千 里 之 行 ，始 于 足 下

千 里 之 行 ，始 于 足 下

A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step.

道 德 經 ~ Dao De Jin

So said the legendary Laozi, Chinese philosopher and among the founders of Daoism. If a journey of 1000 miles starts with a single step, then what about a journey some 7670+ miles, across continents from one side of the globe to another? How does that begin? Life isn't about the starting point or the ultimate destination, but about the journey.

~ ~ ~

Read on about my journeys as I spend the fall semester of 2008 in Nanjing, China: a half a world away from my home in Beverly Shores but right here at your fingertips through the magic internet.

Looking Back on 30 Years of Reform

Streets a sea of bicycles, not a car in sight.
A population of people sporting, if not Mao jackets, then the simple uniform of a Chinese farmer.
In cities and countryside alike, people so fascinated by the 35-millimeter camera (now considered a simple contraption) pointed at them—and equally so by the foreigners holding the camera—it was quite possible they had rarely if ever seen the likes of my mom or her camera before.

That was a time when the eyes of China’s people were being opened to the surrounding world after a long period of isolation. Once my eyes were opened to the world outside the bubble I grew up in the States, the first time I was introduced to China, that was the China I met. A country just emerging from years of economic stagnation. The photos and stories my mom brought back from her trip here, just years following China’s 改革开放 or “Reform and Opening-Up” began in 1978, helped to form my mind’s eye image of the country. While the China of the early 80’s, the China my mom saw and then showed to me, was undergoing breakneck-speed changes, the images I saw of that era depict a static snapshot of China, a country trapped in time. Looking back at those photos and comparing to Nanjing nowadays (30 years after Deng Xiaoping first initiated the reforms that catapulted China out of the past and into its current status on the global stage), the country is barely recognizable.

2008 has been a banner year for China. With the Beijing Olympics this summer, the tragic Sichuan earthquake this spring, record snowfalls past February, contaminated milk powder and pet food, not to mention the not insignificant role the country plays in the world economy, China has hit international headlines this year more frequently than ever before. This past week marked yet another significant China-related event, although one apparently more important within the country than beyond its borders: on December 18th, China celebrated 30 years of “Reform and Opening-Up.” In a sense, at least according to official calculations, is the end of important chapter in the course of the country’s long history and the beginning of a new one.

31 yeas ago, Chairman Mao, while ailing, was still officially at the helm and the Cultural Revolution was about to run out of steam. 1978 rolled around and saw the passing of Mao Zedong. Deng Xiaoping stepped in to fill his shoes and set China off on a road to economic and political reform. December 18th of that year saw the start of the reforms that are being remembered this week. While I didn’t witness the effects of the reforms as many of the people living around me here in Nanjing have witnessed over the years, even though I’m not old enough to remember the start of the reforms, I was still welcomed to take part in the celebrations.

This week, I was welcomed to stand side by side with the people whose country I now call home, to look back at the changes and to look forward to the future… Oh my, I sound like a party official. Perhaps the sappy over-the-top rhetoric I’ve been hearing all week has sunk in. But really, even from an outsider’s perspective, the changes China has undergone are astonishing and worth celebrating. The Chinese Communist Party has played their cards well over the past 30 years and deserve some bragging rights. That’s not to say, though, that things here are happy and 100% perfect. By no means; there’s still a long way to go.

This past week, I wasn’t just a vicarious participant in the 30th anniversary celebrations of China’s “Reform and Opening-Up.” In addition to overhearing countless official speeches every time there happened to be a radio or television in the vicinity, I also experienced the celebrations in a more personal manner. In fact, if you had turned your TV on the __th and flipped to Nanjing’s city station, you might have even caught a glimpse of me on the air (the only obvious foreigner in a studio audience of over 1000).

The day before the official anniversary arrived and I didn’t even realize it. That I attribute to my growing indifference to official broadcasts and banners that I still have trouble understanding. Because, had I been paying attention, I would have seen that word about the 30th anniversary of China’s reforms was all around. That day, a Japanese friend of mine gave me a call. “A friend of mine gave me these two tickets to a concert this evening.” Ruri-san explained in a mix of Chinese and Japanese. “Any chance you’re free to go with me?” She had no idea what kind of music would be featured at the concert. But since I had no plans and enjoy Ruri’s company, I decided to take her up on the offer.

Later that day, Ruri and I met at the subway station and took a taxi together through crowded city streets during the evening rush hour. On our way, the traffic flow was further slowed by the grand opening of a restaurant along our route. Like many new establishments in China, the owners wanted to start things off with a bang. Literally. The sidewalk in front of the entrance was spread with a red carpet, lined with colossal bouquets of flowers, and set with spread of fireworks that went off continuously for the fifteen minutes or so it took us to pass by. The night sky, darkness already muted by the light pollution of the thousands of neon signs lining the surrounding streets, was lit further by bursts of light and color from the fireworks (dangerously close to the surrounding buildings and street-side passerby’s, so I thought).

Despite the delay (and a fun and colorful delay it was), we made it to the Nanjing Broadcasting Corporation’s theater with time to spare, thanks to Ruri’s punctuality and planning (how Japanese…). It was only upon entering the theater that we finally figured out what kind of concert we were actually going to see: it turned out to be a commemorative program of China’s 30 years of reform.

Nanjing’s TV station seemed to pull out all the stops and spared no expense to commemorate the event in true Chinese style. Like the mass coordination of people into performance art as seen in this summer’s Olympics, the station invited a large-scale orchestra (all Western-style instruments, however), a number of local celebrities, and several choirs from around the area (the number of singers on the sidelines adding up to over 100) to take part.

When the start time printed on our tickets rolled around, the choirs were still in rehearsal mode and the announcer was still shouting directions from the sidelines. Coordinating such a large number of people seems to be China’s forte, so the people on stage all seemed to take directions well. The audience, on the other hand… not so much. The evening’s multi-media show interspersed live music and song with enthusiastic announcing and seamless film clips. In sync with these supplemental films, the MC wanted the audience to shout, “Nanjing, Ni hao!” (“Nanjing, Hello!”) at the appropriate time. It took countless tries and we still hadn’t gotten it quite right, but it was already time for the show to start, officially.

To a swell of bright lights and dramatic music, the choirs filed onto the stage, followed by the orchestra and trailed by the MCs. Beginning with an ode to Deng Xiaoping and his early initiatives that kicked off the era of reforms, the program then followed the changes that China in general and Nanjing in particular underwent in over the past 30 years. See, in my analysis, China’s Communist Party tries to replace religion with communist philosophy and God with the Party or a leader that embodies it. Until the reforms rolled around, China’s surrogate God was Chairman Mao. Since then, no leader has quite matched the charismatic appeal that Mao held for all those years. But, at least judging from the content of the concert’s program, Deng Xiaoping can be considered the hero of the era of reform.

Deng Xiaoping: his face appeared countless times in the course of the concert. China: the country has seen countless drastic changes in the course of the last century. After the monumental changes marked by the fall of the last emperor and the rise of the Communist Party into its current position of power, it’s reasonable to say that China’s—and indeed the world’s, for that matter—era of most rapid change occurred during the era of reform over the last 3 decades. After realizing that the old system (combining a highly-centralized, planned economy with doors closed to foreign policy) wasn’t working well, the Chinese people resolutely embarked on this historic journey of reform spearheaded by Deng Xiaoping.

After an opening ode to this late leader, riding a tide of patriotism (with plenty of propaganda thrown in), the evening’s program took the audience through a play by play of the changes that have come to China and Nanjing in particular over during this span of time (mind-bogglingly brief in comparison with the sweeping span of Chinese history). Between songs, innumerable staggering statistics—regarding China’s development and zooming in on the growth of Nanjing as part of it—were rattled off by the announcers. In terms of the number of people who call the city home and the standards of living they enjoy. In terms of construction. Business. Transportation. Production. Education, etc. Both the city and China as a whole have grown exponentially. Its no wonder that from an outsider’s perspective, well-developed cities like Nanjing are unrecognizable in light of their former incarnations: even locals who have lived through all this change still find it hard to believe.

Several events and shifts in policy have shaken and shaped the country over the past 30 years. While significantly more subtle than the wars that shattered China in the early 20th century, the repercussions of the reforms are no less revolutionary. Beijing has been the main stage for all this action, but one such key occurrence happened not far from here, in the neighboring province of Anhui. Shortly after the reforms started in December of 1978, 18 farmers in the town of Xiaogang agreed to sign a secret agreement through which they decided to divide community-owned land into individual pieces, something unheard of at the time. Due to the success of these radical farmers, news of their community contract spread, secret no more. This small town in Anhui soon attracted the attention of Deng Xiaoping. He supported the model of land ownership they’d set up, later using it to reshape China’s rural areas.

It’s not just within the country that China’s changes are apparent, however: a lot of these changes were driven by the very same forces driving China’s booming economy. Consider: here’s a country that went from what was virtually a closed-doors policy in the late ‘70’s to become the world’s largest exporter in a span of 30 years. Foreign trade now accounts for roughly 70% of the nations GDP. The set-up of the special economic zones, encouragement of foreign investment, and stepped-up emphasis on exports are all forces fueling China’s supposedly socialist-style planned economy. This formerly isolated nation with an undeveloped economy has now become one of the key players in the global economy, intertwined so inextricably with the world economy that the recent financial crisis that originated in the U.S. is being felt deeply here too.

This occasion was certainly not one for focusing on the downsides of economic globalization though. All 100% positive, insert propaganda as needed and edit out the negative. In spite of the program’s overly upbeat dramatic sensational tone, or perhaps because of it, there was a palpable sense of restlessness in the audience. Many members of the crowd sitting around Ruri and me, all Chinese and mostly old enough to remember pre-reform China, seemed reluctant to sit through the concert, so there was a continual stream of people going and coming. Before the rousing song towards the tail end of the program singing the Party’s praises, around a third of the spectators were already out of their seats making their getaways. There seemed to be an unspoken attitude among the audience, “Yeah, 30 years, big deal. I’ve seen countless programs like this before. For all these reforms, its still the same old story.”

