The Dumb Laowai

Since the numbers of visitors here has jumped dramatically of late, I want to make something clear, especially for those who don’t know me personally. For a guy who’s always been somewhat fact-oriented, it may seem strange but there is not one iota of research reflected in my blogs. There is practically nothing here that I will claim to be the gospel truth. These are memories, reflections and, occasionally, ravings of an average guy who sometimes feels as if a tornado has dropped him in Oz.

If you’re bored enough to go back very far, you’ll probably see a lot of statements that I later contradict or even recant. A month from now, I will probably contradict something in today’s post. A lot of that stems from naiveté, later enlightened. (I started to type innocence, but decided I didn’t need all of the flack that would ensue from those who do know me.) This illustrates, in reverse, another reason for any irregularities to be found. These are written on the fly and often show little thought of how they might be read. A little leeway is hoped for.

These postings are weekly installments. They give you a peek into my frame of mind that week. Just remember that everyone has a bad week now and then. Maybe someday I’ll go back and edit them in an effort to create a rejected manuscript for my mantelpiece; something I can torture my guests with in my old age. In the meantime, just think of it as a grown man’s diary.

The plan to find an apartment was placed on a one week hold for the oldest reason in the world, a woman. Practically any event in history can be traced to the effects of a woman, positive or negative. Men have made money, lost money, quit jobs, moved thousands of miles and even invaded countries because of something a woman did or did not do.

I seem to have become a project for her. I met her when she gave me one of my ill-conceived, exam week massages and we spent a day together last weekend. She’s become determined to look out for me. She’d given me a rate for cleaning my apartment before I even had one. Both the upside and the downside are that she speaks not one word of English, unless you count OK as a word. I suppose it’s great language practice though.

In the last week, I’ve watched this supposedly sweet woman do a Jekyll and Hyde numerous times. I’ve never detected any resentment from the other parties involved, but there have been several seemingly heated conversations on my behalf, with me standing in the background like a child. It’s a little embarrassing having a five foot woman do your battles for you, but as I’ve learned to do, I decided to go with the flow and see how it turned out. It was then that she decided that I obviously needed help to find an apartment. I didn’t see the conflict coming until it was too late.

Guidance in any matter is more valuable when received from someone whose thoughts on the matter are within 90 degrees of yours on the compass. You wouldn’t ask a bum for stock tips or a billionaire for shopping tips. The results would probably not be very close to your level of comfort. Yet I was going to take real estate advice from someone who’s been in Beijing two years and pays $40 a month for a small room. On top of that, she didn’t fit my original plan of helping with translation. If anything, it would be worse, for now I would have to deal with two persons I couldn’t understand.

I was still blissfully unaware of the potential consequences when she arrived at my room and we headed out for breakfast. At least I thought we were going to breakfast. The prior weekend I had introduced her to a western breakfast and she had promised to show me the proper way to eat in the morning. She seized command of the taxi and we proceeded to ride around for a half hour, punctuated by occasional reconnoitering stops. Like a good little boy, I sat in the taxi as she told me and thought that she was being a little too picky about a restaurant.

I eventually realized that she was looking for vacancies in various apartment buildings. That was it! I had to put my foot down, albeit gently. I need food and coffee before shopping for anything except food and coffee. We bought a newspaper with listings and she reviewed it at the table.

The breakfast was fantastic; thick egg soup with pork, baozi, cold sour vermicelli, some type of curry dish and a shrimp flavored quesadilla. My only disappointment was the total lack of coffee or even tea. It’s not just the total lack of respect for caffeine that I find incomprehensible. Chinese people, or at least Beijing people, do not consume any type of beverages at breakfast. They consider a bowl of soup in the same way we consider orange juice or coffee. I was lucky to get bottled water. It’s simply unheard of.

I was still searching for my fix when she made it clear that my desire to use an agent was ridiculous. We would walk around in 30 degree weather and call people who had posted their phone number in the window. It was slightly irritating, but the full impact of my choice in guides was still not fully apparent.

