Chinese nostalgia and the legend of the iron pit

Now that i’m one month and two countries removed from china, I’m far enough to possess some perspective on my experience. Mostly, i really seem to be missing the place. I realized immediately that I miss the language; upon entering Laos and being completely incapable of communication, I realized how much I actually learned in China. I dearly miss the food, partly out of thriftiness, but mostly out of deliciousness. Most of all, I miss the utter unpredictability of Chinese life. Along the way, countless previously unimaginable events took place in China, which I will not soon forget.

I beat several Chinese people in ping pong, and I lost to several Chinese people in basketball. I suffered mild electrocution, rode a bike to work in below freezing temperatures, hula-hooped with a group of middle aged women, had a chiropractic manuever stealthfully performed on me while urinating, and got chased by wild dogs... The list could go on. Mark my words- I will return to the middle kingdom.

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Due to numerous successful run-ins with food of questionable levels of sanitary quality, ive been dubbed the “iron pit,” referring to the ability of my stomach to convert troublesome material into raw energy. Part genetic, part real world experience, the iron pit was forged in the fiery furnace of East Oakland, where the streets are graced by countless taco trucks and some of the greasiest burgers in the Western Hemisphere. From here, my gastronomical quest has spread outward, to the shores of Mexican beaches, back alleys of Barcelona, and all you can eat bbq in the parking lots of Brazilian gas stations.

In Asia, the legend of the pit has only grown in splendor, mostly due to my surviving 4 months of Chinese cafeteria food. There, at least 5 meals per week were spent eating rice and soup out of a communal trough, shared by fellow teachers, and greasy fingered students alike. Following this miraculous success, my post teaching life on the road has further put the pit to the most rigorous of tests, consisting of daily doses of street food, which was like a continual game of Chinese roulette. I recently boasted about my successfully spending 5 months in asia with no stomach ailments, and this confident boast appears to have been my downfall. A few days later, I would fall terribly ill from the unlikliest of causes. While enjoying the paradise of the 4000 islands of Laos, a trojan horse rolled up to the gates of the iron pit, in the form of a banana shake. This seemingly harmless cocktail of bananas, ice, and sugar, would soon prove to be the beginning of the end. Hours later, i felt the onset of something terrible, a rumbling from the depths that resulted in 24 agonizing hours of laying paralyzed in a hammock. Eventually, the strength was summoned to move on to Cambodia, which meant 24 hours of minivans, and buses, all done with a mind splitting headache - not a wise move.

Should you be fortunate enough to have not experienced a bus journey in this region of the world, don’t put it on your to do list. Even in full health, it requires a tremendous amount of blind faith. Shortly after crossing the border, our vehicle engaged in a deadly game of cat and mouse with another bus. The better part of the next half hour involved each vehicle passing the other, only to be overtaken again, a vicious cycle, which only ended when the other bus blew a tire and was left in a heap of smoke on the side of the road. Compounding the pain of this arduous journey was the horribly timed incompetence of my ipod, which meant being subjected to (no offense to any Cambodian pop stars), a looping video of Cambodian karaoke. Never again will I take the ipod for granted. Never. Eventually, I reched my desired destination of Siem Reap, the base town for exploring the famed temples of Ankar, which would make the previous 48 hours seem more than worthwhile…

The Laotian

Crossing the China-Laos border is an instant departure from the developed world . To mark my arrival, i was extorted out of $1 by the Lao border official, who politely explained that there was an extra fee for crossing the border on Sunday (I've completely lost track of the days, but i later learned that it was Saturday). From this point on, the pavement is regularly interrupted by bumpy patches of dirt, and the bus journey is regularly interrupted by the crossing of cows, chickens, and ducks, (one of which was involved in a nonfatal collision with our bus). Clinging to the highway are scatterings of small villages of thatched roofed huts, who all strangely have satellite TV. The prevalence of four wheeled vehicles on the streets decreases 10 fold compared to China, and the prevalence of children on the streets increases ten fold, (the lack of a one child policy is blatantly obvious). In China, a baby is usually never spotted without at least 3 elderly caretakers, while in Laos, its common for children to roam the streets in packs of 4-5 with no adult supervision. Its also not uncommon to spot groups of ten year-old's wielding machetes, or piled upon one another and zooming by on a motorcycle.

