I saw and heard him at about the same time.

He was singing loudly, and intermittently hitting himself on the back with a red pouch tethered with a white string, which was then wrapped securely around his right hand.

As we passed on the sidewalk, me failing horribly to suppress images of Monty Python,  I asked him if I could take his picture. He said yes, but didn’t want his face to be shown.

We talked for awhile. Him about the medicinal purposes of the pouch, and then asking me where I was from, how long had I lived in China, my age… the usual stuff that I’m asked about. He then asked me to guess his age. I said 60.

“66,” he said with a wide smile.