How Now, Mao?
HOW NOW, MAO?
"No Turning Back: On the Loose in China and Tibet," by John W. Meyer
Published by The Neither/Nor Press, P.O. Box 7774, Ann Arbor, Ml 48107
Editors Note: For your summer reading enjoyment, AGENDA is pleased to present excerpts from the recently published book, "No Turning Back: On the Loose in China and Tibet," written by John W. Meyer.
John Meyer grew up in Ann Arbor, graduated from Pioneer High in 1978, and earned a degree in Political Science and Asian Studies from the University of Michigan in 1982. Meyer has also travelled more than his share of miles around Ann Arbor as a Yellow Cab driver, a job he uses every now and then to replenish his traveling funds.
"No Turning Back" is Meyer's account of his unrelenting 1986 quest to blaze his own trail through China unhindered by official travel restrictions or the often brutal conditions of being on the road. "No Turning Back" is also an account of China's on-again, off-again journey from a communist economic system to a capitalist one.
Meyer's journey takes him counter-clockwise around the People's Republic, starting in Hongkong, north to Beijing and then west through Inner Mongolia to Tibet. The passages below are extracted from various points along the way and are meant to be only an introduction to this great book. They represent but a small fraction of the entertaining and insightful passages of Meyer's adventure.
In addition to being the work of an Ann Arborite, "No Turning Back" is also the product of an Ann Arbor-based publisher: The NeitherNor Press, and can be bought directly from them or from many fine local bookstores.
Introduction
This is simply what happened. Chinese history and current events, as well as this story, may be looked at in any number of ways. Whoever you are and whatever your perspective, I hope that after reading this you will come to know China in a new way.
I went there in the spring of 1986 and stayed three-and-a-half months. Although I had dreamed of going to China for over ten years, and studied about it in school, I spoke no Chinese. I had tried twice to learn it at Michigan, but wound up flunking. The only thing I could remember when I left for the Far East was the phrase for "I cannot speak Chinese."
I saw China as an outsider. I was not there as a journalist, nor as a student or a "foreign expert," a Chinese euphemism for a teacher from abroad. I went on a tourist visa, but was determined to have more than the conventional tourist experience. Of the people I've spoken with who visited China, many disliked it and said that they would never return. The most common type of remark I heard from returning visitors was, "It was interesting, but a real headache. It was rough." This sort of comment carne from both package tourists as well as people who saw China on their own.
Independent travel in China was still a new thing in 1986. This newness was both good and bad. It was good because people were going all over the country, blazing trails and seeing the country for what it was, rather than what the Chinese government wanted us to see it as. To say what "seeing China for what it is" means isn't easy, and is partly the point of this book. [pg. 1]
Welcome to China
I arrived in Guangzhou after 11 p.m. I had expected to have a hard time getting to a hotel, as I was under the impression that communist cities all went to bed at nine. But coming out of Guangzhou Station, I saw, to my wonder and amazement, hundreds of trucks, motorcycles and red taxi's roaring by at breakneck speed! Every so often old blue and white busses crammed with people lumbered by. Wow! At the bus stop, Uygurs tried to sell me hashish, and a gentleman who had to be at least 60 asked me where I was from. I told him, and he smiled, shook my hand and said, "We welcome you." Wow! My bus came, and 2 máo got me to Shamian Island. Shamian was where foreigners trading with China were confined during the 19th Century. Now it was the center for backpackers' lodging, as well as the locale of the White Swan Hotel, a massive luxo-box with a waterfall in the lobby. Along the way there, I saw dozens of cafes open, and snack vendors on every sidewalk.
I secured a dorm bed for 6 kuai, and went out to eat. I found a spot by the canal, and ordered a plate of spicy vegetables and tofu, with a 650 ml bottle of Zhu Jiang (Pearl River) Beer. Chinese beer was generally excellent and cheap, but Zhu Jiang was particularly fine, with an oh-so-smooth taste. A huge helping of food with a beer cost 2 kuai 70. After midnight, no less! I went back to the dormitory walking on air.
I woke up late and met a middle-aged German man who had been living in the dorm for two months. He spent his days writing to mail-order brides in Thailand and the Philippines. "But always, they are already married by the time I write them. " We sipped tea made with boiled water from the gaggle of thermoses left out for guests. These were standard in Chinese hotels, even the modem ones. It was reassuring, as far as sanitation was concerned. The trick was getting used to gulping down warm or hot water to quench your thirst on a hot summer day.
