Xian trip Oct 19

I flew to Xian October 19 to celebrate Pei Hua University’s eighty years as a private school, hoping I might reconnect with a few students I remembered. Saturday’s skies were amazingly blue with fluffy clouds, something I seldom saw when there in 2006 as the “only foreign teacher” (two Japanese teachers, then, didn’t count?). A car and driver brought two Foreign Affairs workers to greet me, deposit me at five-star Shaanxi Hotel, and see to my comforts as a “distinguished guest” until I begged off in the afternoon. I found a bus to city center, had a Starbuck’s Americana, revisited the Muslim market for lively bargaining, and met Kansas Citians Ann and Tooey Miller for dinner. It was heaven to speak fluent English without simplifying or watching whether my comments were politically correct. We talked for several hours about our kids, their jobs at NW University, the upcoming US election and economic scene.
      Sunday morning’s ceremony at the new Pei Hua campus open area found 30,000 students sitting on army camp stools below the platform where I was ushered to the third row (of eight) by lovely girls in suits and heels reminiscent of the 60’s stewardess attire. They kept our 150 tea cups full, washcloths handy, along with plying us with fruit while the president, ancient graduates, and party officials gave lengthy speeches. At one point, colored fireworks filled the sky with green/pink/purple clouds; the noise brought black birds from the Education Building eaves, as if on cue against the colorful clouds. After two hours, we were ushered down to chairs and they held umbrellas over us as a fantastic program emerged in the drizzle: bubbles and flames during an avant garde fashion show, a live band, acrobats, costumed dancers, European opera, pop singers, and dramatic reading went on for two more hours. Foreign Affairs Department took us by van to Chaing Kai Chek’s villa for a sumptious lunch, and the current Japanese teacher, English teacher (from Michigan), graduate fellow from Bavaria, and Ed Johnson (friend of the director and everyone else he met) pled “tired” and didn’t return for the afternoon and evening programming–more singing, dancing performances.
     They took me to Metro Shopping Center to buy canned tuna and dark chocolate, Western products I haven’t found in Sanya. William Bai, Xian friend and ex-co-teacher, brought my return air ticket and discussed the world economic scene that evening. He was delighted to get Lenin’s Private War, a book I recently enjoyed. Sunday morning, I met the newly-retired English dean, “Joe,” for mutton noodles at the old campus where I lived for nine months. He brought pomegranates and kiwi, local fruits and insisted I sign my gift: Peter Hessler’s Oracle Bones. He’ll pore over it for months, I think. At 60, he’s working parttime teaching English at a small college and has just passed three of four tests to teach English abroad. He seemed cheerful at having retired. His wife’s mother is in a wheelchair, so he doubts he’ll realize his dream to teach in America. 
     Boss Helen was at the Sanya airport to pick me up, pleased that my insurance card had arrived. A post office remittance for some editing I had done for an AIDS publication in Kunming also arrived, so she took me shopping after I taught this morning. We’re preparing lessons (with all English-speaking teachers giving critiques) for an Open Day with parents invited October 31 for all classes. Our newly-started English Corner seemed a success with first meeting last week; we had nine teachers and one person from the community. Next meeting’s topic is “Suitable Jobs” and I’ve no doubt they will prepare with much written memorization. I’m a “foreign expert” here, seen as friendly. It’s nice to be appreciated by old friends like Pei Hua and new ones like the young teachers at Golden Sun Kindergarten.

Choices and Decisions

Having successfully received and sent back my US voting documents October 26, I’m sipping a fresh kiwi-orange smoothie, celebrating a new blender and my country where each citizen has a say in electing leaders. China’s 1.3 billion population doesn’t have that privilege, according to my 20-something co-teachers, who pored over my ballot and asked dozens of questions. Ella, ‘English teacher’ who’s gradually getting away from speaking Chinese to our nine kindergartners, and Shirley, Chinese teacher who has them reciting at the tops of their voices, meet me weekly to trade English-for-Chinese help. They’re regulars in our new Wednesday night English Corner too, eager to improve their English as long as other Chinese-only speakers don’t laugh at them. We played the game ‘Duck, Duck Goose’ while learning short-u sounds today, and the teachers chased around the circle with as much exubrance as the kids. 
 
I returned from Xian full of gratitude for the red carpet rolled out for us distinguished guests. They couldn’t control the soggy weather that threatened the top notch programming that followed Saturday’s 80th anniversary ceremonies. Battery-operated technology allowed speakers, microphones, and cameras to continue while pretty girls held orange-and-black  umbrellas over our 150 heads. Pei Hua’s 35,000 students toughed it out on army camp stools in drizzle for at least two hours. Not since the Olympics had I seen or heard such talented dancing, singing and playing. To top it off, Foreign Affairs helper gave me China Mobile’s gift umbrella to introduce Halloween colors to Sanya!
 
      Fully moved into my fourth floor apartment, I’m getting on-average one new appliance or piece of furniture daily. Venes came for soup we cooked on the new hotplate, Saturday; handyman Li has all faucets working and we’re hopeful for the washer hook-up tomorrow. I’m using my own laptop, connected to broadband just last night via my new phone (8863.0080 has enough eights to be considered a ‘lucky number’ ); I’ve a rice cooker and a wok for weekends when there are no meals served at Golden Sun Kindergarten. Tonight’s fare was fresh shrimp and bok choi with rice.
 
     Our neighborhood complex of six-story concrete boxes’ inhabitants congregated near the gate with gongs, horns, and drums last evening for a rousing celebration of a 75-year-old man’s death. Folks ate, played cards, and visited throughout the night. My 7:00 a.m. Tai Chi group, reduced to three who didn’t participate in the funeral, moved our practice to a clearing under a banyon a respectful distance from the mourners. Their all-night vigil was rewarded by rosy apples and thick rounds of cheese piled on tables as I walked to Golden Sun’s hot coconut milk and baozi (steamed, filled buns) breakfast. I had finished morning English class when firecrackers marked the end of the funeral gathering. I logged on to Google to discover China’s population clock ticking off 33 million births and 16 million deaths since 2008 came as a New Year’s baby.  I’m living among 1/5 of the 6 million world population, considering myself lucky to be here, gleaning what I can from your e-mails and internet newspapers about the economy and upcoming election.
 
      On this side of the world, we’ve weathered our first crisis. Helen got a call while we were registering my residency with the police. ‘Terrible! A teacher (teaches Chinese to three year olds) hit a kid.’ It was  in the class of 18 where I’m working with the confused English co-teacher on setting up and following a lesson plan. Helen spent the evening with the mother and child who gaily skipped around them, telling me she ’solved the problem; I will refund one month’s payment and take the mother to dinner. She insisted on an x-ray, although the child said it wasn’t necessary.’ Helen’s thinking what she should do beyond the Chinese teacher saying, ‘Sorry’ to the parent (striking children is unlawful here, but parents seem to be exempt from that law). The school takes a strong stand, thank goodness!
 
     It’s off to the beach after I teach ‘over/under/next to’ in English concepts today. Parents attend an all-day Open House tomorrow; for me, it may be business as usual. I often look up to see observers sitting in during my class activities. They’re glued to the repetitive ‘teaching,’ fade away when I start child-centered activities, but the kids are showing their individual smarts and personalities as they cut/paste/dictate/tie and–soon–make a neighborhood out of the sandbox. I’m sick of my name because it’s the greeting/call for attention they say repeatedly at the top of their lungs. Discourse comes later, I hope!

Post-Halloween Euphoria – Nov 1, 2009

HuangShan’s National Day mob climb, after three weeks, seems like the surreal dream it was. We returned to Babe English Training School to find two office girls gone, replaced by Candy and Daisy, neither of whom speak much English. Teaching Assistant Heather, my personal favorite, quit to study for exams that might lead one day to being an elementary teacher, then popped in to help in my class “one last time.”

I’ve trained about half a dozen “assistants” over the two months here (to stop interpreting everything in Chinese, to bring the children upstairs in an orderly fashion after they’ve toileted, to take part in activites to encourage shy students, to learn the names of items and supplies we’re using, to assist immature kids with pencils or crayons without doing work for them).

Current helper, Nancy, with the most English and an insistent manner backed up by feelings of inferiority from “being from another province,” busily writes personal descriptions of what I’m teaching and how well children do–at least that’s what I’m told the Chinese notes to parents say–and is slowly coming around to helping me direct attention or respond to runny noses.

Nancy planned to quit weeks ago, but said “Bear wouldn’t agree.” Sue, who comes about half the time, learns quickly and assists my lessons with teaching intuition; then she sweeps up and empties the rubbish bin. We often eat together or share snacks; I’m not too sure we foreigners, immigrant labor, aren’t considered below the office girls, true Chinese citizens.

Visas expired October 24, so Zoe had businesswoman Kelly–a new partner replacing Michael and Shirley–get Mark and me tickets for October 23. One evening, in front of Babe’s locked doors, Zoe told us air was tai gui la (expensive) and a HongKong holiday on Monday necessitated our staying five nights.

Mark quickly agreed that it “was only fair” that we bear the cost of our hotel rooms, but I reminded Zoe that she had promised hotel expenses. Kelly had booked a 500 $HK waterfront hotel, so I estimated that we’d spent half month’s salary on our HongKong visa stay. I was the only one who had taught (three hours) that evening, so my “I am very disappointed and feel I can’t trust your word.” was mild, compared to how I felt.

