Today Ostragon woke up to a heavy rains.  He had planned on visiting Hua Shan Mountain, one of the seven sacred mountains of China, cliffs shrouded in mists of mystery, sepulchral shrouds to all the wise men who disappeared on the mountain face seeking a higher form of knowledge, absolution from the agonising pain of life down below...

Missing the early bus for Hua Shuan, which was the only reasonable one to take, Ostragon walked instead past the Bell Tower and into the Muslim quarter, which was all set up for tourists, Chinese and foreign.  The rain, still torrential, soaked him to the bone although he sought shelter under the overhangs of street vendors selling all kinds of spices he had never seen or smelled before, dried hanging meats, whole lambs, hanging like dried ripe fruit from the hooks neatly nailed in rows above the entrances to the stores, swept clean by their attentive keepers.

He felt hunger and looked for a place where he could find the recommended brew-stew of mint lamb and noodles, heavy with hot spices.  He spotted one place and stood outside it, trying to workout how to proceed.  Indeed, his knowledge of the language was non-existent and he needed to understand how this particular place would operate.  Once he had done this he went up to the woman and pointed around at a couple of things, they gestured back and easily enough he had ordered the stew he intended.

The place was welcoming if quite drab, like all the other eateries he had been to in China.  Muslims ate happily along side their Han counterparts, as the Qing Chinese are known.

Claiming common ethnicity, the Qing/Han Chinese subscribe to a common language, common cultural heritage, education, set of values, religious beliefs, political beliefs and they all tow the Party line.  This delineation, along ethnic lines as well as the others just mentioned, marks the Han apart from the rest of Humanity, in their mind at least.  They believe they are superior and tolerate other ethnicities and cultures in their midst, as long as these non Chinese accept that the Han are naturally superior.

By feeding the pride that the Han have in this identity, the Party is able to maintain power, as the Party, colored red as it is, represents the best, the top of what this ethno-culturo-religio-politico-economic identity has to offer.

The problem is that this identity, fed as it has been by the Party's propaganda machine and the propaganda machines of the Dynasties before it, has become a monster with two heads and has taken on a life of its own.  Just as this identity, based in origin on what one might call Confucianism, has formed the strong bed-rock on which Chinese life has evolved over the past six millennia, it is the reason why chinese society cannot evolve and therefore is also its greatest weakness.

It destroys creativity at its very root and causes a deeply set sense of helplessness, a festering sore in the side of this great nation.  It prevents China from being able to work constructively with the Nations it has come close to – whether it be Tibet in the West or the Uighur Nation of East Turkestan in the North West, or the Monghols in the North; and in the long run it is likely to prove to be a debilitating handicap in China's dealings with other nations important to it, such as the USA, Brazil and the Continent of Africa.

The food was good and warm and Ostragon enjoyed heating up his bones in this humble and rather dirty eatery.  He went outside again into the narrow street and continued along until he found the famed Mosque; famed because it is a Muslim sanctuary in this ancient capital, proof of the tolerance and  benevolence of ruling Dynasties of the past, proof of the continuing magnanimity and tolerance of the Party.  The Party, in its magnanimity, goes so far as to appoint all the Imams.

Later, once he returned to the Drum Tower Square, Ostragon continued and went into a large mall on one of its corners.  In here he saw all sorts of stands selling clothes of a european look but with an unmistakable hint of the Chinese.  The brands all looked familiar-ish and on closer inspection, all were Chinese brands, for the Chinese market, with phony French, Italian, German or English names.  The con was quite involved, some of the names sounding convincing but being complete non-sense in the language they were meant to represent.

That night, Ostragon had a long conversation with Rhys, an australian youngster at the hostel.  He came from Lennox, south of Melbourne, an unfortunate and very violent suburb, whose unhappiness must have equaled or worse that of Liverpool in its worst times.  He told Ostragon tales of gang violence that would make a man of conscience's blood curdle on the spot.

Rhys had had a lot of problems growing up, not the least of which was that he has Asperger's Sydrome, which was only diagnosed in early adulthood.  Very capable and intelligent, he had difficulty relating to people and this fed into every aspect of his life.  He was able, through a great effort, to overcome these difficulties and realised that he could if he wished, turn his syndrome into a strength.  He has a knack for knowing people; this in itself could be a problem as he knew more about his girl friends than they knew about themselves – never a good position to be in as a boyfriend...  his reading of people had proved correct on most occasions down to the slightest detail, a skill which he recongnised could be used to great effect in the interrogation of suspected criminals.

His most startling revelation related to his friends in Australia who were from a family of Taoist Priests who had developped their spiritual powers; Rhys had witnessed these and was still deeply perplexed.

Indeed there is much about the Universe which we humans do not understand; and we are creatures of the Universe, born by it, melded by it, molded in its galaxies from its dust and its energy.  There is much we know not about ourselves.





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