I, on the other hand, the one apparent non-Asian in the crowd and probably one of the few who had never seen such a spectacular sensational program being filmed for live TV broadcast, was impressed. In terms of the tides of time and the lifespan of countries, especially a country with a history as long and rich as that of China’s, 30 years is but the blink of an eye. In the blink of an eye, for a country to undergo a growth spurt and emerge almost unrecognizable: now that’s pretty incredible. Ruri and I remained in our seats until the end of the program, the only ones still sitting as the 100-member choir and the full orchestra belted out a song with a title that translates, “China, China, the Bright Red Sun Will Never Set on You,” as the audience around me became mobile and everyone else in the crowd was on their way to the exits.

Revolutionary reforms like those that have changed the face of China over the past 3 decades are often remarkable when viewed from afar: change is often astonishing from the outside looking in (as in the case of this silly foreigner hoping to get a grasp of Chinese culture). But for a person who lived through that change and (whether willingly or not) dedicated their sweat, blood and tears in its name, remarkable change can be converted into a mundane and unremarkable piece of the past.

Chinese Medicine, Up Close & Personal

Natural or artificial?
An art that’s been practiced and perfected for millennia
versus a system that just emerged in the past couple centuries?
In sync with the body or working against it?

When it comes to methods of medical treatment, which would you trust? While Western medicine undoubtedly has its merits and has worked wonders, the concepts underlying Traditional Chinese Medicine holds more appeal for me. Chinese medicine has intrigued me all along, inspiring me to try acupuncture treatment on my incurable knees back in the U.S. after 3 orthopedic doctors in the Western tradition ran out of ideas for un-invasive cures. All along, since I arrived in China this past August, I’ve been interested to learn more. No opportunities arose. Until, rather unexpectedly, today.

It’s always slightly flustered me when I see a small cut or bruise somewhere on my body that I don’t remember cutting or bumping. So when two horrendously huge and uncomfortably itchy blisters appeared on my upper thigh for no apparent reason I can remember, I was more than slightly flustered. Rather flustered, you could say. And slightly concerned, too. It’s been over a month now since those two unsightly blisters appeared and they still haven’t gone away. In fact, they’ve long since popped and ripped off, leaving two even more unsightly sores in their place. It itched incredibly, but didn’t hurt, so I thought, “I’ll just wait it out until they heal…”

No such luck. Now, (not to alarm anyone) over a month later, one of the sores cracked open. Puss and pain ensued. “I guess it’s about time I mention this to my host family…” I thought. My host dad, who I casually asked for a Band-Aid, asked to have a look and seemed a bit alarmed and arranged to take me to the local public hospital the next day.

The Jiangsu Province Hospital for Chinese Medicine, conveniently located less than a kilometer from my current home, is a huge and happening facility that combines Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM) with ultra-modern technology (and, as far as I could tell, hygienic standards too). One of the best hospitals in the region, according to my host family. Xiao Kong, my host mom, and I set out together from our home and arrived within a few minutes. After pushing past a bustling crowd of people selling and buying refreshments outside, she and I entered.

Apart from the initial sensation of being impressed by how modern the facility looked, the first thing that made me take notice was the smell. Not unpleasant. But not exactly pleasant either. Knowing that there are countless curious natural compounds used in the herbal component of TCM (extracted from anything from an array of plants to animals—or parts thereof—that would be considered rather disgusting in the West, such as seahorses, shark fins, bear bile, etc.), I figured the aroma must have been an amalgamation of their pungent smells.

I was so glad I had Xiao Kong to accompany me: if not, I’d never have been able to figure out which one of the multiple desks on the first floor at which to register, and I’d certainly would have had difficulties figuring out which one of the multiple departments on the upper floors was the one I needed to visit. Finding the small room that housed “General Surgery” (not what I thought the doctor would prescribe) wasn’t an easy task, even for a local like Xiao Kong.

Once we found the general General Surgery Department tucked away on the top floor, we were shuffled around from room to room seeing different doctors dressed in white and blue jackets, filling out different forms. Finally, all the preliminary business was out of the way, and Xiao Kong went to pay on my behalf (around $8 for an initial visit, a week’s-worth of treatments, and medicine to boot) while I waited in line to see what the doctor had in store for me and this welt on my leg.

People with injuries of various degrees of seriousness (from the invisible-under-clothes like mine to the glaringly obvious like a man missing the features on half of his face due to scars) waited together. It wasn’t the most courteous of lines: when queuing up in China, it does no good to wait your turn, or your turn will never come. No, like my grandmother taught me, you’ve got to elbow your way to the front of the line without thinking twice about manners. People were pushing through the door into the room where others were undressing to unveil their wounds and undergoing treatment.

After losing my spot in the manner-less line a few times, Xiao Kong returned and helped me be more aggressive: she’s about as polite and mild-mannered as me, but at least is used to how things are done in her country. Soon, it was my turn to sit in front of a doctor and her desk filled with shelves covered with mystery jars and tins and boxes. In order to see my wound, I had to pull my pants down, and in order to keep the line moving along, I had to do so quickly and in front of a dozen or so other people pushing to get a prime spot in line.

Compared to the man with a half-featureless face, the welt on my leg was nothing. A mere flesh wound, as the Pythons would say. And the doctor seemed to treat it as such. She took one look at the welt on my thigh and dived after it with a pair of tweezers. The hardened cap of flesh that formed over one of the former blisters was pulled off in a flash, but the other was a bit more stubborn. The doctor picked and pulled at that scab with no mercy for at least a couple minutes (which seemed significantly longer).

One last painful pluck of the tweezers and the scab was off. Blood and tears began to flow and I felt closer to fainting than I ever recall feeling in my life. But the worst was over with. In the blink of an eye (much faster than it took to pull off the scabs in the first place) nurses dressed my wounds with gauze, tape, and cotton balls soaked in yellow liquid. Before I knew it, I was limping down the stairs and back out onto the street, Xiao Kong a little indignant and apologetic that my first experience with Chinese medicine had to be so traumatic.

A Leap in Faith

December 16, 2008

Ever since my high school geography class with Mr. Sensibaugh introduced me to the basic concepts of Buddhism during our unit on world religions, I’ve been captivated. After that initial encounter, it seems the threads of Buddhism have become more and more intertwined with the tapestry, drawing me continually closer to this philosophy foreign to my ancestors. Between my life and Buddhism, the connections are countless and increasingly uncanny.

It all started in high school geography and, soon after, the ever-inspiring Buddhism 101 sessions given by the charismatic ministers of Chicago’s Midwest Buddhist Temple during their annual Japanese Ginza Festival. Not only was it the content of Buddhist philosophy that captured my interest: it was also the way it was presented. Never before had I heard a religious teacher say to me,

“What I’m explaining to you now is one path that one man many years ago found to help himself and others reach a higher state of being, to become a better person. In the thousands of years since Buddhism was founded in India in the 5th century BCE, many of people have followed the path laid out by Sakyamuni Buddha (recognized as the religion’s founder). I’m also following that path. But that’s not to say that you should, too. These ideas I’ve explained to you today: you can take them or leave them. You can pick up parts that you think might work best for you and try them on for size. You can accept them whole-heartedly or reject them entirely. It’s up to you.”

Every time I’ve heard Buddhist teachers speak since, their comments seem always to be prefaced with this same message of tolerance. What a pleasant contrast to the attitude of Christians in my community (some among them constantly trying to convert heathens like me)! By my high school years, I had been turned off to religion altogether. It was only after hearing those words that my own spiritual quest was sparked. Then, the perhaps less-enlightening but equally inspiring visits to just a few of Kyoto, Japan’s countless Buddhist temples, which struck me at the time as the most sacred, awe-inspiring, and exquisitely beautiful places I’d ever been.

The 3 months I spent traveling around North India with a group of other U.S. students via Global Learning Across Borders took me closer to Buddhism than I’d ever been before. At times, frankly, closer than I wanted to get. The week we spent doing a silent meditation retreat at a Buddhist retreat center in Bodhgaya (the very town where Sakyamuni Buddha is said to have attained enlightenment all those years ago, under the legendary Bodhi Tree) was intense enough. The death of a friend and fellow traveler that followed directly on the heels of the retreat took the intensity to a whole new level. As the remaining 11 students in our group plus our leaders attempted to cope and come to terms with such a traumatic incident, we were all brought closer to each other. And Buddhism, too, as the circumstances surrounding our friend’s passing couldn’t be separated from the Buddhist context in which it occurred.

The 2 months to follow was, for me, not only a physical journey that took me to the heights of the Himalayas and the dirty depths of Delhi, but also a spiritual journey of sorts. All along, my path was intertwined with Buddhism. And again, once I started school at Indiana University, my periodic participation in programs at a Buddhist center close to campus kept the connection alive.

Lately, here in Nanjing, I’ve been a “Buddhist” out of convenience. When my Chinese friends ask why I was a vegetarian back in the States for so many years, when they ask about the jade Buddha pendent perpetually hanging around my neck nowadays, I’ll explain it away by saying, “I’m Buddhist,” by way of avoiding the complicated explications that often ensue if I answer otherwise. Vegetarians are rather rare in China, unlike India. Historically, practically every person who decided go veg and forgo meat did so because of their Buddhist faith. (Note: while I’ve refrained from various forms of meat not any more in China, though, to avoid being a burden on my friends and host family).

I always feel guilty for saying so, since I’ve never reached the level of belief that makes it feel appropriate to begin calling myself a Buddhist. All these years, I’ve just been curious, fascinated. An enthusiastic student of the faith’s philosophy. But nothing more.

Until perhaps today.

On my way to meet my friend for lunch, I was walking along a side street that usually tends to be teeming with life. Today, that street was surprisingly deserted. It felt strange to have the street all to myself, as though this atypical street scene had been staged. Then, an imposing figure wearing monks’ robes turned a corner and started walking towards me. As our paths converged, the monk greeted me silently. I greeted him in return. He then reached into his monks’ bag at his side, pulled out something small and red and gold, and offered it to me with a smile. I accepted, grateful and slightly stunned. The monk continued on his way, soon turned a corner, and vanished once more. Again, I was the only sign of life left on the street.