If I were reborn as a nation, I would likely be Laos. This is by far the most laid back place Ive ever been. I only spent 2 weeks in this little land locked nation of 6.5 million, and 40 of these hours were spent in transit, which is painstakingly slow here. So, needless to say, my understanding of the place is incredibly shallow. There were several things that remained consistent in my Lao experience. Every day began at a god awful hour thanks to the widespread existence of roosters, many of whom cluck to the beat of their own drum, with no regard to whether or not the sun is getting ready to rise. Each day was filled with gratuitous use of sahbaidee (hello), and concluded with beer Lao while watching the sun set into Thailand.
My first destination was Luang Prabang , a UNESCO heritage site and a tourist haven. The town is filled with temples, monks, and foreigners, and as a result, previously unimaginable western amenities such as Nutella! While leaving the city, I spotted a construction site, where government workers where drilling into the pavement of a closed off street. The scene may have been the same in any other city in the world, but here the work was being done with a hammer and a chisel - no heavy machinery in sight.

In route to the capital, I made the typical tourist stopover in Vang Vieng, which is world renowned for its drunken tubing. Tourists float downstream in inner tubes, passing a plague of bars blasting high energy music, where the locals persuade you to attempt all of the dangerous creations they've concocted like diving boards, water slides, and rope swings, which all deposit you into the dangerously low waters of the river. I later heard tourists swapping emergency room stories such as loss of teeth and broken bones resulting from these death traps in frivolous lawsuit-less Laos. Luckily i got in the river early and enjoyed what seemed to be a peaceful day, floating soberly down the river, passing water buffalo, with no drunken revelry or accidents along the way. Unfortunately, going to the stupid tourist place means being branded as a stupid tourist one way or another. In my case, the scarlet letter came in the form of a sunburn from hell. Falling asleep on the water in the midday sun, with my pale belly exposed, left the intersection of my stomach and waist looking like a slab of bacon. Besides this tragedy, the town of Vang Vieng quickly drove me away with an inexplicable cultural phenomenon. The town is littered with video bars displaying DVD's of shows such as family guy and the simpsons, in hopes of luring in tourist $'s. Unfortunately the most popular show of choice is Friends, which is played every waking hour of the day, volume blasting at full volume. I HATE FRIENDS!
The development of Laos is best described through my experience in the capital of Vientiane, which is roughly the size of Oakland. There is probably not a single structure over 50 feet tall, and the street lights are so few and far between that they're displayed on the city map. Any non major thoroughfares are non paved, which makes for a bumpy ride on a bicycle. Basically, Vientiane is a sprawling village. In a strange twist of fate, my visit coincided with a Sean Kingston concert, which was advertised wildly all over town. I went to the site of the show, which was in the parking lot of a huge shopping mall, to satisfy my curiosity as to what kind of crowd would turn up for such an event in Laos. Despite the reasonable $2.50 entrance fee, I decided to browse the mall instead, and departed with my musical values still in tact.

My Laotian experience concluded in the far south, in the land of 4,000 islands, which turned out to be my favorite Lao location. Here, accommodation includes mosquito nets, and electricity is only available from 7-10 pm. The days were spent lounging in a hammock, watching river life go by, and exploring the surrounding islands by bicycle. The island's claim to fame is being one of the few places to spot the rare Irrawaddy dolphin. I was able to catch a few fleeting glimpses of our porpoise friends, but the audible experience was the most memorable. After hiring a local teenage captain of a motorized canoe, which was taking on dangerous amounts of water during the journey, I was delivered to the place known as ''dolphin home,'' a stones throw from the Cambodian border. Here, I floated in the water and listened to the dolphins communicating under water, which was a bizarre and fascinating event. The only sound I've ever heard that i could compare it to is John Coltrane. For the duration of my 30 minute listening, the dolphins communicated at a steady pace, with no pause, which left me wondering what kind of schemes they were busy concocting.
All was seemingly well in paradise until a memorable but not so enjoyable transition into Cambodia...

