[h1]China[/h1] [h2]Nanning[/h2] Nanning was a city of small stone homes, squat and quaint that pressed against cobble stone and paved streets. Along with the clops of horses' hooves there were the low hums of trucks and cars passing down the old wide streets. Here and there above the blue and red-tiled roofs steel girded water towers flew over the cityscape in accompaniment by higher office buildings and state structures. Even further beyond smoke stakes of small outlying factories rose solo or in scattered pairs silently puffing up white plumes of smoke or steam from outlying mills and refineries. But pushed to outside the city, the slag and smoke of the industry was far separated from the inner city, which glowed flush and green with tropical palms and orchids in the mild spring afternoon. Along the river barges carried raw material from inland to be unloaded onto trains for delivery to the city factories. And besides them the primitive river barges and junks of up and down stream villages brought in the day's harvest and livestock from up and down the Yongjiang. “It's quiet the place you have for yourself.” the Bureau agent complimented as he stepped out onto a small veranda overlooking the river. Below a small river-side park stretched where already a few afternoon breakers were sitting with their lunches in the shade of pagoda style gazebos and large bushes. “I got tired of Nanjing.” a thin wiry old man said in a frail voice. He laconically tapped against his wrist a fresh pack of unmarked cigarettes as he starred across the room to the agent leaning out his window enjoying the view. Across from the elder another black-coated agent reclined in a chair. The apartment was small, but appeared large in the austere and plain decoration it was presented in. Its owner taking little or no affinity in an abundance of possessions it carried the distinction of feeling like the quarters of a village sage, where he might sit eating plain rice and carrying on his zen meditation. What little decorations that existed that might be called that were hung distantly apart to give the aura of being much, and hung openly to show what pride their owner held in them. On one wall alongside a three-drawer dressed hung a military uniform from the revolution, plain green with rolled back sleeves, the collar trimmed with red stitching and a crinkled orange star sewn onto the shoulder sleeve, deep pockets decorated the chest and sides just under where the elbows would rest, and on a peg next to it a fur cap. On another wall over a washbasin and wooden counter hung a small Vietnamese flag no longer than a foot and a half. It hung next to an equally small Chinese flag. Few other decorations anointed the walls. Here and there hung photographs of old friends and glories, but behind their glass panes the age in the photographs was beginning to show and the folds in the paper were growing sharper even when pressed flat. “Have you eaten yet today? I haven't, perhaps I should get up and cook you something. Perhaps I can make some dumplings!” the seated agent said with a half-hidden, knowing smile. “Ah! Ah!” the old man bellowed, standing to his feet, “You will not! I have never known a Chinese soldier to cook anything. Particularly anything good. If you want to eat, I shall cook!” the old man said breaking into a brisk stride towards the wash basin. There along with it and the flags was a small cast-iron stove and pulling open the cigarette pack he produced a single white cigarette and clenched it between his teeth. “I will show you how a master goes about it.” The agent laughed. At the window the other piped in, “You don't need to worry about me, I already ate.” “Well that's good to hear.” the old man said, with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, “But perhaps I can interest you in a light. But for the stove and me.” “Sure thing.” he said, fishing into his pockets for a matchbook as he crossed over toward him. The older man opened the door of the oven and tossed in a few loose shreds of newspaper and kindling sticks as a match was struck and thrown in after, as the second match was being struck for the cigarette the fire in the stove was beginning to crackle. Taking a long draw on the freshly lit cigarette the old man sighed, low and crackling. “You know, ever since the Revolution finished in China I had to mostly cut back on smoking. I can not get any American cigarettes in this country, and yours are terrible.” “We realize that.” the agent said, “It's why most of us don't smoke unless there's alcohol involved.” the old man scoffed, rolling his eyes but puffed contentedly away. “I will say, cutting back does make waking up easier.” he chirped. “But you two didn't stop in to have a casual conversation. You sort never see anyone for casual business. What do you want from me?” “Nguyen Sinh Cung, we want you for Vietnam.” the seated proclaimed in a declaratory tone of voice. He turned to look at him and gave a wide smile. “Aren't you happy?” it seemed to suggest. But Nguyen merely rolled his eyes and sighed, holding the cigarette between his hands and making wide sweeping gestures. His eyes dropped to the floor. “And here I thought I would have given up on that.” he said. Nguyen Sinh Cung was short, shorter than the agents and thinning. His dark skin spotty with blemishes and bony face made him out to be a frailer Hou with thinning hair, his bear was white and black twisted strands of hair and a short mustache completed the ensemble. But while old the compassion in his eyes had not dulled and he looked at the two agents with a weary expression of loss, “Why do you come to taunt me about this. I bid my time until the ghosts of the Revolution could be laid to rest. I've