A/N- This is a project for my creative writing class—non-fiction. I have problems with non-fiction. I would really appreciate your thoughts on what flows, what doesn’t, any typos, and if it is enjoyable. Thanks, Kez.

The Lion Dance

I am in Hong Kong, and the April sun is shining down through the tall buildings with such intensity that it seems to be August. The air is humid, saturated and completely still despite the rumbling of diesel-fueled taxis and buses as they speed along the winding, narrow streets. This particular street has no cars except for an old, rusty truck, parked permanently on the curb. There is always the smell of incense and cooking food, oftentimes intermixed with something rotting or an up-wafting from the sewers, but even that mixture has its own allure because it is never the same twice. An electronics store is on every corner, and clothing boutiques between them, but the stores are not what has drawn the crowd today. Everyone knows what is coming, and though the people of Hong Kong have seen it many times, it never ceases to amaze them, just as it will always amaze me.

For over a thousand years, the Chinese have celebrated holidays and have blessed proceedings with the Lion Dance. It is one of the most popular traditions of China, performed whenever possible, and almost always by Martial Artists. I have seen the contraption used for the Dance many times, but this will be the first time I will ever see the Lion come to life.

A huge, papier-mâché head is constructed from wire, with moving eyelids and ears and mouth. A long, frilled sheet, sometimes of silk, extends from the head. Sitting on the large drum the size of sumo wrestler’s belly, the contraption seems dead—the eyes are closed. Only when the two dancers don the body of the lion, one for the head, one for the body, does the beast come to life. This particular lion is black, with orange trim and a short tail, and it is the focus of over two hundred people.

A very official-looking man, no taller than normal but wearing a trim, gray suit and round, thick, spectacles, asks the crowd for silence with his hands. His hair is slicked back, and he looks familiar. After looking at the poster behind him, I realize he is a politician running for election, one of the Beijing-backed figureheads trying to gain popularity amid the crisis that is the recent British-Chinese turnover of power. There have been riots and protests, and everyone wants a little bit of peace. Unless the politicians scare away the evil spirits of bad luck, they cannot win, and so they have requisitioned Lee Kam Wing’s Seven Star Mantis Boxing School to do the Lion Dance.

The man who calmed the crowd gestures forward another man carrying an elegant wooden box, in which lay three paintbrushes and pot of red paint. Two more politicians from the poster come out from under a near pavilion, and each dips their brush in the paint, drawing in the eyes of the Lion. Red is a lucky color in China, and no other color may be used to paint on the lion. When the politicians back away, Sifu Lee gestures two of four students forward. They are all lean, with the tempered body of martial artists—and throughout history, the Chinese Martial Arts have always been compared to dance.

The first dancer pulls the lion’s head over his own, and the neck covers his shoulders. The second dancer appears, bending over low and throwing the adorned sheet over his back. They stomp their feet, shrug their shoulders, and the crowd quiets, knowing that very soon, this beast will arise. The head lowers, the posterior rises. All is ready.

Then suddenly, BANG-A-BANG-BOOM-BOOM! The forgotten drum rattles out a beat the shakes the very air from my chest, reverberating deep in my stomach so loudly that it is hard to breathe. A gong joins in, and then the cymbals, until the it seems as though a mountain as tall as Everest composed of pots and pans has come clattering down on top of all of us. In response to the noise, the lion’s head arises, slowly at first, like it has come out of a deep sleep. It looks around for a moment, blinking the sleep from its eyes, waving its ears at the noise that has awakened it.

The beating of instruments becomes ferocious, a now the lion is truly awake, scoping out the crowd that has come to see it bless the running of a few political party candidates running for office. The beast bows to the crowd, some in the crowd bow back, but those are only the little children who cannot see the men behind the mask. Most people just laugh and clap, waiting for the real spectacle to start.

The Lion shakes its mane, cleans itself, licks its paws and then, finally, readies itself for the dance. Like an inchworm racing across a leaf, it weaves between the people in the crowd, searching. Eyelashes bat in a flirtatious manner, and the ears swivel as a tongue scents the air. What is it searching for, I wonder? The head jumps up on the rear’s legs, looking up high. Not finding it there, the Lion shakes its huge head again, and tries once again to flirt with the crowd to find what it wants. No luck there, and there is no retribution for the good-natured laughter—even the Lion must admit that it too is having fun. Again, the dancer beneath the head jumps onto the dancer in the rear, climbing up on two legs in a strong horse stance to sniff at doorposts, windows and street signs.

And then—there—it has found it! The offering of food! You can’t expect the creature just roused from the sleep of centuries to bless anything if you don’t feed it! A cabbage hangs from twine tied to the top of a door post. The Lion jumps up, misses, and tries again. Hands reach out from the mouth, pulling the vegetable inside. The beast is so famished he tears the cabbage apart, throwing nearly all the leaves at the crowd as he tries to eat. He tosses it into the air, and like greenbacks in the wind, the pieces float down.

Just as he finishes the mere snack, the drums start beating hard and fast again, and the beast, in thanks of the food, romps playfully into the building where the cabbage had been hung. The musicians follow behind the lion, and we, the crowd, hear the banging fade for a few minutes as the Lion does his duty to scare away the evil spirits who might inhabit the office building. Like a receding wave, the music must inevitably swell again, and the great beast saunters back out, his entourage following steadfastly behind. He snakes through the crowd like a serpent through the tall grass, springing and jumping and playing. Another dancer, dressed in black, comes from out of nowhere and quickly switches places with the one playing the rear legs. Full of energy, this new Lion hops through the crowd, skipping with joy. Someone on the other side of the street calls suddenly: another cabbage hangs from his doorpost.

The Lion bounds over, bobbing its gargantuan head of stout snout and mascara paint-swirls as the crowd moves out of its way. As it nearly reaches the cabbage, another switch occurs, and a new dancer takes the place of the head. Up it jumps! It misses. Up it goes again! The mouth grabs onto the swinging vegetable, trying to swallow it whole. The leaves spew out again, tossed by the hidden dancer’s hands, and the crowd squeals with laughter at the Lion’s antics.

Just as he had before, the Lion charges into the new building, weaving in about between cubicles and rooms, chasing away evil spirits with his shaking mane and now-serious demeanor. Then, to the clapping of the crowd, he comes back out, tail-end high in the air with pride at a job well done—No bad luck will haunt his territory. And now that the Lion is full, he can really begin to show off. The dancer in the head jumps up, swinging his legs up and outward. As he lands, the dancer in the back copies him like it is a one-person game of leapfrog. The Lion pivots at the head, then the tail, and then the head again, creating circles in the following crowd as it moves and down the street, touching houses and spreading the blessing of its presence.

One last twining through the crowd brings the Lion Dance to an end all too soon, but everyone is elated. The dancers are congratulated by their teacher, random passers-by and the ones who hired them, and they smile as they blush before helping to put the Lion to sleep on top of the boulder-sized drum once again. It will be quite sometime before it awakens again, and they are all sweaty and quite tired, for playing the king of jungle is hard work. The four dancers joke about small mistakes, though I didn’t notice any mess-ups. They sit on the sidewalk of the quickly-emptying street drinking sugarcane juice and enjoying the feeling of a well-earned rest. Though they do not understand the words I say, they understand my wide smile of open awe and give me a wave as I walk by.