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无比震撼，一个美国人在中国的真实经历。
作者：忧伤de猪 .
中国最孤独的人
在一个毫无特色的乡村饭馆，一个外国人折服于一个当地人的诚实。
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BY PAOLO BACIGALUPI
在去四川三峡的路上，住着我所见过的最孤独的中国人。
当时我们都在一个小馆子里，眺望着长江。那是在夜间，我在等着一条带我离开巫山镇，也就是三峡的渡船。当我计划我的旅程时，我曾经臆想过，在三峡慢慢逆流而上，乘坐渡船来回于各小镇之间探访美景是多么的酷。现在，在经历过许多个镇以后，我对这个想法感到厌倦，打算离开这个乡下，回到成都，一个有着美味的食物，悠闲的茶馆，以及逐渐对外国人司空见惯从而不去打扰的人们的大城市。
我盯着黑暗中那些溯流而上的船只的搜索灯扫过茫茫黑夜，等着那条能把我带离此地的船。
经营饭店的女人一直告诉我，船不会马上就来。我应该放心，放松（也就是把心放到肚子里），当船来的时候她会提醒我的。我看不出她如何能在寻找那条船上面比我强，而且我以前曾在依赖他人关注我自己的问题时吃过亏，所以，我一面赞同她，一面继续我的观察。
邻桌的男人来得早些，而且居然没有叫菜就吃上了。他半心半意地听着那个女人的丈夫拖着一个号哭的小男孩来到店里，并且大声叫着问我的所有问题。那些问题在他妻子早先发现我会一点中文的时候已经问过了:你从哪里来？你多大了？你在美国挣多少钱？。。。你的中文很好，他叫喊道。
然后就到了主题。
每个在中国的人都知道那些主题。电视台和报纸在整个国家报道着那些政府编造的一模一样的故事，而中国人根据这些多少受控的来源产生他们的观点。这次的热点是美国人是多么的种族主义和帝国主义王八蛋以至于轰炸科索沃。不管我跟谁说话，对话总是不可避免地转向这些话题，而观点总是一样的。我对这些政府媒体献上我由衷的敬意。
这个丈夫结束了关于美国人是多么狗屎的讨论，对此失去了兴趣，再次留下我一个人看着黑色的丝带一样的河流，等待着我的逃难船的踪迹。在楼梯上的某处传来他儿子的哭喊声。
邻桌的男人递给我一支烟。我拒绝了。他给自己点上，扔掉了空盒。他平静地问我：“你对中国怎么看？”
我考虑着可能的回答。我想到了那天跟着我的揽客者们，试图说服我订一家旅馆-—而且在失败后争着卖船票给我。他们的坚持和跟踪技巧骚扰得我最终威胁他们要带他们去公共安全专家局让他们在警察面前表演他们的合唱。
我想到了那天在公汽上针对我的秘密欺诈，和在一边安静地观察进展的中国人们。当欺诈失败，小偷们下车以后，我的同车者们说小偷不是本地人，但是他们不敢提醒我因为他们不知道这些陌生人是否带着刀。
我想到了那个跟我最近一次渡船上同船的商人，活力十足地控诉着种族主义者美国人和科索沃问题，脸红耳赤地大声谈论，话说得快得我只能听懂一半。尽管如此，我还是能从他的表情里猜出剩下的内容。毫无疑问，如果我们在两周后--在我们轰炸了他的大使馆以后--碰到，他将会更加怒火万丈。然后再次，在两周以后，我将不得不撒谎，告诉他我是个加拿大人。
我想到了这些遭遇和其它类似的一大堆事情，然后充满热情地说：“中国很伟大！”
总而言之，这就是我一贯跟在中国的中国人民说的。这是他们想听到的：对文化和国家的肯定，以及对他们初生的强权感的抚慰，而这已经逐渐变成一个暧昧的混合物。“中国是伟大的” 我再次说道，“我很高兴以后能有机会回来旅游，看到新的景观。三峡很伟大，非常美”。
我就是这样的一个撒谎精。
我并不为此自豪，但在我的旅程中我是个了不起的说谎专家。我微笑，撒谎，然后事情就变得容易了。每次我一旦不是为了办事方便而说谎，我就为了找乐子说谎。有一次，我告诉一个出租车司机我已经学了一个礼拜的中文。其实那时我已经痛苦地学习了这门语言四年之久加上已经在北京生活，工作（和说谎）一年了。我记得我甚至告诉他中文是一门容易学习的语言。也许大多数人认为这没什么可乐的，但那也许是唯一的一次一个中国人说我的中文非常不错，而且是真心地说。
我的餐馆同伴更近地看着我，问道：“那你认为中国人怎样？”
冷漠而且毫无心肝，但如果你是他们的小圈子里的朋友，那是相当友善的。“他们也棒极了。” 我说。
“真的么？”
恩。。。我避免正面回答，然后说哪里都有好人和坏人，中国人也一样，但是总而言之，我喜欢他们。这实际上是真实的，至少在我那些愉快的时光。然后，因为厌倦了反复说着相同的话题，我问他关于中国人他怎么看。
他看着我，然后移开了目光。我等待着。他不是一个富人。不像那些城市里的临时工那么穷，但也不像那些受益于经济改革的暴发户。他穿了一条军绿色的裤子，高领毛衣，皮夹克。看着他我想起了老百姓“老的一百个姓”: 中国的普通人，国家的脊梁。
他说,“我认为我们中国人缺乏素质。”。
我张口结舌，只能说,“哦”，然后坐在那里，为我在早先的谈话里撒的谎羞愧，感觉自己是个彻头彻尾的傻瓜。
我最后终于可以出声问他为什么他会这么说。
他耸耸肩。“我以前是开卡车的。给军队开，在非洲。我们在那里给非洲人修建大坝和诸如此类的项目，大部分是水利和电力工程。非洲人黑头发黑皮肤，非常黑的皮肤。他们很穷。
他沉思着摇头,“穷得很”真的穷。“但他们对我们非常好。我们中国人比不上他们。他们是更好的人。我们富裕些，但他们素质更高。比不上他们”。
我曾经站在北京的公汽上，看见中国人拒绝坐在一个非洲留学生身边，不管车子多么的拥挤。我也曾经跟昆明人交谈，他们在控诉我这个种族主义的美国人之后，兴高采烈的接着解释黑人为什么是这个地球上最笨的人。在中国所有的外国魔鬼中，黑人得到了最差的待遇。现在，我坐在一个貌似农民的人身边，他穿着军绿色棉裤和肮脏的皮夹克，而且刚刚说到中国人比不上非洲人。我很好奇，究竟是什么使得一个中国人说任何人，哪怕是黑非洲人，也强于他自己的种族。
最后我说，“我从没听任何中国人这么说过。”
“他们从未离开过这个国家，”，他说，“如果你总是呆在你自己的国家里，你就不会知道外面如何。你没法比较。但一旦你出去了，你就看得很清楚。经济上，我们中国人做得还行。但作为人，我们缺乏素质。没人这么看。他们没去过任何地方。他们不知道外面是什么样的。他们无从比较。”他摇着头。
我没法回答。但他的经历提醒我该回到美国而且试图告诉人们我在国外的见闻。这使我忧伤。为他的经历伤心，也为我自己。我花了如此多的时间痛苦地说谎，穿越整个中国，总是在中国人面前掩饰的很好，而现在我要离开了，我才找到我真的想结识的中国人。