asked politely, I and my comrades to go home and restore our nation. And just now, years later you're asking me if I'm ready?” “We are sorry.” the agent standing with him said. “I'm sorry comrades, but I don't want your explanations.” Nyugen sighed. “Do you have a moment at least to entertain us with your knowledge of people?” the man seated asked. “Excuse me, but what's your name?” Nyugen asked, “I don't feel comfortable without having something to call you two by. I understand you don't like names.” “You can call me One.” the agent standing said. “I suppose I'll be Two.” the one seated said, resigned. “Very well. One, Two... What is it?” “We've been following the political situation in your home country for some time.” Agent One said, “We know the Emperor and the Mandarin but a new player has come up in the fight. We've heard the name Trung but we don't have any details. We were hoping you might recognize it as someone from the old Civil Service.” Nguyen shook his head, and checked the stove. He went without answering for some time as he slid in a few logs and stoked the embers into a softly crackling fire. Afterwards as he filled a basin of water: “The name doesn't sound familiar. I can tell you it means middle, so my best guess is someone trying to be a middle ground between the two groups.” “We thought so too, but analysis of the two parties suggests there wouldn't really be enough middle ground to make sense. But we still don't know enough about this individual's ideology let alone real identity to make a fix.” “Was that all then? Just that question? I'll hardly be done making supper for two let alone three on that.” Nyugen complained as he dug out a sack of flour from a cupboard under the counter. He walked around the stove to a pantry from where he started to pull various vegetables. “Not entirely,” Agent Two said, “Our orders after the collapse of the French state to revolution left us without reason to ever enter Vietnam, as you remember. Since then we've been more or less watching the country for the better part of the decade. These orders still stand, but as the climate in Indochina changes and we have reason to suspect a new party has gotten involved we're ready to re-evaluate this stance on the off-chance an outside power is making a power-play into the region. On the belief the original operations was to watch for any resurgent French activity beyond the plantation owners then we're in the belief that this might include anyone else.” “Do you know who?” Nguyen asked, whetting the flour into a dough. “We have a short-list, but no confirmation. Japan, Netherlands, the British through Singapore. Hell perhaps it actually is the French trying to subtly drift the country back to them or even Australia.” “So it's a short-list of whoever and anyone.” Nguyen paused, looking up at them. Agent Two shrugged, “We try our best, but that's only with actual information. We're trying.” “So the silk strings with the sharp knives are at their wit's end!” Nyugen joked. “These silk strings are much longer than that.” Agent One remarked as he walked back to the window. “The main point of our visit is to probe for the possibility of political interest among the population of the Vietnamese veteran community in support to be the Vanguard in a Chinese supported restoration of order to Vietnam.” “That is quiet the proposal, and I am honestly stunned.” Nguyen remarked, “But understand, gentlemen: while China has been generous in letting me and my people live here I do not think it washes away the debt of guilt it owes my people.” The two agents starred at him baffled. Turning to the vegetables he began chopping them and continued, “The time I had to think about the issue the more I had to wonder how it might need to be done to avoid a second thousand years of colonization by China.” he went on, “And I concluded that even if you recreate the Vietnamese government in a free way would bring them back into Vietnam. And once you and your people are ascendant in Indochina how long will they remain as such. “Hou said all men are family, as all in Asia are like cousins, and all in China are like brothers and sisters. And I have all respect for this statement. And I would very much like to see a Vietnam that is to China as a cousin is for his or her own. But think about it from the perspective of my people, my nation: is getting involved a saving of the family, or a sewing the hand onto a new body?” The agents gave it a second of thought. “I depends on what you have to say about it.” Agent One said from the window. “That is the problem, you haven't made commitment to the political thought on this issue.” Nyugen remarked. “And while we cycle through questions of politics, comrade two pretenders at least square off for rule of the nation, a potential foreign third on its way if not there already. While in the south foreign domination enslaves your people.” Agent Two pointedly observed, “In the environment Vietnam exists in the country may well be sewn onto a whole new body and who says it won't be a thousand more years on them. “We are today not a land of Emperors seeking new tracts of territory to enrich a private purse. China is the future, the new future.” “And Vietnam will have that future, but I doubt China will need to have a presence in that.” Nyugen said, pausing to speak to the agents. When he finished he turned back to the food and went about kneading the dough for the dumplings. “Someone will need to be there to set it on that road. By inviting you to be the Vanguard our intention was not to say you make a public face at the head of a Chinese army. We are very willing to go to Congress to suggest appropriations for arming an expat brigade of Vietnamese, composed of