Xin nian kuai le

My three weeks in the Yunnan province of Southwest China represent the full spectrum of what traveling alone can and will be. It began in a solitary, agitated, and snot infested state, followed by an escalating scale of China highlights. The journey started in the provincial capital of Kunming, known as the city of eternal spring for its supposedly constantly pleasant climate. Due to false advertising or bad luck, I was disappointed to find Kunming blanketed in a thick grey cloud, which gave it the appearance of any other generic concrete Chinese jungle.

In what can only be described as a shitty few days, all of the little things began to take their toll on my sanity. There was the chain smoking, knee tapping, caffeine addicted teenager beside me in the Internet cafe; the cats who were either mating or slowly dying outside of my dorm room; and the old man who was slowly dying from the worst snoring I've ever encountered inside of my dorm room. So, after a frustrating, mucus filled, and otherwise uneventful stay here, i made the 5 hour bus journey West to Dali, which would shortly feel like a world away from Kunming.

Known as one of the backpacker meccas of China, its no surprise that locals constantly greet you on the street with friendly hello's, followed by chants of "smoke the ganja?," usually from innocent looking old women clutching small children in their arms. (This isn't the reason why my fortunes changed for the better). Dali is plagued by swarms of tourists from all over China and beyond, and this results in all of the main corridors being filled with merchandise whose quality and functionality are highly debatable. Luckily, this madness is easily escaped on a bicycle, and riding through the nearby villages and rice fields, combined with improved health, and suddenly meeting handfuls of interesting folks from all over the globe signaled good things to come.

From Dali, I headed as close to Tibet as i will go on this trip, to the city of Lijiang. Another backpacker mecca, Lijiang's old town is a winding maze of cobble stone streets, lined with more useless tourist crap and some entertaining streets sings.

The town itself was nothing too special, but it was the jump off point for the Tiger Leaping Gorge, the highlight of my 5 months in China. With a group of fellow travelers, I embarked on a 3 day trek of the gorge, named after a famed tiger, who according to local legend, was being chased all over China, and eventually came face to face with the surging rapids of the Yangszte river, which slices through the second deepest canyon in the world. With no other alternatives, the tiger took his historic/mythological leap over the river and the rest is history.

From the onset of the trek we were chaperoned by a seemingly friendly man on a donkey, who cautiously followed our group. We debated his presence, wondering if it was included in the 50 yuan park entrance to prevent naive foreigners from wandering off the trail. His intentions quickly came to light, as one of the group members struggled to make it up a steep pass, and donkey man, as we came to immortalize him, came to the rescue and offered up the back of his sturdy, 4 legged companion, charging 140 yuan for his services. Once we reached our destination, the sun was setting over the gorge and we were face to face with the most massive mountain i have ever encountered. It took up my entire field of vision, which can't possibly be communicated through pictures, but here's a sample.
It will go down as one of the most impressive natural sights I've ever witnessed. Darkness soon prevailed, giving way to the best star gazing I've experienced in China, which compared to previous attempts, felt like a thick layer of Chinese smog had been squeegeed from my pupils.

Back in Lijiang, the scene was set for lunar new years. I didn't have high expectations for this event because most Chinese folks told me that people generally just light fireworks and stay at home with their families. This turned out to be a pretty accurate forecast, but new years eve ended up greatly surpassing my expectations. Never have my ears been bombarded with such a continual assault, not even 4th of July in East Oakland. From 11:45pm to 12:30am, there wasn't a single moment of silence or clear sky. Bootleg Chinese fireworks of varying degrees of quality and safety erupted into the night sky, or in the faces of innocent onlookers, in what was the closest experience I've ever had to being in a war zone. This was the first time i really felt completely removed from the western world, despite the fact that the display took place in the foreground of the local KFC. All over China, since there's only one time zone for this whole massive nation, the scene was likely identical, a sky full of bright lights and explosions, while the majority of the rest of the globe was carrying on business as usual. The festivities continued for the next 5 days, marked mostly by a continuous flow of fireworks, usually ignited by small children who could barely tie their shoes - if they were wearing any.