Next evening, Mark booked us Kowloon hostel rooms (a fraction of hotel prices) and Zoe took me to the most expensive restaurant in LinAn, apologized, and sweetened the deal. Kelly would arrange a weekly gift massage and facial. Zoe would quit giving me new students. Then she talked gossip and plans for “Mama teaching at Babe School for many more years.” She would “arrange that I could go home each year to visit family.”

I tried to say as little as possible and enjoyed the tender steak, salmon, seafood, and vegetables cooked Japanese-style at our table. I was surprised at how quickly my sleepless night receded. My mood shifted toward a vacation in HongKong.

The airport, located on the biggest of 600+ islands–Lantau, sold us MTR passes that included the Express line–45 minutes to HongKong’s Central station. We rode a luxury bus, part of the Express services to the visa office cosmapolitan vicinity. Gleaming skyscrapers, gorgeous hotels, and multi-level shopping areas made us think of Paris or Madrid minus cathedrals.

Driving and walking was on the left, along with cleanliness and order instilled by the British, protectorate for about 100 years prior to China’s resuming dominant power in 1997. Green mountains rose into view everywhere.

My visa application went smoothly, except for security scan detecting four wrapped candies in my fanny pack, which they returned. Mark, suffering a bad cold and misplacing documents, had to fill out forms again because he used red pen. He assured me he could figure out subway maps, so we set off for the underground. Then Mark disappeared far ahead!

He came toward me in the crowd, didn’t respond to my call, and quickly was lost the opposite way. Thank goodness I had an address for Dragon Hostel. An hour and a half later, with kindness from several Chinese English-speakers, I maneuvered luggage through MTR changes and found my seventh-floor cubicle.

Dragon was one of 100 hostels on 15 floors, established when HongKong economy caused most families to move out of busy Argyle Street’s building. Dragon Hostel had TV, fridge, internet, shower in shared toilet, boiled water, and books left from world travelers. Mark arrived a half hour later, apologized for leaving me, and agreed we’d spend as little time there as possible.

I called a number of Zoe’s friend; Steven graciously invited us to dinner at HongKong City University. It was a task to find the college gate via MTR and Festival Walk Shopping Center exits. Steven’s hope is to make “172 on LSAT and go to law school in America.” He fingers a number of political pies and may realize his dream. He also arranged for us to go with “researchers in linguistics, translation, and computers” to a Beach Bar-b-que the next afternoon.

 Twenty bright grad students took us to Coffee Bay to roast beef, pork ribs, sardines, chicken wings, pork balls, fish balls, and white bread over barrels of coals.   We stuck feet in the ocean at sunset, then conversed around the fires, with many of them eating the entire five hours we stayed. Our serving table and benches around fires was one of about 100 such family- and friend-groups doing the same thing. 78 HK$ ticket entitled us to one cold drink. All was surprisingly non-cluttered and quiet, compared to gatherings of that many people anywhere else I’d been. Again, I blessed the British influence!

Early morning we walked Kowloon’s Nathan Street to find Tin Hau Temple (green tile, nice gardens), Jade Market (“authentic from Burma, Missy!”), and Night Market (speaking Cantonese, impolite to me; Mark bought whatever they put in his bag, got better treatment).

At Tsim Sha Tsui, the beginning of Kowloon’s New Territories, land built up over development years, we took MTR to Central and walked the causeway.  Star Ferry let us both ride free because they asked only my golden age. Mark read a newspaper while I found Godiva chocolates and lemon gelato, just like San Francisco. Enjoying sun, I lay back on a ledge until a security guard tapped me, “No sleeping!”

Another deja vu day, we exited Tsim Sha Tsui into Kowloon Park. Graceful fans and tai chi, the same movements I’d seen in 1997’s visit here, slowed time beneath mango and magnolia trees. There was a walk-through exhibit showing Good Food-Bad Foods and listing milk and steak as bad guys, guarded by transformer-like Health Protectors. MSG was conspicuously absent, unless it appeared on the Good Food Flavorings side.

I got a ticket to HK Ballet’s “Romeo and Juliet” with a near-perfect performance by orchestra and dancers. The Cultural Center crowd ranged from faded jeans to evening dresses, students and tourists who left early to folks like me with shining eyes and wonderful memories of Prokofiev’s score mercifully shortened and beautifully danced. Mark met his first “Chinese hippie” at Starbuck’s.

Mark wanted temples, and our tiny-print map showed Golden Buddha near the causeway at the tip of Wan Chai’s spit. We walked, asked, and were met with blank stares until we found ourselves at a monumental golden flower above the picture-taking crowd in front of the waterfront Expo Center. Golden Buddha became Golden Bauhainia, a five-petaled lotus, symbolizing the reunification of China and HongKong beneath two flags–China’s yellow stars on one, HongKong’s white bauhainia on the other red flag.
Still seeking temples, we found our way to Lantau and a bus with seat belts (otherwise, you slid off on curves) to China’s largest seated buddha. Mountain views were spirit-lifting; the new (built 1990s) statue and monastary had the feel of a Buddhist Disneyland. We didn’t linger.

Back down the mountain, you could almost feel the feng shui move through Lantau Square toward the mountains as children frolicked in the fountain and myriads of languages passed between sips of capuccino or Big Mac’s. Mark said, “A good place to retire,” and bought a bagguette.

We watched A Symphony of Light from the Kowloon side–a laser show surpassing any I’d seen anywhere–colored lights blinking, beaming, zipping up and down, zig-zagging, and coloring in HongKong Island’s magnificent architecture on the opposite bank.

Ships and boats passed through the deep natural canal, adding to the music and narration. Wandering the Avenue of Stars and reading Cultural Center schedules, we found we’d missed the Tuba Throat Singers. Next trip, maybe?

Mark wanted to revisit the border. We took blue line to Lo Wu, where he hoped to get a replacement picture for the one a Chinese guard prevented him, as 12-year-old, from taking in 1963. Multi-million dollar high rises dotted tops of mountains where he remembered tar paper shacks. (We avoided returning to The Peak, a tram ride to HongKong’s highest point–been there, done that!) Was Shenzhen the increasing industry beyond low green hills along our railway?

We eagerly alighted and found we could go no further toward China (passports were still with visa office anyway). So much for revisitng old scenes; industry had obviously taken over anyway.

Too soon, it was time to pick up visas and head for LinAn. We tried and failed to find Alliance Francaise, found an upscale tea house and an excellent book store. I’d hoped to eat a truly sumptious dinner, usually enjoyed native-recommended Chinese fare instead. I found special gifts at the upscale Chinese Cultural Arts building, didn’t have time for shopping–reputed to be HongKong’s main attraction. I’d gladly return to HongKong to see if she ages as gracefully in the next ten years as in the last 12.

Zoe and Bear picked us up in Hangzhou and announced we’d “Abdul, Nancy, and Sue teach your classes; we eat together in LinAn and have a meeting about the Halloween party.” We were introduced to Celery, a new partner and Kelly’s friend, over spicy beef, tofu, water chestnuts, seasoned cabbage, and–the house specialty, served first–a half-loaf of bread filled with white bread chunks and ice cream. Life’s short–eat dessert first? Last US administration’s leaders watched over us from a mural.

We met, with much discussion about the in-house, activity-filled Halloween party. I was told I was in charge, but kept saying, “Interpret, please!” amidst the Chinese chatter. “Virginia, Chinese parents are noisy. We need a microphone? Why not rent a hall and have a big meal?” They couldn’t fathom families going room-to-room according to directions on tickets. It was a new concept, not to hold an extravagant show for parents to view children dancing, singing, and eating, although we’d heard repeatedly how last year’s was “a fiasco.” They’d spent a day blowing up balloons, which kids ran riot and broke within the first few minutes then “freaked out.” For days, Zoe micro-managed, calling to remind me of things she’d just called about, and worried as staff prepared family ))for crowd control and decorated. Think high school prom preparation for an approximate picture.

The party was a howling success–200+ people crowded into the center for activities in our classrooms (my two huge tables of ribbons/scraps/colors/paper plates/scissors/etc. in the biggest room were crowded continually with parents as delighted with their mask creations as the kids). We had face painting, picture show of American kids in costumes, Day of the Dead altar to Mary Travis in a scary room, a live “Headless Horseman” play, Trick of Treat, and decorating straw scarecrows.Bear showed himself to be quite an artistic arranger. Music blared, jack-o-lanterns blinked, and we ended with all my kids (ages 2 1/2 to 9) singing “Puff the Magic Dragon” with guitar. Parents actually got quiet enough to listen while standing in/out the glass doors and spilling into the street. We needed the microphone. All took home prizes.

Owners took us (13) workers to a celebration banquet: duck tongue, snails, lily soup, jerked mutton with peppers, and a dozen less-exotic, delicious dishes. I overate.

They’re working hard on me to stay, and it’s tempting while things are going smoothly. Last night’s successful “first” for Babe School felt good, marred a bit by Kelly’s asking me while driving home if we could rethink the numbers in my classes. “There will be many parents who want their children in your classes now.” I told her the quality of teaching would go down and I absolutely didn’t want any added at this point. I guess Chinese have the idea that they, a rung above those they employ, have the right to make decisions about going or staying. They don’t seem to take no for an answer, so I’m waiting it out quietly. My heart’s still headed home to the US.