It all seemed, and surely sounds, so bizarre, like some serendipitous scene out of a film. What was it that this mysterious monk offered me? After I snapped out of the surprise of the moment, I finally turned to examine it: a small red envelope, gilded in gold with an image of Guanyin, the Buddha of Compassion, on either side. Inside was a gold card with a similar but more intricate inscription. In China, they call her Guanyin. In Sanskrit, he’s known as Avalokiteshvara. In Tibetan, Chenrezig. Following that unexpected exchange ensued an inexplicable sensation: Guanyin (regardless of what you call her/him) is protecting me, watching over me somehow. The feelings and thoughts that ensued are perhaps too profound to be put into words.

As I continued walking, out of that weird warp in time and space that cleared a typically crowded street in the center of this city of over 7 million emerged and merged again with the flow of Nanjing’s masses, I saw, with a clarity I’ve never had before, the indescribable depth of the suffering surrounding me. Written in the lines of every face that passed me by, even behind the smiles and the sound of laughter, was the pain and sorrows inherent in everyday existence. But, at the same time, buried behind the smiles and the lines, lies the key to release, release from the suffering that ties us down. There is a sense of sight that surpasses what ordinary eyes can see. Once unlocked and awakened, it can clue us into the realization that, in the game of our earthly existence, the rules are just illusory as are the temporary gains and losses.

That small, simple gold-plated card carved with the image of Guanyin and the unexpected encounter with the monk who presented it to me provided a temporary key for me. I had a revelation of sorts right there on the street. I describe this key as gold, which makes it sound like something of significant monetary worth. In reality, such trinkets can be purchased for around a dollar at any temple in this country. But, as I found, this little talisman had great value, albeit not of the monetary kind.

For years a fan of The Simpsons, after having seen just about every episode made before I went off to college and didn’t make time to watch the show (or TV in general, for that matter) anymore, there is one scene that always sticks out as one of my favorites. Lisa (need I say my favorite character—those who know Lisa and me, see any similarities?) is the hero of this episode (and, if you ask me, the whole series!). After realizing, like I did at around her age, that Christianity has some aspects that under inspection make it a little hard to swallow, Lisa goes on a quest to find a form of spirituality that better suits her. Eventually, in an epiphany not unlike mine today, Lisa’s quest leads her to Buddhism.

“I’m a Buddhist,” she shouts at the top of her lungs, announcing her new faith to the world. “Hey, everybody, I’M A BUDDHIST!” Flanders, the Simpsons neighbor that takes Christianity to an extreme, hears these heathenous words and covers his sons’ ears. “Uh oh,” Flanders says with dread, “my Satan sense is tingling. Down to the root cellar, boys!” “Yay!” scream his sons, Rod and Tod, in unison.

My moment of realization didn’t make me shout out loud. I didn’t banish any good little Christian boys to any root cellars. Even if I had announced my new-found faith to the world, it’s probable that few people would understand. But that simple moment, that unexpected exchange between me and the mysterious monk that unlocked some insight that years of reading books on Buddhist philosophy had yet to lead me to. Now, I don’t feel so guilty anymore about telling people, “I’m a Buddhist.”

A Moment of Cultural-Identity Crisis

Dec. 15

I spent 6 months living in India.
For the past 4 months, I’ve been living in China.
Tonight, for the first time, those two worlds collided.
Now, I’m so culturally disoriented.

Last week, I made an excursion to Nanjing’s main mosque to join the city’s Muslims in celebrating Eid al-Adhr I figure, I’ve gotta get my winter holiday fix somehow, and Christmas isn’t looking promising (but rather even more nauseatingly commercial than its become in the states but with out that quintessential Christmas charm on the sidelines). So when a Uighur acquaintance mentioned this celebration at the mosque, I was determined to attend and see how Islam as it’s practiced here in China differs from what little I know of how it’s practiced elsewhere around the world.

Apart from the sacrifice of a giant ox, the thing that surprised me the most was the international nature of the crowd that gathered in the mosque that morning. Many worshippers were from Xinjiang in the country’s upper West corner. Also, making up the majority of the congregation, were many members of the Hui minority, one of China’s largest minorities and also one of the most spread out in terms of the area they populate; what ties this group together is not a common culture, language, or land, but rather Islam. But not only did the crowd include people from far-flung corners of China: after the prayer service finished and the ox had been sacrificed in commemoration of the Prophet Abraham’s noble spirit of sacrifice, I made a number of new acquaintances from around the globe, a diverse assortment of North Africans, Middle Easterners, and Europeans. Among them were Iranians, Algerians, Lebanese, Moroccans, French, and Yemenis.

Pakistanis, too. One of the people I met after the prayer service finished up was Mehdi, an international student from Pakistan studying mechanical engineering at one of the many schools here in Nanjing. For a brief spell before the bus left to take him and a crowd of other Pakistani students back to their campus, we enjoyed the atmosphere of Eid al-Adhr together and reminisced about some of the things we miss about South Asia. We both mentioned the food, of course, and when I asked whether there were any places to get authentic Indo-Pakistani food here in Nanjing, he answered, “Yes.” I was pleasantly surprised to learn that the Taj Mahal Restaurant near Xinjiekou, a commercial district within walking distance of my current home, exists. I was even more pleasantly surprised when Mehdi insisted that he’d take me for dinner there sometime. That sometime turned out to be tonight.

“Sister, Salaam Alaykum!” Mehdi’s text message the previous evening read. “If you are free, we’ll have dinner together tomorrow night at the Taj Mahal. Meet me in the Xinjiekou subway station at 7 o’clock sharp. Allah Hafiz, may Allah protect you.”

Even before the precise point of 7 PM, Mehdi and his friend Said (also Pakistani, but “His Auntie is living in Chicago,” Mehdi explained right away as a way of establishing a connection) had arrived in the station from their campus a good 30-40 minutes away. We greeted each other with warm greetings of “Salaam Alaykum” in the cool winter air (I won’t yet say cold: Nanjing winters are nothing compared to Chicago winters with biting winds, below zero temperatures, and several substantial dumps of lake effect snow per year), and continued on our merry way to the Taj Mahal. We strolled along the streets on the fringes of Xinjiekou, a commercial center in the city (and as such, sufficiently decked out for Christmas), and spoke of our studies and stories of being international students in Nanjing and more about what we miss about South Asia. Our mutual longing for South Asian food was about to be satisfied.

As we approached the Taj Mahal, I could smell the distinct spices of Indian cuisine before I spotted the restaurant itself. The delicious aroma intensified once we went inside, finding the atmosphere akin to that of an average Indian restaurant you’d find in the States. There must have been a significant proportion of the city’s Indian residents gathered inside, enjoying, like us, the food and surroundings of a part of Asia that on a map seems so relatively close but in every other regard seems so far. There were also a number of Chinese patrons, many of who seemed to be trying Indian food for the first time.

I left it up to Mehdi and Said to order, as they are true connoisseurs of the cuisine while I’m just an enthusiast. In the end, inadvertently, without ever having mentioned any preferences, off of an extremely extensive menu that must have had over 200 selections, they ordered 3 things that I myself would have ordered (saag paneer, chicken tikka, and garlic naan), plus a mutton curry, more of a Muslim favorite. Our server brought out a basket of sweetened popcorn with a selection of chutneys, the only significant difference I noticed between this place and an Indian restaurant in the U.S. or India, the only trace of Chinese flavor that seemed to infiltrate the doors of the Taj.

For the past many months, I’ve grown to love Chinese cuisine (just about as much as I love the flavors of Indian food, I thought) and have eaten it happily every day for every meal for the past 4 months, without once eating or even craving Western cuisine. But when the exquisite taste of saag paneer and Indian spices touched my tongue for the first time in too long, I was instantly transported back to India, my other Asian home away from home. Oh, India. A place, so I rediscovered tonight, equally close to my heart as China. And oh, Indian food. A heavenly combination of flavors even more attuned to my palette than Chinese food.

Indian tastes on my tongue, Hindi and Urdu (for the most part mutually comprehensible) being spoken around me, for the first time in months my 2 Asian homes intersected, tearing at my heart for the upper hand. My senses were inundated and overwhelmed. Taste (the food). Smell (the spices). Sight (the décor). Sound (the Bollywood music videos playing in the background and the smooth cadence of languages with contours far different from the tonal Chinese). Touch, too (it’s been so long since I’ve eaten with my hands, and the feel of a piece of nan in my fingers pocketing a dab of curry-and-spice-saturated sauces). All that plus a sort of sixth sense, a feeling of being at home, worked in tandem to transport me away from China and back to India for a brief evening.

After the amazing meal was finished, the uneaten food was wrapped up and taken to go (a pleasant contrast to the Chinese custom of ordering way too much food and letting everything left uneaten go to waste). While we were waiting for the check, Mehdi asked in passing,
“Now what is your father’s good name?”
“Phil, or Philip,” I replied.
“That’s not a Muslim name…” Mehdi exclaimed, seeming confused. “But, wait!”
“That’s because I’m not Muslim, Mehdi!” I said, starting to feel bad for inadvertently deceiving him.

After that realization, his tone took on a slight change, seeming disappointed that I wasn’t the good Muslim girl he’d somehow assumed me to be. “But I thought,” Mehdi went on, “since we met in the mosque that day, on Eid al-Adha, I thought you were a Muslim.”

“Mehdi, my friend,” I said apologetically, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but a blonde American Muslim is quite a rare find. No, I’m not Muslim. But I have many Muslim friends and have great respect for them and their religion.”

Soon after that awkward yet amusing exchange, the friendly feel of the evening’s conversation was for the most part restored. Still, I think we were both left a bit dumbfounded by the misunderstanding. Mehdi, Said, and I then stepped out of the little pocket of South Asian-ness and back onto the streets of Nanjing. Following farewells of “Allah Hafiz” (“May Allah protect you”), they stepped into a taxi that would take them back to their campus, leaving me to walk home alone. Leaving me overwhelmed by a sense of cultural disorientation.

