Yunnan’s Rain

by franderam

The cement that makes up the school courtyard is soaked and unevenly spotted with puddles. A dark green mold has emerged and grows under the shallow water, fed by only the rarest episodes of sunlight. Yunnan’s rainy season has returned. The stagnant damp musk blankets around my body in a familiar way. I hug myself at the arms and rest my elbows on top of the brick balcony exterior to my room. The outside of my skin is cold to the touch, but the foggy air has a mellowing effect and I do not feel it. My thoughts sink slowly into the drag of nostalgia and I cannot but think of my arrival into Dachaoshan nearly two years ago.

Strangely, the first memory I remember is neither the time when I took my first shower in shockingly cold rainwater nor when my clothes remained damp for over a week and had frustratingly acquired the strong stench of black mildew. I no longer easily recall the time when I saw a rare double rainbow while playing with Obama the dog on the steps of our balcony’s staircase. The smell of Yunnan’s after-rain penetrates my mind more deeply than those notions. It is distinct, rich with scents of the varied and exotic forest fauna. Upon an inhale, I pick up the freshness of evergreen pine as it slides down from the mountains and mixes with the waxy plant-ness of the banjiao trees. There is a wisp of perfume from the bougainvillea—Yunnan’s most beloved purple flower—which line the main highway. At times, this unusual combination of evergreen and tropical forest scent is obscured by the aroma of red clay exposed to the open air and the somewhat putrid stink emanating from nearby pig pens. The smell is overwhelming. Although I barely recognize the odor of my wet clothes and soggy shoes, I am reminded of when I set foot into Big Dynasty Mountain. I can smell my first walk.

When my thoughts return to this experience, my imagination does not even bother to re-create how I started or where I began—I can only envision myself as already being on the road. My feet propel my body along the highway, following each bend and curve, each upward and downward slope in parallel alignment with the mountain’s natural terrain. Although the road is recently paved, I step carefully around mounds of dirt and gravel with the occasional need to steer clear from piles of cow and goat excrement. Enormous boulders, which must have existed in some prehistoric age, flank the shoulders of the road, while young clusters of bamboo sprouts try to shove their way between the cracks. Surrounding the rocks grows thick, wild underbrush that has become more unruly by recent summer showers. Above a grey fog, burdened in bundled moisture, slowly rolls over the mountain until everything is gradually covered in a ubiquitous haze. With every step I take, I breathe in the intoxicating scent of the mountainside forest, suspended in my lungs. It will rain soon.

I sigh and slowly make my way back into my room. My brown Boyte bag, whose once fashionable shade of chocolate had been dulled by two years’ worth of dust and mold, stands swollen and erect in the middle of the floor. Everything is already packed. What could not fit into the bag was shipped directly to Shanghai via two medium-sized cardboard boxes. Without too much thought, I made sure they were taped up very thoroughly so the rain would not penetrate them in transit. My co-fellow finished her latest “Paint-by-Numbers” project—a canvas which copied the image of Van Gogh’s Starry Night in the form of a children’s coloring book, where one fills in small areas with a pre-designated color. I had asked her a while back if she would consider giving me the painting as a memorable gift of our friendship. She agreed and I promised that it would be the first thing I hang up in my new metropolitan residence. It will probably be the closest thing I can get to a view full of stars after I leave, I thought somewhat regretfully. I made sure she signed her name.

I had given away the trinkets and objects that had filled up in my room over the years to the local teachers, who quickly shuffled them away into their own rooms with polite smiles. Actually, save for very few items, almost everything was taken. I decided to keep a couple laminated photos, even though I have electronic duplicates on my computer. Some precious notes that a couple students wrote to me I tucked away between the folds of my clothes. I also packed a set of glass mugs that a student, whose name I never knew, gave to me the night before. The last thing I saved was one of my most cherished items: a pair of farmer’s local-style cloth shoes. I had recently washed them and so they were drying on the balcony outside. They were presented to me by two brothers who live in Dachaoshan’s furthest hamlet. I stayed two nights in their village, chatting with them about life in the States, picking tea leaves, village gossip, and other various topics. Every time I handle the shoes, my heart is torn between either putting them one, which would ultimately wear them out, or storing them away in preservation. I always end up choosing to wear them. They make very comfortable walking shoes.

My shorts vibrated from the cellphone buzzing in my pocket. I took it out and turned off the pre-set alarm. Outside my window I saw that the rain had ceased and been replaced by a brilliantly shining sun. By the time that it would start raining again, I would be far away from Dachaoshan. I stooped down to sling on my backpack and grasped the faded brown handle to my suitcase. I looked around at the bare bleached walls of the concrete enclosure and silently wished it goodbye. Turning, the momentum of my walking feet propelled me outside into the transitioning day, overcoming the sudden nostalgic urge to look back.