National Day – Take 2

I e-mailed my kids probable China whereabouts October 6-8: “I’ll probably go to Yellow Mountain with Zoe and Bear–if they return from taking his sick mother to his hometown and they’re still in the mood. It’s not a life for a control freak, that’s for sure!”

Zoe’s text message came as I went to bed: “We will set out early for Yellow Mountain. 8:00 tomorrow.” At 7:45 next morning, my cell phone rang: “We’re at your gate. Mama, let’s go!”

They were amazed that Mark wasn’t going, tried in vain to call him in spite of my telling them he was away at Qingdao. We talked of Teletubbies (their son, Osito’s favorite, was “surely America’s #1 kid’s program?”), 20-year-old Mike’s reluctance to speak English (Zoe’s student, sitting beside me, playing the same pop song repeatedly on his cell phone), and what kind of jobs they might get when their green card comes for a move to Toronto or Vancouver. Zoe thinks she might teach English with her Chinese certificate. Bear said, “Wash dish! Wash dish!” awaited him. Zoe asked if he might be a taxi driver after he learned a couple of years of English.

We sped past slower cars around curves into the path of motorcycles and oncoming traffic. I candidly told her that Bear would have to learn North America’s rules or pay a lot in fines. She interpreted, as an oncoming driver cut in front of two lanes and brought us to a screeching halt. His “F__ you!” was quickly followed by Zoe’s “B___S___!” but neither of them joined me in wearing a seatbelt.

“Tell Bear, if he has a lady in his taxi in Canada, that she will probably be offended if he says that,” I offered.
This led to discussing what one should say to “let their feelings out.” Any phrases I suggested were met by Bear’s gleeful, “Then other driver say ‘F___ you!” Zoe asked if America had many songs with the “F-word” in them. I could only think of rap lyrics. She played “You’re beautiful,” and–sure enough–there it was. I had to listen closely to realize it was a Chinese copy-cat artist sounding like he was American. “It’s very popular in America. Just ask your son, Mama!” (I hope someone responds to this from the USA–it’s a song about what a guy thinks when he sees an appealing girl on a subway.)

We zoomed up a long pass; I could have been in Idaho, except for Chinese cement-and-curved roofs in forested valleys. On the flat in Anhui Province, we pulled into Nanping, and I read of “38-yuan admission for Movie Village, 300 ancient Ming and Qing Dynasty buildings interconnected by 72 narrow alleyways.” Bear got on his cell phone, and we greeted other Western tourists.

“Where are you from?” I asked.
“United States…Shawnee, Kansas.”
“Small world! I taught there several years, raised my kids in Kansas City.”
Zoe interrupted, “Time to go, Mama!”
My would-be KS friends toured the village Ang Lee chose for “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon,” and I followed Bear through its labrynth another route. His friend’s restored Ming Dynasty hotel-home had Nanping’s ubiquitous white walls and grey tiles with camphor wood cornices above windows. Lunch? No, I was directed to an upstairs bedroom with window open to corn drying in courtyards, shaded by swooping tile roofs from which hung hams and slabs of bacon. We later ate tasty soy beans, pork, chicken, potatoes, greens, and fish soup with Bear’s friend. His sweatshirt announced, “I’m the boss around here!” Customarily, his wife joined us, plucking what was left into her rice bowl, when she was certain we were Chu bao li (full). Not much change from the days of patriarchal Cheng and Li clans, I guessed.

Zoe slept. Bear, Mike, and I climbed ladder-stairs to an ancient tower, photographing cobbled walkways below. I wandered down, and Mike stuck like glue. We sketched and snapped pictures of carved doorways, startled chickens, and caught glimpses of the lives of Nanping’s 1,000 inhabitant’s common life. I escaped to nap, then returned to peaceful meanderings alone, half expecting Zhang Yimou’s “Ju Dou” characters to come flying over the roof tops or swooping into battle from Mt. Linli.

Art students sketched ancient corridors, pigs grunted behind ornate doorways, a museum-home’s courtyard beckoned me to Kuan Yin’s altar through a round entry, and a green hill top revealed ponds, gardens, and a stream where a woman washed clothes.

With each hypnotic step back in time, I shed earlier annoynances and smelled farm aromas, heard sounds familiar in childhood. It occurred to me that Dad would have turned 96 in two days, if here–three days on the side of the world where we slopped pigs, shucked corn, gathered eggs and salted hams to hang in the smokehouse.
Eventually, I found myself back at the tower, sketching, until sundown. It appeared that Bear’s friend did, indeed, have the one refurbished hotel in Nanping; and we were the only guests. Zoe speculated on opening another Babe English School there. Like ancestral Huizhou merchants, our Nanping host was sure there was money in the idea.

I declined an invitation to ride into Huangshan City to buy towels, not provided at the hotel. Sated by a simple supper and fulfilling day, I watched a round, golden moon glance off ancient rooftops until I slept.

National Day – Take 1 October 5, 2008

Five days ago, I didn’t know if any plans would work out for the October 1-8 holiday, explained as in years past, “a gift from the government of eight days’ combining Moon Cake Festival and National Day.” Because schools were “giving back the Sunday because the government gave us one day over a week,” kids were in school, not studying at Babe Training School on Sunday. I scratch my head each year when I half understand it.

It gave Mark, weekend teacher, a long break. Mark and I were drinking coffee in Zhejiang University (freshly ground, 10 yuan on a willing student’s card) when Foreign Affairs head, Bob, pressed us into a video as “friends of” a passel of Ukranian students, then told us to “Keep in touch.” We hoped that meant, instead of going to HongKong, the plan a little over a week ago, he was processing visa papers for us to go before our next deadline, October 31. Mark told a group of faculty families he’d camp with them at Qingdao lake.

I felt Helen’s longterm invitation to visit her hometown would surely come through. Instead, her e-mail: “I have a fever. Stay tuned.” October 1 found me researching places to go shortterm. Bear Lee, ex-student and friend, e-mailed that he would watch the National Day parade, then “try to come” to LinAn. Anna, mother of a kindergartner, Rita, called me to watch festivities. “It starts in ten minutes!” Anthony, Anna’s friend’s son and my new college tutoree, picked up Mark and me.

Rita ignored their big screen and batted balloons, peeled golden kiwi from New Zealand, and ate hickory nuts. Anna had wanted “to produce a second child to be a girl” and adopted Rita when she was a few months old. Father works as an official; Mother exports cable; and junior high brother and housekeeper take attentive care of Rita on the 18th floor of lavishly decorated apartments. Anna told me I could ask to move to their tropical landscape, “only 2000 yuan/month” for small two bedrooms. She had inquired. “Babe School pays 500 yuan for your home.” I told her I’d consider it.

We watched the wide screen: float after float in oceans of dancers, representing each Chinese province. What I took for flower designs in Tianamen Square’s backdrop changed symbols, and I realized people were standing stockstill for long stretches of time to form precise golden characters in a red poinsettia field. They did quite a 60th birthday celebration: dignitaries in red ties applauding military precision marches, tanks and other missile muscle in camoflage/pink/powder blue; ethnic dancers–all in perfecft formation and symetry.

Sixty years ago, Mao Zedong stood on Forbidden City’s North Gate balcony, overlooking Tiananmen Square, and established Communist Red China. Mao said, “The Chinese People…stood up… October 1, 1949 marked the end of 150 years of foreign occupation and wars.” I thought of some of China’s upheavals–Taiping Rebellion, Boxer Rebellion, Opium Wars, Sino-Russian War, Japanese occupation, and WWII. The past sixty years’ additional bloodshed–i.e.,the Great Leap Forward, Cultural Revolution, Tiananmen Square Incident, and recent unrest in Tibet and Xinjiang, came to my mind too.

However, October 1, 2009 celebrated six decades of China’s undeniably great strides. Rita’s parents took us to a hot pot lunch, pleased that Mark’s chopsticks fished out beef, mutton, mushrooms, and sprouts boiling in the spicy side of the divided bowl. Cilantro, water chestnuts, and spinach came last, as I ate my share from the non-spicy side. I lifted my orange juice glass, “Happy 60th birthday, China!” Later, I heard that an important building in Washington DC was decorated in red and yellow lights with the same message. Anna drove us in her navy Lexus to Lin’An’s theatre. “The Founding of a Republic” was expensive (30 yuan, US prices), enjoyable (big stars, but I missed Jackie Chan’s reporter role), and exasperatingly short of historic footage (I wished for more black/white documentary pictures).

Soft-spoken Chaing Kai-shek strode about, thoughtfully regal in flowing robes, unlike my mind’s picture of an ex-gangster hunting in the hills around XiAn before fleeing with the Nationalists to Taiwan. Mao was constantly chuckling, playing with children, a likeable worker who allowed himself to be swept to leadership. A soldier who ended the Civil War, he then cultivated old enemies capable of governing the People’s Republic of China. I saw little evidence of the person whose maxims are reread quoted in the little red book on sale everywhere. Characters were distinctively developed, and the surprisingly-short movie focused strictly on 1946-49.

