Selections from Yu Jian’s Notes from a Dark Box
Translated by Simon Patton

Zhaotong 1998

I CAME ACROSS this peasant at a market in the town of Zhaotong in Yunnan. In Yunnan, markets are known as ‘street days’, that is, the day when you head off to market. He had set out from home the previous afternoon, not a penny on him, carrying two ‘foreign taros’ (potatoes, that is), their jackets burnt to a crisp, and more than twenty open baskets woven by his elderly father and mother strung together with a piece of rope carried on his back, baskets that made him look like a miniature mobile hill. He had crossed two mountains that rose to a height over 3,000 metres above sea level along paths cut almost vertically into sheer cliffs. He had to inch along a step at a time—he could not afford to slip on the ice—otherwise he would have fallen. At his back there were enormous gorges, clouds. He walked non-stop through the night, arriving at this market at first light. After eating his taros, he slept for a time propped up against his baskets until he was woken by the bustle of people and the neighing of horses, the market having already begun; he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, waiting for buyers—he charged five yuan a basket, and when no one was buying, he watched the television in a small shop nearby. Over came someone who lived locally, telling him to clear off, saying that patch of turf was his and he wanted to sell ganba, a kind of salted beef, there. Without a word, he gathered up his things and left the area. By midday, he had sold half his baskets, the market close to winding up for the day. He went into a small restaurant, eating a bowl of noodles that cost two yuan, and drank a bottle of strong baijiu spirits. Checking the sky to see what time it was, he gathered up the unsold baskets, getting ready to leave for home. He smiled, agreeing to let me take his photo.