The Hennaed Chuanr-man

Speeding around in the overbuilt highways of Pudong.  It’s mid day and no one is on them.  This driver is very aggressive.  Normally you never get to speeds that could mean anything more than a fender bender.  This is fast enough to accordion-ize this car and me with it were we to . . .  I consider this as I write the sentence:  “His last words were . . .” This city is so damn big but I just got in and said “Yang Gao Lu” and this guy knew just how to get there. 

And he was so fast at getting here that I’m twenty minutes early.  My appointment meanwhile, has written me to say he’ll be a half an hour late.  “Right here’s fine.”  I’ve been here a half a dozen times before at the entrance to this R&D center. To the north there is a simple collection of rough storefronts and a rather small, questionable restaurant.  In seemingly every other direction are villa compounds and not much of anything else.  I set off west and try to call one person and then another and follow one road down to a dead end.  Turning it starts to drizzle and I open my umbrella. 

I head back to the main road.  The entrance to one of the villa compounds seemed to have had a restaurant inside, behind the entrance.  I pass by and realize it’s just a clubhouse.  I continue on, obligatorily to the high road where there is traffic and billboards, and as I’d accurately remembered, nothing else but more single family villas.  There are no stores or eateries of any nature, for as far as I can see. 

Turning I make my way back to the entrance of the R&D center.  As I get closer I spy a tarp that’s been thrown up on near the cull de sac.  Vaguely I remember they were grilling lamb there the last time I’d passed by.  Sure enough, three Uigher men have an icebox full of lamb and a quirky little stove with a bulbous, “turkic” looking chimney on it.  I ask the young guy with hennaed hair how much for a chuanr, and order four, the world for which sounds like "ten" down here in the south.  He wants to know in a manner simultaneously humorous and menacing if I’d meant ten.  His colleague threw four on the grill and I went off get a bottle of water to go with my feast. 

The hennaed chuanr-man had bounded off.  “You want spice?” asked his black haired colleague?  “Oh yeah.  Lots . . .  Oh, and boss, I need a seat.  Pull one out and set one up for me, would you?”  I’m given a fold out chair, which I position behind the counter to face an older gent with a bushy beard and a bald dome upon which sits a white, patterned skull cap.  One by one I pull the mutton pieces off the skewers and am reminded of the pungent, taste from years ago of musky lamb kidney done in this style. They might just have some but I'm filling up. 

A twenty-something Han Chinese gent rolls up and orders a few chuanr.  The guy who’d got me the chair ignores him.  I begin to wonder if I missed something.  The Han Chinese guy repeats his order and the Uighur guys says:  “Yeah, yeah, I heard you.”  I consider this openly, provocative, rude behavior.  It’s different from the stereotypical Han Chinese-rude, which would usually be tied to a quickness, an intolerance for a waste of time, or a waste of money.  But this was more like something back in New York.  I’ll ignore you the first time just to aggravate you.  I’m going to make an extra effort; to be sure I annoy you.  I’ll invest precious time and energy to make sure you become angry and feel my power.

I noted the Chinese guy’s nervousness.  “Why don’t you just walk away?” I think to myself.  It occurred to me it wasn’t the first encounter between these two.  This is patron's local place?  These are the owner's local patrons?  I laid down my final skewer on an overturned pail and robotically offered an “A Salem Alakum” to the young tent-owner as I left and crossed the canal to the R&D center’s front gate.