I came home to Helen’s e-mail, “When will you meet me in Hangzhou?” I put 1000 yuan in my backpack and figured that would carry me through a few Hangzhou days with Helen and, maybe, a trip to Ningbo or Xiangshan, past homes. There followed a flurry of text messages: “I’m on the bus to Hangzhou!” in spite of long lines at the station! “What hotel will you stay?” “I have no hotel.” (I had understood I’d stay with her.) “Let me think. There is (Chinese Symbols for Nanshan Hotel) near my apartment. Have taxi take you there.” West Bus Station appeared to leave for LinAn every fifteen minutes, I noted, along with landmarks to be able to return home.

My hotel was very nice on Tianmushan, an east-west thoroughfare, and cost 348 yuan. At that rate, I’d need to go home after two nights! Helen and family took me villa shopping. One development (we would call them condos) was a manicured oasis in the edge of Hangzhou, but the sales office was closed. Helen’s sister and husband, in real estate themselves, picked us up and drove to two huge Xixi Wetlands developments under construction.

After viewing the doll-size layouts and drinking red tea, we went by golf cart, then speedboat, to check out their one finished show villa. We donned shoe covers to climb five tiny stories while 11-year-old May fell in love with big screen TVs, drum set on a lighted stage, rec room bar (no sink for water access), fireplace, jacouzie, and furnishings that would have felt at home in Jackson Hole’s spacious condos. A deer-antler chair sat beneath the head of a hunting trophy in the entry. It brought familiar memories of real estate shopping days in Kansas and Wyoming: the smell of sawdust, the pleasure of colors that blend perfectly, the squeak of pristine tile floors, and the anticipation of sinking into endless pillows with a good book and just-poured hot tea.

My eye turned critical: narrow winding stairs, the prospect of endless dusting as construction continued, a long drive from Hangzhou, no nearby market. Later, I heard my words from Helen’s mouth:”If we buy here, we will be too close to neighbors (probably 1000 or more, just across a nicely hedged walkway).”

They took me to lunch–a delicious assortment of the usual beef, duck, tofu, mushrooms, rice buns, greens–and duck tongue. It was nicely flavored, but definitely an acquired chew. May pronounced it “Very good!” Back at my hotel, I napped through half an English movie, then went for a walk. Red banners with yellow characters fluttered. The colonel smiled from KFCs. McDonald’s employees wore Mao Era caps backwards with a golden arches “M” on them nstead of the Republic’s red star–Mao or McDonald’s? Flags fluttered from vending carts, light posts, and trash carts.

I remembered the movie’s controversy over selecting China’s new national flag. A four-star design had lost to a Yellow River symbol chosen by People’s Congress: then movie-Mao was persuaded by some pretty girls to select the current design. It symbolized the unity of China around the Communist Party, the four small stars represted workers (like the young lovelies), peasants, petty bourgeoisie, and patriotic bourgeoisie (like Soong Ching Ling and Zheng Lan in the movie).

Musing and window shopping for too-small clothes (I’m XL here), I somehow managing to get turned around. A young Chinese couple walked me to my hotel, apologizing for taking so long to find it. My only acceptable repayment was English exchanged with them. Helen’s text came: “I am very tired. We will pick you up at 12:00 tomorrow.”

To my surprise, KC teachers, Alan and Dana answered their home phone. They biked to hotel breakfast buffet with me and a good chat. Their Zhejiang University students sound top-notch; Alan said he’d never worked so hard in his life and Dana said her students actually take notes and come prepared for each lesson, unlike their last two China-teaching experiences. Helen, May, sister Linda, and I crossed Hangzhou by cab to find their hometown, Xiangshan, tickets sold out. “We are going to Ningbo Two-and-a-half hours.” I’d see Ningbo! It was a seaport city where Helen, before marriage, worked for a furniture exporter.

I saw one busy street and their ticket office, where we bought four tickets to Xiangshan. Five hours’ bus rides through mountains had brought us to a small town penninsula and her 80-year-old dad’s cooking! Their home (apartment style) had three Western toilets, one for each bedroom. Friends came to pick up orchids for the winter, while Helen’s parents stay with her in Sanya.  They brought a sack of bean pods and animated conversation. Helen interpreted: “We talk about Nanshan Temple’s general manager. He drove into the ocean from Kuan Yin’s base and died. My husband cried many days. We don’t know why Kuan Yin did not protect him. It was a place he often went to think and be at peace.” Another reason for me to wish I could understand Chinese: Until she interpreted, I had no idea if they discussed the size of the full moon, early childhood pranks, or their wishes for their children.

My moon cake was filled with sweet green herbs. May’s had a boiled egg in it. It felt good, after so much sugar, to brush my teeth and sleep. “I take you for lunch at my friend’s. He’s a famous carver of bamboo.” Six of us were warmly welcomed at Zhang De He’s studio and home, five stories of award-winning wood carvings, paintings, and antique furniture. 

 Some were mammoth, utilizing entire tree trunks; all had distinctive features and personalities. Zhang’s wife and cook brought dish after dish–crab, shell fish, river fish, beans, jelly fish, calamari, sashimi, boiled peanuts, water chestnuts, bamboo shoots…It was hard to leave the toasts (tea, red wine, beer, soda) and laughter as Zhang told stories and gave Helen’s parents a framed picture posed by Sanya’s Kuan Yin harbor statue. On the way to the bus station, Helen told me, “Zhang is #1 wood sculptor in China; many follow him.” It was easy to believe. People everywhere! No ticket to LinAn until late evening. Helen advised going to Ningbo, rather than Hangzhou and having to cross it to change bus stations.

Two hours’ later, I was told “No ticket until tomorrow, 5:00,” too late to join Zoe and Bear for Yellow Mountain. I knew no one in Ningbo, had someone write down the symbols for hotel, and went to McDonald’s for a coffee to chase the multitudinous cups of tea the past few days. I decided Hangzhou would work better, so I bought a ticket and found the right queue. Darkness descended out the bus window.

I easily got an East Station cab to “Xi Zhan”–to find it a dark hulking building with hoards of people pouring through the “Way Out” gate. I tried to enter: “No, no, no!” The guard was proud of his one-word vocabulary. I tried to ask him where to buy a ticket to LinAn. Mr. No-no shook his finger and shouted again. I shouted back in my indignant teacher voice, and he directed me past people bedding down on benches outside the station. So much for “Bus leaves West Station every fifteen minutes for LinAn!”

I called Zoe, learned they were in her hometown and had no idea why the station closed, “Maybe Moon Cake Festival holiday?” Thankfully, Alan and Dana were home. They had an extra bed. Two hours’ later and three calls later, the cabbie had dropped me at Zhejiang University gate–not 22 Xixi Lu gate, where we parked and inquired the whereabouts of Alan’s reported address, “47 Xixi Lu.” I saw Alan’s tall form crossing to meet me. Whew!

Next morning, I browsed and bought tomes in the English section of BooksUUU bookstore, riding on the back of Dana’s bike. What a picture we must have made–two foreigners pedaling among black-headed Chinese. She took off for a futile search for CATS tickets; it seemed that scalpers had bought them all up. Noodles at a Muslim shop fortified me for what I might find at West Station. It was bustling, and I got on a bus within 15 minutes for LinAn. Doing laundry and knocking about in pajamas to write this never felt so good!

Thickening Plot September 25, 2009

In the short space of a few days, I’ve gone from frustrated circumstances through maddening bureaucracy to arrive at some refreshing half-insights. Zoe’s accusatory, “I called you thousands of times!” (twice recorded on Mark’s and my cell phones) cast a shadow on our mutual day-off’s cycling adventure. We had connected a quarter of Lin’An with rivers, two lakes, and a cemetery tiered up a mountain. Climbing among pictures of mostly-old Chinese, Taoist and Buddhist sculptures, and plastic flowers, we tried to make out dates written in elegant Chinese script. We’ve outlived most of these folks, except for one boy on whose grave lay stuffed toys. I imagined hopes for a Little Emperor dashed down the green slope beneath the monstrous electric lines that, like other steep regions, share sacred spaces. 

I was literally “off the hook” with Zoe because my cell phone had earlier sent a Chinese message and given up the ghost. Mark bore the brunt of “Where were you? You must go to the University immediately and sign visa papers!” We hurriedly dressed in non-biking attire. Zoe called back. “We will do it tomorrow.” Determined to be on time for Tuesday’s staff meetings (the office calls a half-hour ahead if you’re not there), I biked, mouth watering, to KFC for my first sausage-egg muffin in Lin’An.

A block away, the blue garage door stayed firmly rolled down over Babe School’s welcoming doors. Nancy called, “You must go to university now!” “No meeting today?” “Bear will pick you up.” “I am outside Babe School, not at home.” “You are at Babe School?” “No, it is locked. I am outside Babe School.” Teachers Mark arrived, then Abdul, a veteran at Babe, who simply cycled away with a smile, “No meeting?” When Nancy, interpretor, and Bear arrived, I was attempting to find out whether my China Mobile cell phone account needed payment. It mysteriously resumed working, 30 yuan still to the good.

