Eric's Beijing Diary

An ironic and tragic footnote to John Wesley Powell's journal:

"The three men succeeded in climbing out of the canyon, but were killed a day or so later by the Shivwits Indians."

I'm not sure whether Powell penned these words himself or they were added in later by the editors of the anthology, but they force consideration of an important question: Where did Captain Howland go wrong? What was his biggest mistake--his decision to leave the party and climb out of the canyon, or his original decision to join the party in the first place. I say it was neither. His biggest mistake was his failure to count the cost. He should have been more particular about taking stock of exactly what this mission would cost him, so that he could make his decision as intelligently as possible. Once he made the decision, he should have stuck with it. Captain Howland's decision to leave the mission was a blow to Powell. But Howland was not indispensable to the mission. The mission, it turned out, was indispensable to him. He literally could not live without it. Once he decided to be part of this mission, he should have stuck it out. But it is perhaps just as true that he should have made the original decision more carefully. He would no doubt have survived if he had stayed with the mission. But he would also have survived if he had never gone. As Solomon says, "where there is no vision, the people perish." Nothing is more frustrating than the feeling that you have lost your way, and no longer know where you are going. It is at times like this that poor decisions are often made in too big a hurry. Some time to pause and reflect can be very helpful. Perhaps a day or so spent talking everything out would have prevented this tragedy. I have often found that even a single day spent in prayer and fasting can sometimes bring a whole new perspective.

Last night we were treated to a cabaret show put on by members of the crew and some passengers who wanted to get into the act. A group of tourists from California gave a slightly unrehearsed rendition of YMCA.

This morning we left the ship for a few hours to tour the ghost city of Fengdu. Each group was assigned to a bus. There is a tour group from Malaysia, a group of teachers from Shenzhen, a man and his wife from Austria, and a group of Americans. And then there's me. I didn't join a tour group; I just booked passage on the boat. I guess you could say I am a group of one, which means that I am my own tour guide. The blind leading the blind.

This afternoon we were given a tour of the bridge. I'm not sure how the ship's officers felt about having a group of foreign tourists gawking at all their equipment, but they were very polite. One of the Americans panned with room with his video camera, talking to himself. Another stared at a list on the wall, and pretended to be reading it,

"1. Mr. Wong is always right."

The tour guide politely corrected him, "Mr. Zhang."

Captain Zhang has been sailing the river for twenty years. I am sure that for someone like him, the three gorges project is very welcome, because it will make the job of navigating up the river so much easier. Of course, they will still have the same sophisticated equipment to monitor the depth, and whatever debris may be lurking, but the process will be much less critical after 2009.

I'm sitting in the lounge on the third deck now, gazing out the window. Soft music is playing in the background as the river is drifting lazily by. For three days I have feasted on the incredible beauty of the Three Gorges. It's a very peaceful experience, and yet painful. Painful because the Three Gorges project is just one more reminder that in this life, nothing lasts forever. The dam is functional now, but its effects have barely begun to be felt. But by the time of its completion in 2009, the water level will reach 175 meters, and much of the unearthly beauty that I have seen over the past three days will be under water, visible only to the fish, who couldn't care less. As I contemplate the impending loss of so much natural beauty, I am reminded again of the wretched transitoryness of life.

I remember when I moved back to North Dakota in the early Eighties. I had occasion one afternoon to visit the quarter of land where my grandfather originally homesteaded when he came from Norway. While I was at it, I swung around and drove by the old Williams quarter, where Uncle Torvall and Auntie Serine lived when I was young. As I stood there staring at the hole in the ground where their basement had been before they ripped the house off its foundation and dragged it into town, I remember thinking, "Why does everything always have to change?" Somehow it all seemed so unnatural. In some ways, it would probably be better if I did not have the memory of that beautiful farmstead in my mind. Every time I saw that house after that, it just didn't seem natural. In my mind, it was supposed to be sitting proudly on the prairie, not shoe horned into a tight city neighborhood. Of course, my sentiments are not realistic. Times change. When I look at an old map of Oliver Township, showing the homeowners of first record, there is virtually a separate family on every quarter section. That would mean over a hundred families just in that one township. Now? Probably less than 20 families. Maybe less than ten. It's too long a story to tell here, but it has to do with the reality that nobody these days can support a family on a hundred and sixty acres, especially when half of it is left fallow. Times change. Things get different. All of us have an ingrained desire for some measure of "settledness." But ever and always we must remind ourselves that this world is not our final home. As I look around me in China now, I see cranes everywhere. Just one more reminder that in this life, things are always changing. Stuff wears out. People get old. Flowers in a vase soon drop their petals, even if you have them in water. But one of these days, I am going to a city where the roses never fade. A city which has foundations, whose builder and maker is God.

Labels: Summer 2004, Three Gorges