The Dumb Laowai

This week I got serious about final exams. In my college years that usually happened anywhere from 12-24 hours ahead of time but, as I’ve said, Mandarin is a little tougher nut to crack. Three weeks to go and I was thinking I may have cut it a little too fine this time.

I got everything ready in preparation for some serious marathon sessions. Flash cards organized, extra writing tablets ready, fridge stocked up with unhealthy stuff; I was ready to go. A little sniffle. Well, it has been pretty cold out lately. A little later, a small cough. Ah, the air’s been bad today. Another hour finds me in bed mid-afternoon, sweating up the sheets and unable to breathe.

Now, I had gone through this once before, shortly after arriving, and found a source for all of my western medicine needs. It’s just that those are the kinds of things that you aren’t used to buying ahead of time and, now that I really needed them, I remembered that it was a thirty minute trip each way. Several times I made the decision to get up and go, only to lie back down, hoping I’d feel better in an hour.

Somewhere around this time (things were a little fuzzy) my Little Dictator called. I was about to lose all control of my life, once again. She appeared in what seemed like minutes and boiled up some jiaozi (dumplings). She practically dragged me to the table and told me not to stop eating until she returned. She was going to introduce me to proper medicine, not that funny stuff we use where I come from.

On the best days, jiaozi can be a little bland. With a monster of a cold, I couldn’t taste a thing, so I thought I would try to liven them up a little bit. I found my jar of chili garlic paste in the cupboard and added liberal amounts to my soy sauce. Even that didn’t work. Eating can be incredibly boring when there’s no enjoyment to it.

My attention span was severely limited, so instead of picking up a book like I normally would, I applied what focus remained to the label on the chili paste. I realized that even though I couldn’t taste the chili, it was as good as ever, indicated by the copious amounts of sweat emanating from my entire head. Just then, three little words jumped out at me in bright, blinking colors: refrigerate after opening. This stuff had been sitting in my Chinese cupboard for two weeks after its last use and may very well have been putrid enough to repel starving dogs, but I couldn’t tell! I just knew that I had downed a lot of it and I was praying that a couple of antibiotics would do the trick. Not trusting myself to make any further decisions, I sat at the table and waited.

LD returned with her bag of goodies and proceeded to make cute little piles of pills on my dining room table. “Take these now, also take these now. Wait ten minutes and take this.” She pushed me into bed, brought me water and turned up the heat before leaving for work. I dozed off and on between fevers, chills and her phone calls to remind me to take more pills.

I sometimes wonder about psychological aspects of Chinese medicine. In theory, you could make these pills any strength and size you like, but it seems that the norm is to take four of these, three of these and two of those. Do people feel like they’ll improve more quickly because they took so many pills? Is there a placebo effect in regard to volume?

I awoke the next morning to find her at the door. By the time I had closed it and turned around she was already handing me more pills. You’ve got to admit the woman does not slack off. Next was another forced meal. She had brought me baozi, which I normally can’t get enough of, and the apparently universal remedy, noodle soup.

While I ate, she rummaged through my bathroom and returned with a bottle of baby oil. OK, I thought, a massage doesn’t sound all that bad right now. She then pulled a small, round, glass jar from her bag and held it up for me to examine with big eyes and a smile. She seemed very surprised that I had no idea as to the purpose of the jar. Then my eyes went big. Oh crap! I was going to get cupped!

Before China, cupping always had connotations of foreplay. Somehow, I knew that this version would not finish with a smile and a cigarette. A classmate had been cupped (it still sounds kind of dirty, doesn’t it?) for a bad cold last month and the best things he had to say about the experience were that it hadn’t killed him and it hadn’t even hurt. He had no clue as to whether it had helped with his recovery or not. All I knew was that he looked like he had gone twelve rounds with Captain Nemo’s giant squid.

I tried to look as if I was incredibly interested in the dregs of my soup, but she wasn’t buying it. Other than my mother, this was the first time I ever showed such a lack of enthusiasm for being dragged to my bedroom by a woman while it was actually happening. She laid towels on the bed and proceeded to prepare her full set of twelve cups, humming like a mad scientist.