We proceeded to look at several apartments which she declared as being either too big or too expensive. I usually found out why we had rejected an apartment only after we had left. Because of our differences in background, we had very little in common in judging living quarters. She told me that my budget was too high and that I wanted too large a place. I just couldn’t find a way to explain that I was renting, not her.

I’d heard of this type of conflict before. Acquaintances who had lived in the Philippines or Malaysia, as well as a friend in Beijing have said that a local assistant or part-time employee will often take over your life. They consider it to be a loss of face if they think you are taken advantage of and are reluctant to adjust to western values. After a few battles of will, the common analysis is that it’s much easier to give them room and let them do their thing.

She did her thing for a few more hours before we found a great apartment. It has two large bedrooms, both with an attached sunroom. (That’s what I call them – they're meant as places for you to hang your wet laundry, complete with elaborate pulley systems to raise and lower your shorts.) It also has great work space, large closets, and relatively large kitchen and bathroom. Large in this case means that I can stand in the center and take a full step in almost any direction. On a rare, clear day I’ll even have a good 17^th floor view. We looked at one more place afterward to make him sweat, but returned to close the deal.

Although I had been told in no uncertain terms that we could bargain down to 3,000 yuan from the advertised 3,500 I eventually gave in and agreed to 3,200. Of course I did this when she was out of the room. Approximately 1,100 square feet, furnished for US$400. One thing that takes a little getting used to is that you pay rent far in advance. Three months advance is the minimum I have heard, but many require six months or one year.

As we left, I caught a little flak for caving in and not holding out for 3,000 yuan. I explained that I wasn’t going to lose the place and have to keep looking because of $25. She softened a little bit, but I’m sure that I’ll never hear the end of it.

I now have a great apartment that I wouldn’t have found on my own. Apparently my guide is a pretty impressive character. Even when the landlord and I had agreed, she kept pushing for more. It took the both of us to convince her to sheath her fangs. One landlord offered her a job and another gave her a leg up on applying to a large multi-national company he works for. I may stand back and let her call the shots a little more often.

It’s been a great few days of celebrating here. A satisfying performance by the Bears, followed by four passing mid-term exam scores meant that this has to go down as a good week, regardless of what else happens, short of hospitalization or arrest.

It’s just now hit me that celebration must be short-lived and it’s back to the books once again. The pace hasn’t slowed much and, just to keep things interesting, our new books have no pinyin, or English spelling of words. That’s a bit of a pain, but the worst part is the secondary effect. Pinyin forced the printer to spread out the Chinese characters into identifiable words and phrases. Now the characters are non-stop, with no spacing other than commas. Since many characters are used in multiple words, I’ll need to refill my aspirin supply shortly.

I was a little disappointed to be the only customer at a sports pub for the Chicago game. After a while, I started to feel like I was at home, with nobody watching. I came just short of taking off my pants and putting my feet on the bar before a second patron showed. As it turns out, he wasn’t a fellow Bears man, but the off-duty, head chef, Andrew.

Andrew is an Australian who has moved around Asia for many years had just returned to Beijing after a spell working on a Mongolian oil rig in the Gobi desert. Over the next two hours, he took dozens of text messages from various women and tried to manage his schedule. Rough life! In between texts, he provided a constant stream of predictions; pass, screen, draw, score in two plays, score in three plays. Other than his failure to predict a turnover, he was wrong once. I only half-jokingly offered to pay his way to Vegas.

Guinness, Jameson’s and an omelet. Don’t knock it until you try it. Of course there are very few places to do this. It’s not really a weekend kind of fare to try at home. The ambiance is critical, requiring a pool table and multiple televisions showing sports. You’ll just have to find that rare pub and settle in. Keep in mind that the satisfaction level will be much higher if you've blown off class or work and that the rest of the day will be a waste.   

In another fortunate bit of timing, the next day’s lesson revolved around sports competitions and such. I had previewed the text earlier that morning and, when called on, was able to say that I had gone to Chaoyang the previous day, drank beer and watched an American football game, which my team had won. Kind of a frivolous reason to miss class, but my scores gave me a little leeway. (Lesson contents continue to be timely; after a rough night following a Mexican dinner, we learned about medical problems, especially intestinal ailments. I wasn’t so quick to share my experiences with the class that day.)