After breakfasting on Grape-Nuts from Hongkong, I went out to take pictures. It was a warm, hazy day. I finished one roll and snapped half of another. Everything I saw rang bells in my head. "What great images!" I thought to myself as I juxtaposed watch repairmen set up in front of stem billboards exhorting The People to drive safely. Garish polyester leisure suits mingled with mao jackets. There were even more taxis in the daytime. The Pearl River buzzed with dilapidated dinghies and cruise boats steaming up from Hongkong. It all seemed like fairyland, or a fanciful dream.
I slowly walked my way to the Temple of the Martyrs of the Canton Uprising. It was a museum of revolutionary memorabilia, surrounded by a large park. I reached the park, and my jet lag hit one last time. The hot, muggy air contributed to my sudden lethargy, as well. I lay down on a bench under a pavilion and took a nap.
When I woke up after what might have been an hour's snooze, my camera was gone. It was only an Instamatic, the throwaway camera, $14 from K-mart. But to be in China without a camera seemed at the time to be a tremendous shame. The person who stole it was a bold one--the camera was on the bench right above my head. I don't know the particulars, but my time in China later convinced me that theft from a foreigner was a more serious crime than theft from a Chinese. The saddest part about the whole affair was that the poor jerk who stole my camera couldn't even use it. 126 film wasn't available in China, and what's more, it was undevelopable. I resolved to make my diary entries all the more vivid. [pgs. 21-22]
Hitting the Road in Southeast China
There seemed to be a lot of 30-ish men wandering around in South China, on the road. Many of them carried little more than a doctor bag. I dubbed them the Jesus Trekkers, or alternately, the Lost Generation. The former name came from my idea of Jesus' disciples wandering around the countryside, carrying little more than a toothbrush (Luke 9:3-5). I admired these guys' economy, and felt slightly top-heavy whenever I saw them, wearing my big spacious pack filled with three changes of clothes, raingear, books, and so on.
My latter nickname for them came from their appearance. They did indeed seem lost and aimless. They looked like hoboes, traveling for traveling's sake, rather than with any particular destination in mind. They grabbed rides on trucks and busses, inquiring about a destination only as an afterthought. Now, I find nothing wrong with this. In fact, I have often wandered around my own country in this manner. But their behavior contrasted sharply with what most other Chinese were up to. So many people, from kids eager to learn English on up to grannies peddling cigarettes and noodles on the street, were being industrious and entrepreneurial.
I didn't speak with any of these guys, but I imagined them to be former Red Guards, from the Cultural Revolution. In the '60s, the schools were closed, and young people were encouraged to become Red Guards, in order to experience first-hand the revolutionary fervor that they were too young to have known when the communists took power. They were dispatched on long trips all over the country to proselytize with Chairman Máo's Little Red Book, and to "struggle" with those who didn't see the light. Perhaps these hoboes weren't all old Red Guards, but their general age group placed them in that generation. And I saw no elderly bums, nor any young people just cruising around the way these guys were.
When the Red Guards' attempts at re-creating revolution had pushed China to the brink of anarchy, the communist cadres who organized them, notably the #1 cadre, Chairman Máo, did an about face and called in the army. They sent the kids off to work farms, far from their homes, where they might cool off and engage in productive labor.
Now, these former Red Guards found themselves without a formal education in a rapidly changing society, where knowledge was the key to advancement. They had been taught, in fact, to fiercely attack things like entrepreneurship and the ways of the Occident, which were now being pushed by China's leaders as the nation's salvation. What else could they do, but the only thing they had really learned, to travel? They were adept at getting from place, but had no idea where they were bound for, or what to do when they got there. They were on an endless trip, permanently off track, ignorant and cynical, destination forgotten. [pgs. 42-43]
City Life
That evening, I met Shou Ku at the bus stop. We boarded a No. 1 bus and went downtown. He lived in a long five-story housing block. It might have been built in the '50s, but it could have been older. The stairway was unlit--he led the way with a flashlight. Two floors up, we walked a short way down a hallway littered with garbage. Shou unlocked a door, and ushered me into his apartment.