Just in case you’re not following, and I’d be a little worried if you were, cupping is the application of heated containers to the skin, in this case the back. As the container cools it creates a strong vacuum. You could stand up and walk around with these things hanging on you. By some mysteriously selective process, this vacuum draws the toxins out from your body, but none of the good stuff. Personally, I think we’re in the “applying leeches” neighborhood here; I just can’t decide which is closer to the train tracks.

My fears were soothed when I discovered that it really didn’t hurt. Having seen large, raised, red welts, I have to say that I had doubted my classmate’s veracity. The only exception was one cup that hadn’t cooled sufficiently before being attached to my then relaxed body. That caused a slight disturbance. It was now time for me to lay there for thirty minutes, thinking “What the hell have I gotten into?”

I could have been lulled to sleep by LD’s continued humming of traditional Chinese songs, but after a few moments I noticed that the vacuum pressure exerted by those little glasses was truly astounding, maybe a little uncomfortable. She asked if I ached and, being a man, I, of course, said no. That kind of crap only goes so far, so a few minutes later I firmly proclaimed “Well, maybe a little bit.”

Once again, I say lock me up for expecting different results. The medical profession did yet another “Gotcha!” on me. Whenever a medical professional, from a Mayo Clinic surgeon to a witch doctor, asks you if it hurts, do not expect sympathy or relief. Why do I always fall for that? The inevitable reply is something like LD’s: “The more it aches now, the better you’ll feel later.” It could be something like “just a little bit longer”, “you’re holding up well” or “would you like to bite my nurse?” The end result is that they’re not going to stop the pain. Why do they ask?

She finally began to remove the cups, one by one, and each time I noticed a substantial amount of liquid run down my back. Now, normally I would think condensation, but the idea was to draw things out of my body. What if she got the wrong stuff? How do you tell? Her occasional mumbling of bu hao (not good) did nothing for my comfort level. Deciding that there was little I could do now, I jumped up and ran to the mirror like a little kid, anxious to see how cool his new bruises looked.

I wasn’t disappointed. I too had done battle with Nemo’s monster. If I ever find the docking station for my camera, I’ll post a picture. My back was covered in 3” diameter, raised, red welts. As I often find here, there was one little final twist she felt obliged to throw my way. I couldn’t work out the actual reason, be it ancient custom, medical reaction or simply union regulations, but I could not take a shower for three days.

I truly wish she had thought to tell me that ahead of time. I would have taken a pre-cupping shower. (Sounds like something you should get gifts for.) As it was, I had been in feverish sweats for over 24 hours and was pretty sure that I could offend a third-world sewer worker. Three more days and the neighbors might send police to look for a dead body. I was beginning to hope that my sense of smell was the last thing that I recovered.

To cut it short, I slept a little better that day and that evening. I woke up feeling semi-human, which was improvement enough for me to hit the books. I have to say that the combination of dozens of Chinese pills, cupping and good old noodle soup turned me around in no time. I’ve never recovered faster. Now I’m just wondering if I have to do all three the next time.

Sorry for the delay in getting this posted but, once again, my internet connection has been down and I’ve been reluctant to go out to a wireless equipped bar. There is very little that can make me reluctant to head for a watering hole, but temperatures in the teens with high winds does make me think twice. They don’t speak of the wind chill factor and it’s just as well; I really don’t want to know. If someone told me the wind chill was -20, they might not see me again until spring.

I grew up in northern Illinois. I tell people Chicago because I got tired of the blank looks that invariably occurred whenever I said Rockford or, God help me, Stillman Valley. When you have to tell someone that you’re from a place that’s ten miles from a bigger city that they still haven’t heard of, you start looking for short cuts.

All this is to say that I have a passing knowledge of winter. I remember entire months where ten degrees was the high. I had to be out and about when we had an eighty below wind chill on a New Years weekend. I remember working forty-eight hours straight to salvage a factory because the entire roof had collapsed from the weight of the snow. It’s a large part of why I moved directly to Phoenix.