We piled into Bear’s car with “It’s OK to make up things you don’t know,” Nancy’s advice for dealing with Bob at Foreign Affairs office. This Bob is younger, more influential, and nothing like British Bob, who now works at a rival English Training School and whose wife trades English books with me. That’s how I discovered that my “no problem” visa conversion to work at Babe had put me on a tourist L-visa. We discovered both Mark’s and mine expire would September 30 and required extensive paperwork, a commitment to work as Zhejiang University teachers, and a trip to HongKong. I didn’t remind Bob I had made e-mail application through a mutual friend last May. He had once responded that “It is a pity. Your credentials are perfect. But you cannot teach here because China only hires teachers before age 60.” (I had written him that I had taught three years in China, always beyond age 60. He wrote back, “Congratulations!”) Age forgotten by him, he seemed baffled that I expressed outrage at seeing my passport for the first time since August 25 (I”ve been working illegally here); Bob explained that his office was “helping Babe School” and said I’d teach teachers English four hours/week once he had documentation for our degrees and work experience; an Indonesian man gave us rich Vietnamese coffee and his computer. “The computer must have something on each blank. Just a phone number or e-mail address. I think it is a good system,” Bob’s tone didn’t placate me. (Educational consulting with families now moved? Chairing literacy KC conferences between educators and business men? Where would I find addresses or contact numbers?)

Next resume–if there ever is one–for China will report bare bones experience, I resolved! They were treating work experience as “references.” I simmered down as I found internet addresses of registrars at three alma maters and most of sixteen work experiences on my resume. My brother could vouch for tutoring in Montana, and friend and once-boss in KC could verify things years’ back; I e-mailed them “If you’re contacted, just write “Yes.” It became a game I could play.

Three hours later, with the prospect of living in HongKong during upcoming National Day week, we were summoned back to Bob’s office. I helped him transfer my “references,” places worked, and e-mail addresses to computer forms while Mark ate ripe dates. We breathed three sighs of relief when every blank was filled. Then Bob’s computer screen went blank. “You DID save it?” I asked. “No, but I can redo it myself now.” “You’ve a clever memory.” I grabbed a date and headed toward the door, almost late for class at Babe School. After teaching three Babe evening classes, I reconnected with Mark next-door, bearing left-over pizza and cake, “Sorry!” peace offerings from Bear.

My waistline was thickening, just like the plot of this “Will the visa nightmare work out?” mystery. Mark had our passports and a question, “What if we leave the day visas expire and one of us gets sick?” Zoe’s solution, “Stay well,” then “I’ll ask Bob.” Mark handed me two last-pages of contracts to sign, saying he already had. On first-name basis with Bob next morning, he dropped his placating manner with this nasty female foreigner. He said he just realized I didn’t know that I was on a tourist visa (“maybe communication problems?”)and requested that I sign page seven so he “could process my contract.” “Bob, I like to know what I am signing. Is the contract with Babe School or the university?”

He then explained that I’d teach teachers English “no more than four hours,” but he had to meet with others to decide when, what salary, what duration, etc. “You are asking me to trust you without showing me the contract.” “It is for forms to send you September 30 to HongKong.” “How long are offices open in HongKong?” We determined that no one worked October 1-4, and maybe it would take an additional week to process our visas. Mark and I could see the $$$ peeling away, not to mention declining three invitations for this long-awaited holiday. I left Bob, papers unsigned, with apparent good will and his promise to “prepare the contract” for me to read before signing.

Over lunch, Mark arrived at the “What if…?” stage in spades. What if he went to CA instead (trip home equals a couple of weeks in HongKong)? What if they didn’t process our papers until after the week-long holiday? A Chinese invitation to go camping deepened his disappointment. The dragon was breathing down our necks! I knew, if I started the spin downward, I’d simply throw in the towel, which meant Babe School would probably have to close (I teach the majority of its 70 students). I cloistered myself for a few hours, contemplated an e-mailed idea from a friend in Laos: “Perfection is the enemy of good.” (My expectation is to do good teaching in China. Writing out forms that satisfy government requirements represent perfection that lies in a drawer somewhere, soon forgotten. Process isn’t imagined. Micro-managing, disregard for human needs or feelings remain the norm.)

That line of thinking fanned the dragon’s fiery breath again, so I turned to a website suggested by a WA friend who signs off with “Love and light.” It felt like I’d a penlight that illuminated just beyond my big toe; how I longed for a mag light to shine on the next five months’ path. From somewhere came “To find the path, you must become the path.” Zen-like thoughts filled the rest of the day with peace. Questions floated about like butterflies I didn’t need to catch while the dragon dozed. I remembered Mark’s request to e-mail Zoe (he couldn’t access internet again) to communicate with Bob, then added some recent questions of my own. She called back. “I will talk with you at school.” Bear caught me between classes, “Mama…..no need go HongKong September 30. Visa OK…” Mark hugged Bear. Nancy interpreted that he’d go to police and extent our visas one month; they’d send us to HongKong after the holiday.. I smiled as the dragon retreated in a cloud of smoke.

After two classes, Assistant Heather and I disinfected tables and mopped, insurance against Swine Flu’s threat. (Mark later said two staff cleaned his room for the first time; maybe they’re following our example?). Bear and Zoe closed their office door behind me. Bear consulted Chinese notes, and Zoe interpreted answers we’d needed for weeks: “The man’s here fixing office computers so we can print English; he’ll come to our home and fix our inability to both be on internet at the same time; they’ll pay half my postage cost to bring extra luggage to Lin’An; I’ll only pay 50 yuan of the 201-yuan electric bill I received (Mark’s for two months was only 10 yuan more); if I end up teaching beyond 16 hours on the two jobs, I’ll be paid extra; I’ll get texts tomorrow; they’ll “tell me tomorrow” when we go to Yellow Mountain (so I can connect with others I hope to see in Hangzhou), and Bear will extend our visas one month.”

I was impressed that, once he knew the list of complaints, Bear dealt with each immediately. I reminded them we’d need to go to HongKong well before November 1, the next deadline. They agreed that they should bear that expense for the trip. Zoe interpreted Bear’s final, impassioned plea, “When Mama is unhappy, everything is dark. I want Mama to be happy. We want Mama to consider us like her son and daughter.” I assured them I wanted to be happy, was pleased that they were fixing some of the problems, and–stifling a small urge to hug them both–gave them a smiling touch on shoulders. If they were “to be my children,” then emotions must be heartfelt, not a paper-perfection that bring back old frustrations when requests are ignored. My wish for Bear’s sick Mom’s coming from the hospital and thanks for their efforts that evening were heartfelt. “We get Bear’s Mama from hospital on Sunday.”

I dashed upstairs, where evening classes were fun, contrasted with suddenly-raised voices in the office below. Bad news? Bear and Zoe were absent “getting Bear’s Mama” the next day (Thursday, not Sunday; so Bear and Zoe, too, may feel they’re puppets controlled by strings held by governmental hospital decisions, just like I’ve felt jerked around). I imagined their trade off–instead of daily hospital trips to wash, bathe, change bandages, and feed a woman awaiting removal of her womb, they would care for her at home, where their toddler rules the roost. I wondered if they would, indeed, drive Mama to Hubei Province family October 1 or sooner.

“It’s really terrible,” I agreed with Zoe, seeing the dragon shift his fiery attention their way. They’d avoided telling us where they live, leaving Mark and me no way to make gestures of food or flowers. The dragon napped during the next few days.   I met an intelligent Chinese woman who gave me tips on what prospective teachers will want from my university class (if it materializes, which I hope it does) and two university students (who named me Jin Kai Lu (Golden Open Road; capturing an image for what I’d like to see myself representing in the world), had a gift massage in a luxurious Lin’An salon (gift of Babe School co-owner’s guanxi with the spa owner), received fresh dates (now in season) and local lu cha (green tea) from an appreciative parent who took me in her Lexus to a delicious dinner, and met her friend’s bright university son who wants private English lessons.

It all had a good feel, as did my “OK!” to Bear’s, “Mama, you OK?” when he came for their Magic Jack loaned me for free calls to the US. Half of two classes still await the right texts, all three kindergarten groups’ seatwork needs xerox copies on a machine that’s quit working, month-old requests for classroom supplies pile up on Zoe’s desk, and I seem the last to learn of schedule changes, but there are plenty of moments when the bucking dragon runs out of steam. Shifting my weight while riding his quick-change back sometimes even sends a thrill up my own spine.

Proud Scars September 26, 2009

Isabel Allende wrote, “Perhaps we are in this world to search for love, find it and lose it, again and again. With each love, we are born anew, and with each love that ends we collect a new wound. I am covered with proud scars”. Am I falling out of love with China? I find my tolerance level stretched to near-breaking limits, my patience thinning, and my balance toppling almost hourly. What lessons are in Lin’An for me, and did I mistake a need for challenge for foolhardiness?

Take last week: I sent my biggest, noisiest class happily home with a mental note to have assistant Nancy teach the most boisterous one to count in English while I stretched the others with “I want three blue Legos…” next meeting. Boss Shirley invited me to sit down, “explained” with Nancy’s interpretation my “problem with my visa because of age” for an hour. “What can I do?” I asked. “Nothing.”