He lived alone in a small, single room, about 12 by 30 feet. He confided in me almost immediately that he would not marry, because that would make it more difficult for him to emigrate. His place was adorned with lots of books, and kitschy velvet landscape paintings. He bid me to sit down, and served me jasmine tea and cakes. His shortwave radio/dual deck jam box was tuned to the Voice of America. VOA was presenting a feature on Bob Seger.
He was eager to talk, and only remotely interested in who I was or what I thought. This was a relief after being questioned about my job and my age all over the country. He first implied to me that he was out of work, but it later turned out that he worked as a security guard at a factory. This involved sitting at a desk and reading or writing whatever he wanted to for 9 hours a day. What he meant to say was that compared to his last job, an interpreter for the Shell Oil joint venture off the Shandong coast, his current job was not respectable, or even what one would call work.
His current project was a translation of an American detective novel about Russian gangsters. He said that it would be finished by October, and that he could get it published. We discussed many things, among them the U.S. economy, travel, and the Cultural Revolution. The Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution, as it was known, was what he really wanted to talk about.
In 1967, Shou Ku had been accused of espionage, specifically of being a Soviet spy. He told me that his fluency in Russian and English had led to these charges, which were completely unfounded. He had been handcuffed for two years in Jinán, the capital of Shandong. I got a chill as I looked at his wrists and saw the marks. He asserted "very few" people died as a result of the Cultural Revolution, but that "almost everybody suffered" and "many lives were ruined." In 1979, the Party officially proclaimed that his treatment had been "a miscarriage of justice."
We mulled over the similarities between Nazism, McCarthyism, and the hysteria that was the Cultural Revolution, and how fear could come to dominate a society. We discussed whether mass fear merely made it easier to stampede individuals, or if it actually caused this. Shou felt that it was used by those in power to achieve their aims, and that they were responsible when mass fear swept a population.
Though he had considerable enmity for the Party, he was grateful for Beijing's opening to the west. He hoped that this would present him with an opportunity to leave China. He worked for Shell in 1984 and '85, but lost his job when Shell suddenly pulled out and the venture folded. They did this because they were "getting nowhere." Shou Ku was very fond of the Shell Oil Company. He had lots of trinkets with the company's logo on them, and loads of pictures of him posing with American and European Shell employees.
I wore an old blue mao jacket, which had been a gift from my father, who bought it while lecturing in China in 1981. Mao jackets are called Zhongshan coats in China. Zhong Shan (Middle Mountain) is what the Chinese call Sun Yatsen, who popularized the style. Shou was curious about it, but he said to me, "You shouldn't wear this."
"Why not?"
"Because it is rubbish." In Shanghai, Wang and Cheng had also asked me about my coat. Wang explained that "only working people wear this jacket," and asked me why I wore it. I could only reply that I had been a working person. I was sad that Chinese men, in their cheap, affected western garb, felt compelled to sneer at working people in mao jackets.
It got to be late, and I got up to go. "Will you come back?" asked Shou.
"Sure, when?"
"How about the night after tomorrow night. Meet me outside my building at 7:00 p.m." Shou led me back down the stairway and out the door. He thanked me for coming, and I thanked him for having me. The busses had stopped running, and I walked home. [pgs. 87-89]
The Road to Tibet
We pulled off the river and into a tiny village. It quickly became apparent that this was the terminus. As we had yet to cross the Yellow River, it was definitely not Dalad Qi. We inquired, and discovered that we were in "Zalad Qi." Locals quickly gathered to stare. They found it quite amusing that we had thought we were going to Dalad Qi. We would have, too, if we hadn't been so hungry and out of sorts. The bus hustlers told us that they would take us back to Baotóu in a half-hour. And we thought we were done with that place. We got off to check out the town and get some food.
A parade immediately formed behind us. We must have been the first white people to visit that backwater in a long, long time. Zalad Qi plainly had no tourist infrastructure. We turned to have a look at two small eating places, which stood next to each other. The women at one of them screamed and ran inside when we looked at them. That was the place for us!
We went in and ordered vegetable chow mein, a dish that takes no time at all to prepare. We were really hungry. We waited and waited, and grumbled in unison with our stomachs. Finally, after 20 minutes, out came noodles with two eggs, a sauce with eggs and vegetables, and a mountainous plate of bean sprouts. Yumm! Easily the best noodles I'd had in China. This was not starvation talking, either. When we had polished off this feast, the women began to bring out more food. We politely told them that we were stuffed, thank you, and that our bus would be leaving soon. Then came the bill--5 máo each. How great! How tremendous! Hospitality like this leaves one without anything to do but offer thanks a thousand times. It was flabbergasting.