Prior to China, a few years in Atlanta had reacquainted me with cold weather to a lesser degree, but my twelve years in Phoenix have permanently destroyed any tolerance I have for it. I now think of Chap Stick as a mandatory accessory. I take taxis four blocks. I even had my mother send me long underwear for Christmas and, as far as I know, no man has ever asked for underwear as a gift, at least not men’s underwear. Of course, my mom’s wonderfully quirky sense of humor led her to add a couple pair of flannel boxer shorts, complete with the Coca-Cola polar bear and Charlie Brown with his Christmas tree.

So here I sit in my favorite bar at 9:00am on a Sunday (I love this place – open 24 hours and makes a great American breakfast), warm and toasty in my new shorts. It’s such a little thing but it makes me so deliriously happy that I just want to share my good fortune with the other patrons. I probably won’t. The staff has adopted me as their favorite, slightly off-kilter foreigner, so I’m not ready to risk their displeasure quite yet. I need them more than they need me. I’ll just have to make sure that when I return during drinking hours that I wear something more traditional and remove any temptation. (Yes, I know that I am not adverse to drinking with breakfast, but that is generally reserved for football holidays.)

Heading towards Christmas has been a little strange this year. I’m considered an expert on last minute shopping techniques, most involving a mall with a bar that’s open on the 24^th. Yet this year I had everything purchased before Thanksgiving. I’d heard too many stories about gifts that seemed to tour the world prior to delivery. Just so the season wasn’t totally out of character, I still procrastinated two weeks before actually shipping them.

I didn’t expect much Christmas related activity in China. I’ve been surprised in several ways. I understand not taking a week off, but to schedule class on Christmas day still seems a little excessive, especially since a large percentage of the students celebrate it. I doubt that attendance will be robust.

On the other extreme, grocery store clerks all wear their red, fur-trimmed Santa vests. Nativity scenes are non-existent, but little Santa village scenes are common. I’m still unable to decipher the meaning of cute pigs in Santa suits though. Small, plastic, Christmas trees are quite common, although lacking any religious ornaments. I was a literally stunned to see a twenty foot tall tree, topped with a large, red, communist star. It might be the best example I’ve ever seen of “not getting the idea.” I might be able to enthusiastically support globalization if it meant truly experiencing the best of other cultures. Unfortunately, it seems to mean taking both the best and worst elements, twisting them with local tastes and coming up with something that has absolutely no meaning whatsoever.

It was about this time that I started to notice more negative examples of globalization. The other evening, as I walked out of a sub-standard sushi bar and past an even lower quality pizza joint, I was bombarded by Hobo Willy singing “Jingle Bell Rock”. While shopping at a French Wal-Mart-like department store for household necessities, I was forced to listen to such favorites as “All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth” and “Rockin’ Round the Christmas Tree.” I kept waiting for “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” It’s bad enough that I have to listen to Kenny G everywhere I go. I’ve heard the theme from Titanic enough times to make me wish that he had been on it.

I suddenly find myself harboring a possibly irrational, but real fear. I’m scared to death that someone will give me a Chinese-version fruitcake and yet morbidly curious as to how they could possibly make that worse.

Merry Sheng dan jie everyone!

Last week, I thought I was just being funny when I mentioned lists that might notice me due to my mention of “Keepin’ Your Poop in a Jar”, that classic hit by Hayseed Dixie. I have rarely been so wrong. I can’t say for sure that is the reason, but I suddenly find this blog referred by dozens of porn sites. Some of the more amusing site names include straponaddicts.com, bestofpornstars.net, yourdailyporn.info/masturbating, boobiefetish.net, awesomebreasts.net, disciplinarian.com, ultrababez.net and juicydoor.com. And yet, due to my non-existent advertising budget, I’ve gotten only one referral from Google.

I’m not sure if P.T. Barnum applies here; “There’s no such thing as bad publicity.” I’ll just have to wait and see how it turns out. I'm sure that this post will only exacerbate the problem. Obviously, P.T. never had to deal with the internet.