My feet kicked into auto-pilot mode and took me home on their own accord, my mind detached and seeming to observe the scene from a distance. The street scene in Nanjing that night was a blur of bright colored lights blaring messages in Chinese characters, mixed with a swirl of Chinese faces and store fronts decorated for Christmas. It all felt so unreal, not just superficial but beyond, as if I was watching from afar or from a film. My mind, my spirit, remained suspended above it all, being stretched across all corners of the earth; first and foremost, my two Asian homes away from home. I drifted into sleep that night, my body in Nanjing, my heart stranded in some no-man’s land between China and India, the blanket of night sky a bridge between the two.

Nanjing Massacre Remembered

December 13, 2008

The final sessions of this semester’s classes all past. Exams over and done with. Final research paper submitted, program assessment surveys filled out and turned in, in sum all outstanding responsibilities to the CIEE program that I’ve studied with for the semester taken care of. School’s out for the winter! Today, as my first day of winter break, started off in a carefree way. Despite having no early classes to attend (no more Taichi at 6:30 AM or language lessons from 8 until noon), despite having no need to wake up early, true to my nature and my annoyingly persistent sleeping problem, I woke up with Ayi at the crack of dawn (it’s hard to sleep through the roar of the blender she uses to make a morning thermos full of warm soy milk for the family’s breakfast anyways).

As the family wouldn’t be at home for lunch (my host sister and her mother would be eating at Grandma & Grandpa’s, my host dad having an annual reunion lunch with some of his high school classmates), Ayi didn’t have to start preparing food between 9 and 10 AM as she typically does, so she decided she was going to use her rare afternoon off to get a haircut. “Xiao Laowai (“Little Foreigner,” as she often calls me; while it may sound a bit crude, I assure you it’s not, but a sign of affection if anything), do you want to go get your hair cut too?” Ayi asked, originally as a kind of joke. But I considered, I haven’t gotten my haircut in… perhaps a year. I had no other engagements that morning and had kind of been wanting to experience a haircut in China anyways (I’ve been intrigued all along by the proliferation of barber shops and beauty salons in this part of the city, many rather sizeable and fashionable establishments with bright lights and floor-to-ceiling windows that allow you to look in and see the customers’ new do’s in progress).

“OK, hao ba,” I replied, to Ayi’s surprise. “I could use a haircut too.” Ayi had a coupon from a relative with a recommendation to go with it, so as soon as the supposed opening time got close, we set out on our quest to get a haircut. Arrived at 9:30. “Not open yet. Come back at 10:30,” we were told. So we walked back home to set out again to arrive a bit before 10:30, to beat the crowd (Ayi’s adamant attitude about using this coupon to get her haircut, to arrive early to be first in line, reminded me quite a bit of my grandma…).

While we waited around at home for the appropriate hour, Ma Yujie and I sat drawing around the living room coffee table. Suddenly, sirens started sounding in the distance, their eerie wails echoing across the city on this otherwise unremarkable Saturday morning.

Then, I remembered the date. December 13. This day, and the blaring sirens, mark the 71st anniversary of the Nanjing Massacre, a horrific incident that continues to this day to haunt the collective memory of Nanjing citizens and make many of them still wary of Japanese. The sirens signified the start of the massacre at 10 AM 71 years ago this day on December 13th, 1937. But the horrors still went on for weeks, at the end claiming the lives of an estimated 300,000 Nanjing residents, making the massacre among the worst atrocities of World War II.

An unfathomable bloodbath that brought out the most despicable depths and the greatest virtues of humanity, that claimed an incomprehensible amount of human lives… how did it all start? In the early 20th century, after the fall of the Qing Dynasty and the abdication of the “Last Emperor” in 1911, China was left a country confused by rivaling factions vying to fill the power void and wounded by years of exploitation by those blasted foreign imperialists. Japan, at the time rising in political and economic power like the red sun that still occupies the center of the country’s flag, took advantage of the chaos in China and invaded.

The city of Nanjing played an important role in all of this: in 1928, the Chinese Nationalist government moved the capital from Beijing to Nanjing. At the time the move was made, 80 years ago, the city’s population was around 250,000 (roughly 1/30th that of today!). In the matter of a few years, once the mid-‘30s rolled around, the city’s population had swollen to over 1 million, many of whom were refugees fleeing from the invading Japanese armies. After a drawn-out military campaign that further harmed an already-hurting China, the Japanese took Shanghai on November 11 of 1937. Afterwards, they advanced towards Nanjing from different directions. By early December, the Japan’s troops already had the city surrounded.

On December 9th, a massive offensive began. After 3 days of fighting and heavy losses on the Chinese side, the defending Chinese army pulled out of the city and retreated to the far side of the Yangtze River. On the 13th, 71 years ago this day, once the Chinese army was out of the way, the massacre began. For the following 6 weeks, the occupying Japanese forces engaged in an orgy of raping and pillaging and mass execution that in the end claimed an estimated 300,000 lives and ruined far more.

So that, in brief, reducing 6 excruciating weeks of suffering to a few paragraphs painless to read, is the story of the Nanjing Massacre. The Rape of Nanking, it’s also called, after the title of a book recounting the atrocity in in-depth detail.

Sitting there on the floor beside my host family’s coffee table drawing a picture of a rose for my host sister when the sirens started blaring in the distance, struck me into somber silence the chilling pictures I’d seen during my recent visit to the Nanjing Massacre Museum flashed before my mind’s eye. The rest of the household took pause too, but only for a second (“Oh, that’s right, today’s the anniversary of the massacre,” my host parents commented nonchalantly), and then went back about their business. After several minutes more of continuing to color my rose with an unsettled heart while the sirens still sounded, the time came for Ayi and me to head out again for our haircut.

Out on the streets, the city seemed to mirror en masse the response I’d found at home. People chatted and smiled and laughed and went about their normal business as though they were deaf to the wail of the sirens. By now, I guess, after 71 years have passed and the people of Nanjing have gotten used to this annual memorial, that kind of reaction is understandable. But to this newcomer to Nanjing, the haunting song of the sirens was rather harrowing and struck me into silence while they echoed across the city for what seemed like at least an hour.

After that unsettling walk back to the hair salon, still no luck: we arrived to find the lights still off and the doors still locked. But there was someone home: a chubby man sprawled out on the waiting room couch covered by towels. Ayi, adamant about getting her haircut, knocked on the door, and woke him up. After being told that it would still be a good hour and a half before people proficient in cutting hair would—maybe—arrive, Ayi proceeded to wait two hours before finding out that her coupon had expired and giving up. I gave up much sooner and returned home to write.

A Taste of Two Chinas

Nov. 15, 2008

Until today, what I’ve tasted of the real China—not just sampling the tourist sites—has been more or less limited to city life. Nanjing city life to be specific. My time in China will soon hit the 3-month mark (hard to imagine!), and all this time I’ve been hearing that there is another side to China; that within the borders of this one unified country, there is not one China but two. Thus far, I haven’t gotten a chance to see that second side. Until today.

What do I mean by “Two Chinas?” Well, the borders of China encompass an estimated 1.33 billion people, making it the most populous nation on earth. As a whole, as a giant mass clumped together, that number—1.33 billion (or perhaps more)—is hard to fathom. But China—and the complex mosaic of the 1.33 billion individuals that make up the nation—can be better understood if taken on in more manageable chunks. That huge number can be further subdivided into countless categories, depending on what criteria you use to divvy things up: by dialect, regional variants Putong Hua (Standard Chinese) or separate languages altogether that can be so different as to make it difficult for neighbors living a block away to understand each other; by ethnic group, of which there are 55 main minorities plus the majority Han Chinese in addition to dozens of other groups; by income or economic standing.

One of the most often mentioned and perhaps most stark such division, however, is the line between urban and rural. Several people I’ve met in the past months—from economists to Chinese college students—all point to the gap between China’s cities and countryside as being almost a line separating two worlds: on the one hand, a world of relative affluence, modernization, and Westernization comprised of some 575 million Chinese that occupy the country’s expanding cities; on the other hand, a world virtually trapped in a more traditional time comprised of 755 million, mostly subsistence farmers, that survive on less than $37 per month.

$37 per month. My new job teaching English to Chinese kindergarteners earns me (well, I don’t really feel that I earn it) 200 RMB an hour, which translates to roughly $30/hour. I feel rather guilty about accepting this exorbitant wage, especially considering that I have absolutely no experience teaching children English while my wonderful Chinese tutor—who actually majors in teaching Chinese as a second language while also having quite a bit of tangible experience—earns about 1/8th of what I do. And I wasn’t even searching for a job. As with all my past jobs, a job came to find me. I don’t start until next Tuesday, but its already been confirmed: I can work for two hours and earn over 10 times as much as a typical family in this country’s rural areas earns in a month.

But by virtue of the fact that native speakers of English are in high demand (and a new boss that inexplicably has full faith in my teaching skills), I have this job in China with a salary higher than anything I’d expect back in the U.S. and can earn in an hour roughly 10 times what the average Chinese can earn over a month of hard labor. Back in the 1980’s, it wouldn’t be incorrect (though perhaps politically incorrect) to say that virtually every family was impoverished. With that in mind, in the span of less than 30 years since Chairman Mao’s strict communist economic policies gave way to Deng Xiaoping’s economic reforms, the economic situation of the average Chinese has improved by leaps and bounds. Out of an entire population of over 1 billion impoverished citizens, the majority of the 575 million Chinese that occupy the country’s cities, in addition to a few in the countryside too, are now relatively rather well off. That 500 million plus or minus can be considered not only the largest number but also the largest percentage of a population lifted out of poverty in such a short span of time.

Still, that doesn’t mean that the average salary in China has caught up with that of the U.S. Though China comes out second only to the U.S. by some methods of measuring world economies, China’s enormous population must be taken into account. China’s substantial GDP ($2.67 trillion in 2006), when looked at nominally as a lump sum, comes in 4th behind—can you guess which 3 countries?—the U.S. with a whopping $13.2 trillion (although, with the current economic tides, who knows how much longer that will last…), Japan with a respectable $4.34 trillion, and Germany in third with $2.9 trillion. When adjusted for Purchasing Power Parity, however (basically taking into account how far that much money can go, how much you can buy with the price levels in a given country), China can be seen as the world’s second wealthiest nation.

