wenty students, including me, were selected to attend Ben Stevenson's classes. Ben seemed to enjoy teaching at our academy and I was exhilarated with his approach. Compared to our restrictive training, his seemed so much easier and freer. He approached dance mainly from the artistic aspect, emphasising relaxation and fluidity of movement rather than strict technique. I found him fascinating and inspiring and my body felt good while I performed in his classes.

After the second class, Ben offered our academy two scholarships for his annual summer school at the Houston Ballet Academy in Texas. It was incredible, unbelievable news! The chance to leave China, to see the West! Nobody believed that this could be true. But Ben was told that he couldn't choose the students himself. The academy would nominate who would go: we would have to wait and see.

Ben gave the invitation letter to the academy officials in March and he expected the students to be in Houston by July.

Then the two students were chosen. One was a boy called Zhang Weiqiang. The other was me.

We were ecstatic. So was the whole school. It was too impossible to be true! How could I be going to America? How could I?

The academy officials thought it would be difficult for us to obtain our passports and visas that quickly, so they didn't pursue the matter seriously until they received a phone call from the Ministry of Culture a few weeks later. None of them knew then that Ben Stevenson had powerful friends in America. One was George Bush who had just finished serving as the first US envoy to China after President Richard Nixon's visit in 1972. And his wife Barbara Bush was a trustee of the Houston Ballet. Both were serious balletomanes and both were well respected by the Chinese government. George Bush had formed a good relationship with Deng Xiaoping: his political connections would no doubt ensure the acceptance of this scholarship invitation. And it did. Zhang Weiqiang and I were granted permission from the Ministry of Culture to go to Houston very quickly indeed.

Zhang Weiqiang and I went to the Beijing Passport Bureau as soon as we possibly could. The police handed us two application forms and we were told to write down both our Chinese and English names. Zhang and I looked at each other. We didn't have any English names.

"Write your name in pinyin then," the policeman said.

Pinyin was invented by the Chinese government to help foreigners pronounce Chinese words. But it was based on Latin pronunciation, not English, and I didn't have a clue how to write my name that way. So I just put my family name first, as usual in China, and wrote "Li Cunxin" on my application form.

"Is this your real birth date?" the police officer asked when he read my completed forms.

I had written 10 January 1961. "Yes. What do you mean `real`?" I asked.

"Is it your Chinese calendar birthday or the official calendar birthday?" he asked.

My family had always used the Chinese calendar, never the official calendar. It had never occurred to me that government agencies used the same calendar as the rest of the world.

"No good," the police officer said when I told him. "We need the official calendar. You'll have to go and find out before we can issue you a passport."

But that date was the only birthday I knew. My parents wouldn't know either, because most babies in the countryside were delivered at home and local records would state the Chinese calendar date only. Peasants never used the official calendar for anything. It wasn't until much later that I discovered my official birthday was set as 26 January.

Zhang knew his official birth date though. His application was fine.

I began to panic. I was nearly in tears. I had to get my passport and visa in time for the summer school in Houston. I couldn't miss this opportunity! I begged the police officer, "Please, Comrade. Who would care when my exact birthday is? I don't have enough time to find out. I will miss this opportunity to serve our country!"

He hesitated then. "All right," he said eventually and I sank with relief.

Our visas were approved by the American consulate in Beijing in a matter of days. We were overwhelmed with excitement. But once the euphoria faded away, panic struck. Zhang and I could speak no English. How would we ever understand the Americans?

An English tutor gave us a crash course for a few days, starting with the English alphabet and ending with simple phrases such as yes, no, good morning, hello and goodbye. I used Chinese words to help me pronounce the English words, like I'd done to learn the French ballet terms, but they sounded ridiculously Chinglish and I really had no idea how I would make myself understood.

We also had to go into the Ministry of Culture to be briefed by the officials. The head of the Educational Bureau, Wang Zicheng, met us briefly. He spoke with a gentle, persuasive voice. "Work hard while you're there, show your American hosts how hard Chinese people work. Don't forget that you're representing China and the Chinese people. Treasure this opportunity. Bring back knowledge. Resist capitalist influences and make sure you exercise your communist judgement." He shook our hands and left but his assistant continued to lecture us. "Be polite at all times. If you don't understand what people are saying, just say "yes" and smile. Never say "no". Never. "No" is a negative word. People might be offended." She too told us not to let filthy Western influences into our pure communist minds. Everything we did or said would represent China and the Chinese people.

She then took us into a room which contained a few racks of used Western-style suits and ties. She said they had a small supply mainly used for government delegations going to foreign countries. We had never worn a suit before, only Mao's jackets, but we were told to borrow a suit each from the ministry. We tried quite a few on but all were too big for our skinny bodies. We ended up choosing the smallest suits but the shoulders still came halfway down our arms and we had to fold the sleeves up. We also borrowed two ties and a suitcase each.

