Side Trippin

The province in which I reside, Zhejiang, is only China’s 11th most populated, yet it has 11 million more people than California, despite being one fourth its size. Even more disproportionate, is its recorded history, being inhabited for over 7,000 years, with the last 2,500 and change contained within one continuous civilization. Basically, there are people everywhere, and they’ve been around for a minute, for lack of a better word. This becomes increasingly apparent when venturing out of the confines of my present hometown of Huzhou, with its modest population of 2 million, and limited sites of historical significance that have survived the current construction craze. Life here is pretty laid back by Chinese standards, which can lull you into a false notion about the reality of this country. Possibly more shocking than being injected into the human pinball of Shanghai is a quick flip through a China guidebook. Within a 200 mile radius of Huzhou, there are an abundance of mega cities that 99% of the world’s population has never heard of, like Wuxi, population 4.3 million, Yangzhou 4.46 million, , Shaoxing 4.3 million, Ningbo 5.4 million, and Wenzhou 7.4 million. The list could continue for quite a while, since China has more than 100 cities with a population over 1 million.

I’ve recently been escaping from Huzhou on the weekends to explore larger cities of interest that folks outside of China may have actually heard of. My first destination, Hangzhou, is a fellow Zhejiangian city, while Suzhou and Nanjing required crossing a border into the neighboring province of Jiangsu, population a modest 74 million.

The first thing any Chinese person will say when you mention Hangzhou, is “You must go to the West Lake.” The famed lake is located in the center of this town of six plus million people and is one of China’s major tourist attractions. It’s surrounded by pagodas, finely manicured shrubbery, and to my dismay, a handful of Starbucks. Hangzhou was founded 2,200 years ago and visited in the 13th century by Marco Polo, who then called it the finest city in the world. Unfortunately, my introduction to the city was slightly dampened, since it was raining relentlessly during my entire stay. Despite the non-cooperating weather, my English teaching crew and I went for a boat ride on the West Lake, which was relaxing, but didn’t quite live up to the hype that had been heaped upon me leading up to my visit.
My Hangzhou journey took place before Halloween, so an afternoon was spent searching for costume materials. This quest led to a gigantic, cavernous mall featuring five floors of utterly useless crap. Claustrophobia sunk in quickly while navigating through a mass of manikins and bootleg sunglasses, all housed under an 8 foot ceiling that seemed to get increasingly shorter by the minute. I’m not a fan of shopping to begin with, but I promptly came to refer to this place as hell incarnate.

The highlight of the entire weekend was an Indian food buffet, featuring a stage which rotated between a live belly dancer and a projection TV playing classic bollywood music videos. Here, my taste buds were graced by the likes of daal, naan, and chicken massala, which equaled such a mainlined overdose of non-Chinese flavor, it’s a miracle I didn’t eat myself into an eternal coma.

Another noteworthy experience in Hangzhou was my daring first attempt to eat a burrito in China. I had no expectations, although I couldn’t help but hold onto a shred of optimism, and wonder if I would be served a greasy, tinfoil wrapped, bean filled, masterpiece of Mexican origami, at which point I would go straight to KTV and sing “Reunited” by Peaches and Herb. Back in stone cold reality, I was met by shredded chicken and lettuce inside of a tortilla, the only saving grace being a conservative scoop of sour cream on the side.

I would never admit it to a Chinese person, but on this particular visit, the Indian food was more impressive than the West Lake. I imagine Hangzhou would be much more majestic when seen without an umbrella obstructed view, so hopefully I’ll be able to return and formulate a more Marco Polo-esque opinion.

According to a famous Chinese proverb, Suzhou is the equivalent of Heaven on earth. Upon arrival, with its population of 5.7 million, it looks just like any other sprawling city in China, but once you crack through its generic exterior, Suzhou becomes exponentially more heavenly. The old city, bounded on all sides by a moat, is about 5 square miles and features surviving patches of cobblestone streets, traversed by canals and bridges, hence its nickname, Venice of the East.