Why this discrepancy? Oftentimes, whichever figure is used depends on the spin an economist or government wants to put on the data. To me (a complete ignoramus when it comes to issues economic), both seem like valid measures. Just take this comparison: these days, with the relatively high cost of living in the U.S., earning $20,000 in a year puts a person perilously close to the poverty line. Here in China, however, $20,000 a year goes a long way. With that sum, a family can live rather comfortably with a car (even a chauffer!), plenty of means to spoil the family’s only child, and a housekeeper to clean and cook and make sure the household’s “Little Emperor” doesn’t get too out of hand.

If the GDP figures are adjusted yet again, this time taking population into account, China falls a bit behind. Per capita GDP even knocks the U.S. (with a per capita GDP of $44,190) out of first place, to be replaced by Norway. From a per capita perspective, China’s economy falls significantly behind most European countries—and weighs in at less than 5% of the U.S. figure—with a per capita GDP of $2001. Looked at through yet another economic lens, that of GDP growth, China pulls back up close to the top: in 2007, the U.S. recorded a rather stagnant rate of economic growth at 2.2%. Japan’s bubble economy burst long ago and last year only grew by 2%. The economies of Russia and India are both growing respectably, at the rapid rates of 7.6% and 8% respectively. What about China? Among the world’s large economies, China is leading the race with an 11.4% annual rate of growth. And that’s without oil reserves or any other significant repositories of resources.

Resources: that’s another economic factor that warrants consideration. Especially a certain resource, something on everyone’s minds these days, a three letter word that’s sure to be a hot topic of the 21st century: OIL. The U.S. is currently the world’s oil hog, guzzling down the incomprehensibly enormous volume of 20,800,000 million barrels per day (and that was back in ’05). The shocking and scary thing is that this number looks like it’s just gonna keep on growing: between 1992 and 2004, the country’s level of oil consumption rose by 22.2%! Lets see how long the country—and the world, for that matter—can sustain that extravagant rate of consumption. Though China’s economy is moving forward at a far faster pace, it is using substantially less fuel to do so: 6,700,000 barrels per day back in 2005. Over that same 12-year span, however, due to the breakneck speed of the country’s development, China’s oil consumption levels showed a horrific 152% growth. For the planet’s sake, I hope China’s doesn’t develop a U.S.-style addiction to oil anytime soon.

The U.S. economic system has recently developed an additional addiction that strengthens its ties to China: cheap labor. There are roughly 755 million people in this country hoping to break into the urban labor markets. The desperation of these rural dwellers and the disparity between their economic status and that of their urban counterparts means that there are a lot of people willing to work for what we in the U.S. would consider a pittance but is often sufficient to support a whole household in the countryside. The masterminds behind multinational corporations (or companies with hopes of taking operations abroad) and large manufacturing enterprises are not blind to this state of affairs and often not averse to taking advantage of it.

Apart from just cheap labor, there are a number of other factors enticing CEO’s to set up a branch in China: international companies can take advantage of the huge (and cheap, and efficient, and industrious, and well-educated) labor market and also sell to China’s huge consumer market while they’re at it. Furthermore, opening up operations here often means less strict regulations and more support from the government. Part of this government support includes an intricate physical infrastructure. During the past few decades, to encourage the country’s economic development, the Chinese government has basically taken the attitude, “build it and they will come”; in other words, use a little foresight to construct roads and airports and railroads and bridges before people will think of using them. Then, once people have reasons to use those routes, its there. This means of improving infrastructure wouldn’t work in just any country, however. It takes that special kind of socialist environment with a lack of regard for private property and political leaders that see no scruples in destroying a few (hundred thousand) homes and displacing a few (million) people in the process. Its rather convenient that no one officially owns anything: “It’s not your house, it’s the People’s house.”

One not so convenient aspect of the communist system here has been a lack of economic incentives, which leads to a rather inefficient production system. Privately owned companies are a relatively new phenomenon here in China: before era of economic reform started in 1978, all enterprises that existed in the country were State Owned Enterprises, or SOE’s. Take the First Auto Group as a classic example: with a population of 250,000 workers and dependents, the First Auto Group is, to this day, the biggest employer in Jilin Province. The company town—or city, more like—built up around the factory contains 23 schools, a hospital, and its own TV station. Job security and benefits are the priorities in a venture like this. Efficiency kind of falls by the wayside: the average employee of First Auto Group produces a whopping 2.5 cars per year (compare that to GM’s 20). Recently, a consulting firm suggested firing 7 in 10 employees to see if that improved the company’s productivity. The suggestion was shot down. Even though there would be no way for such an inefficient enterprise to stay afloat without government subsidies and support, such an SOE apparently can’t go back on its promise of security to its employees.

Though the “iron rice bowl,” a metaphor for the kind of job security that Chinese got accustomed to under Mao’s leadership, has shattered beyond repair, there’s not much more to lose but a lot to gain (from an economic standpoint at least) by following the current trend of privatization. With market forces at work, levels of productivity and profit have skyrocketed and led to an enormous increase in exports ($1.35 trillion in the past year and growing). Just visit any supermarket in the U.S. and you can see the evidence. 92% of Wal-Mart’s products are manufactured in China, after all (gag…).

The trends of privatization, increased production, increased trade: all are factors feeding the formidable machine that is China’s economy. And though is moving further and further away from a socialist-style planned economy, that doesn’t mean that its up to the “invisible hand” of market forces to pull the strings. China’s remarkable economic growth is certainly not due to some blind faith in capitalism. The government has been behind the screen pulling the strings all along. To pull off the kind of economic progress that China has experienced in the past few decades, a government as to do so many things right at the same time. In a sense, contemporary China is being run like a corporation.

Furthermore, many feel that today’s leadership is ideal for the economy. Actually, a recent poll (and this one conducted by a private U.S. polling firm, so its not just some party propaganda) shows that China’s current President Hu Jintao has a 70% approval rating (compared with George W’s 30%, last time I checked). Why is a government that thinks it can get away with bulldozing peoples’ houses—or should I say The People’s houses—met with such favorable public opinion? It’s all about the economy. The recent regimes have been doing things right and, as I mentioned before, have lifted more people out of poverty in a shorter span of time than any other instance in history. The economy here is blossoming. Within days of my arrival in China three months ago, I could feel it. Just biking a few blocks on my way to school, the energy of the expanding economy is tangible.

So how does this fit into the global picture? Well, considering the size of China’s population (and now the size of its economy and the volume of its exports, too) the impact on the world scene is huge. Just one piece of the puzzle: the U.S.’s trade deficit with China has recently reached $201.5 million! In today’s interconnected world, however, economic impact is a two—or multi—way street. Which means that the economic crisis the U.S. is currently suffering through can be felt all the way here in China. While on the one hand China’s economic development is truly tangible, the current global economic crisis is also tangible.

The crunch of the economic crisis was tangible today when I accompanied a Nanjing U student friend of mine on his weekend business excursion and a simultaneous tour of the countryside surrounding Nanjing. To help pay his way through college, Dengfeng works weekends as an itinerant salesman of household appliances. Every weekend, and this one was no different, he makes the rounds to a long list of shops selling his company’s (Haier’s) washing machines, microwaves, stoves, etc. in the city of Zhenjiang and the surrounding area. We set of early in the morning in a company car with a professional driver, stopping at shop after shop to sip tea while Dengfeng talked business with his clients. Without exception, every single one of his clients, the owners of the dozen or so shops we visited that day, complained that business has been unusually bad lately. People just aren’t buying household appliances these days in the way they were in the era before the recent economic crisis. All of the shop owners traced effects back to the U.S. economic crisis. It’s a flat world after all.

King of Masks, Live!

After our stomachs were filled and our sinuses sufficiently cleared, all interested students had the option of attending a performance of Sichuan Opera and folk arts. Of course I was interested: I’d heard that one of the skills unique to Sichuan Opera is 变脸 (“bian lian” or “changing faces”). Ever since seeing the Chinese film (under the English name “King of Masks”) years ago, I’ve been captivated. Bian lian is a performance art form that mixes drama with slight of hand. Masters of this art form can, up on stage, before the eyes of an attentive audience and in the blink of an eye, change their appearance entirely by changing masks—and even clothes—of different color and style.

But first, some opening acts to warm up the audience. Before the fantastic grand finale of bian lian, the Sichuan folk arts extravaganza also encompassed a huge variety of other performance art forms, all put together in a dramatic spectacular package with the express purpose of wowing tourists. The folk arts aspect I enjoyed and appreciated. The tourist-attracting spectacle… a little over the top. For the opening number, a full orchestra of the sort that would traditionally accompany Sichuan Opera played a piece of music full of clanging gongs and cymbals, shrill bells and whistles and brass. I enjoyed the sound, but saw that other audience members (mostly elderly European tourists) seemed to be sitting through it so they could say they had an “authentic” Chinese experience.

All the orchestra members then walked off stage, leaving behind one incredible erhu maestro. Whether or not you like the sound of erhu (Chinese 2-stringed spike fiddle), you surely couldn’t help but be bowled over by the guy’s skill. He played along the accompaniment of, alas, not a live orchestra, not even a recording of a live orchestra (both of which it seems would have been feasible) but a recording of the most cheesy-sounding electronic music played so loud that it drowned out the sweet sound of his instrument. I tried just to zoom in on the sound of his playing and the sight of his skilled fingers flying across the strings of his instrument while ignoring the painful noise in the background.

