In South America, the First Person I Met Who Spoke Chinese Was an American

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In Colonia, an isolated little town in Uruguay, I met the first travel companion on my long South American journey who spoke Chinese—but he was American. It sounds like the opening line of an absurdist novel.

The seaside town of Colonia—more accurately, it should be called a riverside town.

The reddish waters of the Río de la Plata surge toward the sea nearby, so geographically speaking, this place might be... Uruguay’s version of Chongming Island?

From Buenos Aires, it takes just one hour by ferry to reach the town’s old quarter. People have lived here since the 17th century, and there are cobblestone lanes along with houses, churches, the town hall, a lighthouse, and fortifications built from the same stone.

You can wander around and finish exploring it in no time. People in the past really did live within a very small radius. In early spring, the town is shaded by lush green trees.

When I walked into my hostel room, my roommate, lying on his bed reading, greeted me.

We chatted for a few minutes in a mix of English and Spanish. Then he heard that I was from China.

He immediately switched to: “Hi! I’m from Shenzhen. Where are you from?” For a moment, I felt like both time and my nervous system had short-circuited.

Mike, from Shenzhen—or rather, Mike whose Chinese name is Lao Gao—had already been living in China for five years.

Lao Gao teaches all subjects at a private elementary school in Shenzhen. To be honest, I still don’t really understand why they hired an American for that.

He teaches math, science, and even P.E. But at that moment, the only two Mandarin level-eight speakers in town were both in this room.

Life in the town feels so simple it’s as if nothing has changed for centuries. Even the little roadside shops sell old objects that seem to hold another era inside them.

The most enchanting moment of the day has to be sunset by the sea—or river: retired old men sit in their own boats chatting with friends, while a lone rider with all his belongings piled behind his motorcycle sits by himself on the embankment.

A group of kids climb up and down the old city walls after school. Unemployed young people lounge around on the street, empty bottles scattered beside them, while couples whisper to each other, wrapped up in their own world.

The town’s nightlife = 0. Quiet to the point of boredom.

So a group of people from all over had no choice but to gather at the only bar still open for a casual drink. Eventually the conversation turned to China over the past few years.

People from other countries still have some pretty deep misunderstandings about us. At moments like that, what Lao Gao said came across as much more objective and persuasive—some of it was even new to me.

For example, I had assumed that, as a foreigner, traveling to western China would be pretty inconvenient.

But he said he goes skiing in Xinjiang almost every year. If the visa-free policy encourages more people to come and see the place for themselves, that’s a good thing too.

The next morning, we went for a run along the river, from the old quarter to the new town, and it felt as if we had crossed several centuries in an instant. The modern new district of Colonia, I heard, is supposed to be developed into Uruguay’s Silicon Valley.

When we parted, Lao Gao and I agreed to meet again in a few months for another drink in Shenzhen—China’s Silicon Valley.