We walked out, parting the big crowd that had gathered to watch us eat. I went to go to the toilet, while Dave went to find some beer. The parade began again. Three young guys even followed me into the outhouse to watch me squat. This took a long time. The stalls were littered with old English lessons used for toilet paper, [pgs. 134-135]
Eyeless in Lhasa
When I became tired of dwelling on my problems, I started to look around me. There were a lot of pilgrims in the park, sitting down in small groups, drinking tea and chatting. Many more were making a clockwise circuit around the Potala. As they promenaded, they expressed their devotion by fingering strings of prayer beads, spinning prayer wheels and mumbling "Om Mani Padne Hum," ad infinitum. Prayer beads resemble rosary beads. A prayer wheel is a wooden cylinder on a spindle. There is a little jingle bell tied to the cylinder by a string. To spin the wheel, one holds the spindle upright and rotates it with a little stirring motion. This spins the cylinder, with the help of the centrifugal force of the little bell. There were also larger prayer wheels in the temples. They were big cylinders, mounted in a row so that you could spin one after another by walking along and pushing the handles on each cylinder.
Pilgrims from different parts of Tibet wore different outfits. Most distinctive were the Khampas, from Kham, in eastern Tibet. The men wore their hair very long, finely braided into stringlike strands. They kept it tied up above their heads with a red scarf, making what looked like a half-undone turban. They were also usually rather big. Most Khampas were over 5'10", while other Tibetans tended to be short and wiry. The Khampas had a regal, holy air about them, which vaguely reminded me of Jamaican Rastas.
A few pilgrims made the prayer circuit by crawling. One doing this would stand, kneel and then lie face down on the ground, and knock his head on the ground three times, uttering prayers ceaselessly. He would repeat this process twice more. Then, with his chest on the ground, push himself forward about a foot. Some of the pilgrims were suffering from goiter. One woman had one the size of a grapefruit. While they were in Lhasa, the pilgrims camped in an area on the outskirts of the old Tibetan section.
I got some noodles from a Moslem joint near the Potala. They gave me a discount for asking for no meat. The family that ran the place seemed as devout to their god as the pilgrims were to theirs. I thought a bit about the practice of religion in China. The Buddhist temples in eastern China seemed to be open primarily for the benefit of tourists, both those wishing to worship as well as to merely sightsee. There were monks and nuns at these places, but religion didn't seem to matter much to the vast majority of Chinese, unless you regard commerce as a religion. Perhaps the Chinese were just very discreet about practicing religion.
In Tibet, however, religion was plainly very important, and people were not at all shy about displaying their devotion and faith. It became quickly apparent to me that about 98% of the Tibetans were practicing Lama Buddhists. This figure is no exaggeration; I would say 100%, but I know there's got to be an atheistic Tibetan somewhere. Their ethnicity and their faith were one and the same. To be a Tibetan was to be a Buddhist. For the Tibetans, religion and nationalism were tied up in the same threads. [pgs. 212-213]
At Large in Tibet
We trooped into Samye around sunset. We had come about 15 kilometers from Ninguo that day, in addition to our jaunt up to Emano. Samye seemed like a real boom-town, compared to the other little places we'd been through. The big white lamasery sat in the center of town, surrounded by scaffolding. We found the luguan and asked about getting a bed. The two Chinese women who ran the place were extremely surly and rude. They told us beds were 3 kuai each, in a snide, unwelcoming manner. This put us off, and we said we'd look around to see if there was anything else available. This enraged one of them, who screamed at us that theirs was the only place in town for foreigners. Well, that did it. No way would they ever see any of our kuai.
I was the wearier of the two of us, and sat outside with our gear, while Dave went to the lamasery to see if we could get a bed there. The screaming lady carne out to shoo me away from the entrance to her compound. I told her if she wanted me to move, she could move our bags herself. She yelled a few more things at me, and stomped back inside.