The university recently sponsored a trip to the theatre. The trip was announced on one of my self-declared football holidays so I only had second hand information, which was that we would be seeing the Peking Opera. You can call me a cultural cretin if you will, but I believe that Chinese opera is another unexplored method of rehabilitating prisoners. I’m quite sure that if it was played 24/7 on prison speakers that America would be the first crime-free nation in history. Unfortunately, as with liver, the courts would rule it as cruel and unusual punishment.

I’ve always had serious doubts as to whether I would ever truly become an adult. Many years have been spent in pursuit of the “World’s Oldest Teenager” title. The Vegas odds of me winning the belt went through the roof when it was discovered that I did something terribly adult-like, even parent-like.

There is no way on earth that I ever would have made an effort to see the opera, but the opportunity was presented, complete with accompanying dilemma. I didn’t want to go, but it’s one of those things you really should do if possible. This is a class of activities that includes attending the Bolshoi Ballet, touring the Louvre and seeing Garrison Keillor live. I sucked it up and put my name on the registration form in an extremely uncomfortable imitation of maturity.

Our buses dropped us off on the street, facing a building with a very bland exterior and we were led through an alley to the main entrance. It was half cabaret and half theatre in that it had a flat main floor with seating at small tables and two levels of small balcony suites around the perimeter. I was a little surprised. Maybe they were having an off-year; budget problems or something. I was expecting a large theatre and a seat that left me wanting binoculars. Yet here I was, seated at a table twenty feet from the stage and being served tea and snacks.

We were informed that this was actually a centuries-old theatre for the common people, sort of a Chinese vaudeville. It’s rare to be glad for bad information, but this definitely qualified as one of those times. Things were looking up. The juggling unicyclist and especially the contortionist were entertaining, but the singing act, wrestlers and magician all depended on a comedic patter that was mostly lost on us. All of that buildup for an amusing way to kill an hour and a half was a little disappointing but it was decidedly better than the opera. It also set us to thinking.

Several classmates suggested that we should do something more as a group and started planning an evening activity. Considering that the entire rest of my class consists of Europeans and Asians, I would never have expected the activity to be bowling, especially since I had yet to see a single bowling alley. I immediately started having visions of superiority. After all, this was an American game! Who cares if I hadn’t bowled in twenty years? It’s like riding a bike, right?

We met at the appointed time and walked a few hundred yards to a large hotel complex with a bowling alley in its activity building. I respect anyone who takes charge and plans an event, but a little research is highly recommended. We found that every lane was full with a bowling league which had started at 6:00. I’ve played in a few bowling leagues and have to say that no self-respecting bowler starts that early. Of course, my leagues had been beer-fueled and these people were drinking water. It was my first clue that even bowling would be a little different in China.

After about thirty minutes of confusion we were given two lanes for fifteen people, the far right and the far left lanes. Eight people on one lane is bound to be slow, so we decided to play only two games and tried to get started. I was proud to see that our bowling shoes proclaimed this an American game by stating the shoe size on the heel in American sizes; 9, 10, 11 and so on. For once, everyone else had to look at a chart to calculate their foot size. I felt like I was on my home turf.

My warm fuzzy feeling was short-lived. Failing to find a single ball heavier than 12lbs., I grudgingly picked one of the ladies balls and stepped up to the line. I confidently strode forward, visualizing a perfect strike and flew flat on my face. The American shoe sizes had thrown me off because I had been so glad to see them. It never occurred to me that they would be poor knock-offs. I found that the rubber pad had partially peeled from the bottom and tripped me up.

I tried to project a sense of dignity that I definitely did not possess at that point and prepared for my second ball. It was a little difficult getting all of the lane oil off of my hands. Since I had last had this problem twenty plus years ago, it didn’t really register as being abnormal. My next several balls proved otherwise, as I learned that the excess oil prevented almost any type of curve on the ball. Being a little stubborn, it took four frames for this to really sink in, by which time I had thrown six gutter balls. Dreams of American glory were going down in flames.