My first stop in Suzhou was the Humble Administrator’s Garden. I’d give the benefit of the doubt and assume the name is a joke, but the Chinese don’t really use irony, so it just appears to be a bold faced lie. Suzhou is famous for its gardens and this one is the largest and most renowned. It’s a meticulously designed oasis of coy filled ponds, pagodas, and precisely placed plant life, as to not disrupt the feng shui. Doesn’t seem like a place that would be dedicated to any so called humble administrator. As hypocritical as it sounds, this could’ve been one of the most relaxing places I’ve been in China, were it not for swarms of tourists spreading over every available square inch of the place. I’m aware that I’m just another tourist in the crowd, but i couldn't help imagining the garden without the armies of annoying tour groups, in which everyone sports matching hats, aimlessly following a flag waving tour guide like a flock of camera wielding sheep. In theory, this is the absolute low season for tourism, which makes me cringe at the thought of visiting in the high season. I’d personally recommend risking execution and hopping the fence after hours to enjoy the garden in peace and quiet.
Another significant event was a visit to the Pintan Opera Museum, which featured my first live theater experience in China, performed in Suzhouhua, the local regional dialect. If you’ve ever wondered why Chinese television always has Chinese subtitles, it’s because every region speaks a different dialect which is completely incomprehensible to its neighbors. Remarkably, the written language remains the same, so logically the performance had a digital projector displaying the written mandarin translation. Unfortunately, this did me no good, as I've managed to learn about 3 Chinese characters thus far (People, land, and building). Entertaining as it was to temporarily invent my own dialogue, it was difficult to become fully immersed in the drama without having the slightest idea as to what was going on.

Even though my 30 hour stay was too short to form any kind of accurate opinion, Suzhou is the best place I’ve been so far in China. Wandering around a maze of old one story buildings and canals, polluted as they may be, was a welcome relief to the soulless high rises that dominate the landscape elsewhere.

Most recently, I traveled to yet another metropolis, Nanjing, where 5.29 million people battle for personal space on tree lined streets. The city was originally founded 2,500 years ago and features the longest city wall in the world. It’s famous for being the capital of China from 1368 to 1644, and was believed to have been the largest city in the world at the turn of the 14th century. In modern times, it briefly regained capital status in the early 20th century, and is home to one of the worst atrocities committed in the atrocity plagued 20th century.

With a preconceived understanding that despair about the state of the world would follow, my first excursion in Nanjing was to the Massacre Memorial Hall, which chronicles the Rape of Nanjing, perpetrated by invading Japanese troops at the close of 1937. During a devastating 6 weeks, it’s estimated that over 300,000 Chinese were killed and 80,000 raped, in the midst of an all out assault on the capital. Not surprisingly, the exterior of the museum is a dark, lifeless landscape occupied by a few suffering sculptures. The interior provides an in-depth look at the lives of various victims and documents the details of the killing, torture, and rape that decimated the city. The most haunting image was a recently beheaded Chinese man's cranium, placed on a fence post with a cigarette hanging from his mouth for the amusement of Japanese soldiers. Less revolting but equally disturbing were a pair of massive walls identifying the names of the departed.
As expected, I left the museum depressed about the disturbing history of humanity. I believe people are born inherently good, so it’s hard to cope with the reality of masses of people being consistently led into the absolute depths of evil and madness. I don’t think any Japanese soldiers, Nazi’s, or corporate CEO's were born with a biological thirst for blood, but somewhere along the way they were steered violently in the wrong direction. For all that we claim to be, humans are still a bunch of savage beasts killing each other for reasons unknown to most. I guess it takes more than a memorial museum for people to learn from the mistakes of the past.

To end on a lighter note, I do have tremendous hope for the future. Hope on all levels. Hope that a taco truck will be lurking deep in the jungles of Cambodia. Hope that the world isn’t completely fucked beyond repair. Hope not in an individual, but in the collective power of all the rational, free thinking, peace loving people who are destined to reclaim the throne from those who have abused it for so long.

While exploring my neighboring cities, I've begun to realize the extent to which China now plays a mandatory role in the direction of mankind. With a fifth of the world’s population, the fate of humanity is intimately tied to whatever happens here, for better or worse. So far, I’ve only been to 6 Chinese cities, and their combined population is more than California’s. In each place, my understanding of China, and therefore the world, has been shattered and rebuilt. It's a parallel universe where women in knock off designer jeans walk side by side with monks. Kids who can barely walk have cell phone conversations, while construction crews navigate bamboo scaffolding. In each city, the past and present are strangely interacting on a scale that's too ginormous to explain. With all this change happening for so many people, China has some serious issues that need to be addressed. Most importantly will be how the country can keep its economy growing without continuing to rape the environment, and how many opportunities can be created for some 750 million poor rural peasants, who are supposed to be the beneficiaries of communism. About 1 in 9 people on earth is a Chinese peasant, a population with the potential for revolution on a scale the world has never seen, if they recognize how badly they're being screwed and organize accordingly. For the sake of the world, I'm hopeful that China will somehow be able to resolve these issues peacefully.

In one month, I will be switching careers from professional educator to nomadic vagabond. I'm sure that when 2009 hits, my understanding of China will have transformed several times, and once I hit the road, the transformation will continue. That's pretty much what traveling is all about.