What I thought was my symbolic exodus from China took place before getting my passport stamped, on a one hour flight to Jinghong, located a few hours north of the China-Laos border. The airborne journey replaced what would have been a grueling 20 hour bus ride traversing its way down 6,500 feet of mountain terrain into the tropics. As fate would have it, the carrier for the flight was none other than "Lucky" airlines, which only became known to me at the airport check in. The thought of blasting through the atmosphere at 30,000 feet in a massive steel vessel already makes me search for a higher power to answer my prayers. Combine this with an overcompensating name like "lucky air" and you have a passenger who is ready to join an evangelical church. After a turbulent hour, I touched ground in the tropics and contemplated hugging a palm tree. Before my flight i symbolically deserted my $9 jacket which i had been wearing every day for the previous 5 weeks, evidenced by multiple grease stains resulting from careless noodle soup consumption. Its now perfectly clear that I'm not built to live in a place which suffers through freezing cold winters.

It suddenly appeared that China as I knew it was in the rear view mirror. Bilingual street signs lead the way in Chinese and Burmese, monks roamed the streets, and sandals and shorts were the normal attire. Vendors selling coconut milk and pineapple on a stick produced flashbacks of past trips to the tropics. This all felt like i had left china, at least until i officially crossed the border into Laos, which is another world entirely....

The Dirty South

China's Guanxi province, population roughly 49 million, is a place i thought only existed in the land of my limitless imagination. All of the exaggerated expectations I had of this nation seemed to appear somewhere in my whirlwind 10 day stay here. Karst limestone peaks burst through the soil, reaching for the sun like mother natures equivalent of the Mayan pyramids. On every block, some form of spicy noodle aroma penetrates your nostrils. People are swimming in the river, meaning it's at least clean enough for your body to not dissolve upon contact. Old fishermen drift slowly downstream on handmade bamboo rafts. Amongst the beauty are shocking and sometimes depressing reminders. In my first destination here, Guilin, I passed a strange spectacle on the way into town, known as the "Bear and Tiger Mountain Village." I would later learn that here you can supposedly witness a group of calf's being introduced into an arena of famished tigers, who predictably tear them to shreds. Elsewhere, dog carcasses hang on meat hooks, while their kin sit idly in inhumanely small cages awaiting a similar fate. Nearby, a mountain of de-fleshed canine skulls, eyeballs still intact, sit staring at every would be customer. Walking the streets means constantly being greeted with a friendly hello, but most of these are followed by a sales pitch of "bamboo, bamboo," for a tour of the Li river on a bamboo raft, or "pretty young girl, sex message for you," no further explanation needed. I eventually caved in to the former offer, and with the help of a local, it ended up being one of the highlights of Guangxi.

On a day trip from Guilin, i went on a day tour of the Devils Backbone Rice Terraces, which are named for obvious reasons. Before continuing, I must make it clear as day that i hate organized tours, but due to time constraints this was the only feasible option. The site itself was amazing, with rice terraces snaking around a mountain of a mountain and disappearing into the foggy horizon. Still, the most memorable event of the day was a trip to a traditional village of the Miao, an ethnic minority in China, with a population of about 10 million. This topic brings me great discomfort because I cant really offer up any kind of practical solution. Amongst a group of other tourists, i was led through these peoples village as they supposedly engaged in their typical day to day affairs. The mirage of daily life was lifted by the end of the tour, as the tourists were treated to a performance of singing and dancing, followed by a mock wedding ceremony, in which 4 lucky foreigners were chosen from the crowd to join their pretend bride. Although slightly amusing at the time, I was nearly sick to my stomach at the thought of treating these peoples home like a living museum. Still, I couldn't help but take a few pictures.
Tourism provides these people with a great deal of their livelihood, but it seems unfortunate that it has to come from such an exotification of their culture. At least the Chinese are making an effort to preserve their diverse ethnic minority communities rather than eradicate them, like some unmentioned countries. It was fascinating to get a glimpse of these people, but I couldn't help but feel uncomfortable watching a couple feed their baby in front of their living room fire pit.