Zhang and I, to our utter astonishment, soon became a news item in China. We were the first official exchange artists between China and America since Chairman Mao took over power in 1949.

I telephoned my parents for the first time since leaving home all those years ago. I rang from Director Song's office. My second brother Cunyuan came to the commune phone first. "Ni hao, Erga!" I screamed excitedly into the phone.

"Ni hao, Cunxin! What's wrong?" he asked, sounding concerned. Something dreadful must surely have happened for me to use a telephone.

"Nothing! I am going to America for six weeks!" I replied.

There was silence. "Really? You're joking," he said.

"No! I'm not joking. I am going to America with another student," I replied.

"My brother is going to America!" he screamed loudly to the people in the commune office. I could hear a roar of cheers.

"I can't believe this!" he continued. "America! I heard everyone there carries guns. If they don't like you they'll just shoot you. And everyone has cars. Niang is here…"

"Jing Hao!" my niang called.

"Niang, how are you?" I asked. I was so happy to hear her voice.

"I'm fine. Are you really going to America?" she asked breathlessly.

"Yes, I'll be leaving in a few days."

"Ah! Why didn't you tell us earlier? We could send you some apples and dried shrimps to take on the road," she said.

"I am going on a plane. I was told no food is allowed on the airplanes."

"On the airplane? Wo de tian na! How unthinkable! My son is going to fly on the airplane!" I heard her say to the people in the office and there were more cheers.

"Ask him how many hours will it take to get to America?" I heard one of the commune leaders ask.

"Tell that Uncle, I was told that I have to fly to Tokyo first, the capital of Japan, and then it will be something like twenty hours to America."

"Please be careful. Stay away from the evil people in America. Don't they kill coloured people there?" my niang asked, sounding worried.

"I'm going with another student. We'll look after each other. I've also met the American dance teacher from Houston. His name is Ben. He seems nice."

"Just be careful. These foreigners are wild! They are different from us. Don't trust them."

I wasn't surprised by my family's concerns about America. For so many years we had been told that the West, especially America, was evil. We'd heard of nothing but the mistreatment of black people, the violence on the streets, the use of firearms. Even I, who had read a few books about America since the downfall of the Gang of Four and didn't totally believe what I had learnt in the past, was still suspicious and apprehensive.

I could never have imagined, however, that this conversation with my niang and Cunyuan was the last one I would have with them for many long years.

In the last few days before we were due to leave, the whole academy became excited for us. Teachers and classmates constantly congratulated us. We were called into Director Song's office once again. She was all smiles. She gave us the familiar lecture, told us to study hard, to show the Americans our work ethic. Never to lose face for our great nation. Never to allow Western influences to penetrate our staunch communist values.

Our day of departure finally arrived. That morning, eight of my friends including the Bandit, Chong Xiongjun and my violinist friend Liu Fengtian, went out to a nearby café and brought back some pig's head meat, some red sausages, pickled vegetables, watermelon and a few jugs of warm beer. They had to smuggle the beer into the academy: we would be in trouble if we were found out by the teachers. For two hours we would enjoy our food together, our companionship, before the academy's jeep took us to the airport. We speculated about what America would be like. I promised I would tell them everything when I returned. "Don't you let a big-nosed girl kidnap you over there!" said the Bandit. How he wished that he was allowed to go to the airport with me.

When it was time for Zhang and me to leave, our friends fought over carrying our luggage to the jeep and in the commotion the Bandit quietly shuffled something into my hand. "Read it on the plane," he whispered.

I quickly slipped the paper into my pocket. Before we stepped into the jeep, our friends, teachers, everyone, came forward to shake our hands. Teacher Xiao was very emotional. "Yi lu ping an!" He wished me a safe trip and shook both of my hands hard. "Cunxin! Cunxin! I know you will make China proud! Bring back new knowledge! I can't wait to share all your discoveries when you return!"

The last to say goodbye was the Bandit. Tears filled his eyes and he couldn't speak a single word.

"Six weeks will disappear before you know it!" I said to him.

As the jeep pulled away from our academy buildings, the last thing I saw was the Bandit's tear-stained face.

I'd never been to an airport before, except the abandoned military airport near our village where I'd tried to dig up half- burnt coal as a small boy. But this Beijing Airport was not what I had expected at all. It was strangely quiet compared to the hustle and bustle of Beijing Station. Everything was orderly.

We were hours too early and the check-in counter wasn't even open, so Zhang Shu, the head of our ballet department who was accompanying us, took us to a little canteen and bought us each a Coca-Cola. We'd heard all about Coca-Cola—the most successful invention of the Western world. We couldn't believe we were about to taste some. I took a big mouthful and swallowed it eagerly. Too eagerly. I nearly choked with all the fizz. So did Zhang Weiqiang. We looked at each other and laughed. Our first Western experience, an American icon, and I didn't like it at all.