"Find your Feeling."

Given the remarkable regularity of my presence in KTV, an entertaining story was bound to emerge from the neon haze sooner or later. My journey began in a high caliber establishment, complete with artificial gold and marble adornments, and a three person team of KTV employees who cater to your every need, ensuring an abundant flow of liquor and watermelon. Along with a handful of other lao wai’s, I was invited to this elaborate party, hosted by some local Chinese VIP’s. Being a rare commodity in these parts, foreigners often find themselves invited to gatherings full of people they’ve never met, either as a hospitable gesture, or to be paraded around as a status symbol. In this case, it seemed that good old fashioned Chinese hospitality was the only motivating factor.

The host of the function was a local bank president, who was looking distantly at sobriety in his rear view mirror when we arrived. Within an hour, everybody else was headed in the same direction, as the Chinese are not shy about peer pressuring any and everyone into drinking excessive amounts of alcohol at an unreasonable pace. Before the clock strikes ten, Mr. CEO enters a vicious cycle of spilling drinks on the table, laying his head in his wife’s lap, and singing his drunken heart out, in no particular order. As the night finds its way to a close, the crowd gives up on singing and dances to techno instrumentals instead. While feasting on watermelon and duck necks, casually enjoying the show from the comfort of a plush couch, I’m invited onto the makeshift dance floor. The combination of the “When In China, or W.I.C.” philosophy and the open bar, result in the fateful decision to leave the safety of the sofa and hit the Chinese with a sample of life in the Bay Area. To an unlikely soundtrack, with an unusually fast tempo, a brief introduction to hyphy ensues. (The cauldron of emotions inspired by the fact that this word has a wikipedia page could be the topic of a lengthy blog, but back to the story). Soon after this outburst, I’m approached by the youngest member of the party, a high school student named Susan. She insists that I teach her “my moves,” despite my insistence that “moves” are not something I posses in my repertoire. I then proceed to simultaneously instruct her and her father how to do whatever it was that I was doing into some ungodly hour of the night. This all seemed like innocent fun at the time, but I would soon learn that the story was far from over.

The following afternoon, I was awoken on my bamboo mattress by the annoying chirp of my cell phone. In a state of delirium, I flipped it open to find a message from Susan, which read as follows;

“Hi gino- my headmaster (principal) wants me to give a hip hop dance performance at my school. Can you help me? SOS!!”

My initial response is, “Who in their right mind would ask me to do such a thing?” I mentally rewind to the events of the previous evening and realize why such a seemingly random request is being made. My imagination floods my consciousness with nightmarish images of being booed off the stage by an unruly mob of Chinese high school kids. Despite every rational bone in my body attempting to avoid the situation, I agree to participate, not knowing exactly what this will entail.

Following our verbal agreement, a week passes, during which time I assume that she has come to her senses and found someone more qualified for the job, but come Friday she’s eagerly requesting a choreography lesson. Still in disbelief as to how this situation even came about, I agree based on the “W.I.C.” principle, and agree to “help” her. All along, I’m hoping to Buddha that there are no kids at her school who actually know how to dance, otherwise whatever sham of a production I lead her into will be exposed as a fraud.

Our initial practice takes place in her father’s home office, where I struggle to mimic whatever I was doing in the realm of KTV, with its nightclub lighting and free flowing whiskey. Fortunately, I’m informed that my presence will not be requested on stage, and my services are confined to choreography, which it turns out is much more difficult than dancing. The only major progress of day one occurs when I am given free reign to choose the music for the performance. First, I attempt to convince her that she should reenact a routine from the break dancing flick “Breakin and Enterin,” but she specifically says “no popping.” After this dream was shattered, the natural choice was “Tell me when to go.” If you haven’t had the fortune of being exposed to this song or phrase, it’s basically a rhetorical question asking “When should I go (dumb)?,” with the assumed response being immediately. Once the soundtrack is settled, I manage to teach her a few so called moves before her mother makes us dinner, and lesson one is complete.

Another week passes, filled with the same ambivalent feelings as the first, but by Sunday, another meeting is arranged. This time we rendezvous in a place I had previously attempted to avoid at all costs, KFC. So, here I find myself on a Sunday afternoon, surrounded by a group of high school kids in KFC, in China. Luckily practice is destined to be outdoors, so we head to a park overlooking the river that snakes its way though Huzhou. This aquatic thoroughfare is constantly traversed by a barrage of barges, which are either filled to capacity with raw natural materials heading East to Shanghai, or empty and heading West for a refill.

