Home and away

by Stephanie Hing (Australia)

I didn't expect to find China

His grip tightens. He tries to wrestle me to the ground. I look up with alarm as his comrades came to join the fray. Claws dig into my leg. I try to prise myself free. It is a winter’s day in Chengdu, the capital of China’s Sichuan province, and I am being crash tackled by panda cubs. Hidden amongst the teeming mega-malls and apartment blocks of the world’s fifth most populous city is the Chengdu Research Base of Giant Panda Breeding. Tree lined boulevards weave around large naturalistic enclosures. Peek in and you’ll see the furry black and white residents sitting on the grass, picnicking on bamboo. Off exhibit, the industrious staff are breaking for lunch. We are lined up in the communal canteen. The concrete space is austere and grey but it is alive with laughter and warmth. Presenting our bowls to receive ladles of the daily ration may seem impersonal and regimented but the steaming hot stew is just like comforting home-cooking. Sichuan is an eye-opening place for an eighteen-year-old, freshly graduated from a suburban Sydney high-school. This is where my maternal grandmother was born. It seems inexplicably familiar yet utterly indecipherable at the same time. The aroma of frying chilli and Sichuan pepper are reminiscent of family meals but the sound of the guttural local dialect is totally alien. There are moments such as struggling to order food in restaurants when I feel like a complete outsider yet when the noodles arrive, I pick up the chopsticks, start slurping noodles and feel an undeniable sense of home. I don’t stick out here. I am no longer a minority. Perhaps this is my first taste of belonging. After a fulfilling day of voluntourism at the Panda Base, assisting with feeding time and cleaning out enclosures, it is time to hit the town. Mini-bus number one pulls up right outside the front gate. I’m waiting to alight with some Sichuanese veterinary students and fellow international volunteers. The bus seems impossibly full of human cargo but the conductor shouts for everyone to bunch up. We’re tossed in to tessellate as best we can. Contrary to my homeland where we’ve enshrined ‘boundless plains’ in our national anthem, personal space does not exist here. I’m squeezed up against Fàng Xīn, one of the local students. True to his name which roughly translates to ‘putting one’s mind at ease’, he gives me a reassuring smile. Everyone gathers at Little Bar in the Yulin district. The small, dark, unassuming venue is the centre of Chengdu’s rock and punk scene. The furniture has been pulled to the sides of the room to clear the dancefloor. Punk music blasts. Fàng Xīn pulls me up for a better view. We’re on top of table, the crowd surging around us. His arms fold around my waist. The flavour of this moment is uniquely ma la, numbing and spicy. Sichuan pepper makes your lips tingle like a kiss. We climb snow covered Mount Emei, a place of enlightenment and one of the Four Sacred Buddhist Mountains of China. In pursuit of history and second-hand treasures, we navigate the maze of Song Xiao Qiao Antigue and Art Market. At Chinese New Year, we gather around boiling pots of soup for huo guo (hot pot) where ingredients are cooked communally in the middle of the table. We attend a friend’s wedding and down countless shots of baiju, the local spirit of choice that could conceivably be used to sterilise surgical instruments. He drops everything and comes to my rescue at a hairdressing salon to narrowly avert a bowl haircut disaster. We visit local tea-houses. He takes me home to meet his parents. Fifteen years ago, on a gap year in China, I didn’t just learn how to survive a play attack from wild animals. I found my strength and independence. I found my own identity a Chinese-Australian. I found the true meaning of ‘home’. I found the courage to surrender myself to the moment and be unafraid of the unknown. And I found something that I didn’t expect to find – my first love.