When I had gotten to class, several of my classmates told me that my scores were good, but that they couldn’t remember them exactly. I thought that this was strange until I talked to laoshi at the break. He had just one book with everyone’s results and had showed it to the entire class. Everyone knew how everyone else had scored. Privacy just doesn’t have the same priority here. It’s rare and elusive, so it’s come to be unexpected.

Far from being an A student, I was still ecstatic. My comprehensive, grammar and oral exams had averaged 76 out of 100. I would normally be despondent with those kinds of results, but they are apparently very acceptable in this program, especially in the early terms. Only a few of the Asian students were far ahead, a combination of limited previous exposure to Chinese and mind-boggling study habits.

My listening exam brought down the average a bit with a score of 66, but it was a passing score. That was simply amazing to me, as I apparently go brain-dead when spoken to in Mandarin. I often wonder if I get the glazed-eye look of a zombie to match the feeling when this happens. Again, I found that this score was nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a bit of a mind game. I spend half of my time feeling like a complete idiot and then find out that this is completely normal. I still feel very “special” the next week, though.

Overall, the exam week was a little rough. Everyone was under a lot of pressure. A friend of the same age and I realized that in our cases, this was ridiculous. Unlike our classmates, we wouldn’t lose a scholarship or be forced home by our parents. For us, it was purely ego. Somehow, this realization did not reduce stress for either of us. My self-prescribed stress relief would turn out to be self-defeating as well.

After day one, I headed out for a massage. They’re available in almost every neighborhood and will generally cost from US$6-12 for an hour. It felt great to get the knots worked out and I headed home to hit the books in preparation for day two. That night, I could barely sleep. Every muscle in my body ached. I knew that I had been worked over pretty good, but this was ridiculous.

After the second day’s exam, I was still pretty sore. I have the strangest ability to occasionally dispense with all rational thought. “I feel like I got ran over by a truck; I need a massage!” I was convinced that the right massage would cure what ailed me. Hobbling home, I couldn’t believe that I had the rotten luck of selecting another bad masseuse. Another sleepless night and another exam.

If insanity is doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results, lock me up. Third day of exams, third massage. Suffice it to say that my weekend was spent recovering in my room. I think I’ll stick to beer for relaxation. If anything, I sleep better and, if I feel bad the next day, at least I know that more beer will fix it.

This weekend will be a trial of endurance, patience and wits. Possessing only the first, I’m not looking forward to it. It’s a time I hated in the states, and at least I knew what to expect. It’s time to go apartment hunting.

I always knew that life in a dorm, no matter how nice a place it might be, would be a challenge. Awaking to the sounds of drunken teenagers roughhousing in the hall at 4am was the final straw. Long gone are the days when I would have joined them. Now I’m the old fart who wants to call the police, but can’t. I hate them for making me come to this realization as much as I do for the disturbances themselves.

First, I’ll need to find a rental agent that both speaks English and appears relatively honest.  Since all rental disputes are determined by the Chinese version of the contract and the English version often does not match, I’m forced to enlist one of my Chinese friends to assist me. This will provide me with a way to check up on both the landlord and the rental agent. All of this before I even look for a place. I have a feeling that Saturday night will involve more than two beers.

Alright! Back to school! I don’t think I’ve ever said those words before, but after the torture of the previous eight days, anything had to be an improvement. Yes, the trip was only four days, but the belly rot doubled my pleasure.

I didn’t count on forgetting most of what I had learned. My limited knowledge of Chinese was not very deeply imbedded and, because I hadn’t looked at a book in all that time, I was practically starting over. I soon found myself trying to learn the current chapter and relearn an earlier one. Since the pace was already brutal, catching up has been a tortuous process. I’m not there yet and I have three days of midterms this week. This may be a very large bruise to my scholastic pride.

Aside from that, things are still new enough to be exciting. The overall situation is dynamic enough that practically anything can happen. I’m discovering that by going with the flow and keeping an open mind you can end up in some pretty interesting spots.