The majority of my time in Guanxi province was spent in the small river town of Yanshuo. Despite a plague of tourist focused businesses, this was my favorite place thus far in China. The surrounding area is full of small villages, temples, rice paddies and unreal rock formations. While browsing a menu in a local restaurant, I encountered a group of Chinese art students who proposed that I join them for dinner, since I was dining alone. According to lonely planet, this is the setup for a sure fire swindling in the immediate future. Despite this and the communication barrier resulting from our respective lack of English and Chinese ability, i joined the party. We feasted on the local specialties of beer fish, and chili snails, while attempting to string together some form of a conversation. This never really got any farther than me telling them my father was born in China, and that the food was delicious, but everyone seemed to be satisfied by the end of the meal. Not only did they not swindle me, they refused to let me pay, and we spent the rest of the night together in a bar, laughing at our inability to communicate.

The highlight of the region was definitely my accepting the offer for "bamboo, bamboo." This is almost entirely due to the fact that I went with a local, the owner of the restaurant where I met the honest art students. So, by the good grace of her presence, I was able to get a discount of about 70%. The cruise began from a famed spot, which is featured prominently on the back of the 20 yuan note.

From here, we rode upstream for about an hour, passing various rock formations known by such majestic names as snail hill and snow lion ridge, which all looked beautiful, but indistinguishable to me.

We were suckered into stopping on a small island, inhabited by an ocean of seafood vending women, but thanks to the local discount, managed to feast on fried shrimp cakes and an entire fried fish on a stick for $1.50. We made a u turn with the sun setting to the west, and a full moon rising in the east. So, the majority of the ride back home looked something like this.
I could easily have stayed another month in this place, but the combination of the weather being colder than I'd like, and the fact I'd already booked an outgoing flight, means I'll just have to come back again. The very next day, I touched down hundreds of miles away in Kunming, the capital of the Yunnan Provence. More to come...

The end of the road.

How time flies. My job as an English teacher is complete, and in reflection, I've concluded that the Chinese work too hard. Whenever I asked students to recap their weekends, the usual response was homework and sleep, and maybe a computer game in between if they're lucky. When 72 hours of your week is dedicated to formal education, you don't have time for many extracurricular activities.

Despite the workoholic mentality, there are several entertaining aspects about education in China that I'll miss. These are best experienced in a visual format, so what follows are some video highlights of my teaching experience, concluding with a slide show of my students, coworkers, and campus. Ive thoroughly enjoyed myself here, almost to the point of not wanting to leave, but as one of my students commented, "I live like a bird," meaning its about time for me to head south to warmer pastures.

Happy New Year...

Every morning, at 7 O'clock on the dot, all the youngin's engage in their high energy morning exercise:



The high school kids have their own equivalent, being summoned to the athletic field by what I think is the national anthem blaring through the loudspeakers.


Every day, all of my students have periodic breaks between classes to do eye exercises. They perform a routine of self eye massage, to the soothing soundtrack of the numbers 1-8.



With rested eyes, they're ready for musical chairs...



Xue Xiao

Zhu wo sheng ri kuai le.

The week of my 26th birthday served as a metaphor for all that China is, a roller coaster of emotions, sharply dipping into confusion and disappointment, then soaring to peaks of happiness and amazement. To celebrate the occasion, I went to Shanghai for the third time with two seemingly modest birthday goals in mind:

1) Eat Mexican food
2) Buy new shoes

Both were accomplished, but in typical China fashion the levels of success varied widely. First and foremost, I will address the issue most likely to be of concern to others; is it possible to eat Mexican food in China? Due to all previous attempts to consume Mexican food outside of California and Mexico, I’ve developed an exaggerated skepticism regarding its existence elsewhere. Past attempts to contradict this pessimism have only added high octane fuel to an already raging inferno. Despite vowing to never raise my hopes again in this particular type of venture, I entered Shanghai riding a rising wave of optimism that my dreams of being reunited with the ever elusive taco would come to fruition.

The first destination on this journey, and unfortunately not the last, was the ‘Maya Restaurant.’ As soon as the threshold of the door was crossed, I realized this wasn’t going to be the place where my specific needs were going to be satiated. An elaborate lighting scheme, plush lounge couches, and what looked like the cast from a Michelob Light commercial are all blatant signs that a genuine taco will not be located anywhere on the premises. Still, as the sleet and snow increased in severity, I stubbornly sailed deeper into the storm of desire, ordering the taco combo ($10 for 3 tacos). The price tag, which exceeds many Chinese people’s daily salary, was a dead giveaway as to what kind of “tacos” these were going to be, i.e. delicious, but in an “I sense a hint of rosemary and paprika” kind of way. My intuition served me well, as the tacos were well seasoned, but definitely not Mexican food.