The erhu act was followed by a puppet show of sorts that, unlike Western-style puppetry where part of the point is that the puppeteer remains hidden, the puppeteer pranced around on stage right along with his puppet. Like the intimate interactions of two skilled dancers, the puppeteer’s actions and his puppet’s flowed in sync, puppeteer masterfully manipulating the multiple joints of his puppet (attached to iron rods) so well I was convinced the guy must have had some extra arms hidden somewhere. After that, another puppet-related act: hand puppets. One man standing behind a screen used only his two hands to come up with a greater variety of animals and scenes than I thought two hands with light and shadow could create: he started the standard dog, then a rabbit… that then proceeded to be eaten by the dog and coughed back up again (rather convincingly, believe it or not), an owl, an eagle, a graceful galloping horse. All quite impressive. But the best was saved for last: bian lian, the final act.

The spectacle was even more incredible in real time than it was on a TV screen. The performance we saw was designed to shock and awe, and, to me, it succeeded. A troupe of performers paraded around upon the stage and, in the dramatic flash of a flag across a face, a red monkey mask appears in the place of what was just a purple face. The bian lian masters pulled off this feat again and again, each time more dramatic and spectacular, each time adding to my perplexity, as they never gave away any hints as to the secret of their art.

I’d already gotten the impression from the movie (please see it if you get a chance: it’s one of my all-time favorite Chinese films, hands down making it into my top 3) that the secrets of the trade are strictly guarded: Tang Laoshi mentioned that, last year, she tried to arrange for CIEE students to have an introductory class on the art form with this troupe and they automatically refused outright. Their response: “Bian lian is a secret performance technique that has been guarded for centuries! You think we’re about to give it a way to a group of lao wai?” Fair enough. I guess the mystery of it all enhanced the spectacle. For a fantastic finale, a few of the performers took the wow-factor up a few notches: a piece if fabric would flash in front of their body for a split second and be pulled away to reveal an outfit and mask of an entirely different color and design. I was left sufficiently wide-eye and slack-jawed. And for those of you who know about my mask obsession, that just added to the attraction. My childhood dream to run away and join the circus was once again awakened.

"Death in a Bowl:" Sichuan Hot Pot

While the diet of the Giant Panda of Sichuan is bland and rather restricted due to the pressures of its unique habitat, thankfully, the diet of the people of Chengdu is a different story. We had a chance to simple a small sample of its diversity and spiciness during lunch before our visit to the panda reserve. Dinner kicked the spice level up a notch further. My friend Sarah lamented afterwards that after a lunch that left her tongue on fire, she didn’t think things could get any worse. But then, at the Huo Guo or Hot Pot restaurant we went to for dinner, the servers brought out what Sarah said looked to her like “death in a bowl” (“death” being a broth that was basically concentrated essence of chili peppers), placed it in the center of the table, and lit the burner beneath to bring the contents of the “bowl of death” to a boil.

How does huo guo work? Once the soup in the center of the table came to a boil (which happened quite quickly), our servers started setting plate upon plate of raw ingredients around the hot pot. Every inch of free space on our table was soon filled up. First came raw mutton and various grades of beef, then (more to my liking) fresh squid and slices of a huge variety of vegetables and soon some tofu and noodles as well. There seemed to be two basic ways to work the pot:

1) Once a plate of food arrives, automatically dump its contents directly into the boiling broth (making sure to distribute things equitable between the safety zone soup in the center) and then, after giving it time to cook properly, diving after a piece with a pair of chopsticks. The problem with this method: the broth, being so thick and a blanket of bobbing chili peppers obstructing our view, made it impossible to tell what morsels were lurking beneath the boiling surface, resulting in food remaining un-retrieved for so long that it would overcook.

2) A free-for-all: each pair of chopsticks for themselves. This is what our table soon resorted to and it served us well. Those of us whose chopsticks dared to dive into the “bowl of death” ate well but were soon sporting red faces and runny noses from the extreme spice. After these two meals, a few of my classmates (Sarah among them) didn’t dare go near any pepper for the rest of the trip and, at times, had to resort to eating rice (some Sichuan restaurants didn’t have much of a selection of safe, non-spicy choices).

中国少数民族识别：another recent Chinese composition I'm pleased with

我刚刚开始研究中国少数民族的时候，我还记得有一次听到我的中国叔叔跟朋友聊天时开玩笑地说，“中央最近确认了一个新的民族成份。这种民族世界上只有一个人，那就是我。我就是中国的第五十七个民族。”我听到这句话，就吃了一惊：在美国，人们大概不会这么随便地谈论种族和民族识别。在跟我叔叔，我的中国朋友以及同学随便地聊天中，一提到中国少数民族，他们的态度就往往给我留下这样的感觉。

按照我的了解，这种对于民族识别比较轻松的态度可能跟中国民族识别的状况有关：中国民族识别的问题表面上很肯定和确切的。不过实际上，自古以来在中国人民的思想里，民族的区分其实很难说。56个民族，现在看起来很确定的数字，其实不是国家一下子就决定的。民族学虽是科学，但是并不是像数学那么精确，还包括学者主观的看法。我有不少的中国朋友告诉我虽然许多人都接受，像中央说的，中国共有56个民族，但是他们还认为数量更多。我有两位朋友（一位汉人，一位藏民）都说中国肯定有最起码一千多个民族。

新中国成立之前，在中国这个多民族的社会中，少数民族确切的数字究竟有多少很难说。古往今来中国历史上，随着民族之间的文化，经济，政治交流，以及边界变幻的过程，民族的特征也一直在演变。旧中国，没有像现在的政策下这么确定的成份。到1983年为止，才有现代中国的55个少数民族成份。共产党统一国家以后，民族识别的重要性和必要性开始引起政府的注意。民族识别这项重大的任务原因主要是为了更好地贯彻执行民族区域自治制度，另一方面是为了保障所有国民的平等权利。因此从1950年起，在地方民族事务机关的配合下，中国的民族识别工作就开始了。这项工作共经历了三个阶段，包括四个特征。

一开始，根据1953年第一次全国人口普查，有400多个民族被提出进行识别。从这个初步估计400个民族中，只有56个（比本来的数字少三倍）最后被选择。凭什么只有这56个民族？从五十年代初开始到七十年代末，民族识别工作经过三十多年，三个阶段，以及科学家的再三考虑和研究。自始至终，有一位哲学家的思想指引这项工作的方向，他就是斯大林。按照斯大林《马克思主义和民族问题》提出的观念和他在苏维埃社会主义共和国联盟发动的民族识别工作的榜样，中国科学家选择四个基本特征来区分中国的民族成份。这四个主要的特征是：共同语言（中国56个民族之中，只有20个有自己的语言文字），共同地域，共同经济生活（这三个都比较精确），以及共同的文化特点与心理素质。

按照我的分析，之所以大多民族成份不太精确是因为这最后第四个特征的主观性。就拿回族来说：他们没有统一的语言，没有共同的地域，而且有的回族认为自己是其他的一个民族。但在回族共同的文化宗教来看，这个多样性的民族还被认为是一个民族。民族识别这项工作虽然一开始有不少的争议，但是到现在56这个数字越来越容易受到国民的接受。民族识别一方面有助于达到中央本来的目标（保障所有国民的平等权利，更好地贯彻执行民族区域自治制度），另一方面也带来了一点麻烦。民族识别提高了各个民族对他自己的民族的骄傲，像英帝国的经历一样，所以也引起民族之间的冲突和偏见。

The Giant Panda: could become creationists best argument against evolution

That light and flavorful first taste of Chengdu was followed by a taste less light but flavorful to the extreme: Sichuan cuisine. Throughout China and even beyond its borders, Sichuan is known for its especially spicy food. For a lover of the spicy food like me, Sichuan is a culinary paradise. For a person who can’t handle a speck of spice, like my friend Sarah, Sichuan food is like the fiery pits of hell manifest on earth and concentrated into a the contents of a single plate. Alas, sorry Sarah! It’s hard for me to imagine not being able to enjoy the spices of life. After enjoying the subtle tastes of subtle teas at the temple, our group piled back onto our bus and soon arrived at an authentic Sichuan restaurant. There, as plate after plate saturated with the spice and filled with chilies was placed upon the lazy Susan at the center of our table until it (and our stomachs) could hold no more, we took the level of our taste-testing intensity up a good several notches. All varieties of vegetable and meat, prepared with no lack of flavor and plenty of peppers. That meal, to me, was paradise on a collection of plates.

Sichuan is not only a paradise for fans of fiery food, but also a paradise for panda lovers: 80% of the world’s panda population calls Sichuan home. Though the recent Sichuan earthquake made our group’s original plans to visit the Wolong Nature Reserve (a protected panda habitat) impossible, no visit to Chengdu is complete without a Giant Panda sighting, so we paid a visit to the Chengdu Giant Panda Breeding and Research Center on the outskirts of the city. One of Chengdu’s main attractions, the center attracts visitors and researchers alike from all over the world. After all, as their website says, “The giant panda is beloved by people from all over the world. All local and foreign visitors enjoy the beauty of giant pandas.” Yeah, the panda propaganda doesn’t lie: I too could not resist the charms of the pandas. They are just too ridiculously cute. Though the efforts expended by the researchers and personnel at this center at times may seem a little over the top—after my visit there, I’m convinced that no single species in the whole world has more people working or money spent on behalf of promoting their survival—just one look at a panda’s adorable face and it all seems worthwhile.

The mission of the research center we visited is to increase the amount and viability of the dwindling panda population with the hope of eventually finding a way of releasing animals bred in captivity into the wild. As a step towards that goal, the habitats housing the pandas in this huge facility are designed to make the pandas feel at home in captivity, each enclosure supposedly mimicking the Giant Panda’s natural environment as closely as possible (right down to the wooden jungle gym-like structures that took up most of the enclosures, apparently, as well as the bountiful bundles of bamboo that are plopped in front of the pandas at every schedule feeding time).

