The Dumb Laowai

I’ve mentioned before that politeness, especially to strangers, seems to rank right up there with bestiality as an un-natural act. As time passes and I’m more and more accepted as simply the strange laowai of the building, that has gradually begun to change. Many of my neighbors began to thank me when I held open a door, especially the elevator. They still had a stunned look about them, as if to say “What the hell did you do that for and what do you want out of me?”, but they would say thanks none the less.

Apparently the word has gotten out lately that the harmless idiot is just polite, with no ulterior motives. I had no idea of how widespread the local gossip is until last night, nor any clue as to just how detailed it is. I guess that I should have realized that four old ladies who spend their days in the lobby playing cards and chatting with everyone can be much more effective than a bulletin board.

My Thanksgiving tradition (if two years qualify) is pizza with friends, followed by numerous drinking games. Proper observance of the holiday complete, I had returned home and was watching a movie when my buzzer rang. When I picked up the phone, I found myself talking to a Chinese woman at the front door who had forgotten her keys and was asking me to buzz her in. Apparently her friend was on the phone and she couldn’t get through to him.

She called back moments later to let me know that the buzzer had not worked, so I went down to let her in. She was absolutely stunned that I would do such a thing. She apologized for bothering me late at night, but she thought that I was her best chance, as none of the Chinese residents would be likely to help her. My coming downstairs to do so was more than she could fathom. It wasn’t until I was back in front of the television that I truly realized the implications.

Unexpectedly locked out of the building, she decided to call the polite laowai. She had already known my apartment number, even though she lives six floors above me and I have never seen her before! It’s both flattering and a little eerie at the same time. It also makes me wonder what else they’re saying.

Last week included another sampling of international cultures, all mixed into one evening. Many of my friends are foreign teachers at various universities and a group of us went out to celebrate one of their birthdays. Our bunch of Americans, Canadians, Brits and Aussies decided on a Thai restaurant we’d heard about. Similar to many Chinese restaurants, the size boggled the mind; perhaps fifty tables downstairs and one hundred above, as well as many private rooms, including ours.

It was after a pretty good meal that we were serenaded by the strolling singers. No corny birthday song performed by hastily assembled waiters and waitresses here. Three dressed like kitchen staff, one gal in a very attractive sweater dress, one guy in a suit and The Village People (Asian edition.) The only problem was that they were still having disputes about their roles, so we ended up with three cops and one Indian. I guess bikers and construction workers just aren’t cool.
We had earlier heard them singing tunes from the Carpenters and from Hello Dolly, so we were at a bit of a loss as to what we should request and left the decision up to the lead singer, who was obviously saving his money for a Thai sex change operation. Somehow it wasn’t all that surprising when he started belting out Saving All My Love For You in a passable imitation of Whitney Houston, pre-Bobby. As the group sang into their wooden spoons and he to his bottle opener, he walked around the table and gently caressed all of the men while crooning in their ears. I’m afraid the women didn’t get much attention.

Of course, the second choice was a no-brainer and he practically fainted with excitement when we requested It’s Raining Men. The rest of the group demurred, convincing him that it would be much more respectable to perform Michael Jackson’s Thriller. I don’t see the difference myself. It did, however, suggest that perhaps it was time to change venues and we headed to the Blah Blah Bar at BLCU, my former university.

I’d been at that school for a year and never gone to that bar before. From all of the stories that I had heard I had expected something a little bigger than a classroom. We ended up in a very crowded little section, literally behind the bar, drinking with some Mongolian girls and trading stories and lies, as expats will do, about what had brought us to China.

The liquor flowed freely for a few hours and by the time I got up to find the facilities, the front section of the bar had practically emptied and was now apparently being used for an Al-Qaeda cell gathering. Twelve Middle-Easterners and Africans sat about in ones and two, all scowling over something and following my progress across the room. I’d like to just write that impression off to the alcohol but, as I’ve learned, you just never know what you’re going to see next.


We narrowly avoided adding yet another embarrassing English name to the rolls. An employee at our favorite bar/restaurant is named Wang Shuai. Wang is the family name and Shuai means handsome. We spent some time explaining to him that me might not want to call himself Handsome Wang.