Dave came back in about 20 minutes, with a young guy at his side. "Well, the monks thought about putting us up, but decided against it. However, this guy here said that he could put us up at his place. His name is Sari." I nodded and smiled, introducing myself. Sari spoke good Chinese. He took us to a nearby compound. We were sat down in the living room, where we met his family. His mom and dad were friendly and seemed happy to have us for guests. There were other cousins and uncles who wandered in and out, stopping to have shome chang [barley beer] and chat a bit before moving on. We were stuffed with potatoes, mounds of zampa, and quarts of chang. They had the same ten-portrait poster in their living room. I pointed to the picture of Dèng Xiaopíng, and asked the group in general, "Dèng Xiaopíng, hao bù hao?" The firm and unanimous reply came quickly. "Bù hao!"
We were shown to our room, which was a woodworking studio. There were shavings all over the floor, and the air reeked of lacquer. A picture of Chairman Máo hung on the wall, draped in a white scarf.
Sari came in and asked us if we wanted to go to the movies. But of course! We quaffed some more chang, and then the whole family trooped over to a big open area near the lamasery. A big sheet had been strung up between posts, and what seemed to be the whole town had gathered to see the show.
The movie was an incomprehensible flick that seemed to revolve around some gangsters being hunted down by the PLA [People's Liberation Army]. It looked as if it had been made sometime in the '60s, judging from the strident political soliloquies which came along every 15 minutes or so.
We stood in the back, laughing at the show, chatting and smoking cigarettes with a few guys who were excited to have discovered the presence of foreigners in the crowd. They all seemed rather uninterested in the movie, too. The gathering of the audience was the important thing. Many of them spoke Chinese, which seemed like a native tongue to us after three days of trying to communicate in Tibetan. They alluded to shooting between China and India, and wanted to know if we were headed that way. When I said yes, we were, they grinned and said, "Hen hao! (Very good!)"
The real show was in the sky. I saw an amazing number of stars, vibrantly twinkling and pulsing as if they were electrified. Jupiter and Mars boldly stood out like torches, and I watched Jupiter set behind the hills to the west. I caught a glimpse of a falling star, always a good sign. When the movies ended, every body filed home. We made our way back home with Sari and his mom, happy, tired and tipsy. Hen hao! [pgs. 256-258]
Postscript
As I roamed the country, a few things struck me again and again. One obvious thing was the aftermath of the Cultural Revolution. The sacked temples and the embittered survivors made one wonder why and how such a hateful, ugly movement could have swept a nation. It is saddening to think of all the books burned and art treasures destroyed, of all the lives that were ruined, for no good purpose at all. For nothing. Even if one supported the aims or ideals of the Cultural Revolution, it's obvious that it failed miserably, and was in fact extremely counterproductive toward those aims.
I found what the Chinese were attempting to do with their economy to be fascinating. Indeed, they are "restoring capitalism," but calling it a "Socialist Commodity Economy." Most Chinese people seemed pleased with the opportunity to make some money for themselves, no matter what the government called the system. But it is a tricky job to unshackle some sectors of the economy, while remaining firmly in control of others.
A couple of questions kept recurring to me as I travelled. I wondered whether Chinese citizens would begin to demand civil freedoms to go along with their emerging economic freedom. And what the government would do when such capitalist plagues like inflation and recession began to arise.
One might think that the student protests of winter 1986 in Beijing and Shànghai for "freedom and democracy" would portend a rough time for China's communist leaders. Frankly, I was surprised to hear of these protests. Not because I didn't expect yearning for democracy, but I thought these cries would come from professors rather than their students. I spoke to quite a few young people, who expressed a universal disinterest in and disdain for politics. As I've said, I was told repeatedly that "no one wants to join the Party" and that "politics is not interesting." This was in part just a polite Chinese way to change the subject, but there was also a solid element of truth in these statements. I got the distinct impression that most young Chinese (not only university students) were apolitical, or at least felt coerced into being so, and primarily interested in making money and getting ahead. [pgs. 315-316]
An Addendum (April, 1990)
Since I wrote the manuscript for this book, China's nascent democracy movement bloomed and was then crushed in the spring of 1989. I had hoped to have my book out before then, but many delays (technological and human) prevented this. Since doing my first draft, I have been back to China thrice, altogether another eight months, once before and twice after the slaughter at Tiananmén Square. I have also spent more than a year in Táiwan, trying to learn Chinese.
