The Dumb Laowai

I had gone to bed feeling absolutely no part of my body except for those that were horse-damaged. Nothing indicated a good night to come; pain, concrete mattress, having to sleep on my stomach out of courtesy to my roommate (I snore like a shipful of drunken sailors – I’ve actually had neighbors complain before.) Yet, it all worked out beautifully. My posterior was too sore to sleep in a normal position and I was too worn out to care about the mattress.

I slept like a baby and awoke feeling like a new man. At least I felt like a new man until I tried to roll over. Every part of my body screamed for euthanasia, but my mind was sharp, so I laid there for a while and mentally reviewed my vacation so far. I came to a few conclusions that had escaped me while the torture had been ongoing.

Pain and discomfort will break down a lot of social boundaries. The night before, someone I’d known for a day had given me a graphic description of the state of his own ass. Since I was in the same situation, I didn’t find it disturbing at the time. Actually, it was somewhat reassuring to know that I wasn’t the only who looked like he’d met a rabid cheese-grater. He was worried about infection and I was glad to say that I had packed a nice, little medical kit. He was grateful for the Neosporin, which he would return this morning.

Since I was now clear-headed, I began to worry. How many other people did he tell? Would there be any Neosporin left for me? Would I now be forced to hear multiple bloody ass stories? I truly hoped for the reappearance of normal male restraint in such matters.

I also realized that I would not see anything on this trip but tourist traps. It would be impossible, as I suppose it is for most tour groups. The realization hit hard though, because I had never thought about it before. A group of 130 people on three buses simply can not go anywhere rustic or authentic. It can’t be accommodated by anyplace other than those set up for large amounts of people. I felt a sudden urge to slip away from the tour for a while, but the operators had planned well. Every night we would be 200 miles away, in an unnamed hotel. I was stuck.

I laid there a while, looking for a bright side, before I realized that I could still beat the hordes to the breakfast buffet. My hopes weren’t very high regarding the quality, but I’d be damned if I was going to stand in line for bad food. I went downstairs and got a very pleasant surprise. Various breads and rolls, baozi, eggs and COFFEE! This was heaven. I even tried a few, safe-looking local dishes, mainly vegetable I think. I steered clear of the chafing dish labeled “Sheep Guts.” They didn’t look any better than the tubful I had seen yesterday, soaking in water and sitting on the ground in the sun.

Being one of the first arrivals, I was able to absorb a few cups of coffee and sit back for the floor show. I watched our group stagger in by ones and twos, the sorriest looking bunch imaginable. A call for bingo at the rest home has people moving faster, showing more agility and moaning substantially less. 130 people had magically aged 60 years overnight. I knew that I was one of them, but up until that point, I thought I just felt like crap; I had no idea that I probably looked worse.

Since I’d awoken early, I was ahead of the pack and stepped outside for a cigarette in the sunshine and to make a few notes. I had given up on notepads as too inconvenient and had bought a small MP3/pocket recorder. I was walking around the front of the hotel recording my observations and, when I stopped, noticed a very stern guard at the entrance. He stared at me as if he was wondering whether to call the police or conduct the body cavity search himself.

I remembered that I was in a communist country and that we had to have special travel permits to come to this area, so I didn’t take his attitude too lightly. I looked right back at him and started to record again, hoping that a blatant display would show that I had nothing to hide. I later realized how lucky I was that this had worked, because I had nothing left to say and simply said on tape that I was talking just to put the guard at ease. That probably wouldn’t have gone over too well back at the station.

The rest of the group finally started to arrive. On an organized tour, the schedule is God. Wash, eat, perform medical self-treatments, pack and get to the bus in ninety minutes. Being professionals, I would assume that the operators know that this is not going to happen on day one post-horse. We left thirty minutes late, which was probably their plan anyway.

In what was to prove a daily pattern, we were told that we were to have a two hour bus ride, followed by lunch. Groans aplenty. The trip was fairly uneventful, driver antics aside. We traveled a four lane highway the entire time, so even these were not quite as traumatic as the day before. Then again, maybe we were just a little jaded.

Lunch was not worthy of mention, but our departure was interesting. We were shown to a large, three story restaurant that does good business in parties and wedding receptions. This was one of China’s three “Golden Weeks”, when much of the country had the week off, and it was a popular time for weddings, often multiple weddings. Our arrival had been earlier than the wedding groups, but to leave, we had to march through a large, full-blown multiple-wedding reception in progress, as well as by some other parties in side rooms. That many foreigners walking through had to portend some specific future for the marriages, but I wasn’t about to stick around and ask whether or not it was good.

Another thirty minutes brought us to the Sounding Sands, a tourist trap in the desert, complete with camels, parasailing, eight wheel, open-topped desert vehicles and gift shops. We stood in line for almost 45 minutes waiting for seats on the chair-lift across the dry river valley to the dunes.

As our guide got to the head of the line, she called for the rest of her group, spread out among the other tourists. The leader of a smaller group objected and the match was on. Chinese, in general, have little patience for and often no concept of waiting in line. Now we had two entire groups jostling for position. While the battle raged, everyone just rushed the gate, improving nothing. I wondered about being pick-pocketed, but then realized that any potential thief probably couldn’t move his arms any better than I could. I couldn’t tell you who won, if anyone. I just know that assuming small Chinese women to be meek would be an enormous mistake on your part. I’d put her in the ring against anyone.

Something about being a tourist makes everyone a little less intelligent. We didn’t think anything of jumping on a camel for another hour in the saddle. Must have been something in the lunch.

