The Sichuan Broadcasts

Somebody shakes me gently to wake me up. Waking up is harder every morning.

   I creep half out of the sleeping bag, straighten up and sit, feeling tired. I am offered the big glass of morning chiya, very hot and very sweet. People eat only twice a day in the hills, once before noon, once in the evening. The one glass of morning chiya is a delight and a treasure. The rich flavour of the masala, a bouquet of spices unknown, brings me back to some consciousness. Its milk and sugar will keep me walking until lunch. We stop in tea houses along the way for dal-bhat: a plate of rice, a bowl of lentil soup, fermented mustard greens and sometimes a curry with bits of meat. Where there is no tea house, they buy food from the peasants, a few eggs, a jug of lassi. They make an omelet and bake a kind of chapati with maize flour on a dry pan. When we arrive at the stopover, I lay my sleeping bag out on the mats, and fall asleep. It is a lengthy affair to prepare the evening meal. A fire has to be kindled and tended to until there is enough embers. Water has to boil, rice is slow to cook. They wake me up. We go outside to wash hands. When we stay by relatives or by sympathizers, we eat in the common room of the family house. The hearth is a hole dug in the beaten earth floor. There is no chimney. We sit cross-legged on mats. I am unused to it. My knees hurt. My back aches. I shift position all the time. There is a lot of smoke, that sting the eyes. They leave the door opened for it to get out. It is easier to breathe by the door, but it is very cold there. It is a freezing draft that takes the smoke away. There is rice every day. Once, I am told that in the hills, corn is easier to grow, and yields more. People cultivate paddy for ceremonies and guests. Rice is a luxury. The daily staple is dhiro, a cornmeal mush. I have seen a woman grind the maize flour. (...) I ask to eat dhiro. They make fun of me. In the evening, they cook dhiro. It is a yellowish paste, thick and sticky. It is burning hot. I have to separate a small chunk from the lump very fast not to get my finger tips burned, and let it cool off before I can put it in my mouth. It is like chewing playdough. It is hard to swallow. It is heavy. I feel like my stomach is getting full of stones. I am ashamed, I can not finish. They tease me. The comrades who grew up in the cities too can barely eat it, they say. Each miserable meal of boiled rice and oily curry I am offered is a feast for them, and a great expense.