The grind to catch up was getting a little frustrating and I'd had a bad day of classes; a day that makes you want to burn the books and get drunk. I bought a copy of China Daily (the propaganda rag) and was headed out to have lunch and start on the binge when I was approached by three young Chinese girls who asked me if I could do them a big favor.

Usually I would ignore them or claim to be busy, writing it off as a sales pitch or a straight out scam. I’ve done this before, even when beautiful women wanted to have a drink. I always kicked myself afterwards, so this time I stopped and listened. The shortest of the three said that they were having a contest among some Chinese students learning English and that they needed some foreigners to help them in a game that evening.

It sounded like I could still get in a good five hours of study, and a change of pace sounded appealing. I pictured 8-10 students from a class getting together to practice and needing language partners. Sure, why not? I told her I would be there at 7:00, gave her my phone number and went off to hit the books. I put the drinking binge on hold. A few hours later, another girl called to thank me and asked if I could be there at 6:45 instead. Sure. No problem. Seemed like a lot of trouble to go through for a study session, though.

Vivian, the girl who had first asked me, planned to meet me at the front of the classroom building, but since I didn’t see her, I went on in. I was even a little offended. I’m a grown man, even if I am a dumb laowai, and I can certainly find a classroom without a guide. I went up the stairs to find myself at a registration line. This was getting a little confusing. Must be more than 10 students, I thought.

I walked past the registration and through the doors to find myself in an auditorium with more than 500 Chinese students. There were banners, seating on stage for VIPs, cheering sections and ushers. I felt like a complete idiot. I couldn’t even find a classroom. I guess Vivian was right in wanting to meet me out front. If I hurried, I could get down there before she arrived and I could pretend I hadn’t gotten lost.

As I turned to go a woman ran up to and around me, blocking my way. “You must be Mike.” Ohhhh, shit! Two people quickly joined us and they practically bum-rushed me down front. They led me across the front and seated me with three students who were to be the time-keepers. I sat down, speechless, and tried to figure out what the hell was going on. I had minders watching me the whole time. At one point, I walked out to go to the restroom. When I came out, one of them was waiting to escort me back to my seat. Ducking out was not going to be an option.

The time-keepers all spoke English and were very friendly. “Do you know what you’re supposed to do?” “I haven’t got a clue!” They proceeded to explain something about speeches and a recovery round where I would guess words. It was all still pretty vague when the program started. I sat through three five minute speeches by school administrators, not understanding a word. I started cursing Vivian. There were ten school officials seated on stage and it looked like they were all going to speak. Why else would they be there? I really should have gone with my first instinct and gotten drunk.

The next thing I know, they all leave and the competition starts. It turns out that there really are ten students competing, but this is no study session, it's an annual competition for freshmen. Each of them had their own, incredibly loud, cheering section, complete with horns, kazoos, bells, whistles and organized cheers. One of the timekeepers told me that her friend, who was competing, had placed second in a nation-wide contest the previous year. She slyly suggested that I should help her if I could. How in the hell was I going to help her if I didn't even know what I was supposed to do?

In the first round, each student was to make a three minute topical speech. I groaned at the prospect, but they were all interesting for one reason or another; some for their impressive speaking skills and some for their bravery. I finally saw two other westerners, but they were judges, apparently staff members. At least they knew what was going on. Unfortunately, the show had started and I wasn't able to speak with them.

In between speeches, my three time-keeper coaches finally explained that, afterwards, scores would determine which three would automatically advance to the second round. The other seven would play a game (we know it as $10,000 Pyramid and other names) to determine the other three to advance. Oh great! These kids (and their rabid fans) were depending on me to make their dreams come true, and I was going to disappoint four of the seven. That may sound a little dramatic, but contests over here are serious, especially when they’re academically oriented.

Before the last speaker got to the podium, I was escorted to the backstage entrance to speak with the coordinator once again. In what seemed like seconds later I was handed a microphone, escorted behind the curtains and shoved on stage. I was introduced by a smarmy emcee (I don’t know who he was imitating, but it wasn’t a good idea) and left alone, center stage. I couldn't even say anything. I just gave a half-hearted half-wave, accompanied by a stupid grin.

