The Dumb Laowai

When it really comes down to it, who do you want to take advice from, a pontificating pseudo-intellectual like Dr. Phil or someone who actually admits to having made mistakes and has learned from them, quite often the first time?  I believe that the best advice comes from experience, not theory. On that basis, let me share some recently acquired bits of wisdom.

When engaged in a multi-party dispute, never mention calling the police. Even those who agree with your point of view will abandon you like friends on moving day.

Should you ever acquire a frequent customer discount card from somewhere called Stairway To Love, do not leave it laying around for your significant other to find. Just try to explain that it’s a café. Really!

When a woman gushes forth about how her son is the smartest child in town, do not reply by saying that all mothers feel that way.

If you don’t absolutely know the proper Chinese term, do not try to wing it, especially in front of a class. This is especially true if you are trying to explain the verb “to brag”, which term in Mandarin is surprisingly similar to the slang for performing fellatio.

When a Chinese woman gives you something disgusting to eat, just shut up and eat it. Your 20^th attempt to explain your revulsion will be no more effective than any of the other 19.

If you want something from the supermarket, get it yourself. You would be amazed what some people will consider to be an acceptable, or even preferable, substitute. Coconut bread and tripe do not a ham sandwich make.  

Don’t try to correct obnoxious, drunken, 22 year old know-it-alls in bars. Let’s face it – you’re incredibly outnumbered.

Quit taking visa advice from other people. The rules have changed since last week anyway.

I’m going to get a haircut today. Not because it’s unusually long or because it’s 100 degrees here in Beijing. Not because my girlfriend has been nagging me to do so and not because I’m trying to hide the gray.  I’m going to get a haircut because I am a teacher.

If this sounds a bit illogical, please bear with me.  You see, I have found that short hair is very difficult to pull out by the fistful, something that I end up trying to do every time I deal with the Chinese educational system.  

I was informed this week that my contract with an internationally respected university would not be renewed for the coming year.  Although disappointed, I was not surprised.  My department serves a specific subset of students (those with IQs of a dumpling) who are being presented with cheaper and easier methods of qualifying for overseas study. Therefore, enrollment is dropping, as is the need for teachers.

This time at least, the blow was softened by a chuckle.  My email notification reads as follows:

Re: The letter from XXX University

Hi Michael,

After we discussed, we deceide that we will not continue to sign new contract with you.

The salary we will pay for you till July 31th 2009.

This is how I lost my job as an English teacher.  Am I worried?  As my Chinese supervisor and fellow teacher (who still has a position) would say:  Well, to be frankly……

“Hi. I’m D.L. and I shit myself.”  “Hi D.L.!”

I’ve heard of a lot of support groups but I had never before even imagined that one such as this might be a realistic undertaking. There are some things we simply do not talk about, ever. Even living in China, where the more realistic question would not be “Have you ever?”, but rather “How many times have you?”, it’s simply not discussed. Until now.

I was recently emboldened by an overheard bar conversation in which one man was discussing in detail some of his more stressful experiences in China, all of which seemed to require immediate laundry services. He was telling my story, practically verbatim. I always knew that I couldn’t be the only one, but I was just too shy to seek out confirmation. 

Bolstered by this newfound feeling of brotherhood, or at least mutual suffering, I’ve begun discreet enquiries. The results have been enlightening. Of course, the universal initial response is one of distaste but after volunteering a story, I’m rewarded with an unbelievable look of relief when they find out that they do not suffer alone. Soiling yourself is just another form of misery; it enjoys company.

Granted, this group will probably never become too proactive. No 12 Step program here because it can’t be helped. There will never be T-shirts or buttons, much less a parade. Come to think of it, it’s probably just as well; given our affliction a parade really isn’t all that practical. We’re just out to relieve the embarrassment of fellow foreigners.

Do your part today. Tell a fellow foreigner about that time on the train. You won’t believe how happy it makes them!

I should have known better. Of course, far too many of my memories begin just that way so I guess it was far from being a given. I know that the most common way to spend a holiday in China is to visit a culturally significant park of some sort. I know that LD has only lived in Beijing a few years and that she gets most of her information second or third hand – notoriously unreliable. And yet, when she told me that we would be spending New Years Day indoors doing something fun I still believed her. I should have known better.

Knowing that the crowds would make any indoor location uncomfortably warm, I donned a very light coat for the taxi ride. The anticipated 25 Yuan fare became 60 Yuan and we were unceremoniously dumped on the side of a mountain in the middle of nowhere. We were at Badachu, a group of eight temples and tourist attractions spread out over several square miles of mountainside that I shall forever think of as Buddha World.

There were shooting arcades, ring toss games, chances to throw coins at holy bells to win wishes, snack stands, tea houses and places to buy your incense (No outside incense allowed, thank you!) People scurried around trying to have their pictures taken with one of the free-ranging cats that all such places seem to delight in. I’m surprised that someone hasn’t figured out how to make a little cash on that as well.

We hiked up miles of mountain trails trying to find the next temple on the list, as if we were filling out a scavenger hunt score card.  While LD lit incense and prayed I tried to stop my hands from shaking long enough to take a few pictures. “You should have worn something warmer” she scolded. My gentle reminder that she had said we would spend the day inside didn’t leave much of an impression on her. It was off to another temple and some more prayers while I waited outside, trying to maintain feeling in my extremities.

Several hours later my incense-free prayers were answered and she agreed that we could come back in the summer and complete the holy tour. With any luck she’ll have forgotten all about it.

Once again, I should know better; she never forgets anything.

I’ve never really thought much about MSG until lately. Other than a couple

of junk-food fueled college road trips that made my tongue feel like

raw hamburger, there was never really a reason to. I probably still wouldn’t

give it much consideration if it weren’t being brought to my attention on an

almost daily basis lately.

As many have pointed out, in China they don’t call it Chinese food; it’s just food.

One can easily forget that MSG is almost a staple simply because no one would ever

put a sign proclaiming “No MSG” outside their door as many do in the US. It’s out

of sight and out of mind. Until lately, that is.

Just recently I started seeing 15 second commercials on late night Philline

television: someone posing as a scientist chatting with a host about the healthful

benefits of glutamate. They mention that MSG is the same as glutamate found in

tomatoes and other natural foods and finish by claiming that glutamate is “fuel for

the intestines.” It turns out that the faux public service announcement is sponsored

by the good folks at glutamate.org.au, so you can guess how scientifically reliable it is.

I was still trying to come to terms with such blatantly false advertising when I

found myself half-watching several cooking shows with LD (little dictator: the one

who takes it upon herself to make sure that my life is never simple or boring.) Seeing

someone add a white granular substance to a dish would normally make me think of

salt or sugar, so it was only when I saw them add two or three such ingredients that

I began to pay attention. Other than a bread-like dish, every single recipe

specifically called for MSG as an ingredient!

I hesitantly asked LD about the state of our MSG supply and she firmly said that she

does not like to use it. She them produced a small packet that the landlord had left

at the back of a cupboard two years earlier and threw it in the trash. I think I’ll

be eating at home much more often. I just worry about the state of my under-fueled

intestines.