June 1, 2008
Taishan, China

I wanted to discover the roots of my past so I trekked through the jungle in the Guangdong province of China to find the house of my grandfather.

Arriving in Zhongshan, part of the Guangdong province, we took a bus up to the villa where my grandfather used to live. We had the directions – in Chinese – a google map satellite picture, and a photograph of the house (my cousin had visited 8 years ago). We thought it would be as simple as saying “Yi,” our last name, and pointing to the house in the picture. Let’s just say, it was a good thing our uncle, who spoke Cantonese came with us.

After a two-hour drive we arrived in Taishan, a county in the Guangdong province where my grandfather lived. I was expecting run-down houses and little to none reflections of modernity. But commerce and large apartment buildings were scattered here and there. We were close, I thought, maybe the house had been demolished into a strew of new apartments. Maybe not. We asked a local, who just so happened to be a tour guide, and he agreed to take us to the house for 15 yuan, about 15 US cents. I was excited that he recognized the address; maybe it hadn’t been torn down. Bubbling with nerves and anticipation, I snapped pictures of every corner and street. My grandfather could have played in this park. My grandfather could have bought meat here. My grandfather could have walked down this street…

An hour later my excitement had dwindled. We kept driving and following our yellow helmet, motorcycle guide. We turned off the main road until we were no longer on the paved street. The car wiggled its way through the narrow dirt path; brush and trees swept the sides of the vehicle. This was it, I thought for the third time. But the car kept driving, as the dirt path became thinner and thinner. We were deep enough into the greenery that the city sounds were no longer audible, replaced by chirping crickets and ribbiting frogs.

Behind me loomed the misty mountains; to my right were small pools of water surrounded by thick green lush. It was beginning to rain. The car stopped in front of a cluster of houses. Is this it? I asked. An exchange of Mandarin, Cantonese and Taishanese (our tour guide spoke another Cantonese dialect) later, we were motioned to get out of the car – we were going to walk. It was only sprinkling at this point.

In flip-flops, flats and anything but your necessary hiking boots, we descended the car and began our seemingly jungle safari. There was a dirt path wide enough for one of us at a time – we marched in a single row. We were six but only had 3 umbrellas. As we slugged through the thick bush and brush, stepping carefully on the dampening dirt road, all you could hear was the intensity croaking of frogs. I was startled at every rustling noise; fearful a snake could come slithering in my direction. But we continued to make our way, pushing away tree branches and swatting away spider webs.

It was beginning to rain harder. But the villa was finally approaching. It was a small cluster of about 16 houses. The houses were well decayed but still standing. Red posters inscribed with Chinese writing decorated the sides of the door. The alleyways that divided them were thin slivers; the floors were thankfully cemented in concrete. I stepped reassured. But the villa seemed deserted. Either the rain was driving everyone in or no one lived here.

The thunder was clapping so loud it was hard to hear each other. “This is it!” someone yelled to me, pointing to a thick metal door. It was locked. My cousin had said to just ask around and someone would have the key. But ask who? The splashing rain seemed to be the only vivid thing in this villa besides us soaking tourists.

As we were standing under doorways and overhanging roofs to keep dry, or keep from continuing to get soaked, a woman with a child in her arms suddenly appeared in the corner. Our bus driver and my uncle began an intense Cantonese-Taishanese exchange and we were soon in the shelter of her home. She lived on the backside of my grandfather’s house. 6 small glass roof shingles illuminated her house. We sat in the musky dark as the unrelenting rain drilled around us. I understood nothing. The Cantonese reverberated through the opened doors. My uncle got up and made a phone call. I was clueless, could she be my long lost relative?

My uncle returned and gave us the news “Ok they are coming,” he said.

Who?

“There is only one surviving relative here and she’s coming with the key,” he said.

We waited in the dark humidity as the rain began to settle down. The house was filled with antique furniture and littered with hanging plastic totes, drying clothes, and old toys. The kitchen sink was a small cement hole in the floor. Yet the house was well equipped with a television set and speakers. She was one of two families that still lived in the villa, but not part of the Yi lineage, my family. Most of its inhabitants, that is, the Yi descendants had left for Peru or America.

I heard some rustling by the door. Could that be her? I leaned over my smoothly polished wooden seat and saw two men and a woman. My uncle, the driver, and our kind host stood up and began a head-spinning exchange of Cantonese and Taipanese. As a Cantonese speaker my uncle only understood about 50% of what was being spoken. He was like a Spanish speaker attempting to decipher the tauntingly similar Portuguese.

I kept probing my uncle for more information. Was she my aunt, my great-aunt, maybe my cousin? He seemed to be just as dazed as I was. Considering he was from the other side of the family, my dad’s side, explaining the entirety of my mother’s family tree was a bit overwhelming if not entirely mind-boggling to him. My mother is one of five siblings. My grandfather was one of five brothers. His father was one of six. From what I could gather, the three potentially kin strangers that had just entered were my mother’s distant cousins, sons of my grandfather’s cousin. Basically I had three new aunts and uncles with whom I could not communicate.

The rain calmed down and we headed towards another house – that of my grandfather’s brother. Or what we assumed would be the house of my grandfather’s brother. Inside, the walls were lined with picture frames. I frantically searched for a recognizable face, but it was futile. Two large portraits loomed high on the second floor – my great grandmother and great grandfather maybe? We kept trying to solve the mystery of who they were and whose house we were in. But the language barrier proved to be all too impenetrable. Their dialect was extremely difficult to understand and my uncle’s Cantonese was over their heads as well. All I knew was that this was not my grandfather’s house. I was related to them somehow but the relationship was far from clear.

The three of them, my new aunt and two uncles had traveled far just to meet us. They seemed excited that they had visitors. I kept blurting out names of family members to see if anything sounded familiar to them, but I only knew their Peruvian Spanish names, not their Chinese names. Frustrated and still damp, the rain let out once more, calling us back to the car.

I left the house both satisfied and disappointed. I had met three new relatives, but had no idea who they were. I had entered the house of one of my distant ancestors, but not of my grandfather. Before leaving we exchanged phone numbers and addresses. Maybe one day we could piece together this family puzzle. They locked up the house, the heavy steel barred door slamming shut. How many years would it be until it’s iron bars were once again shoved ajar? Restless, I turned back once more as we were leaving. I stared at the house once more and that’s when I remembered. And I had pieced a part of the puzzle. I ran back past the house and to the corner of the street. On the google map image, my cousin had marked the house of my grandfather – the house we were in was in the center of the alley. My grandfather’s was on the corner.

This was it. I touched the walls and snapped away, capturing every inch and crevice of the house. I inserted my camera between the window bars and continued clicking my camera away. This was my grandfather’s house, I just knew it. But the rain was getting too heavy and we had to make it back to the car. We waved goodbye to our newfound family and headed for our car.

The road was no longer dampened dirt, but thick puddles of brown paste. I descended my pearly white flats into the unknown pool of rainwater and mud. Step by step we sloshed our way back. We were soaked and mud stained, but the trip was definitely worth it.

It was an amazing day, but a part of me is still restless. I want to know more, more about my family, more about my grandfather. I want to find the relative that has the key to his house. I want to learn more about his life and maybe discover a hidden family secret. But I’ll come back one day.