I’m not sure who was more nervous, the contestants or me. They had to describe random words or phrases that appeared on a screen behind me. These weren’t just simple words. They ranged from lipstick to The Leaning Tower of Pisa. That’s a rough test of anyone’s vocabulary, especially in a foreign language. I can’t imagine how long I would need to study Mandarin to attempt such an endeavor.

I had to guess well or they were out of it. They and their friends might decide to meet me outside and welcome me to China. No pressure! Every correct answer was met with loud applause and cheering. The various noisemakers added an occasional emphasis. This was serious, but I was on a roll and started to have fun with it, especially when one girl started by saying “You’re getting married.” My shocked reaction got a lot of laughs and everyone loosened up. This was fun. The contestants weren’t convinced of it though.

It all went well up until the last person, a small girl who was practically shaking from the pressure. She started and got through four words before everyone realized that the list was a repeat of one used earlier. It took a few minutes to correct and by the time we started again she was done for. Maybe she just drew tough words, but we struggled through to get her 3 points, where the others had all gotten 7-10. I really felt sorry for her. I never saw the words, so I don't know if the fault was mine or not.

As I left the stage, several competitors thanked and complimented me. The coordinator thanked me and asked me if I would do it again. Certainly! I later kicked myself for leaving and not knowing who had won, but I had reached sensory overload for the evening. I left the building and walked toward the street, truly appreciating the beautiful weather. Maybe it was time for that drink after all; a calm, reflective drink after a great night; not the mind-erasing mixtures I had thought about earlier in the day.

I hailed a taxi and headed to my favorite bar. To those who know me it may sound a little strange, but “my favorite bar” means the one I drink in once a week. Believe it or not, that’s as often as I go to a bar. Go ahead and look at the website address; you’re in the right place.

Anyways, I walked through the door and the first people I saw were three classmates I didn’t know very well. Up until then, all I knew was that they were from Iceland and were inseparable. I’m not sure if anyone has ever seen one without the other two.

They were there for the Wednesday night team trivia contest and immediately sized me up as a valuable contributor. The theme for the evening’s contest was Halloween, something that the majority of the room knew nothing about. I never thought I would be popular for my Halloween knowledge. Intellectual superiority that night was defined by knowing that the Halloween favorite recorded in 1962 is The Monster Mash and knowing that the popular Halloween game is bobbing for apples. I’m a genius!

After a couple of beers, provided by my classmates, I decided to go Absinthe. One of them was excited, claiming that we were kindred, adventurous spirits. I got the round and he got the next. His roommates wisely left and we continued our drinking, traveling the world with our selections. What I wasn’t aware of was that he had drunk 7-8 beers before I had arrived and that he was only 18. I like to think that I can hold my own in a drinking sense. This 18 year old kid had spotted me 8 beers and tried to match me thereafter. It wasn’t pretty. After pushing him out of a taxi, I headed home and slept the sleep of the dead, knowing I had proven them separable after all.

A rotten day had blossomed into a great one, in ways I could never have imagined beforehand. Keeping an open mind can do wonders for you, whether it’s food, people or activities. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: most of my best experiences are the ones I wouldn’t have chosen knowingly. Unless I know the outcome will be bad, I’ve started to say yes automatically, just to see what happens. Even when it’s bad, it’s interesting.

By the way, the kid couldn’t make it to class the next morning and I felt like a million bucks, mentally refreshed and eager to hit the books.

Being enthused about class is easier some days than others. Waking up at 6am and finding out that the Bears had been humiliated by a semi-pro Miami team put a real damper on my Monday outlook. Silver lining-wise, I’m hoping that this will motivate Da’ Bears for their Sunday night game in New York. Otherwise, I’ll be very distraught.

I’ve gone through a brutal week of reviews and mid-term exams. Damn, this is hard! We are to receive the results Monday morning, but I’ve already cleared my absence with my laoshi (lao rhymes with cow, shi with her.) Confusing, huh? Don’t get me started on the funny, throat-clearing “r” sounds that only Beijing people make. Anyway, I’m blowing off my test scores to head across town once again, to have whiskey with my breakfast and watch the Bears. I’ll just have to get my scores on Tuesday.

