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.