the men who survived the Revolution and are willing to go home and to provide all the guns and ammunition you might need. A Chinese boot need not ever touch the ground.” “At least not in the public eye.” Agent Two chimed in. “Suppose what you say is true, but I expect you'll want contr-” “We do not want control. We do not imagine Hou will want to have control. Between us it's not throw a barrier between the reactionary outside and to prevent the infiltration of Asia by outsiders. If your government is so much willing as to do this, then the opinions of us two agents on the matter is fine and well. Beyond here are the choices of politics and given tacit approval we can begin moving more of our silk strings.” There was a long thinking silence during which only the street sounds drifted up through the windows. The cars, the carts, the footsteps and the talking. The barges on the river and the horns and bells of city life. At the counter Nyugen rolled his vegetable dumplings and placed a pot of water on the stove where it gradually warmed. “I've been writing poetry again.” he said conversationally. “That's nice.” Agent One said. But the direct way he said it told Nyugen that it was not poetry he wanted to hear. “I'll need to think about it. You've given me much to think about.” “At least reach out, ask some of the others in the country and build up an opinion. Come back to us. Eventually we'll need to report back to Beijing on the conditions in Vietnam. Especially if we figure out who Trung is.” “We'll tell you first.” Agent Two said. “That's good.” Nyugen said softly, turning to them he asked invitingly, “Will you stay for lunch at least. You got me making dumplings and it'd be a shame to waste everything. It's vegetarian, I'm sorry. But I don't feel confident keeping meat at this time of year.” Agent One stifled a laugh as the thought came to mind the plan might perhaps hinge on an icebox. But it felt too easy, too little. “We might as well.” Agent Two said. “Good, I can tell you about my poetry then.” Nyugen smiled happily. [h2]Chinese-Khazak Border[/h2] The sound of the motorcycle engine cut the still night air as they pull up just several miles from the border. Atop a rocky rise in the middle of nowhere the two young men stood with hats pulled down over their ears and collars pulled tight around their neck. The air was bitter cold, the sky was clear, and the not-so-distant border lay somewhere beyond the blackness of the night. Shuffling around the bike, Guo was the first to speak, “So, here we go: on and away?” Chao nodded, though it was doubtful he would have seen it. “You think there will be anyone patrolling it?” Guo asked. Both were understandably nervous. The excitement they felt as they looked out into the night in the general direction of where China stopped wasn't the same sort of giddiness both men felt when they decided to leave home to travel China on a road trip. This was in fact a more terrifying prospect to leave their home. Now all sorts of second thoughts were manifesting themselves, like could they ever come back home if they left? If anyone found out they had left the country would they be derided on their return? Would they get punished? How would the Khazaks treat them? What about any country after? If they needed paperwork they had none on them. No identification to prove who they were and where they had come from. If they died out there would anyone be able to send their remains home? Were they dead already? The thoughts ran shivers down Chao's back. Guo was understandably nervous and afraid as well. At any point along this vague road they were on they could end up lost and anywhere but some dingy corner of Africa. They might find themselves in Europe, at the opposite end of some king's rifles for being Red Chinese, or associated with China. Or that is what he assumed would be the case. The two young men looked uncertainly out into the dark night towards Kazakhstan. With a tough kick of his boot into the hard rocky earth Guo grunted: “Alright, if we're doing this let's go.” “Let me drive.” Chao demanded before he could get to the bike. “How so?” Guo asked. “You've been driving it the most the last couple of days, to and from and about work. You got us here. Take a break and I'll get us across the border.” explained Chao. But Guo laughed, “Nuh-uh, you just want to brag you crossed the border!” Chao rolled his eyes, “Is that what you're going to make it about?” “Fuck yeah. It's easy to see that. The two of us haven't been awake for more than two hours so why should I take a break. If anything, I'll cross the border. I'm taking the bragging rights for when we come back.” he decreed, with a confident click from his tongue against his teeth. “Are you sure, you're not going to chicken out?” “Hell no.” Guo said. “Fine, but I'm driving across the next border.” “You better hope it isn't into Russia then.” Chao rolled his eyes, and together the two got into the bike. Guo into the driver's seat and Chao in the side-car. The bike's engine puttered and roared back to life and with the soft incandescent glow of the lamp light they began to roll down the hill, the tires bouncing off of loose rocks and stone. With the popping of loose pebbles mixing with the rumble of the motor they made their way to the dark border, a missile propelled by determination, but stupid goals, and blind to the world ahead of them. As the bike rolled and bounced over the hard off-road terrain, making a slow course ahead Chao had time to think as he scanned the near-distance ahead of them where the headlight illuminated the packed desert earth. He wondered what they would find in the lands beyond China. More importantly, how he – they – might be expected to communicate. Neither