我们在一起又坐了一会，他抽着烟。我的船来了，我离开了。
现在我回到了美国的家中，觉得自己像个外星人。我想起这个人。我想起他坐在那个只有一个房间的饭馆里，抽着烟凝视着黑夜，身边环绕着他的国人，却仍然孤独。
作者：忧伤de猪回复日期：2007-8-262:00:00
附原文在此。我的翻译已经尽量准确。无奈原作者水平太高，为防有不确切之处，原帖在此：
The loneliest man in China
In a nonde rural restaurant, an expat is humbled by a local\'s worldly honesty.
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BY PAOLO BACIGALUPI
The loneliest Chinese man I ever met lived halfway up the Three Gorges, in Sichuan Province.
We were both in a restaurant, looking out at the Yangtze. It was night. I was waiting for a boat to get me out of Wushan town, and out of the Gorges in general. When I had planned my trip, I had imagined how cool it would be to go up the Gorges slowly, taking river taxis between towns and savoring the scenery. Now, many towns later, I was sick of the idea and ready to get out of the countryside and on to Chengdu, a big city with good food, relaxed teahouses and a populace that had grown bored with foreigners and so left them alone.
I kept looking out into the darkness and watching the searchlights on the ships as they came up the river, sweeps of light on blackness, waiting for the one that would get me out of this place.
The woman who ran the restaurant kept telling me that the boat wouldn\'t come for a while and that I should fangxin, relax (literally, set down my heart); she would warn me when the boat was coming. I didn\'t see how she could tell one ship from the next any better than I could, and because I\'d made the mistake of depending on others to take care of my problems before, I agreed with her that I could relax, and then kept on watching anyway.
The man sitting at the table next to mine had come in earlier and was fed by the woman without his asking or ordering. He had listened with some half interest when the woman\'s husband came into the restaurant, a little boy howling in tow, and shouted at me all the questions that his wife had asked before when she found out I could speak some Chinese: Where are you from? How old are you? How much money do you earn in America? Your Chinese is very good, he yelled.
Then came The Topics.
Everyone in China knows The Topics. The television stations and newspapers run the same state-generated stories all across the country, and the Chinese form their opinions based on these somewhat controlled sources. This time, the hot topics were how racist Americans were and what imperialist bastards we were for bombing Kosovo. It didn\'t matter whom I talked to, the conversation inevitably turned to those topics, and the opinions were always the same. It gave me a real respect for the power of state-run media.