Then Shirley gave me a cake box, too late to cut and share with staff, too big to fit in my bike basket. “Bear will take you home; it will go bad if you leave at school.” Mark and I did our best with late-night coffee, laughing about my “Happy Birthday” gift. He enjoyed it again for breakfast.  Eternal optomist, I headed out next morning. Our utilitarian concrete box-complexes aren’t picture-worthy, but bear hopeful banners like “Charmlinan” and sit atop mostly-empty shops.

Within 1 km, I found breakfast next to a communal garden–hot, sweetened soy milk and braids of fried bread or rounds filled with carrot (mild turnip), egg, and grated vegetables; I eyed the less popular, huge wok of noodles. I cycled past the mountainous repository for plastics, gleaned from smaller dumps like the one out my kitchen window, toward another development.

The roads over the river weren’t finished, but one skirted women washing clothes. A man and baby son pulled up a long fishing line, closed their still-empty styro cooler, and climbed aboard their scooter “Mei you!” he said to me. No fish for lunch today. Excited about the promise of a Hangzhou weekend–acquaintances who used to work at Babe School to show Mark and me around, hostel and West Lake jazz club reservations, the prospect of seeing KC friends who teach in Hangzhou, and a day in pagodas, Starbuck’s, and Silk Street–I packed my bag. E-mail arrived an hour before leaving: “Don’t forget your passport.” I made five phone calls to find out that Zoe had given our passports and receipt for them to the university official whom, we had understood earlier, could not help with our visas.

I swallowed my disappointment, and we walked to a neighborhood restaurant for fresh fish and vegetables. Mark was delighted that they gave us our own pot of tea and indicated we should take our time. (hut home picture here) I told him of the “homes” I had biked past, where the rag-pickers who daily go through our neighborhood dump may live. He said they might be construction workers, also poorly paid in China’s social pecking order. Back home in our comfy apartments, we started a Scrabble game; Mark hadn’t played since France, but it came back to him. “That sounds like a Bear voice,” and it was.

Zoe and Bear brought expensive pastries–filled with mushrooms, pickled vegetables, nothing sweet– from a new bakery and settled on my couch with more of their story, sprinkled liberally with. “Bob F__!” The Brit couple who used to work at Babe evidently linked up with Zoe and Bear’s old partners and a pregnant teaching assistant (“impossible to fire”) and started a rival school, using Babe School’s phone list to offer discounts. Bob “told the university that Mark had cancer and should not get a visa.” Mark told Zoe he had, indeed, had cancer near his eye that was “no longer a problem,.” He had told Bob over a meal soon after he came here. Zoe and Bear were astounded.

I sat and pondered the tense problem of “has” and “had” lost in interpretation. We ate unwanted pastries and reminded them that Mark had just passed his extensive physical in China. Conversation moved to new knowledge for me: Zoe’s offer to immigrate to Australia within five years (they will); my teaching “the majority of Babe’s 70 students; paying the old partner 150,000 yuan one year after he invested 100,000 “because he was a friend” who wanted out; the university official on whose decision hangs our visa approval being new partner, “Shirley’s friend;” Bear’s only making 2200 yuan/month as a university draftsman instructor; the university wanting us both to teach there (vetoed earlier, now with seeming approval by Zoe), and Mark’s needing to go to HongKong to renew his visa sometime. “Mama, you can go with him.” (As “foreign language expert in China’s past, it seems I don’t need to leave China to renew.) Does that mean a subsidized trip to Hong Kong?

Bear got up, wandered the apartment, “Shui?” They inspected my fountain flowing from a crystal ball rolling past changing light. Bear waxed ecstatic about my watercolors, scenes from the campus lake. High praise from one who teaches graphic arts, I figured. On our feet, I was glad they headed out the door, not noticing a granddaddy cockroach who met his demise in the hall.

Mark and I shook our heads, wondered if we’ll have passports by October 1-8 trip to Yellow Mountain, and said good night. Before sleep, I mentally ticked off a few positives: Zoe brought me her freebie iron (she sends her clothing out for cleaning) yesterday, the 3s and 4s class was sweet and fun (in spite of no assistant, one child throwing up, another crying three times when Mom repeatedly popped her head in, and another needed to pee in the middle of a colors lesson), I found myself laughing with all three kindergarten groups, Zoe’s request to “teach another grade 2 class on Saturday; the parents insist on you!” didn’t materialize, I received a gift of massage and facial “because the owner is Bear’s friend,” and to-my-knowledge health among friends and family on both sides of the globe, Kent’s successful pinot noir crush just finished, Janet’s saying her teaching was going well. I snuggled down under my duvet, glad to hear cooling rain fall.

Over next mornings’ left-over pastry and the last of my Hainan coffee for breakfast, Mark vehemently restated he’ll have nothing further to do with Bob. I reminded him we’d only heard Zoe and Bear’s side of the fragmented story. Unready to give up my only source of Lin’An English reading, I called Bob to swap their last three loaners for three more. No love lost or found–just a love of reading! I’m determined to stay above that fray. Midmorning e-mails came from the US. Lives that seemed bland a few months back momentarily connect me with longing for my Montana deck and its view of evergreens on Pat’s Knob.

From Laos came a half-joking note about friends’ cultural clashes, “Perhaps we need to get together for a group hug!” I wandered across to the Zhejiang U campus for a lakeside glass of hot lemon tea and a past pocket of sanity. Perhaps, weighing the tumultous tugs and positive pulls, I’ll have soon discovered elusive joy seeping back into life here.

Minds Almost Meeting–September 12, 2009

Was it only a week ago that I climbed to the Lin An’s Ming Dynasty pagoda, tribute to King Qian Wu Yue? No savory moments at Babe Training School, just stress, disorganization and surprises. I’m wrestling with feeling more like the relic the pagoda was declared in 1962.
 
Saturday, I brought first graders (one reportedly age 9) downstairs chanting, “Red, yellow, blue” and dragging tiredly to Mamas after two hours of English guessing games. They’ll adjust to recognizing “Put your name in the cup” (to win the day’s big prize, a pencil), sit here, make a circle, say ___, color ___, write___” and get the dazed look off faces that smile delightedly when I help them through their turn. We’re all tired. The new texts were clearly too advanced, so we just matched colors to do the first page. We played games, using themselves to add and subtract. They loved musical chairs for “Take away one…”

The one new (demo) kid seemed ready to sign up. Zoe announced, “Virginia has a high sign-up percentage” (really?) and turned to me, “You look tired. You sleep OK?”
“No, I e-mailed you. I’m frustrated.”
“What’s wrong?”
“This (in front of at least 20 kids and parents) isn’t a good place. I’ll talk later.”
“Oh, OK.”
Later, eyes feeling feverish, I told her two hours was too long for that age to “study English,” even with the break we took between hours. “But we must! The parents have no other time and want their children to study with you.” Mark, sitting quietly at his computer, supportedly suggested we turn off the lights and take a 20-minute rest break; Zoe was silent. I plunged on: the new text seems must be at least second grade, but I got it only in time to look at a few pages.
“We drove to Hangzhou because the texts didn’t arrive and got them!”
“The red book was appropriate for T-Th Grade 1, not this one.”
“We need to change texts!” She gathered up her notes.
I plunged on— “Zoe, an hour T-Th is too long for the 3s-4s. Parents agreed that 40 minutes was best. Is that OK?”
Silence again. Later, “I must ask Michael (co-owner).”
Heat rising, I flared, “I cannot continue with learning things at the last minute or having them changed from what I
understood. No texts ready although the assistant assured me they were, teaching today when Mark and I both missed it on the new schedule, demo classes that no one told me were not regular students, supplies disappearing when I need them for teaching.”
She said, “Frankly speaking, I’m a mess right now.” She told me her mother-in-law is in the hospital, so she’s the daily care-giver while they await suspected womb cancer reports, Bear’s “not good with Asido” (<2 years) so she must care for him, the baby-sitter’s gone now, she took the foreign English test last weekend, and they got half the expected enrollment “because of one teacher saying….” Sympathy and shades of my own child-raising days and caring for a dying relative tugged at my heart. My backbone got a steely feeling. “No need to say whose fault.”
From Zoe, “I know those sound like excuses. I need to be at Babe School full time. I tell the girls, but they don’t do what I say. I have to do it myself.”

I expressed sympathy about her mother-in-law, then told her she was the boss and part of that job was to see that things were done. She kept repeating, “I told them to…” (I could’ve cite many things she told me one day, forgot about the next, but I didn’t.)

“Mama, I learn much from you.” (I hear this almost daily.)
Bear came in; they switched to rapid-fire Chinese. I was suddenly told, “40 minutes is OK” (one battle won) and “We take Mama to eat!” (last thing I felt like doing) They insisted: “Beef!” Mark and I ate hot pot at a new, expensive place, their solution to my problems.
On the bike-way home in the dark, the best Saturday event happened: a glasses shop re-affixed the earpiece to my broken glasses for free. I fell into bed, hoping I wasn’t going down the slope to a case of the flu.
At least, I’ve two days to recoup my energy and experience to bring to Tuesday’s classes. I awakened with kindly feelings and renewed resolve to help Zoe, if possible, to “administrate” better (learn to delegate effectively?). She must be in a panic; if the school is to survive, she feels it and her whole world depend on her.
I turn my energies to family members and friends carrying Zoe-like burdens and uncertainty across the ocean. I see you each in loving light doing your best, letting go of what you can’t control, enjoying what you can. I’m doing the same on this side of the world…

 
September 14: Time sooths: an evening of hot lemon tea under willows by the campus lake, a non-teaching day to organize my three classrooms, coffee and breakfast after a bike ride that introduced Mark to a Magnum bar, and an e-mail from Zoe thanking me for talking with her and inviting me to tomorrow’s meeting, plus her and Zoe asking Mark and me to go to Yellow Mountain over upcoming National Day, October 1-8. I’d love to see a fresh sunrise from the top!