We said goodbye to Teacher Zhang before we checked through immigration. Zhang Weiqiang and I were now on our own. We sat on the bench in the waiting room and looked at each other. We hadn't a clue what to do. We looked out the window towards the huge airplane with "China Airlines" written on it. I had never seen a plane so close. It was gigantic. It was overwhelming. How could a heavy thing like that ever get off the ground?

When the time came for us to board, several uniformed airline people escorted us downstairs to a bus which took us out to the plane. As we moved closer the plane became bigger and bigger and bigger. I felt like a tiny insect.

We walked up the steps and as we entered the plane a pleasant cool air seemed to cover me completely. I liked it but I wondered where on earth it was coming from. And I couldn't believe how big the inside of the plane was! Rows and rows and rows of colourful seats.

Eventually we found our seats and waited nervously for something to happen. When it did, I nearly suffocated with excitement. I looked out the window. I saw the accelerating engines. My heart was pounding. My stomach churned—I didn't know whether to laugh or to scream. I could never have imagined this! My heartbeat raced faster and faster, my excitement flew higher than the clouds! Here I was, leaving behind our great nation of communists with its steadfast beliefs and ideology forever supporting us. I felt unbelievably proud.

Our plane levelled out and once I was over the shock of the take- off I began to explore and investigate everything I could. Movies to watch! Music to listen to! And a hostess to serve us beautiful meals: rice with fish, Japanese noodles. The hostess asked us what kind of drinks we would like. I chose something called Sprite this time.

We were treated like royalty. I felt bad just sitting there being waited on and letting someone else do all the work. What would my niang say? So I offered to help the hostess wash the plates. She just looked at me with a very strange expression. "No, thank you," she said.

This must be a millet dream, I thought. Too good to be true. But I pinched myself and it hurt. I was like an ant in a hot wok. I couldn't stay still for a minute. I went through the contents of the seat pocket in front of me and found a little bag which contained unbelievable luxuries: a miniature toothbrush, toothpaste, a pair of socks and eye covers for sleeping. Zhang and I even kept the safety card as a souvenir. It had a picture of the entire plane on it! What would my niang and her sewing circle think of this! How could they even begin to imagine it?

I looked around and noticed that most of the passengers on the plane seemed to be Chinese, government officials most likely. Many of them gave us rather surprised looks, no doubt wondering how two young students could be so privileged to be flying overseas. Very few government officials were allowed overseas, let alone students like us.

With all the excitement of the take-off I had forgotten about the Bandit's note. I opened the white envelope he had given me and a small piece of paper slipped out. It was a poem:

As blood brothers, the departure of one will never wane the love in our hearts. Not fortune or money, but only the pursuit of innocence and honour, will strengthen the love in our hearts.

I thought of the past seven years and our hard and lonely life at the academy. Without the Bandit and his friendship, my life there would have been unbearable.

The three-hour flight to Tokyo went by very quickly. We were told we had to get off the plane for a couple of hours at Tokyo Airport. I couldn't believe we had travelled so far in only three short hours. But once again Zhang and I didn't know what to do. We were too afraid to leave the gate area in case we missed our flight, so we just wandered around or stood together until it was time to board. I happened to glance up at a coffee-stand's price list and noticed that a cup of coffee cost US$3.00. I did a quick calculation. That was nearly half a month's salary for my dia! Perhaps I had got the numbers wrong. I did the sum again. No, that was right. I could only look at the list in total astonishment.

This time we boarded a Northwest Airlines plane and walked directly onto it through a sort of tunnel without having to walk up any steps at all. This plane was even bigger than the first. Much bigger. This was something called a jumbo jet, we were told. It was awesome. There were endless rows of seats and we were, amazingly, ushered to an upper deck. Blankets and pillows were neatly placed on the seats and there were more gift bags and more flight safety cards for us to keep as souvenirs. There were even magazines which we couldn't read but we did look at the pictures. A beautiful car was splashed across two pages with $35 written below it. Perhaps this was how much it would cost the Americans to buy this magnificent car, Zhang and I pondered.

This time over half of the passengers in our cabin were foreigners. I noticed a strong smell of perfume from some of the women and I couldn't quite get used to it. The combination of watermelon and beer at my farewell party caused me a great many trips to the toilet too. I thought the hostess must have thought something was wrong with this Chinese boy who kept going to the toilet all the time.

It was impossible for me to believe that I was actually sitting on this gigantic airplane on my way to the West. I looked down at the thick beautiful clouds and thought I was in the ninth heaven.

I was so excited, but neither Zhang nor I had a clue about what was waiting for us.