of them knew any other language but Chinese. Chao had picked up some Arabic by traveling among the Hui, but would this get them anywhere? As he understood it, much of the world between here and Ethiopia would speak at least some Arabic. But how was a Chinese man such as himself supposed to get through? What if the bike broke? What if they lost supplies: food, water, money. Could they negotiate for assistance? And what about for work? It wracked his nerves into a warped terror and he felt his heart palpitate and tighten in his breast at each passing turn of the tires towards the border. If there was a point where one was falling into the precipice, feet detaching the solidarity of the earth and the back turning to show the man the safety he was leaving it was this moment. But it was a moment that dragged on for some time. Crossing the high central Asian steppe felt like an eternity, more when expecting to cross an invisible boundary. Neither of them noticed it when they crossed the border, and left China. They kept driving, the sounds of the small motor engine popping and rumbling away into the night and leaving behind the Middle Kingdom. They were well outside the Chinese grasp, and were driving blind into the embrace of a new power. By this point they would continue to trade hands and houses until Mogadishu. But if these hands and houses would be closed, invisible, or open to them was for them to learn as they went on into the Kazakh night. But the stars above, they were wondrous. Hours passed, and Chao turned his head skyward to watch. He thought they had to be in Kazakhstan now. And that thought dispelled the fear at the moment of full fall. There was no answer to how far they could keep going, if they would hit rocks or water or if traveling beyond here was to set a course through an infinite abyss. Perhaps it would be like falling through the Earth, to dive in through one end and pop out the other, then back through until he wanted to stop. He still felt fear, terror at the world around him. But turning up to look at the stars and seeing they were the same here as in China that there would be some consistency to the trip. One same thing to cling to where ever in the world he might be. [h1]The Dragon Diaries[/h1] Li Chao [i]June 5th, 1960. The year of the metal rat[/i] We've done it. Or so we hope. More than a few weeks of work at the vineyards and on the fields. They thought we were just migrants traveling around and they believed we'd be staying all season. We told them unfortunately we wouldn't and we'd be moving out, we after all just needed supplies for the road and were willing to work for it. We hung on a little longer than we expected but we worked as hard as any. The men are are a good sort, simple and humble. But it isn't uncommon for many of the farm folk. It puts things into perspective sometimes. Here in the country the notions of politics are distant, more so now that I imagine they are not worrying about some robber baron or landlord's demands. The land is their own, and they work it as they need. Occasionally as it turns out some official may stop by and make demands and requests for certain amounts of something. But we were only temporary hands so it wasn't our position to ask questions. We just dug the trenches and repaired the irrigation. The air here can get dry and hot. At high noon we all retire into the shade. The older men stand and watch the black water pipes with stern expressions under their wide leather hats as we avoid the heat, twirling their long beards. They may be farming but I get the impression there's still a little mongol left in these people. There's a look in their eyes as I can tell – as I can hope to see – that looks out on the horizon and wants to go to whatever distant point they see. But they stay put and work their fields. Then at night they sing their songs, drink their tea and their milk. For a while we thought we had to sleep outdoors. It would be nothing hard, we have sleeping bags rolled up after all. But a few farmers let us into their homes and gave us a guest bed with the dogs or goats to keep us warm for the night. We took it happily, it's impolite to refuse a gift. And if the alternative is sleeping on sandy rocks then it sure beats that. But in the end the final word on where the border is best crossed came in. Apparently one of the men community sometimes doubles as a smuggler of sorts. Or at least crosses the border often on his own. The guards he said would let him through but the paperwork is too much hassle to trade goats and camels with the folk on the other side so he always went around. According to him there's a point out in the open some ten to fifteen miles south of the main checkpoint that one can cross. The military tries to patrol as much as they can, but in the desert and at night they use the headlights on their cars so they can be seen miles off. So long as everything remains dark no one is around. If you're coming into the country though he says they'll see the tracks and that's when they'll chase you. But going out they have no choice but to let you through. He can't speak much for the country of Kazakhstan though. He claims to only travel as far west as Urzhar to exchange livestock. But the country used to be Russian decades ago and warns that it perhaps might be a little like the rest of the old Empire. He advises we travel to Almaty, the capital to the south. But at any time before to try and find a way to swap out our Chinese license plate or lose it. It would be suspicious he believes to be seen with that anywhere outside of China. He thinks at the least we'll find a train we can take to anywhere south and be on our ways. Guo and I agree: we can only hope on this.