It was much more comfortable, but still irritating. On finishing, we had 20 minutes to rejoin the group and leave. I guess they hadn’t planned on us waiting for an hour on the bus for two very embarrassed laggards. Now behind schedule, it was off to dinner. We had managed to waste an entire day, basically, to ride a camel.

Heading into town, we were told that we were entering Baotou, The City of Beer. I was going to need a massage that night because my head snapped up a little too violently, saying “I like this place.” Someone across the aisle disillusioned me, saying “She said City of Deer.” My groan resulted in quite a few laughs. Everyone was chatting about this and no one noticed the open manhole we almost went into. Sitting at the front of the bus often shows you more than you want to see. The only other person to see it was the assistant tour guide, who told me that it is quite common, as manhole covers are a popular target for thieves.

Dinner was again unremarkable; every meal the same. Ten people seated at a round table and brought ten various dishes. I can’t say if the lack of imagination belongs to the tour operator or the restaurant union, but we got the same dishes every meal. We made a game of guessing which dish came next. By the end of the trip, we had it down cold.

We settled into our hotel and looked for the bar. My friend and I were the only ones there and were enjoying our beer when the manager said something to us. We indicated that we didn’t speak Chinese and he motioned “No problem” or something like that. I never was very good at mime games. (Remember the bad haircut?) A few moments later, the lights went off and he had apparently disappeared through a trap door in the floor. I’m pretty sure now that I know what he was saying.

We had seen mention of a night club and karaoke rooms upstairs and one person descending simply said “Interesting, you should check it out.” His departure made us doubt his sincerity, but when a few more friends arrived, we went up for lack of alternatives.

We walked into the most bizarre entertainment complex I’ve ever seen. We were greeted by four beautiful women in identical, peach colored gowns from “Gone With the Wind.” They held menus we couldn’t read and simply let us walk by. We went down a long hall with numerous side halls leading to the karaoke rooms and saw no one.

We eventually came to an open side room and entered 1960 Las Vegas. Local guys were all banging their glasses on their tables, shouting approval as the Mongolian, latter-day Wayne Newton was belting one out, holding a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other. All that was missing was the Rat Pack. It all seemed a little Twilight Zone-like, and that was before we noticed that there were no women other than the waitresses.

We continued down the main hall and shortly emerged into a bowling alley. We were practically speechless and, without need for discussion, headed back out. We noticed someone in one of the side halls and she was followed by nine more beautiful women in various states of dress and undress, all headed into one karaoke room. Suddenly, the lack of singing made sense. We walked out shaking our heads and laughing.

We found beer in the gift shop of the next building and returned to the semi-dark bar to relax. We had lost my roommate, who had gone off with a group looking for a bar they’d heard of. We were entertained by small groups returning from the bar excursion, all women who just described the bar as strange. They had never seen a boy in tight shorts pole-dancing onstage.

We directed a few raised eyebrows at each other, but said nothing to the young ladies before they went to their rooms, confused. My roommate returned shortly thereafter and confirmed our suspicions that the entire group had been directed to a Mongolian gay bar. He had finished his beer (it was German, after all) and quickly made his way back. When we tried to determine how this had happened, we were told that a few of the guys knew of this place somehow and had suggested it. Uh-huh! We were in Baotou, Inner Mongolia and these guys had found a gay bar in less than an hour, before even leaving the hotel. That’s a better intelligence network than the CIA, or even the Masons!

I was told later, by my Australian professor friend, that she and her roommate, both mature women, had ordered a massage from the concierge and when they opened the door to their room, were met by two young girls in mini-skirts, heavy makeup and high heels. Apparently it was hard to tell who was more rattled by the encounter. That Baotou is a happening place, let me tell you.

The night wore on and we were all a bit tired, as well as still being saddle sore. We were two and a half days into the trip and the highlight so far had been the breakfast buffet. We finished our beers as we talked of the plates of food we would inhale in the morning. With something to look forward to, we called it a night, placing side bets on who would sneak back downstairs for some “karaoke.”

Misc. Odds & Ends

I have been a Bear fan my entire life. I finally get to China the year they get it all together. Tuesday was my only chance to see them play before the playoffs and I faced a tough decision. I wasn’t comfortable with my Chinese because I had forgotten so much over the vacation week, but this was a one-time thing. I finally decided, at 7am, that the Bears came first and started looking for an ex-pat sports bar.

Two hours later, I walked into The Duck and Goose, clear across town, and sat down with two other Chicago fans. The Bears were already down 14-0, which called for a stiff drink with breakfast. The drink also helped me get over the strangeness of watching "Monday Night Football" on Tuesday morning. We lost one guy at halftime, down 20-3. I lost the other with five minutes left, down 23-10. I ordered another drink to wash away some of the sorrow and a few more to celebrate the greatest, strangest comeback victory I have ever seen. That game alone could hold me for almost a year. It may have to, since I was the only patron in the bar, jumping and screaming like a lunatic. The staff was more terrified than amused.

I’ve seen a lot of strange designer labels over the years, but I recently saw a pair of slacks with the logo “Mexican” on the hip. Maybe that’s in style over here, or just cheap.

It’s started getting a little cooler here, mid-50s at night. Heating is controlled by building managers and is normally turned on in mid-November, regardless of temperatures. I’m still trying to figure out how it will work in my building; there are no heating vents anywhere. For now, an extra $10 comforter works just fine.

Up until now, I’ve always practiced my language skills with taxi drivers. That may have to stop. Yesterday, a driver, on learning that I was American, started to vent about North Korea. He even went so far as to pull out a newspaper and flip it open to an article about the tensions, all while he was driving in rush hour Beijing traffic. It was the first time that I had been scared in over a month. I may play dumb for a while.

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