To this backdrop, ‘the crew’ displays their routine, which is in serious need of some polishing. Susan is the only one who knows what she’s doing and puts all the other kids to shame. The remaining misfits look like they’re having trouble just walking in a straight line with their awkward, pubescent coordination. Susan explains, “They don’t know how to find their feeling.” Basically, they’re as stiff as my bamboo mattress and don’t seem intent on breaking out of their current state. An hour passes with “tell me when to go” on repeat, becoming permanently embedded in my psyche, which I’m sure will have some kind of negative impact on my sanity somewhere down the line. By the end of the session they’ve strung together something resembling a routine, but they’re far from being ready to display themselves in front of their peers. Here’s the shui guo (fruit) of their labor at this point.

Unfortunately, this is where the visual evidence of the story terminates. Teaching obligations prevented me from witnessing the final product, but according to Susan, the rest of the group members failed to ever “find their feeling,” which was blatantly obvious to the crowd. Luckily, Susan put on a quality individual performance, which met rave reviews, and the boys didn’t mind being laughed at. They actually requested that the crew stay intact and keep performing, which could one day result in a battle, should another crew spring up from the Huzhou underground and challenge their authority. In the end, despite all the anxiety that was inflicted upon me for being involved in this project, it was satisfying to see Susan succeed in isolation, while attempting to pump some life into the listless limbs of her peers. More than anything this tale is just another indicator of life in China. It is completely unpredictable, which is why you can’t be surprised when you suddenly go from singing love ballads with a bank president to choreographing a hip hop dance routine for a group of high school students. Just another day in tomorrowland.

All Hallows' Eve

For the glorious occasion of "Wan Sheng Jie," my fellow English teachers and I made a triumphant return to the city of the future, Shanghai. To demonstrate my spirit, I paraded around the provincial capital as a thugged out elephant, which was the end product of a late night trip of costume searching desperation to the local supermarket, where I spotted my trunk to be. Greeting my plastic drainage pipe, inside out Cheerio’s box and diamond studded peanut medallion, were a variety of facial expressions ranging from the gleeful amusement of the taxi driver to the sheer terror of an unsuspecting old woman. Despite the mushrooming population of foreigners, Halloween has yet to fully catch on in China, so our unusual attire caused us to command even more attention than usual. Joined by my cohorts, Dexter the scientist, Gwen Stefani, Gem, rock star dude, Mr. Plumage, and 60’s girl, we set about terrorizing the city, and educating the locals about our strange cultural phenomenon.
In the aftermath of the festivities, my weekend was filled with the gluttony that Shanghai inspires in visitors arriving from places lacking culinary diversity (Huzhou). To cap off my visit and walk off the repercussions of some overindulgence at the bakery, I went to the Shanghai Urban Planning Exhibition Center, which chronicles the rapid accent of a fishing village into a modern, international super city, and optimistically projects its growth into the near future. Besides a fine spread of interesting before and after pictures highlighting the city’s capitalist makeover, the main attraction is a massive scale model of Shanghai, as it is projected to appear in 2020.
I’ve only spent a total of 7 days here, and they’ve all been contained within a pint sized 2 mile radius in the center of this labyrinth. Sprawling in every direction are masses of interchangeable skyscrapers and high rise apartment complexes. The most obvious difference between the present and the proposed future is the massive influx of the color green. Additional exhibits explain many of the strategies that Shanghai will utilize in its attempted greening process, which will be a monumental challenge, as the city continues its constant vertical and horizontal expansion. It’s a good sign that this attempt is being made, but for Shanghai to become more eco-friendly and simultaneously develop as projected seems impossible. Hopefully, for the sake of the world, China can make it happen.

A final noteworthy attraction of the museum is a complex promotional package, aka propaganda, for the 2010 International Expo. The centerpiece is a virtual tour of the city in 2010, when all of the planned facilities will be completed. Patrons huddle in the middle of a 360 degree screen that wraps around the room, blanketing your entire field of vision. The tour simulates flying at dangerously high speeds and low altitudes over the proposed future and is narrated by two overly enthusiastic Chinese children. In addition to the nausea resulting from this combination, just thinking about a future filled with automatically flushing toilets and bluetooth headsets caused the army of egg custard pastries in my stomach to stand at attention. I think I’m finding myself increasingly uncomfortable and ill equipped for life in the digital age.
The take home message of my second visit to Shanghai is that the more I know about the place, the more overwhelming it becomes. Explaining its massive scale is like describing snow to someone who has never been outside of the tropics, but I’ll attempt to do so by drawing a parallel to home. If you're like me, and you sometimes find yourself slightly overwhelmed when navigating through the chaos that can be San Francisco, this may help put things in perspective. Shanghai is roughly 9 times bigger than San Francisco, with TRIPLE the population density. Again, that's 9 times bigger AND 3 times more crowded. At this point, I’m still no closer to comprehending this place, but right now it’s probably one of the most fascinating places to be on earth.