If you read this in time, tell Chip at Rocco’s to buy the bar a drink on me if they win, two for Norm. Hopefully he’ll think I’m good for it. How many bartenders can say that a guy in China has the next round?

Finally, the last day of the trip! I’ve never before understood the frame of mind “it’ll be good to get back to (work, school, etc.). I was now its leading advocate. Get me out of here, I all but screamed into the pillow.

The thought of coffee hit like a thunderbolt and I leaped out of bed, before remembering how much it would hurt. I’m still rather proud that I didn’t actually scream when I hit the floor. My roommate never stirred. A little whimper was all that the Mongolian gods got out of me.

A long shower is one of the greatest experiences you can have on a bad vacation. As long as you’re in a decent place and you’re up a little early, you never have to worry about running out of hot water. I’ve been known to stand there for 30 minutes or so, just for the mental therapy. I didn’t set any personal best, but I was there a while, trying to convince various body parts that they could make it just one more day. My salesmanship skills were severely challenged, but eventually most of the parts responded to the promise of coffee.

I know that I’ll never qualify as a great packer, but I like to think that I’m fairly good. What baffles me, and keeps me from the ranks of the best, is that I apparently lose all ability to count while filling a bag. It’s not a simple problem of forgetting something or taking too much but, rather, taking mismatched quantities. I always end up with, say, two extra pairs of pants and having to recycle or buy additional shirts. It’s not planning, it’s just simple counting.

Today I had another reason to be glad that we were headed home. I found myself with three extra pairs of socks and lacking fresh underwear. Recycling being the only option, I was glad that yesterday had not been very physical. I crammed everything into my backpack and ran for the buffet, aroma be damned.

The coffee was like nectar, but then again, instant would have tasted like Starbuck’s best right then. I was on my second cup before making it around the buffet circuit. There were plentiful baskets of baozi, mounds of bread products, meats, and almost everything you could ask for, considering the location. The dish of sheep guts looked suspiciously untouched since earlier in the week. With no reading materials available, I selected a prime seat to enjoy the entertainment – Cripples on Parade.

I was disappointed with the performance. I’m confident that they all appeared and felt as bad as I did, but I had gotten accustomed to the look. There was no recent contrast for amusement. Everyone had looked like crap for days and it was beginning to seem normal. That’s when you know it’s time to go home. I never thought I would quote Al Gore, but he did make one witty observation that came to mind. “Travel is nature’s way of making you look like your passport photo”. At least it was attributed to him. Maybe it was uttered by the guy who actually invented the Internet.

We were herded onto the sheep trucks disguised as buses and told that we could expect a four hour ride, followed by lunch. It didn’t seem as bad as it first sounded. We were all at the point where doing nothing had some appeal. A few card games and interesting scenery were a nice change of pace.

We spent the entire morning on a two lane road through farm country. We saw thousand year old villages with some of the original founders sitting by the road. We saw harvests and livestock being kept in caves carved from cliffs. We saw coal mining towns in which every shack might be lacking a door or part of a roof, but it had a satellite dish. It’s pretty tough to get a good picture from a moving bus though.

A leisurely, late lunch and a 45 minute trip retracing our route brought us to caves. That’s all we had been told about this until arriving. What we found was a temple and dozens of caves carved in a cliff over hundreds of years, all dedicated to and containing multiple Buddhas of various sizes. Our small group wandered through a few and came to the conclusion that “When you’ve seen one Buddha…”

We headed down to the ubiquitous shopping area to look around. As unexpected as it was, it turned out to be one of the highlights of the trip. I had done just enough previous shopping and acquired just enough Chinese to haggle a little and have fun with it. I started out small, looking at intricately carved little pipes. I was brimming with confidence as I walked away with my $5 gift, having forgotten one of the rules of market life.

I’m not very clear on the thought process yet. Perhaps stall keepers think that all foreigners are serious collectors or even wholesalers. I was watched by all of the nearby stall keepers as I had concluded my pipe purchase and every one of them then tried to sell me another pipe, sometimes an exact duplicate of the one I had. I mean, how many pipes do they think a guy needs? I thought I could lose the reputation by rounding a corner, but it now followed me from stall to stall, out of sight of the original seller.