While strategically located a mere 10 km. away from Chengdu’s city center in order to provide a place where tourists can view China’s famous Giant Panda at their convenience, the center isn’t exactly strategically located in terms of caring for the pandas that live there: as approximately 99% of the Giant Pandas’ diet is comprised of bamboo—not just any ordinary bamboo but a few certain species of bamboo that only grows above a certain elevation in the mountainous regions of Sichuan and the surrounding areas. The slight catch is that the center itself is located below that elevation in an area where the bamboo pandas eat just doesn’t grow. So every day, personnel from the center collect the bamboo fresh from a higher elevation area and transport it down into the valley to feed to the center’s pandas by the truckload. Due to the low nutritional value of bamboo and the large size of the panda, it takes quite a bundle of bamboo to keep the panda up and running: the panda spends the bulk of its waking hours (11-14 hours a day) eating. The average panda eats an average of 25-40 pounds of bamboo per day. But the Giant Panda wasn’t always a vegetarian, apparently. The panda, like other bears, has the digestive system of a carnivore. At some point along the process of evolution, however, the panda switched to a vegetarian diet (I can’t say I blame them!).

Considering that the Giant Panda’s diet is so limited—almost exclusively restricted to one type of plant with a very limited growing range—its easier to understand why the panda as a species is dangerously close to extinction: any threat to their fragile environment is a threat to the pandas that live there. Under the pressures of human development that continued relatively unchecked for years, the panda population has dwindled to a mere estimated 1590 plus 250 in captivity. Its not just humans that can pose a threat to the Giant Panda’s fragile environment: natural disasters, like the recent devastating Sichuan earthquake, can also put the panda’s home in peril: according to some reports, roughly 80% of the panda’s habitat suffered some degree of damage from the quake. A number of pandas died in the aftermath, subtracting further from their already low number. The harsh realities of an at-risk environment holds true even for pandas in captivity: after the May 12 quake, the Chengdu Research Center’s pandas were forced to ho on a diet, as the environmental damage wrought by the disaster caused a food shortage for pandas wild and pampered alike.

But a dwindling natural habitat and food supply is just one of an array of reasons that the Giant Panda is on the endangered species list. A significant compounding factor is the panda’s stagnant rate of reproduction: the panda is an animal with a notoriously low libido. In an effort to get the sex-shy panda to mate, researchers have resorted to what news reports about this strange phenomenon have called “panda porn”: showing recordings of mating pandas to males that seem otherwise uninterested in sex to help them get “in the mood.” In combination with a number of “sexercises” (including one that involves dangling an apple above a panda to encourage it to stand on its hind legs and thus workout muscles key to sex but otherwise seldom used muscles that are nonetheless key to reproduction), the technique is supposedly working: after implementing Operation Panda Porn at the Chengdu Research Center in 2006, the number of newborns jumped up to 31 cubs from a mere 9 the previous year.

Still, combined with the fact that practically every trait the Giant Panda possesses just seems so against the laws of evolutionary theory—the panda’s clumsy cuteness, bizarrely designed body, habits tailored to a small and shrinking habitat, strictly limited diet, seeming reluctance to reproduce, the helplessness of its offspring upon birth (a baby panda comes out of the oven at 1/900th’s the size of its mother!), and I’m sure there are more traits that would fit the bill, too—it seems that the panda as a species has a death wish. Despite the fact that they have more government support and a larger team of scientists and researchers working on their behalf than any other animal I know of, the panda still doesn’t seem very interested in cooperating in the fight for its survival.

So why is the scientific community, the Chinese government, and the world at large coming together to help this admittedly pretty pathetic creature we know as the Giant Panda? My answer: because it’s so darn cute! Watching the pandas play and eat and snooze in their enclosure at the center made me a convert to their cause. With a higher cuteness factor than any other animal I’ve ever laid my eyes on, even though they seemed pretty clumsy and lazy and slouched as they sat and scarfed down their bamboo, the panda is irresistibly cute. That seems to be the only evolutionary factor working in its favor.

Chengdu: My Cup(s) of Tea

In 2002 (shortly before I started considering the question of were to apply for college), Indiana University—my state school and now current home campus—was awarded the coveted-by-some dreaded-by-university-officials ranking of #1 top party school in the nation by Princeton Review.

The southwestern Chinese city of Chengdu, where I now find myself in the midst of a whirlwind of travel / sightseeing / study with my CIEE study abroad group, has a similar reputation. As I was researching this city’s history, culture, and contemporary status in preparation for my current visit, I found that the LA Times in a fun article titled “People’s Party Animals” (http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/columnone/la-fi-chinaparty8feb08,1,7457737.story?coll=la-headlines-columnone) dubbed Chengdu “China’s Party City.”

So why did this similar news about IU turn me off at the time to applying there, while in regards to Chendu acting as a further attraction? Well, I’ve never been much of a party girl in the U.S. college kid relieve-the-stress-of-study-by-getting-smashed kind of sense. But the people of Chengdu have a bit broader sense of what it means to party While higher-than-average number of bars was a significant factor in earning Chengdu its title (with half of Shanghai’s population—Chengdu is home to roughly 10 million people and 3000 pubs and karaoke bars—, has more such establishments than Shanghai, a city renowned for its indulgence in leisure), Chengdu’s bars, still seen as a Western import, are still far outnumbered by the more traditional-style teahouse.

With roughly 4000 teahouses scattered throughout the city, you can find one on virtually every corner. Here, Chengdu’s residents gather—and often linger for hours or even an entire day—to enjoy a cup of tea, chat with friends, and play an assortment of games from cards to mahjong to Chinese chess. The passion that the people of Chengdu have for having fun and playing games isn’t limited to the teahouses: on the streets everywhere, you can see people with their personal portable game boards spread out on any available surface.

One of my first tastes of Chengdu was a cup of exquisite Pu’er tea at one of the city’s many teahouses. Considering that over the centuries the people of Chengdu have turned the teahouse and the beverage that it revolves around into a complex culture of its own, its not surprising that there are many different kinds that cater to different tastes, purposes, and budgets. The teahouse we went to was part of the ____ Buddhist Temple: before tea made its way into mass culture, it was refined to perfection as part of Chinese Buddhist practice. Like the tea ceremony of Japan, drinking tea was turned into an art, an intricate series of motions that became a means of meditation. The tea ceremony we saw was just that sort: two monks of the ____ Temple—in a rather touristy setting albeit, with a woman holding a microphone doing a play-by-play in Chinese—performed step by step the ceremonies that have been kept alive by monks in this temple and others like it around China. The monks’ motions were made in sync to mellow mood music, which, like the tea we sat sipping and our surroundings, had a distinctly Chinese traditional flavor.

In China in general and Chengdu in particular, tea has been turned into an art. Different types of tea have different methods of preparation, I discovered, developed over the centuries in temples like this and in the homes of the imperial elite. Pu’er tea is prepared differently than oolong, oolong differently than green tea, the method of preparation designed to suit a certain tea and optimize its taste and smell and the overall experience. As it became clear here in Chengdu, there’s not just one generic type of green tea or pu’er or oolong but dozens. The tea ceremonies we saw allowed us to sample just four varie-teas. The first was Pu’er, an unfermented but usually aged (among tea connoisseurs, the older, the better, the more such people are willing to pay, regardless of the taste) type of tea that was prepared by two monks in saffron robes with faces as serene as an undisturbed pond and hand movements as intricate and graceful as the flitting of small birds. The second tea we tasted was a sort of oolong prepared by a lovely young woman with movements even more graceful. The monks in their saffron robes then returned, the tea this time a type of green tea with a flavor and preparation more reminiscent to Japan’s tea ceremony, using a bamboo whisk.

Though by that point we were all filled with caffeine, the atmosphere of the temple and the serene demeanor of the monks brought a feeling of peacefulness. The last—but not least—tea we drank at the temple that day was served in a way that certainly livened things up. Two young students of martial arts bounded onto the stage bearing teapots with spouts a good 3 feet long. They literally bent over backwards to pour a cup of tea. The contortions they went through in the process of pouring tea were quite impressive, shock-and-awe factor increasing with each successive cup. It was martial arts and acrobatics and tea ceremony all mixed into 5 minutes of amazing-ness.

Now for tea to have reached such a legendary status, it surely must have some legendary beginnings. And indeed that is the case: the power of tea was first unlocked in ancient China roughly 5,000 years ago. Shen Nong, an early emperor whose actual existence is mixed with legend, was, in addition to being a skilled ruler, also a self-studied scientist of sorts. His far-sighted edicts required, among other things, that all drinking water be boiled as a hygienic precaution. One summer day while visiting a distant region of his realm, he and the court stopped to rest. In accordance with his ruling, Emperor Shen Nong’s servants began to boil water for the court to drink. Dried leaves from the nearby bush blew into the boiling water, creating what was perhaps the world’s first cup of tea. His scientist side taking over, the Emperor was fascinated by this unfamiliar liquid, took a sip, and found it quite refreshing. So the story goes, at least. Though the true story of the world’s first cup of tea is lost to the tides of history, that version to me sounds plausible enough. Since then, tea has made its way into all corners of the world and permeated countless aspects of Chinese culture.