Havings of good times.

When it’s time to unwind and enjoy yourself in China, you will likely be presented with a fork in the road leading in two seemingly opposing directions. Even if there are no legible signs posted, your intuition will inform you that your duo of choices are singing karaoke or drinking tea. Whether you’re in the middle of a crowded downtown intersection, or wandering through a dark alley, you’ll never be far from a KTV (karaoke), or a chaguan (teahouse). The former will be desperately attempting to grab your attention from 5 blocks away with a neon light show engineered to deliver you into a mind altering seizure. The latter will calmly convince you of its worthiness, subtly pulling you in with soothing plants and tranquil fish tanks. The appeal of both venues, different as they may seem, lies in their distinguishing feature; a private room for you and your friends to entertain each other, usually in embarrassing ways that are better kept behind closed doors. Both are available at any desired level of quality, ranging from a soggy couch surrounded by four blank walls, to an elaborately designed suite that could be the set of an extravagant music video.

I would guess that the mutual success of KTV and the chaguan are owed to the traditional structure of the Chinese family. People generally live with their parents until they get married, so there is great appeal in having a private space to escape to. Maybe people are so infatuated with sipping tea and singing love songs that the opportunity to partake in either exists within any 1 block radius, but I think more likely is that they just want to get away from home for a few hours. I’m pretty sure a private room with an etch-a-sketch and a trampoline would be equally successful if marketed properly. I wouldn’t describe singing or drinking 'cha' as my ideal way of spending a Friday night, but in keeping with my pledge to follow through on the philosophy "When in China…," I’ve ended up in both of these settings on a more than a handful of occasions.

It seems that in the domain of KTV, every Chinese person reveals their secret identity as an aspiring vocalist. If you’re one of the unfortunate souls in China who can’t sing, you’ll likely be ostracized by your peers like a Brazilian who doesn’t know how to dance. On the surface, Chinese people may mislead you into assuming that they are reserved, but put a microphone in their hand and display a bootleg music video on a giant projection screen, and you’ll open up the floodgates to some serious outpouring of heart and soul. Since nobody managed to tell me that the Chinese are petitioning the International Olympic Committee to make karaoke an official event at the 2012 Olympics, (Not really, but they do take it very seriously), I managed to embarrass myself, and my country, by my making a complete mockery of every song I attempted to recreate. After butchering such musical masterpieces as ‘Hey Jude,’ and ‘Gangsta’s paradise,’ I witnessed my Chinese counterparts clear their throats and proceed to belt out a variety of ballads, showcasing their extraordinary vocal range. During a KTV birthday party for my assistant, Penny, my American co-stars and I noticed that the majority of the Chinese contingent seemed to flee the room whenever we were singing. This was justified as their being courteous enough to step outside of the room to smoke cigarettes, but I wonder if it was just to escape the ridiculous exhibition that was taking place inside.
My most notable experience at a chaguan took place with a Chinese coworker and her array of acquaintances, who invited Guen and me to join in a game of ‘Mafia,’ which involves imaginary murder.

So the scene is as follows; Guen and I form the southwest boundary of a circle of people who identify themselves by such English names as “Do, Shrek, Spirit hunter, Pear, House, Dream,” and our coworker “Coco.” All told, there are 14 people awkwardly squeezed into a room intended to accommodate 7. Spread before us on an ill-equipped coffee table, are the usual suspects in the world of Chinese snacks, including the typical watermelon, cantaloupe, and cherry tomato trifecta. Smothering almost every other available square inch of the table are sunflower seeds, cold chicken feet, peanuts, and random stringy substances amongst a variety of herbal infusions. In the audible background, Chinese music videos compete with the steady hum of the air conditioner.
For 3 hours, we participate in the psychological warfare that ‘Mafia’ demands, and I manage to learn and forget many new and interesting phrases like “He is the killer because he blinks too much when he talks.” By the time the fifth game comes to a close, the novelty of the situation begins to fade, and I enter a state of wonder as to how this group in their late twenties is still entertained by a game that I use as a reward for my tenth grade students when they’re on good behavior. Particularly intriguing is the absolute absence of alcohol from this gathering, other than the bottle of beer that I’ve smuggled into the premises. People have random, inexplicable outbursts of laughter that might usually be associated with intoxication, but there is nothing but herbal goodness being consumed at this party. Is it the synergy of foliage in hot water and mock violence that inspires such unadulterated amusement, or is it the universal appreciation for quality time spent with friends?