The husband finished up the how-shitty-Americans-really-are discussion and then lost interest and left me alone again to watch the black ribbon of the river below for signs of my escape boat. Somewhere up the stairs, I heard the son yelling.
The man at the next table offered me a cigarette. When I declined, he lit one for himself and put the pack away. He asked quietly, What do you think of China?
I thought about possible answers. I thought of the touts who had trailed me that day, trying to convince me to book into a hotel -- and when that failed, vying to sell me a boat ticket out. Their insistence and trailing tactics annoyed me enough that I finally threatened to lead them to the Public Security Bureau and let them do their pitch in front of the cops.
I thought of the confidence scam that had targeted me on a bus, and of the Chinese who had silently watched its progress. When the scam failed and the thieves got off, my fellow bus riders said that the thieves weren\'t local, but that they were afraid to warn me because they didn\'t know if the strangers carried knives.
I thought of the businessman, riding on my latest river taxi, who had vigorously pursued the Racist American and Kosovo Topics, getting red in the face and talking loudly and so fast that I only understood half of what he said, even though I could guess the rest from his expression. Undoubtedly, he would have been even angrier if we had met two weeks later, after we bombed his embassy. Then again, two weeks later, I would have lied and told him I was Canadian.
I thought about those experiences and another fistful like them and then said enthusiastically, China\'s great!
In the end, it\'s what I always say to Chinese people in China. It\'s what they want to hear: an affirmation of country and culture and a stroke for their nascent sense of superiority, which these days they\'re nursing into a full-blown complex. China\'s great, I said again. I\'m so glad to have a chance to come back here and travel. See new scenery. The Three Gorges are great. Very beautiful.
I\'m such a liar.
I\'m not proud of it, but I\'m a great liar when I travel. I smile and lie and things are smooth. Every once in a while I don\'t just lie to smooth the way, I lie for fun. Once, I told a taxi driver in Beijing that I\'d been studying Chinese for a week. This, after having painfully studied the language for four years and lived and worked (and lied) in Beijing for another year. I think I even told him that Chinese was an easy language to learn. Perhaps most people wouldn\'t think that\'s funny, but it was the only time a Chinese person ever told me my Chinese was very good and really meant it.
My restaurant companion looked at me more closely and asked, And what do you think of the Chinese people?
Cold and heartless, but nice if you\'re in their clique of friends. They\'re great, too, I said.
Really?
Well ... I hedged and said that there were good people and bad people everywhere, and China was no different, but still overall, I liked them. This was actually true, at least on my good days. Then, because I was bored and tired of having the same conversations over and over, I asked about his own opinion of the Chinese people.
He looked at me, and then he looked away. I waited. He wasn\'t a rich man. Not poor like the transient laborers pouring into China\'s cities, but also not one of the new rich stomping around China courtesy of the economic reforms. He was wearing green army pants, and a turtleneck, and a leather jacket. Looking at him made me think laobaixing, old hundred names: China\'s average man, backbone of the nation.
He said, I think that we Chinese are lacking in quality.
I managed to say, Oh, and then sat there feeling like an asshole for lying through the earlier part of our conversation.
I finally got my voice back and asked why he would say such a thing.
He shrugged. I used to drive trucks. For the army, over in Africa. We were over there building dams, projects like that for the Africans. Water and electricity projects, mostly. The Africans had black hair and black skin, very black skin, and they were poor.
He shook his head thoughtfully, Qiong de hen. Really poor. But they were very good to us. We Chinese couldn\'t compare to them. They were better people. We were richer, but they had more quality. Bi bu shang tamen. We can\'t beat them.
I\'ve stood on buses in Beijing and watched Chinese people refuse to sit next to an African student no matter how crowded the bus got, and I\'ve talked to people in Kunming who, after accusing me of being a racist American, cheerfully went on to explain how black people were the stupidest people on earth. Of all the foreign devils in China, blacks get the hardest treatment. And now I was sitting with a guy who looked like a peasant, dressed in green cotton army pants and wearing a dirty leather jacket, and who had just said that the Chinese couldn\'t compare with the Africans. I wondered what it cost a Chinese person to say that anyone, let alone a black African, was better than his own kind.
I finally said, I\'ve never heard anyone in China say that.
They haven\'t gone out of the country, he said. When you\'re always in your own country, you don\'t know what\'s out there. You can\'t compare. But after you go, you see clearly. Economically, we Chinese are doing OK. But as people, we lack quality. Nobody here sees it that way. But they haven\'t gone away. They don\'t know what it\'s like on the outside. They can\'t compare. He shook his head.
I didn\'t have any answer, but his experience reminded me of going home to America and trying to tell people what I had seen abroad. It made me sad. Sad for his experience, and sad that I had spent so much time blithely lying my way across China, always well-shielded from the Chinese, and now that I was leaving, I had finally found a Chinese person I wanted to know.
We sat together for a while longer while he smoked, and then my boat came, and I left.
Now that I\'m back home in America and feel like an alien, I think about him. I think about him sitting in that one-room restaurant, watching the darkness and smoking, surrounded by his countrymen, and all alone.
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