After a beer and settling down, I started to realize that I had been awarded pins for frames where I had done nothing. Eventually I noticed that almost half of the sets were missing one or two random pins. It became truly obvious when the head pin was missing. Shortly after, the machine started jamming. We tried throwing a ball to clear the mechanism; only to have the next bowler awarded a strike for the effort. Sometimes, two or three bowlers got easy strikes this way.

Apparently the machine heard us wondering about the amount of duct tape used in its construction. It now began to occasionally set down as few as three or four pins at random. Even a gutter ball would score six or seven. Clearing a couple of pins would get you a strike. Just to add one final insult, it gave me a split. As frustrating as that could have been, it proved to be a good thing. It led to swapping other bizarre China stories and erased any competitive pressures. We decided to go upstairs to a Japanese restaurant for dinner. (Forget about it – you’d have to buy me a few drinks to hear about the scores, in which case I would probably lie anyway.)

I have to admit that for a hotel in China, run by Koreans, their Japanese restaurant was surprisingly good. We shed our shoes and climbed into our room, walking on the seating bench around the table. Fifteen people at one table, each seated with their back to a screen makes for cozy dining; an effective way to become better acquainted.

As the orders were placed, I decided to spring for a couple of bottles of sake to loosen things up. Since all of my previous Japanese dining had been done in sushi bars, my knowledge was a little faulty. I ordered two “large” bottles, thinking that it would give us enough for a toast. I had no idea that sake was also available in two liter bottles, which is what we got.

This was my first experience dining with a large group here other than a cheap tour-group meal. I hadn’t counted on the few, meal related etiquettes that I had learned of. The one critical to this evening was that when a large group starts drinking, they are expected to do so with fervor. Restaurants do not serve alcohol by the drink. If you want brandy, whiskey or any other local poison, you buy an entire bottle, which you are expected to finish. Hence, the Super Bowl sized sake.

I wish I could tell you even approximately how many little cupfuls you can get from a two liter bottle of sake, but the effects of the experiment prohibited accurate documentation. We also don’t remember all of the various toasts from our home countries. We used each several times, except for Lithuania’s. No one could pronounce that one sober, much less later on.

In our drunken state, two ideas were stumbled upon and firmly endorsed. The first was that anyone who couldn’t make it to class the next day lacked any manly attributes (the ladies had wisely left earlier). The second was that we should all get together again this weekend. The individuals most loudly supporting the former were strangely absent the next day (actually the same day if you want to get technical.) I believe the latter will be better supported. I’m going to keep at it until I can toast in Lithuanian.

Earlier this week, a friend asked if I minded him giving out this blog address to others. It suddenly sunk in just how much I get out of this. Of course, writing it helps me to collect my thoughts and preserve memories, probably more than pictures would. But what I hadn’t really appreciated is the little boost I get from having it read. As fun as all of this is, it’s still reassuring to know that people are checking on me; that I haven’t completely disappeared. So by all means, feel free to refer anyone who might want to read my ramblings.

Other readers may not always get what they want from this blog, however. Recent searches leading here included: gay+Baotou, undress+women+Myanmar, whip+horse+dragging. I may have to be more careful of what I write – who knows what kind of list I’ll end up on.

Since this week has been consumed with classes and preparing to move, I haven’t really spent any time putting something together. Since I can’t really do a “Best of..” show or a re-run, we’ll just have to go with a few miscellaneous tidbits that have fallen through the cracks.

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Our instructor recently told us that Mao absolutely hated money. He refused to ever tough the stuff and fervently wished that he had been able to do away with it altogether. I find it a little amusing then that his picture is on every bill worth 12 cents or more and that the smaller denomination is called the mao.

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In my pre-arrival planning I tended to focus on worst case scenarios. I bought two insurance policies. I registered with the State Department in case of an emergency. I got shots for things I’ll probably never hear of again, much less run across. It was the little things that skipped my mind, like cold medicine and, as I found out this week, small band-aids.

Now you’re probably thinking that band-aids are pretty basic and hard to forget when putting together a medical kit. I didn’t really. It’s just that I had bought all types of large gauzes, pads, wraps and band-aids. I never even thought of the small, everyday type. Therefore, I was both a little chagrined and relieved when my sister, the nurse, gave me a little first aid kit before I left. She was a little more practical.

