Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Cecily asked Mr. Han if he still had the letters Mrs. Han had sent him in reply. He shook
his head, and his wife rolled her eyes. Men aren't romantic, she said. They don't keep that
stuff.
Mr. Han was smiling. He pointed at his chest. I keep them in here, he said. I keep them
in here. And everybody laughed.
We stood to go, waving to Mr. Han's brother-in-law, who was working his way through
the last few boards of Lang's mountain from the other day. Lang and his sister were at
school, because in Guiyu that's
what jawas
do on weekdays.
In the foyer, I drew a lungful of frying circuit board. It reminded me of something Mr.
Han had told me earlier. I had asked him if he thought the work was unhealthy for him and
his family.
We know it's a dirty business, he had said. We know it's a health risk. You have to give
something to get something.
As we left, he was standing in the foyer of the workshop, contemplating two bales of
motherboards that had just arrived. The next batch. He had slashed them open at the side,
spilling fresh, untouched circuitry onto the floor.
At the Beijing airport, the sun peered through a thick scrim of haze. Several years before,
in preparation for the Olympics, the Chinese government had gone to extreme lengths to
reduce the city's famous smog. Anything for a coming-out party. If this was reduced smog,
though, it was still pretty impressive. I had noticed the haze days earlier as well, on our
way through the airport to Guiyu.
“Is that the famous Beijing haze?” I'd asked Cecily.
She looked out the window. “I think it's just because it's going to snow later today,” she
said. “The forecast is for snow.”
Pre-snow haze?
“I think so,” she said.
“No, Cecily,” I said, laying down some ground rules. “It's pollution, okay?”
Now, on our way back, she abandoned the snow excuse. Instead, she mentioned that fog
was in the forecast.
“There has been fog for three days,” she said.
“Smog,” I said.