Expert Immigrant Labor –September 11, 2009

I’m not wanting to be awake at dawn thinking of if and what to do about work! I click on npr and hear the president’s address remembering those lost on 9/11. Had I really forgotten? I’m again sitting on last evening’s 10″ stool in front of seven five-year-olds, pointing and singing, “Today is Friday…All day long…” oblivious to emotional ties to the 11 on the calendar.

We roll a big red ball, saying the English name of the recipient, singing repeatedly. “Roll it to a friend…___!” They catch on. We move on to plans for red/yellow/blue legos. I open the closet for the 250-yuan tub of legos. They’re gone! Frantically, I search the other three closets–nothing. Oh great! The first week, I’ve allowed my most expensive new toys to disappear. My Chinese assistant is speechless and the natives are restless, so I go to Plan B–coloring a rainbow. They’re fascinated as I mix yellow and blue for green. We build rainbows, naming colors. They leave smiling. “Hey! I’m a good teacher,” I tell myself.

I go before dinner, full of dread, to boss, Zoe. “The legos are missing. Do you know…?” She laughs. “Oh, I took them for my Asido to play with.” Bear, her husband, laughs. I mime the heart attack they almost gave me, make a mental note to ask her to leave a note when she borrows something. Zoe had been my assistant for the first kindergarten class September 10, pronounced the color lesson with legos “most professional,” then made my next one near-disaster. She asked, “Do you think Abdul’s demo lesson more suitable than Mark’s for grade 3? Mark’s students say it is boring and difficult to understand.” I tell her, “I’ve never seen Mark teach. He’s experienced. I know he can adjust his style. Did you talk to him about it?” “No.” “It seems fair to talk with Mark before you make a decision or talk with other teachers.”

 ”Oh, Mama Virginia, you must go to your 6:20 class!” “I thought you said it was 7:30…?” “No, it is now posted 6:20.” “You promised to show me before the schedule was set, but I’m glad of this change.” I run upstairs to two expected pre-schoolers, marching in with mothers. The Chinese assistant is nowhere to be seen. I wave forcefully “Bye-bye!” and moms scurry out the door, anxious mice. The boys are mirror opposites–one almost catatonic, the other chattering Chinese.

We start scribbling with red. I’m using a mirror, my marker, moving their hands, touching their mouths, and the noisy one says, “Red.” A star on his hand, and the other one whispers “red…” The door opens. Assistant Heather, “Virginia, those are not your students. They are for a demo class. Here is your one student.” I recognize a sweetheart I’ve seen before. “Tell them in Chinese to please sit here and watch.” Moms come back to hover and coach, along with the adult with my paid student. We shift to legos, and I cajole the children into repeating “red.”

Assistant repeats everything I say in Chinese. I ask her to stop. She then repeats my English words. I ask her to remain quiet, just “Help me with your actions.” How will they learn to listen to me with Chinese direction at every turn? I busy her with recording names, newly-given English names, telephone numbers. They match yellow/blue to earn lego pieces. We build houses, trains, robots. Active Lon cries and wanders, taciturn Matt begins to speak, and Sara whispers and generally follows my mimed actions.

I tell the assistant to bring Lon back when he explores my desk, supplies, CD player, shelves. She does it once. Big red ball comes out, and I invite grown-ups to play too, so we repeat all names several times. After 30 minutes, we’re all tired, only halfway through. Toilet break (no “bathroom” or baths here) and “Wash your hands” chant. I make a mental note to have snacks next session. We try to sit in a circle on the floor. “Head, shoulders, knees, and toes” was never sung slower. Assistant bellows off-melody, “Eyes, ears, mouth, and nose” until I ask her to sing softly. Then they echo one-word–at-a-time.

They watch me draw myself–hair, eyes, mouth, a few details. They look in a mirror at themselves, fill ink/blue/yellow/green eyes in the circle I draw on each paper. We identify hair in the mirror, and they each reach for black. Success! We admire our faces again, choose a color for another star-on-hand, and say “Bye-bye.” Lon’s permanently welded around his mom’s neck. Matt’s mom wants an interpreted chat about “How’s his pronunciation?” I assure her he’ll say “red, blue, green” like me if I teach him, like her if she teaches him. She smiles happily, “Tsank you!” Then she has him tell me, “Tomorrow…is my…birthday!” I draw him a cake with 4 candles. They confer, and he repeats her words, “I love you!” The woman has really good English.

Sara’s Nana (grandmother? nanny?) gives her over to mother, who arrives with a lot of questions, all in Chinese. I never did get anything interpreted beyond assuring Mom that Sara could–and did–”open her mouth.” Both Sara’s family and Heather subscribe to the “Louder means better” school of learning, I guess. “Please interpret that Sara showed understanding when she did what I said. She’ll speak louder when she knows me better.” I escape to teacher’s room, where Mark sits at his computer–and three of his students play games on mine. I pull rank and shoo them out: “I need my computer.”

The owner’s daughter comes in to see if I’m off “her” computer yet. If off, I’ve no place to sit. The kids burst in like tennis balls out of a sealed can, while parents chat and argue their child’s chances of success in the lounge, oblivious to the chaos. “Let’s get out of here,” I tell Mark. I know Mark was a CA Middle School teacher, admire his laid back ways and easy smile. We’ve just come through three days when I nursed him (he lives next door) while he lay flat with back spasms, then two days of my sleeping off severe allergy reactions when he brought me yogurt and instant noodle cups.

Sipping tea by the nearby campus lake, when well enough to walk, he reminds me philosophically when my sense of justice and opinions about what constitutes good teaching practices rise to my heated surface, “We’re just immigrant workers in China, Virginia,” and I calm down. We bike home under street lights. “I’m liberated until Tuesday evening’s classes, Mark!” I’m jubilant. I hear Mark’s philosophy that planning lessons is useless, since Zoe just gave him a text at the 11th hour. We stop and watch impressive swing dancing in two parks.

My phone rings. “Mama, you know you have two hours tomorrow?” (I had just e-mailed friends my Tue-Friday pm hours. envisioning the delicious three-day-weekends when I’d visit Xuzhou, Hangzhou, Yellow Mountain, read, dine, sleep…) “What two hours?” “I put it on the schedule. And I have your texts ready.” “What age? What texts?” “The same as last time (only one class has texts, to my knowledge).”

By the time I got home, I figured it out. She’d added a first-second grade class on Saturday afternoons without splitting their two hours/week. They’re offspring of the movers and shakers of Lin’An, excellent students in the demo lessons. What’s a foreign worker to say but, “Yes, boss.” I push down fear that the most ADHD kid I’ve encountered in China has also been added to their mix. What did I do to deserve this? Left a comfortable job in paradise. Got a pay raise promise (not forthcoming until October 10) with an apartment like one I admired with balcony (didn’t happen), took on the challenge of “beginning a kindergarten program” (I’m touted as expert, but not clued in on schedule/expectations/materials/activities until last minute, if then). Left a boss who said “waiting until the last minute worked” for her and gained a boss who stomps out of shouting matches in faculty meetings and doesn’t appear for a day, tells me one thing later swears she said something else, and works hours on micro-managing inefficient details.

They clearly need help, but I’m getting too old for this kind of flying blind! Not one to look back too far, once my hand is to the plow, I’m awake at 4:30 a.m. and e-mailing Zoe. “I’m frustrated…Can we talk?” Stay tuned.

Wind Power, September 4, 2009

Mid-summer, small windmills appeared up and down Sanya’s Chunguang Lu in front of my development, FengXingLong Gardens. Biking under the stilled pin-wheels that powered streetlights, I got to wondering about China’s windo-powered history. China Daily Business section June 3 showed road lamps powered by wind in Zhejiang Province, home of my next teaching experience, so that whetted my appetite for learning more.

China now has the fourth largest wind capacity in the world, after USA, Germany, and Spain. India trails in fifth place. All recognize the advantages of renewable, low water consumption, emission-free wind power. It’s the cheapest form of renewable energy. China boasts a year-on-year 100% growth this past few years. It projects installed capacity of 30,000 megawats (mW) by 2010’s end, up 12,000 mW from this year. Six more power bases are planned by 2020. Then current 2% of of China’s total power generation capacity would increase from next year’s projected 10%.
 
