I Grew My Boobs in China by Savannah Grace Page A

Yangshuo market, I knew we wouldn’t be seeing him again. We headed off in our own direction to find a place to stay. Just as we’d hoped, one of few locals trying to get commissions found us. He wore thin-brimmed, wire glasses and as a bonus, he spoke English. I was surprised to find someone who did, and he seemed just as surprised to find us.
    “Yes, yes. Come. Good place for you,” and he waved us on. Ammon, shrugging his fully-loaded shoulders, decided to follow him and check the place out.
    Yangshuo was supposed to be a quieter, less populated town, but it appeared to be just as fast-paced as anywhere else we’d seen. The streets were buzzing but in a different way. Briefcases and shiny shoes had apparently been traded in for rakes and sandals. Double-decker buses became wagons loaded with bundles of hay that towered threateningly over bustling pedestrians. Flashing city lights were transformed into shirts and underwear billowing from balconies and windows. Though a little more tanned and weathered than city folk, little about the inhabitants’ physical attributes had changed. The men were uniformly clean shaven with short, well-groomed hair and soft features, and the women all looked like our friend Sandra.
    The gawking continued, but it was here that a new, less-biased awareness finally sank in: it was not me the inhabitants were staring at, but Ammon! I was not alone in having to crane my neck to look up at him. He was a full foot taller than everyone else! Our five-foot-three height had miraculously become average sized, and we were like three little ducklings trailing in a row behind our brown-haired leader. He stood out like a flamingo in a flock of geese, a feature that often came in handy when we were chasing him in a crowd.
    I would react the same way if I saw a purple-headed space giant walking down my street, I realized. If I saw a long, stringy hair dangling from someone’s mole, I’d be tempted to stare, too . In fact, I had sent out some pretty inquisitive looks myself in the last few days! And it was not just his relative size that drew attention. Ammon’s short brown ringlets and five hooped earrings looked like something from the age of pirates. They must think he’s a woman. No wonder they’re confused and curious. Here, women wore only simple earrings and men would never be seen with such feminine accessories. Long hair on a male was completely unthinkable.
    Leaping over a puddle, I was cautious to gauge the hectic speed of approaching motorbikes and bicycles that could potentially swipe me off my feet.
    “Was that a chicken?!” I bellowed, staring at another bicycle passing by, this one with four hens strapped upside down by their feet to the handle bars. Another went by shortly with a load of fresh eggs stacked high in wooden crates teetering on the back fender. Clothes danced above us on lines strung from the windows as we made our way down the small, dirt streets of the residential areas, causing Bree to wonder aloud at the apparent lack of dryers.
    “They probably don’t have washers either,” Mom piped in, looking up.
    “I’m sure they don’t. It’s called haaand waassshhhing,” Ammon said, arrogantly sounding it out for us.
    Waddling up alongside Ammon, I expressed my disbelief, “Noooo, they don’t! You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
    “You would have said the same about the way they work their fields. People just don’t have all the modern appliances you’re used to. It’s not necessary.”
    “Hand washing, huh? Is this the slum area?” I asked, cautiously surveying the rickety buildings.
    “No! It is not the slums. You’re going to be doing it too, ya know,” he warned in what I took to be an ominous fashion. I hadn’t thought that far ahead and suddenly regretted the clumsy smudge of chocolate I’d gotten on my pink shirt. I began helplessly searching my memory for any Laundromats I might’ve seen along the way, but I couldn’t recall a single one. Only a few