Rather than trying to update this work and make it "current" (building up the sections on youth and dissent, instilling a sense of foreboding, etc), I want to leave the book as it is--a record of what I did and how I felt, written down as a book in the winter of 1988. [pg. 319]
When I went back to China the winter after the massacre, I asked many young Chinese, "How can you personally improve the situation in China?" The two most common answers were, "by leaving" and "by waiting." Those in Táiwan and dissidents abroad have no clear idea, either. There is no public discussion of this question at all on the mainland, which makes things even worse.
What brings those living under a repressive dictatorship to finally rise up and challenge it? A sense of nothing to lose, and a catalyst to set events in motion. Hú Yàobang's death was the catalyst. Of all groups in China, the intellectuals have the least to lose, because they have nothing now except the respect of the people. Peasants have done very well over the past 10 years. Working people, while not as well off, still have the chance to go into business or engage in some kind of moneymaking enterprise. But university graduates are assigned jobs by the state which provides their education. Often, they are given jobs not really suitable to their skills, and find themselves living apart from their spouses, who are quite commonly assigned to another province. Their political loyalty is always suspect no matter what, and they are among the lowest-paid of Chinese citizens. A man who feels he has no future is a dangerous man. And so it was the students who spoke up, first in support of a man whose policies gave them hope, and then to challenge the men who removed him to change their ways. The citizens of Beijing manned the barricades, but it was the students who took the first step.
I feel the crucial demand of the students was for freedom: for more slack, for the right to make the most of their potential and thus contribute to the building of a modern and prosperous China. Resources are in short supply in China, and a weak or chaotic political situation leads to exploitation. This is already happening. This is why many students last spring were calling for improvements within the party and the government, not revolution. Only the government's reaction, beginning with martial law and Zhào Ziyáng's removal on May 18, and culminating in mass murder and subsequent cover-up, has caused China's brightest minds to commit themselves to the downfall of the Party.
Talking with students and city-dwellers in post-Tiananmén south China was extremely revealing. People were not only willing to talk politics, they were eager to, often introducing the subject. This was a big change from before, when business, not politics, was the usual topic. Except for one man (an engineer from Beijing, he said) who argued that stability was more important than civil rights, there was a unanimous consensus that the Party was rotten and had to be gotten rid of. I talked to people ranging in age from 15-65, including cadres' children, an elite group that has always enjoyed great privilege under the current system. I also spoke with a policeman who was in Beijing up to June 2. Note that I had no in-depth talks with peasants, who may understandably be more reluctant to change the status quo. The Party's violent reaction to the student movement has, I feel, alienated many others who were previously inclined to, if not support, then at least accept the Party and its predominance.
The June events in Beijing showed that the army is a key player in Chinese politics, and the ultimate arbiter. If the PLA were to go against Dèng Xiaopíng, there would be nothing he could do. After he dies, it is very unclear who can or will command the loyalty of the army. The PLA itself seems to be quite divided, on both regional as well as generational lines. Younger officers, I was told, sympathize with calls for a more open society. Also, the PLA is now a major manufacturer of consumer goods (as well as weapons for export), and has a stake in economic reform. Furthermore, there are already indications that the army is using its clout to protect local (i.e., provincial) industries, especially those in which it has an interest, from competition and taxes. China could be reduced to a nation of regional fiefdoms, an economic version of the warlord periods of the past.
The prognosis among the Chinese I spoke with was that nothing will happen "until the old man dies." Given that Dèng's legacy results in a large part from his having outlived Máo, it might be foolish to pin hopes on his quick demise. Yet he must go eventually, and nobody expects Li Péng and Jiang Zémín to be able to conduct business-as-usual once Dèng is gone. Nobody can really do more than guess what will pass when that day comes.
I would like to conclude by offering my tribute to the unknown hundreds who died in China last year at the hands of the PLA. This includes the few hundred who died in Chéngdu, Síchuan, in rioting early last June. Their deaths are in some way even more tragic than those in Beijing, as there were no members of the Western media corps there to record them. A zen riddle asks, if a tree falls in the middle of the forest and no one hears, did it ever really happen? Yes. We know. It happened. And you will not be forgotten. "NTB" [pgs. 321-323]
*A Note on the Romanization: The system of romanization used in this book is the Pinyin system, developed and used in the People's Republic of China. Pinyin literally means "spell-sound." AGENDA'S typesetting abilities unfortunately allowed only a partial rendering of this system.