“I am the rickshaw master!” Glancing back to make this statement as he weaves through traffic, calling out mild warnings to pedestrians, rocking from side to side to generate more power, and finally getting out to push his rig up inclines too steep to wheel. In front of my hotel that morning, I heard a “Hello.” Turning, I saw a sinewy, sun wizened man wearing a baseball cap and smiling. In careful, well-pronounced English, he asked if I wanted a tour, saying proudly, “I have shown 294 foreigners my lovely city!” as he reached for something in his bag. Before he could take whatever it was out, I told him that I’d think about it and let him know. He was still there, waiting patiently, when my friend and I came back out half an hour later. After some haggling about the price, we resignedly (Hénán has a terrible reputation for shady business dealings) got into what we’d be seeing Kāifēng in. There really aren’t any more rickshaws in China, at least not the kind you probably picture, but as I see it, the big tricycle we climbed into was the logical evolution of the old, foot drawn kind. Not quite as backbreaking, but close. On my second night in China in 2003, an oppressively hot one, my hosts took me out to dinner and I took my first ride in one of these three wheelers. Our driver pulled my colleague and I out to the street, lit cigarette hanging out of the side of his mouth and, working up some momentum, mounted up and began pedaling. The Chinese aren’t known as big sweaters, but over the mile or so to our destination, streams of it just poured down his bare back, completely soaking through the beltline of his pants. Now, on this morning, I enjoyed the cool breeze, but I could still see the stain seeping through the corner of our guide’s cap whenever he turned to say something. Moving from one end of the small city to the other, I understood that this man had no intentions of taking advantage of us. At each sight, he took so much time and provided so much information that others began lagging behind us to listen to him. Eating lunch next to a vendor’s cart, Xŭ Shì Jié (AKA Jason) told us that he was raised in Xīngjiāng, where his father was serving in the PLA. He and his family moved back home to Kāifēng in the seventies, nervous about Sino-Soviet relations, particularly out West. Although he excelled at English in middle school, he didn’t really learn it until he went into the Army after high school. It was there, he told us several times throughout the day, that he taught himself “new concept” English. What this is, exactly, I don’t know. But it worked for him. After the PLA, he went to work in a factory and when that went under, he began his seven-year journey to self-anointed rickshaw mastery. In front of a camera shop, the boss lady takes our picture and prints it out. Reaching again into his bag, he finishes taking out what he’d tried to show me that morning: a big, bound book, like a diary. Our picture, now being stuck to the next available page…behind 294 others. My testimonial, and my friend’s, now being written below it. Our last stop, the 10,000 Buddha Pagoda (so called because its bricks have small Buddhas carved into them), used to be nine stories tall until the first Ming emperor (in Nanjing) decided to make a political point. Now it’s three stories tall. Almost all of the Buddha’s within reach of a hammer and chisel have had their faces hacked away, the result of the misguided, youthful enthusiasm of the Red Guards. On the top floor, we saw some graffiti: characters - people’s names, carved around the faceless icons. Shì Jié pointed at one, “See. Japanese. 1942.” At the bus station, I paid the amount he’d originally asked for. He accepted, with no protest. I thought of trying to pay more but beyond a certain point, I don’t know if you can.

Note: Xŭ Shì Jié and I exchanged information before we parted ways. If you’re interested in taking a tour of Kāifēng, feel free to give him a call. His outfit (or at least what it says on his card) is Golden Phoenix Travel Service and his telephone number is 15938505092. If you do eventually see him, tell him that Foreigner #295 sent you.