What Was Your Best Moment in China?

Wednesday, December 21, 2016

The hot pink sweater should have tipped me off. I’m not just one of the dancers here, it said. I am THE dancer, the only person you should watch. Everyone else was in drab late-autumn browns and grays and greens and danced that way on cold, late-autumn Chinese night.

She didn’t really need to advertise. I was watching no one else. Meryem, let’s call her that though I never found out her name, was what a Uyghur dancer should be. The gracious spins, the elegant flow of her hands, the subtle arch of her back, the turns around her older partner dressed in traditional drab green —I’m assuming it was her mother, we’ll name her Aynur —left no doubt as to where your focus should be.

Not that there were no other voyeurist options in the polished stone-tiled main square of Aqsu, an ancient oasis on the Silk Road in Xinjiang. Century Square was a block from our hotel through a upscale pedestrian mall with stores named Tomboy, Jeanwest, and Jossy Jo in English, Chinese, and Uyghur script. A bronze life-sized statue of a man in a pillbox hat grilling kabobs stared blankly past us as we walked by. Darker alleys off the well-lit mall revealed the real Central Asia, rickety wooden tables of an earlier generation of the bazaar selling cheaply made underwear, phone cases, pocket knives, bolts of cloth, and white socks with the legend “Nkie” on them.  A dash across Huandong Road and its endless parade of motorcycles and taxis, breezing through the square’s sloppily guarded security entrance-- the same one that barricades every public spot in Xinjiang against its possibly restive residents-- and you happen upon an ugly metallic Christmas-like dragon, festooned with lights of many colors welcoming you.

 Half a dozen dance groups occupied various spots in the cavernous space—far enough apart to avoid bumping into each other, close enough to hear each other’s boomboxes blaring Chinese pop music.   A large group of line dancers, mostly women, bracketed one end of the square. Nearby, a small cluster of women struggled over a dance reminiscent of western swing that no one seems to fully remember, fueled by an upbeat Chinese tune. In their line of sight, a much larger group of couples executed their choreography with much greater aplomb though not perfect unity, like the drill team at Thursday’s rehearsal before the Friday game. And, closest to the dragon, milled a hemisphere of about 50 people watching two dozen men and women doing traditional Uyghur dance to tinny folk music from their small tape player and speaker. It was an ethnographic experience of the first order for any observer, an exquisite one for an anthropologist who is also a dancer.

Meryem’s presence compelled me to watch her. Not a bad strategy, it helped build her audience. Vida and I were the lone Caucasians of the hundreds of people in the square. Not much of a surprise, we had seen no other western tourists beyond our own group in a week in Xinjiang. We were a novelty.  People were watching us watching her.  Then they watched her too. Meryem was not immune to being on stage. She knew the gaze was on her, and she put on her finest performance. After all, maybe that gray-bearded white man in the baseball cap was a movie producer or dance impresario.

The dance ends. I nod appreciatively in her direction and receive smile in thanks. She knows how well she dances and is glad it was recognized. Vida and I go over to speak in mutually unintelligible phrases to her and Aynur. The next song comes out of the sound system. Ever cognizant of etiquette, I ask her mom to dance. Meryem walks off to find another partner.

Aynur is no slouch either. She moves with grace, deliberate and grounded. Her vest and scarf reflect the dragon’s lights as she moves. She steps with the confidence of someone who has done this dance at a thousand weddings and festivals over her sixty years. Maybe she moved as gracefully as Meryem decades ago, though she is not a performer like her daughter. Nonetheless, I am energized, excited.  I stole an occasional glance out to see what other men nearby are doing, to make sure that my moves were not clumsy, inappropriate, or Bulgarian instead of Central Asian. Occasionally, there was a whirling flash of hot pink at the other end of the dance space.  I could see the crowd’s eyes on me more than a little. I was a novelty, something they could talk about over coffee the next day, the longnose who braved dancing our dances.  But most of the time, I simply vanished and enjoyed the flow of movement through me, the close synchronization with Aynur’s steps, the notes from strings and drums floating in the air. The visceral wonder of human movement. Anyone who dances knows it. Professional dancers live for it.

What emboldened me to invite myself into a community’s dance party, albeit a public one? As an obvious outsider, it could have ended badly if I stumbled my way through the mashed potato stomp to dutar and drum. That wouldn’t happen. I’ve been a lifelong dancer; I’ve practiced many ethnic styles from around the world. I’ve danced on stage for an audience many times and still do today. I even performed Uyghur dances a decade ago in San Francisco.  But my dance life is a story for another day.  I knew I wouldn’t be an embarrassment, at worst an oddity.

The boombox goes silent, a set of gracious hand motions and meaningless words of thanks to Aynur for the opportunity to partner her, and Vida and I go off to explore one of the other groups. Dozens of pairs of eyes stare as we wander away.

We watch the line dancers, the drill team. I jump into the social dance group and am dragged through a pop number by a smiling, very patient young woman in sweater and boots, while Vida is subjected to endless selfies with other local teens wanting a record of the night they met an American blonde in Century Square.

Enough. We wander again past the folk dancers heading for the sole, guarded exit from the square. Once more, we stop to watch and are watched watching. The number ends and starts up again. Meryem is nearby. I invite her to dance. 

Now the pressure is truly on. Here is the epitome of folk movement embodied in a beautiful young woman. It would be criminal if I were  terrible as her partner.  Meryem whirls. Her hands flutter like a dove. Fingers snake toward the sky then back to earth. Her head floats from side to side on her neck as if unmoored. We circle each other. I mimic her movements with my own.  That dancer feeling envelopes me again. I shake shoulders, slide past her with gliding steps. Whirl and return.  I circle her over and again, bringing attention to her movements rather than my own. I may be a novelty, but she is an artist.

The music ends too soon. The silence is persistent as it hangs above us. Another bow to each other as a small crowd of people—all men—surround us. There are no words to be exchanged, even if we understood each other’s language. The boombox reconnects and the next number begins. I find Vida with a gaze and we head back through the security checkpoint. I don’t remember looking back.

I do wonder sometimes, when Meryem and Aynur return for their regular dance night a week later, whether they pondered who that bearded guy was and whether he’ll come back.

We spent a month in China and when asked for the highlight of the trip, I try to explain this moment. I’m never successful doing it. Even here.

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