With stubborn determination overriding my better judgment, I refused to extinguish my diminished flame of hope, and the following day a second and final attempt was made to reach El Promised Land. A delivery order was placed to El Mexicano, which according to a review on a Shanghai expatriate website “…is, hands down (and up, and sideways, and perpendicular, don't forget diagonal, also rotating in a clock-wise fashion) the best Mexican resty in the WORLD!!! No, but it's awesome, trust me.” In response to this, and several other reviews from people who appeared to possibly have a relevant opinion, I felt like El Mexicano was the light at the end of my tacoless tunnel.

Something appeared to be afoul the moment the food arrived, based on the two pint sized plastic bags in which it was delivered. We ordered what should have been a bounty of tacos, burritos, and enchiladas, which couldn’t possibly be contained in the modest package that was presented to us. Still, I held onto a final shred of hope that perhaps quality over quantity would be a fair exchange. Words cannot describe the utter disappointment that ensued upon opening the tinfoil containing the tacos and finding this:
This image hasn’t been Photoshopped, nor has somebody eaten the first half of the taco. What you see is the taco exactly as it was presented to me. I could go on indefinitely about the disappointment this caused, but I’m ready to begin removing this tragedy from my memory. Please take a moment to look at this picture and be reminded of it the next time you’re biting into a succulent, salsa splattered, cilantro garnished masterpiece on East 14th or wherever else your nearest taco dealer resides.

A far more successful experience was my replacement of a pair of shoes I’ve worn for the last 2.5 years. Unfortunately, I was in such a hurry to get rid of them that I didn’t take a picture to document their utterly disheveled state, but to illustrate their condition, the soles held animated conversations with one another whenever I walked, flapping uncontrollably with every step. My quest to replace these poor soles led me to a giant bootleg market, which caused great anxiety, based on my previous experiences in these places, which I would describe as the musty armpits of capitalism. I had to be focused in order to get my desired item and get the hell out before having a debilitating panic attack from the onslaught of fake Louis Vutton bags and bug eyed manikins. Luckily, within 15 minutes, fate led me past a colorful display of fake Jordan’s. After being sucked in by a friendly sales pitch, I spotted a pair of New Balance, which appeared to be an adequate mode of transportation for my quickly approaching journey through Southeast Asia. After trying them on, my feet quickly became attached to their new state of comfort, so I eagerly entered the treacherous ring of bootleg market bargaining. Ironically, my opponent, according to her personalized business card, was Ms. Xu (pronounced shoe). So, Ms. Xu busted out her calculator, and through a combination of body language and my slightly improving grasp of mandarin, I was able to decipher the following information, as she violently typed numbers into the calculator.
“These shoes are very good, and they usually cost 680 yuan. Our price is 340 yuan, but because you are my friend, I will give you the special price of 240.”
So without having uttered a word, I got a friendly discount of 440 yuan. In response, I quickly offered to pay 90, which produced a pleasant chuckle from Ms. Xu. After pretending that I’d be content to exit the store in my soulless shoes, she was convinced to lower the price to 150. Meeting her halfway, I agreed that 120 would be a fair price, but not a penny more. She initially refused, but after gratuitous use of “tai gui le” and “pian yi diar ba,” (too expensive, and make it cheaper), she dropped to 130, which she insisted was the lowest price she could possibly offer. I happily handed over the equivalent of $20, bid adieu to Ms. Shoe, and swiftly walked out of bootleg hell with comfortable feet.

Back in Huzhou, the festivities continued, culminating in my most elaborate birthday party since elementary school, organized by a special, unexpected group. Through all my highs and lows as a teacher, there has been one constant cornerstone in the maintenance of my sanity, my seventh grade students. Initially, I was most concerned about teaching these kids because 13 seems to be a universal age of bubbling excitation, when kids think they’re grown, but still engage in fart jokes and snot rockets to no end. So, the shockingly positive experience I’ve had with these kids thus far was already a grand birthday present in and of itself.