Fast forward to this week, when I stupidly cut my finger. Still very cautious regarding sanitation, I immediately got out the supplies and went to work. I’m still trying to decide whether it was a joke or just the result her of having a five year old daughter, but I soon discovered that my entire stash of band-aids is Kermit green or Barney purple. I suppose that they’re a little better than ones with cartoon characters, but any amusement was mild, to say the least. Unfortunately, I had shipped her Christmas gifts two hours earlier. I’m sure I could have slipped something interesting in there.

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Freezing weather is one of the things I knew that I would hate about Beijing. Dressing for an arctic expedition is not my idea of a good way to start the day. However, I have found one small bright spot in it all.

From the time that they’re old enough to walk until they’re toilet trained, children wear pants with split bottoms. It does away with the diaper problem, but it lends a certain unpleasantness to a walk down the street. I watched one such youngster begin to grunt with an intense look of concentration that every parent knows. His mother began to shout and ran to him, reminding him to squat first. Pleased with the outcome, they went happily on their way. Thankfully, cold, windy weather does not agree with bare, young bottoms and I won’t need to witness this for a few months.    

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America has seen a lot of strange ideas, but they’ve been spaced out over the years. China is exploding in every way imaginable after decades of repression. Since behavior is not so strictly regulated anymore, many people are not quite sure how to adapt. This has led to a lot of interesting experimentation and a few quirks.

Sexless Marriage Brokers. For the social and economic benefits of marriage without all of the sweaty physical exercise, there is finally an option. Since finding a like-minded partner could prove quite difficult, the broker is almost mandatory.

Silent Dating. Someone decided that the awkwardness of dating stems from the need to make amusing conversation. Also arranged by brokers, couples spend an evening communicating through written notes. One broker said that this enables the couple to more accurately present themselves. The time necessary to write a note allows them to compose their thoughts more coherently. Translation – it’s harder to stick your foot in your mouth if you never open it.

Hiring Family. Family relations are enormously important in the Chinese culture and any lack is acutely felt. Numerous stories appear of people advertising for a hired son or father. Occasionally, the hopeful replacement family members advertise as well.

Love Boat. A club for millionaires has been created for the sole purpose of finding wives for the members. You must have assets of two million yuan (US$250,000) to join. Apparently the men have become successful by eliminating their free time and have no way of meeting eligible women. A weekend luxury cruise was organized for several hundred members and hundreds of young women who had been thoroughly screened. No one batted an eyelash at this. Could you imagine doing this in New York?

Internet Addiction. Imagine a large casino where every slot machine is a computer. That’s a Chinese internet café. Thousands of people spend enormous amounts of time playing online games, often quitting school or stealing from family to support the habit. Intervention groups exist and are a daytime television topic. It can be pouring rain and there will be a line of one hundred people just waiting to get inside the door.

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Before leaving the states, I read an article about how many people claim that their MP3 has a personality. Random play often develops patterns and an I-Pod suddenly dictates to you what kind of music you will listen to.

I would rather listen to people speak than to an MP3, so I still don’t use mine much. However, I do use the software to play music on my computer while studying. I had loaded it up before leaving, borrowing CDs from several people. It was about as random a collection as you could ask for, yet my computer has developed its own taste and I am its captive listener.

It still humors me and occasionally plays some Allman Brothers or Fleetwood Mac, but it truly prefers something a little less well-known. My brother-in-law’s band, The Luddites, often reminds me of Frank Zappa and the Mothers for some reason, just a little more off-color. A group called Hayseed Dixie remakes classic rock hits in bluegrass style as well as a couple of original songs. Throw in a couple of Irish bar bands singing about whiskey and the IRA and you have one very twisted computer.

Practically every song should be listened to, and was apparently written under, the influence of one substance or another, be it whiskey, moonshine or LSD. One of these days I’m going to have to do something about it; hopefully before I find myself singing “Keepin’ Your Poop In a Jar” in public. It’s a catchy tune. (I don't want to know what kind of visitors that draws!)