I’m finally starting to understand Chinese medicine. Well, “understand” might be a tad strong; let’s just say that I’m developing some working theories. The thought of submitting my body to endless treatment in the name of research is more than a little daunting, so I’m not sure that I can actually flesh any of them out properly. In fact, any true research would probably reveal that these factors all work in some mysterious combination to achieve their final, dubious results.

Theory A
The mind, in a Nietzschean (that which does not kill me only serves to make me stronger) process, in combination with the placebo effect, decides that a treatment so painful must be effective and cures the body. Torturing the soles on one’s feet to assist their production of liver bile can not possibly have any other possible claim to effectiveness. And just how did she know that my liver bile was deficient by looking in my ears anyway?

Although I have run across no aspect of Asian religion that revels in the concept of guilt the way that only a priest or Jewish mother can, perhaps there is a primitive but universal, underlying concept that we need to suffer. Pain and suffering must surely have their rewards, in this case restored health. The human mind is a powerful healer. Is this concept really any stranger than giving money to a television evangelist so that you can get rid of the wheelchair and play soccer again?

Theory B
The mind, in the antithesis of the placebo effect, cures the body for fear of receiving treatment.
We already know that the mind is a very strong healer. Only the motivation has changed from Theory A.

When the first monkey was sent into space, it wasn’t because he was an extremely smart little fellow. He and others were trained with negative reinforcement. That is to say, “shape up or get your ass zapped” It’s really not all that different. We just need a refresher course once in a while, whenever our bodies get a little unruly and dare to get out of line. If you have the nerve to be sick, we will cause you pain. The body seems to snap right back into line after a short reminder. “No really! My leg’s much getter since you shoved those bamboo needles in my ear!”

A recent treatment, unexplained and unwillingly submitted to, found me lying on my stomach while people dragged what I assumed to be large cheese slicers across my back for thirty minutes. I remember thinking that to be doing this for such a long length of time, they must have been taking paper thin slices off of me. I kept waiting for them to actually get down to the bone. Like any good torturer, they were able to make do with everyday items, proudly showing me that they had been working me over with a couple of dime-sized coins. I did get better, but I still think it was because I was scared to repeat the process.   

Theory C
It’s all a hoax. Patients only claim to be cured in order to avoid more treatments. No one admits to being ill, therefore they must all be healthy. I have personally born proof to this theory on a couple of occasions. Thank God we have text messaging. It makes it much easier to mask a serious cough or sneezing fit.

Any claims to the effectiveness of Chinese medicine are certainly not due to increased sanitation. It’s getting a little tiresome to be exposed to painful  treatments (torture) and during the process be told that I would not be able to bathe for several days. If you needed yet another reason, let me tell you that this is why you need to bathe before seeing the doctor.

You will also learn to give up all ideas you may have ever held regarding personal privacy. LD happened to leave the front door open a crack as she was cleaning and two neighbors walked in, wondering what my apartment looked like. They noticed a bag of garbage waiting to be taken out and commented on several Coke bottles therein. LD stood with them  in my living room, discussing my ridiculous habit of drinking cola and not enough hot water; obviously why I was sick. They continued to consider the various lifestyle changes that were called for and occasionally gesturing my way. Coma patients have been discussed with more sensitivity. At least they didn’t claim the color of my bed sheets to be unlucky, as another once did.

Misc.
Perhaps some FengShui enthusiast can help me understand something. FengShui color charts show the correct schemes for a serene and prosperous life, based on year of birth and gender. These are shown in a 60 year cycle. Of the 60 years shown, only 7 times do the color schemes for a woman and a man compliment each other. In the other 53 years, the ideal colors for one mate will weaken or destroy the good fortunes of the other. Apparently most people should not marry someone their own age, and they are limited in their other choices as well.

I haven’t decided on my winter vacation plans yet, other than that I will go somewhere warm. If I go to Thailand, I am torn over whether I should experience or avoid a restaurant I just read about called “Cabbages and Condoms.”

We were excited to read in our recently-received student handbooks that we were to be treated to an “Erotic Food Festival.” Numerous teachers were left beet-red and speechless when we enquired about details and explained the typo.