On the day of the party, I was summoned to the classroom, where I was greeted by an ocean of smiling children screaming “Happy Birthday” and a nice welcome message.
Once I was seated front and center, the students were individually called upon to approach me bearing gifts. As each of the 44 names was called, a bright face approached, bearing an elaborately wrapped box or an awkward grin. The latter group, who must’ve secretly known about my aversion to materialism, provided some of the most memorable gifts. They timidly explained how they didn't have a tangible present for me, but would like to present me with an English sentence. Various verbal offerings included “you’re such a good teacher, I like you, you’re so cool, and I hope you are happy everyday.” The highlight came from a boy named Snake (pictured above), who explained that since he couldn’t afford to buy me a present, he would like to give me a hug instead. I accepted with open arms, as his peers applauded wildly. By the time student 44 was called upon, I was swamped in shiny boxes and moving messages.

Upon opening these packages, I found among other things, a rabbit puppet, an hourglass, a wallet, a bow and arrow set, a scarf, snowboarding gloves, a basketball, a set of mugs, a Chinese pop CD, and a poster of the 1995 Houston rockets. Also included were a handful of items whose identity and function remain unknown to me, but it’s the thought that counts.
After my newest possessions were laid aside, my students indulged me in an hour of raucous games, singing, and dancing. The highlight was a lively round of musical chairs, which they blatantly let me win, being the kind hearted souls they are. The grand finale came in the form of what looked like the bottom tier of a massive wedding cake. In typical China fashion, the birthday boy was delegated to the role of cake cutter, meaning I faced the daunting task of evenly dividing a 10 pound cake amongst 44 sugar craving 13 year olds. Through the good grace of some divine force, I chopped off a slice for the last student, with just enough left to spare for a midnight snack.

In the end, my 26th birthday will go down as one of my most memorable, and despite el decepcion, it was a smashing success. I don’t want to downplay the gravity of my realization that many moons will pass before I encounter another taco, but just like other let downs I’ve had in China, it doesn’t come close to counteracting the moments of amazement and appreciation for the spirit of the people who call this place home. My departure from Huzhou and the teaching life is now one week away, which will be a bittersweet farewell. Its clear that despite any headaches I may have endured in the process, I really am going to miss my students.

Coming soon: a slide show of pictures from my school.

Adapt(N)ation

Despite a steady flow of logic deprived moments, I’ve noticed that in just 16 weeks, I’ve quietly become acclimated to life in China. There are plenty of examples to document this strange phenomenon, but what follows is the crème of the crop. As a throwback to an earlier post, I’ve thrown in a second round of random English phrases found on Chinese T-shirts, serving as an additional indicator of my adaptation. During my first few weeks here, I amassed a mountain of paper scraps, on which I had documented the many amusing word combinations I’d encounter on the streets of Huzhou. In recent weeks, my collection has been at a standstill because I’ve become completely immune illogical grammar to.

Comming
to my party?

For the last six weeks, I’ve been commuting to work on a bicycle, joining the morning rush of two wheelers packed together like a school of fish, navigating the currents of Huzhou’s impressive network of bike lanes. My ability to engage in this mayhem and survive to tell the story is exhibit A in the trial of my successful adjustment to China. Coming from a place where people get shot for stepping on each others shoes cultivates a profound entitlement to personal space that is incompatible with life in the middle kingdom, where the populous is generally unarmed. Initially, I was engulfed in the gut reaction of absolute outrage at being seemingly invisible to other motorists, resulting in various chains of expletives spilling forth from my mouth. Seeing how these tirades weren’t going to change anything, it didn’t take long for me to adjust my attitude, and join in the party of swerving dangerously close to everyone in my path. In return, I made a verbal agreement not to take offense to anyone returning the favor, as long as they don’t actually make contact with me. At this point, my only response to being aggressively cut off is to intuitively swerve out of harms way and peacefully continue on my journey. I have yet to get in an accident or altercation, knock on wood, and I’ve even come to enjoy the video game sensation of weaving in and out of oncoming traffic.