There are problems in this numbers game. Their grid capacity can’t keep pace; some wind power plants can’t connect to the grid effectively. China Longyuan Electiic Power Group Corp, producer of a third of the country’s wind power, has started offshore wind projects. The country’s five major energy companies have started wind power businesses
 
One thing is certain, China will continue to need increasing electricity, whether from thermal, hydropower, or wind. Here (Lin’An, where I moved 9/1 to Hangzhou’s “suburb” town of 150,000, I plug in 5/2009 www.linanwindow.com’s Chinglish take on “Rapidly deviloping industrial economices:…867 rural enterprises, 18 big-medium-sizedenterprises, 6 provincial, 2 municipal groups, and more than 150 ventures…exporting products of the joint venture are over 100 kinds…textile, cloth, wire, electric cable, building material, wine-making industry…Water and electricity facilities have got rapid increasing…71 small waterpower stations…With 40000KW installed capacity and 270 million RMB, the Qingshan palace center is busy in building…”
 
I bicycle over river bridges and near 100,000-ton capacity Second Water Work on the 3 km ride through endless traffic to Babe English Training School. Evenings and weekends until we open for business September 10, I do demonstration lessons with parents anxiously looking on, coaching their children until I have a Chinese Training Assistant interpret my assertive demand that they remain silent. We dutifully turn on/off air conditioning before/after using my rooms.

Virginia’s Housing History, Take Four! Saturday, Aug 29th

A first in China, this Lin’An apartment 3 km from workplace, Babe English Training School. It was clean inside, with many small necessities like broom, soap, purified water, and food in refridgerator.  The “Enterance” (spelling seen on prominent supermarket out a bus window) is securely triple-locked, though I’m told theft isn’t a problem. Sliding doors to my drying room “balcony” got its broken lock fixed the second day here; they cleaned up trash on the mildew-streaked cement out there the third day. No place for drinking tea, that!

I’ve prettied up the walls with US calendar art and Chinese folk art gifts from Hainan. Yesterday morning, I biked to a supermarket for peanut butter (chunky, knock-off Skippy!) and an electric pot for morning oatmeal. Zoe and Bear arrived with a rice cooker and loaner bike; Co-owner Shirley gave me a box of tart plums, now in season. Clock arrived after I settled in, with explanation that same Chinese word for “death” doubles for “clock”, so I put Hainan Cheri’s grandma’s cross-stitch insoles there to remind myself Time Marches On!
 
I await a TV and–hopefully–chairs and a table to join a funky puppy-print red futon. Playful puppies play ball over my queen bed night and day; computer sits on a corner desk. Tiled bathroom gets cleaned each time I shower; washer is big. View from bath and kitchen gets lively around 7:00 a.m. with the trash truck’s rumble. I’m hoping to screen that view with plants and look beyond to university trees and buildings.
 
I cooked chicken-vegetable stew to share with Mark, next door co-worker. He’s delighted to be here, away from gang-infested Oakland Middle Schools. He’s sharing Skype and indebted me greatly yesterday. I boarded the bus, hoping to eat lunch near school and leisurely prepare for four demo classes with five-six year olds and parents. Exiting when I saw the landmark overhead tubes (water? electricity?), everything started to look alike with no other familiar landmarks.

No cell phone answer from Zoe, my owner life-line in Lin’An. I walked both directions, discovering the emergency yuan I carry had been removed when I washed cell phone carrier. I had ID and 1.5 yuan left, so I boarded Bus 6 back to my flat. Zoe answered a third call, and Mark biked home to lead me through twists and turns on bikes (seat’s still far too low, after raising it beyond where Chinese wanted it raised). We arrived to…no kids!

A teaching assistant ran to KFC for a sandwich, and Chinese teacher Sam gave me “bubble tea” (the same sweet milk tea with rice balls Hainan called “pearl tea”–no bean curd, like I thought), and I relaxed a moment.
 
Teaching times had changed; I taught 5-6 year olds (including one, whose grandpa told me my class was “too easy”; then I learned his grandson was nearly-eight years old!); next came a mixture with one girl whose mom needed to sit behind her to wipe tears and sisters who cried until Mom took them out (the older one told Zoe she “was the best in her kindergarten and didn’t understand everything with this foreigner”); last, 3-4 year olds straggled in over thirty minutes’ time and were so delightful you could eat them with a spoon. Zoe said parents were signing kids up; it sounded like she was doing an agressive sell job with them.
 
I fall asleep before reading much at night; I can get Fish Fry on www.kcuf.org mornings, and perhaps we’ll soon have some kind of schedule by September 10, when classes start. One day at a time while it marches on…

Aug 22, 2009 Housing History Tour

As Hainan passes through China’s scorching ‘09 Summer, I walk from room to room in my comfortable Sanya apartment. I read awhile in my spacious air conditioned bedroom, look up at white crown moldings and remind myself that, as recently as late 1980s, entire families lived in a two-meter-squared room. No wonder my Chinese friends can’t fathom me living alone in all this space. “A warm home’s like a small shell,” they intone, and my shell’s too big for their comfort.  Foreign Affairs offices, knowing foreigners expect space, cheerfully placed me in three similar places in as many years. I seemed the only one who noticed the inequality involved.

I smooth the duvet on my queen-sized guestroom bed. A bachelor, living with his married brothers and sisters in a room this size, would consider this space for a dignified, happy life in 1989. At that, he would remember the days and nights before the 1950s when real estate first became a concept in China. Dorms for men or women only was the rule back then; I heard more than one story of a pregnant wife secretly moving from her family’s home to the men’s dorm while the husband waited years for his work unit to issue a spot in married dorms.  

Teachers didn’t have it easy back then either; like everyone else, they kept moving between work units. Once accepted to teach at a university, they were sent keys to share a family’s home. In Beijing, prior to 1980s, that was a two-meter-squared room on one side of a hall which shared kitchen and toilet with room-after-room home like theirs. They often walked on bricks to avoid sewer water on the floor. By 1986, home removal companies formed to raze, then build apartment blocks across cities. It’s still happening in every Chinese city I’ve visited; cranes and bamboo scaffolding dot city scapes. Sounds of jack hammers and heavy equipment are common sounds day and night.

I cross my gleaming tile floor to computer-stream in Piano Jazz or flip to a Channel 15 classical concert and think how 20 friends filled up my living room with Chinese banter last evening. They toasted my birthday, sampled microwave popcorn and dark chocolate around my glass-topped table, and asked for the recipe to chicken salad, before asking the inevitable, “Aren’t you lonely here?”

I’m just as amazed that they speak fondly of their identical-to-my concrete box on the ninth floor across Fenshang Gardens development. Eight women live in three bedrooms with a common living room, a sea of shoes tossed around two bicycles. The young principal claims one room, seven teachers share the other two. Free meals are eaten at school or (weekends) in street shops, so the kitchen is a place to brush teeth. A squattie-potty and shower at the end of a clothes-drying entry is identical to mine, except I have an egg-shaped washing machine. No wonder they usually respond to, “What are your weekend plans?” with “Washing clothes.”

One recent week, they used my shower when their landlord suddenly turned off water with no warning. At least they didn’t have to do what Shanghai families did in 1986, brushing teeth around a family tap where they also washed chamber pots.
I shrug off their “It’s so clean!” comments and refrain from telling them of the scrubbing, bleaching, and rearranging it took to make each place I’ve lived my own. This apartment had eight student teachers’ mattresses on the floor, no broom or mop, one faucet that worked, and two working light bulbs when I moved here. A wet mop had left mud-streaked paths; sinks were crusty; toilet smelled like an outdoor privy. Disinfectant and detergent changed the face of things with a half day of elbow grease. Owner Helen, invited to have iced coffee recently, walked from room to room and announced, “I want to live in my apartment again!” The appliances, plants, and decorations I’ve added will stay for the next occupant when I move.

My kitchen has a handy fridge, water purifier, microwave, blender, rice cooker, wok, tea kettle, and silverware and plates–more than enough for weekend cooking. I invite a co-workers to watch CCTV9’s documentary on Real Estate and ladle Western-style vegetable soup into their bowls. Accepting seconds, they try to refrain from smacking and slurping in deference to my Western way of eating. We learn that, in 1991, Beijing listed China’s first real estate sale as people quit relying solely on the government to improve their lives.

Each to-be-displaced household was given 60 yuan (<$9US) and one year to find a new place during mass relocation. 1993 brought a south-north road plan, and 100,000 residents quit climbing ladders (no stairs) to reach their room-on-room homes and moved to Beijing’s suburbs. It was disappointing; there was no lighting and only one bus route into workplaces. “Real Estate Takes You to Paradise” slogans changed to “You won’t reach the sky in a single step.” Folks had nine-meter homes and no running water, but they had real estate. Developers began buying up land and building 32-square-meter homes. Hopefuls pitched tents in front of real estate offices so they wouldn’t miss a chance to buy. People pooled resources and formed cooperatives, responsible for their development’s management, in 1997. Security, always an issue in welfare housing, began to reform. 1989 brought the first guards, now at every development’s gate around the clock.The half-century system of Welfare Allocation was abolished in 1998.

“Happy Housewarming!” is now a common greeting, accompanied by strings of firecrackers lit to drive away any mischevious spirits. My own door opens under a lucky red longevity and prosperity banner. China’s housing comodities reported 130% growth in the five years prior to 2003; per capita income increased 55%. Tonight, August 23, 2009, TV news showed an impressive space shuttle planning to probe a Mars moon within the next year. Even “The sky’s the limit!” is taking on new possibilities. Who knows? If housing development opens up on another planet, China’s one child policy may become a thing of the past.