I quickly walked a block up the alley, outpacing my reputation and gaining a little peace before I immediately stepped in it again. I stopped to look at a few of Mao’s Little Red Books. They are for sale in every antique market here, in a mind-boggling variety of sizes, versions, languages, etc. I recently read that enough of them were printed for each person on earth to own three.

I had been looking for a 1966 edition, the first published. I wasn’t seriously searching, just keeping my eye out for one. Up until then, I would just look at the books and move on. Now, however, I could speak a little and told the shopkeeper exactly what I wanted. I was about to get a true lesson in market dynamics.

The next shop owner waved me in, saying “Mao books, Mao books!” I looked through them before telling him that I wanted a first edition. The third store owner grabbed me and, when asked, said that he had what I wanted. Of course, he didn’t. I was met at the door by his neighbor, who claimed to have a 1966 edition, before I had even asked. It turned out that he didn’t either. He tried to convince me that a later book was from 1966 by pointing to a quote dated 1966.

I was no longer interested in Mao books but, then again, I wasn’t in control. By now, the first shopkeeper had tracked me down with more books for me to examine. I was pretty sure that they were the same ones, but I looked out of courtesy; big mistake. I was outdoors now and everyone had seen me look at the books. Within minutes people were bringing armfuls of books for me to consider. After hearing what I wanted and repeating it verbatim, people would still try to sell me a 1972 edition printed in German. I was starting to feel like the scorpion that gets pulled down by a thousand ants. I had dozens of people standing around me, all trying to sell me a book.

I started getting a little frustrated and took it out on the next guy to grab me. He pushed a book in my hands, saying “66, 66!” It did have the proper date, in the proper place, but when I looked through the book, I found several color photos at the front. I realized that I had gotten into this with very little idea of how to authenticate a first edition; I had never seen one. However, I had the impression that it was later editions that had added several pictures. I was a little irritated by now and I wasn’t about to show uncertainty. That would be like showing fear in the lion’s cage.  I thrust the book back at him and loudly said that the 1966 version didn’t have pictures, adding a disgusted snort for emphasis.

The entire crowd started laughing and I thought I had really proven myself as a dumb laowai, when I saw the seller drop his head and slink away. They were all laughing at him because he had been caught by a foreigner. Everyone was laughing and pointing at him and smiling at me. I guess I had earned a little respect and the crowd thinned for lack of an easy target. I have to give the guy points for tenacity though. He returned within a few moments, carrying another book, which he opened to show me “Mao’s autograph” in bright blue ink. That was good for a few more laughs.

I saw very few Mao books after that and could walk the market freely, where I received one of the worst sales pitches ever. I stopped to look at Russian style fur hats, and tried on one made of fox. It was far too small and wouldn’t sit low enough to be anywhere near my ears. When I told the shopkeeper that it was too small, stating the obvious, he grabbed the hat and said that it was not too small, that it was perfect. He proved his point by shoving the hat onto his own head, declaring it to be a very good hat. I started laughing at the logic and simply told him that Americans have big heads. I didn’t know enough Chinese to dispute his theory on sizes. He laughed and we called it a draw.

We eventually gathered and headed back to town for dinner, to be followed by our train departure. A few card games on the train were enough excitement for most of us at that point and we slept until arriving in Beijing at 7am. Actually, they slept. I was up at about 6am with disturbing intestinal complaints. I was quite sure that the necessary activities would not be pleasant and I was not about to attempt them using a squatter on a moving train. It might have been the longest three hours of my life.

I was now operating under the auspices of the “When it rains, it pours” theory of bad luck. When you are struggling to retain control of bodily functions, I do not recommend a half mile hike through a train station, carrying a 50lb. pack. Several stops to gather stragglers and a 30 minute wait on the bus for another lost sheep did not brighten my day.

Thankfully, I arrived home with my dignity still intact. I was to remain there for four days, alternating my time between the only two rooms I have on a 50/50 basis. A rather appropriate ending for such a vacation. Mongolian Belly Rot – the perfect parting gift!