A related and equally surprising turn of events, given my country of origin, is my overcoming the primal rage which results from being incessantly honked at like a stripper in high heels and a mini skirt. Use of the horn in China seems to be a subject of great cultural misunderstanding. In the U.S., the horn is either an absolute last resort, or a tool used for initiating confrontation, but in China it’s more like a mechanical, “hello.” Once the driver starts the engine, the horn becomes an extra appendage, continuously used to announce ones presence to the world, as if the automobile were some kind of fantastical machine which makes you invisible. As a result, it’s a common occurrence to be enjoying a stroll thru town, only to hear the rapidly approaching sound of an attention grabbing honking spree, the perpetrator seemingly making every effort to force an unreasonably slow motorist out of the way. Then, in turning around to see what all the commotion is about, you realize that it’s the lone vehicle on the road, completely unobstructed by anyone or anything. That’s when you realize he’s just saying hello to all the people who would otherwise be unaware of his existence. Frivolous as this sounds, the constant honking serves a practical purpose, which can be embraced, once you get over the initial, “What the f*** is your problem?” response that’s been ingrained in you. The logic here is that I much prefer an audible warning, obnoxious as it may be, to narrowly escaping collisions with silent scooters, whose tailwinds ruffle the hairs on my knuckles. Not to give myself too much credit, but I think I’ve been pretty open minded in my acceptance of Chinese road etiquette, and in turn, I’ve had many entertaining and stress free journeys around town.

Sweat the dream

On a recent commute, I encountered exhibit B of my apparent Chinafication. Buzzing past me was an old man on a rickety, electric tricycle, with a flat bed attached for hauling purposes. This seems to be the transportation mode of choice for anyone carrying cardboard collections, uprooted trees, family members, or in this case, meat products. On the edge of the platform, amongst an array of animal parts, was the hindquarter of a pig, distinguishable by its curly tail, bouncing in response to every bump in the road. My first reaction was nothing more than, “Hey, that looks like a pig.” It wasn’t until later, upon further reflection, that I realized, “That’s raw pork wandering around on the back of some old dude’s dusty cart, unrefrigerated in the filthy open air!” Who knows how long he was riding around with that unfortunate pig’s ass dangling form his cart, but I’m pretty sure raw pork isn’t meant to be paraded around in the not so pristine Chinese air for anytime whatsoever. The fact that I didn’t immediately stomp on the kickstand and vomit on the side of the road is one thing, but that I have since eaten “the other white meat,” maybe even that very same day, leads me to believe that I’m on my way to being fully adjusted.

Eastern we r
the camel generation

Exhibit C was found on my trip to Hangzhou, where I was already being pissed on by Mother Nature. There, while enjoying an already mediocre meal, an old man came walking swiftly through the restaurant clutching a little girl in his arms like a 50 pound sack of rice. The duo approached the bathroom sink, which is located not in the bathroom, but in the communal dining area. The man repositioned his cargo until she was symmetrically situated over the sink, at which point she proceeded to relieve herself, roughly 4 feet from the nearest diners. Everyone went about their business, and yours truly, made a casual comment like, “That girl’s taking a piss in the sink,” but carried on with my meal. Like the bouncing pig tail, it wasn’t until later that I reflected on the situation, imagining how it would have unfolded in the American realm of hand sanitizer and bathroom sinks located inside of the bathroom. I can see it now, a hockey mom up in arms and demanding to speak to the manager, and Joe six pack dropping a few atomic F bombs before busting out of the door.

You are
what you eat
(A picture of a hot dog)

My conclusion upon semi adapting to these situations is that the level of comfort enjoyed in many peoples’ day to day lives, especially Americans, is responsible for the de-evolution of the species. I’m not saying that having girls piss in the sink while you eat lunch will promote intellectual stimulation or further critical thinking skills, but people are generally confined within too narrow a comfort zone. Inside of this little air conditioned, pleather box, creativity and resourcefulness are rarely required, and as a result, these traits are disappearing. China will violently break down the walls of your comfort zone and move them somewhere over the horizon from your current vantage point. For this reason, I’m eternally grateful to this place, for should I decide to live in the United States again, I will require so little in terms of material comfort and personal space, I could essentially be content living in a cardboard box on BART.

DIE
YUPPY
SCUM