I suspect things have changed a lot in China since last I visited. Not many people can say they have been to China twice in a lifetime, but I have. My first time was back in 1991, and it was a visit related to news and a Newfoundland government “junket” there. It was a real revelation, and it was fascinating. My wife Judy and I went there in 2013. I wanted her to visit China and we spent almost a month there.

Now this story today is from my first visit. It was a time when whatever happened in China was played out against a background that contained shadow images of the Tiananmen Square uprising which had occurred only a few years earlier. China, if nothing else in 1991, was secure but that security was at a terrible price. It became a more liberal country of late but at that time, in 1991, it was in the very iron grip of a Communist Party that had been badly frightened and that had decided any dalliance with democracy or liberalization would not be tolerated. That party was also not seeking international approval for anything. For all of that the People’s Republic of China was still a fascinating place filled with wonderful sights and spectacles.

One of the most striking things I found in my first two week visit wasn’t an object at all. It was neither The Great Wall of China nor The Terracotta Warriors. It was an all- pervading background smell. I left an airport terminal near Shanghai on the night I arrived and walked out into the evening air. I was struck immediately by a warm and friendly odour. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I mentioned it to a more seasoned traveller I was with, and she said it was “the smell of the orient”. It was a distinct smell. It was a mixture of cooking food and burning coal.  Those were smells I had been raised with in St. John’s and so, far from feeling a “stranger in a strange land” on my first night there, a familiar chord was struck in my soul because that smell reminded me of my boyhood home on Pleasant Street in St. John’s. Our house had a coal furnace and where there was always food on our stove.

China in 1991 was a very safe place. In the People’s Republic of China, the price for robbery, then called gangsterism, was so high you could walk almost any street at night. Justice for those inclined towards breaking the law was swift and it was harsh. While that was the case, I have always had a good dose of “street smarts” that makes me watch myself in foreign countries. That leads me to my story. Because of circumstances involving obligations my travelling companions had I found myself alone one night in a city called Harbin. My friends had gone further north, and I decided to stay in Harbin by myself. One night I went walking. It wasn’t too far from my hotel but far enough to be off the beaten path. I am good with streets and remembering how to get back to the place I came from. One of the odd things I saw that evening was a little eatery with a sign in English. It said Happy Valley Restaurant.  I smiled to myself at seeing a familiar name in English and wondered if they had chips, gravy and dressing on the menu.

In those days in China, you almost never saw a beggar. It simply wasn’t allowed. That has changed but it was rare in those days of 1991.  That is why I was startled when I rounded a corner one night on what was a fairly dark street and I was approached by an older man with his hand outstretched. He was dressed in rags and the image was even more striking because he was carrying a child of about two years of age under one arm like a sack of potatoes. The child was asleep. It was probably his grandson. He said something loudly to me in Chinese from behind that outstretched hand, but I didn’t understand it, so I just moved along. After I had gone about a block I began thinking about it. He had obviously been seeking “alms” in the classical sense of the word.

In short, he was a beggar. I knew I had a $5 American bill in my pocket, but I had been startled and I just didn’t want to deal with it, so I moved on. When I returned to my hotel back down that same street the man and the child were gone.

That was nearly 35 years ago and the memory and image is still haunting. The number of times the man with the child under his arm have crossed my mind over three and a half decades is amazing. I wonder often who they were and what their story might have been and, where they might be now. They, the old beggar and the young child, have become part of my life and stand as a monument to regret over the things I cannot change.

My worst fear, in quiet moments, is that when I die, I will find myself escorted up to the place of Christian judgement to be introduced to St. Peter for the ultimate decision on my soul. I will be ushered into a room and there St. Peter will be. He will turn out to be in the form of an old man in rags with a young child under his arm.

You can contact Jim Furlong at jfurlong@ntv.ca