clothes to durians. Leeks, onions, ginger (overflowing onto the concrete road from a wicker basket), cabbage heads meld to apples, oranges, pomelos, and tiny pears.

I continue walking and pass a supermarket. Ahead of me is another team of construction workers mixing and shoveling cement. They’ve almost taken up the entire road! I feel oddly comforted when I see school uniforms. I believe I have been at this school too long and am now only comfortable when I see middle school students. What a strange situation to be in.

On the yellowed mud walls of the alleyways are vents covered by pieces of perforated charcoal, the holes regularly spaced in the cylindrical piece of charcoal. As I continue walking, there’s sign of an expanse of garbage collecting, a veritable factory putting together these items. On the other side is an expanse of vegetable garden, translucent plastic sheets spread over tiny verdant spots struggling in the sable soil. An old grandfather, his wrinkles looking more like rivulets carving down a rock face, assiduously hacks away with an axe at a door frame. Four children kick a little bean bag to the side, enjoying the last glowing rays of a setting sun. I ask if I can take a photograph, and the grandfather shakes his heads majestically before returning to his work. I walk away hearing the chatter of the children, “who was that person? What did he want?”


A little grittiness can definitely be a good thing… if you get used to it.