Adventures in Inner Mongolia: one of my first decent compositions in Chinese, for those of you who can read it

考虑到内蒙古的土地那么大，人口那么少，那里的名胜古迹和天然风景区比较寥落，所以去内蒙古旅游十天那么短时间非得花很多时间坐交通工具不可（我的旅有是坐火車，大巴和吉普車。古代的時候，一般是马或著骆驼。) 我在内蒙古的旅游也是那样，但是四次坐车坐半天肯定很值得。坐车那么长时间，旅游团的领队一直忙着放电影或著給我们看相声，听音乐等。我们的旅游结束之前，有几部电影看过两次，每首歌听过好几次。有一首歌，歌词唱道，“我心爱的草原在哪里？”我这次去内蒙古以后，还不能用自己的经历确定地回答，因为我们去的地方不是内蒙古的草原的地，反而是内蒙古最西部的部分。

西部没有蒙古族其他住的地区那么有名的草原，其实比草原还干燥。我们去了一些很有独特的地方，例如额济纳，阿拉善高原，巴丹吉林沙漠，胡杨林，黑城，怪树林，等。最后那一天我们从甘肃的兰州坐火车回南京来。那些地方都很干，不过除了巴丹吉林沙漠以外都有植物，从小小的到很大叶子开始变成黄色的树。再说，虽然土地那么干，风景还出人意外地有多次变化。风景的界标少倒是少，不过对我来说看风景比看功夫电影有意思。一会儿有记漂亮的叶子黄色的树林，一会儿有怪树林的真的奇怪的形状和影子，一会儿有平平的土地，一会儿有不平地形，一会儿有沙漠中美不胜收的沙丘。

如果这一次去内蒙古是由我自己安排的，我旅游的经历肯定会很不同。一来我大概没有机会去看那么多有特色值得一看的地方。二来，因为我跟中国人一起去的，这一次旅游的心情，人情，习惯也跟我以前旅游的经历有点不同。例如，当我们美国人去旅游看天然风景区的时候，一般的时一个人或者几个关系比较密切的人最远的地方，要独自的跟自然界在一起。像我们刚学完的第二课的文章，西方人普遍看重的是自我独立和个人主义，中国社会讲究人缘跟合作。因此我们参加这个去内蒙古的旅游团的人任何事都一起做，包括做饭（好多顿饭我们吃的是方便面），搭帐篷，或者收拾行李，洗脸刷牙。我们团一共有二十八个人。除了我以外，都是中国人。我真感谢大家都很友善地，很谅解地接受我，赵瑛我，每天一天到晚跟他们在一起交流，说汉语，我肯定体验得很多，我的中文水平肯定进步得不少。我跟他们在一起玩得很愉快。下次有机会，真想要回内蒙古去。要是需要选择，要想这次跟大的旅游团在一起去旅游或者想美国人的习惯一个人去旅游，我大概会选择向这一次比较中国的经验。

My Modern Day 西游记 ("Journey West")

China is a HUGE country. Look at a map of the world and that much is apparent. It’s also huge in terms of population: now having surpassed the 1 billion mark, China is second only to India in the list of the worlds most populated countries. But then take into account population density statistics: the bulk of China’s population is concentrated along the country’s East and South, particularly in the several already bursting at the seams and continually expanding big cities along the Eastern coast. Take Nanjing; although, with a population of roughly 7 million (roughly 3 times the population of my sweet home Chicago, considered a big city by U.S. standards), I’ve heard several Chinese friends say its not typically included in the ranks of China’s 大城市 or “big cities.”

While China’s Eastern edge teems with people, what about the West? The North? There you can find the Xinziang, Xizang (Tibet), and Nei Mungu (Inner Mongolia) “Autonomous Regions,” taking up the bulk of the land we know as China but certainly not home to the bulk of the population. Even with the influx of Han Chinese from further East into these less-populated, less-developed regions, the population density is still a small fraction of the figure found further west. I get the impression that most Chinese think of these areas perhaps as most Americans though of the “Wild West” a century ago. Few people have been, many are attracted, the rough living conditions turn many away, but the impulse to idealize this vast, peripheral, largely undeveloped territory remains. It is the source of numerous songs romanticizing the 草原 and 雪山 (“grasslands” and “snowy mountains”).

Because in Western and Northern China land isn’t lacking but people are sparse, if you want to travel around that part of the country, you have to spend quite a bit of time being transported from one place to another. In the olden days—from the days before the Silk Road up to the 20th century—the main means of transport included foot, horse, and camel. Today, there are trains and planes to take you there and buses, trucks, and SUVs to get around once you arrive. During my recent trip to Inner Mongolia, the better part of 4 out of 9 days of travel were spend sitting on trains (2 days: one ride 30 hours, the other 22+!) or buses (2 8-hour + rides plus many shorter legs of the journey). But the beauty and uniqueness of the places that all of that patient sitting on trains and buses afforded us made it all worthwhile.

(*Note: The title of this post contains 3 Chinese characters, 西游记, (pronounced "Xi You Ji" and can be translated "Journey to the West"), one of the most famous folktales in China and also one of my most favorite. It involves the adventures of the Monkey King and his companions Zhu Bajie (a pig) and a monk as they make an epic pilgrimage West to retrieve some precious Buddhist scriptures. Even though its not really West but actually more central verging on East, Inner Mongolia seems to be encompassed in the Chinese conception of Western China. I guess its kind of like Chicago is considered "Midwest" despite the fact that it falls in the Eastern half of the U.S. In both cases, I think that appellation has to do with historically how the land was settled mixed with a leftover notion of a "Wild West.")

(Note: This nowhere near all-encompassing narrative will be expanded upon at a later date. Sorry for the delay!)

Off to Inner Mongolia!

My age-old dilemma: would I rather spend my time...

~ doing things worth writing?

~ Or writing things worth reading?

It's hard to reach a happy medium.

Over the past two weeks, my life in Nanjing has been transformed from the life of a lonely liu xue sheng (foreign exchange student) with few Chinese friends to a life filled with invitations from my new Chinese friends to go out to eat, hang out, go to museums and performances, to sing KTV (the Chinese version of karaoke), etc. It's been a blast!!!

But now my other age-old dilemma:

~ Experience?

~ Or sleep?

Again, tough to strike a good balance.

Lately, I've been leaning towards the "doing things worth writing" and the "experience" end of things. Which explains why I haven't been updating my blog as regularly as ideally I'd like to. But I've put together a few new posts for the time being, and I promise there will be plenty more to come after I return from my 10-day excursion to Inner Mongolia.

I'll be taking off for the Nanjing Train Station in a matter of hours, with my hiking backpack (the only luggage receptacle I brought to China) packed with camping gear, for a trip to Inner Mongolia. Students in the CIEE study abroad program at Nanjing U get a 10-day vacation during Guo Qing Jie, or the National Day of the PRC, and I'm using that time to join my host dad and a group of 24 or so other participants for a camping trip in Inner Mongolia.

A bit about this Guo Qing Jie: the actual holiday falls every year on October 1st, the day the nation was founded back in 1949, but many people have a substantially longer holiday and use it to travel: from my understanding, Guo Qing Jie is the most popular time of year to travel here in the PRC. So the more touristy sites (Taishan, for example: the mountain I visited with my fellow CIEE students earlier this month) are typically overrun with tourists this time of year. But I think we'll be able to escape the crowds in the wilderness of Inner Mongolia.

Out there in the Mongolian caoyuan (grassy plains), while I'll escape the Guo Qing Jie influx of tourists, I'm also certain that I won't get any opportunities to update my blog. I hope these recent postings will tide you over until my return to Nanjing. Until then, take care & Guo Qing Jie kuai le (have a happy PRC national founding day)!

紫金山

I've always admired the time and skill—or the sheer impulse of nature—it takes to create an oasis of green, of fresh, of quiet and nature in the middle of an otherwise gray, drab and noisy city. In China’s particularly gray, drab, and noisy cities, the difference seems most striking. Upon setting foot in one of Nanjing’s many gong yuan (public parks), the environment is immediately transformed. City on the outside, peaceful park on the inside. In addition to having over a dozen public parks of varying sizes, Nanjing also has a sizeable mountain within the city limits (I’m sure it was on the outskirts until recently, but the expansion of the cities population and construction has consumed it whole). Zijin Shan (or “Purple-Gold Mountain) is a popular destination for tourists and Nanjing natives alike. In fact, a friend of my Shu Shu organizes a weekly hiking and camping outing on the mountain.

One weekend, I was invited to join the expedition. I packed my hiking backpack (the only luggage receptacle I’d brought with me to China) with a tent, sleeping pad and bag, some other useful camping supplies, and plenty of snacks. When my host dad packed his bag, the bulk in both space and weight was taken up by beer. The evening of the climb, after going out for a nice dinner with the whole family and my host aunt and niece (who’s family, coincidentally, is hosting another laowai or foreigner at their home. And not just any foreigner but a girl I went to high school and college with, and now we’re doing the CIEE study abroad together). We returned home to grab our bags—and of course can’t forget the stash of beer—and took a taxi to the trailhead that we would take up the mountain.

By the time the group of 25 gathered at the bottom and we started to hike to the top, it was already past 8:30 PM. After stumbling up endless by the light of the headlamps—and the mid-autumn moon that all of China would be celebrating that very weekend with Zhong Qiu Jie or the Mid-Autumn Moon Festival—we made it to the top, panting and drenched in sweat drawn out of us by the muggy air. After reaching the summit campsites, we wasted no time in setting up camp. And after setting up camp, we wasted no time setting up the elaborate feast we would enjoy on the mountaintop. We did a head count and a can count, and discovered that there were roughly 4 cans of beer per person, plus a few bottles of red wine for the ladies and bai jiu (traditionally China’s alcoholic beverage of choice, a strong foul-tasting clear liquor with the smell of rubbing alcohol) for the men.

I didn’t drink my fair share, I assure you, but couldn’t get out of drinking a couple cups of red wine. The customs surrounding drinking in this country are quite different from those in the U.S. The U.S., as far as I know, doesn’t really have many if any such customs, except for the occasional raising of a toast. In China, however, throughout a meal at which alcohol is served, usually the more respected, almost always male, members of the party, will frequently raise toasts to their guests and friends and families. They will drink a certain amount, and usually the other person is supposed to drain the same amount. Luckily, it seems OK for ladies to accept the sentiments of a toast but refuse to drink. But some times, you can’t get out of it.

From all I’ve seen so far, it seems the most popular recipients of toasts are the “meinu” or “beautiful ladies.” So in our hiking-camping party, the women that I sat with got toasted countless times. But because I had the added novelty of being a “Mei Guo meinu” or “beautiful American woman,” I can accurately claim that most of the toasts that night were in my honor, thankfully not always involving me to take a sip of Great Wall red wine in a flimsy plastic cup little bigger than a shot glass. Astonishingly, all of the cans of beer, the bottles of bai jiu and red wine, were drained by the end of the night. And only one guy in the group had noticeably too much. Everyone else—myself included—was left in still standing and in good spirits, and got to keep their suppers.

After the mountaintop meal and drinking party was finished, I hiked up the rest of the way to the actual summit with a small group of . There we sat to admire the nearly full moon that would occasionally peek out from the cloud-smog cover. Atop Zijin Shan, with two days to go until the Moon Festival, we enjoyed some moon cakes to complete an excellent meal and get an early start on the celebrations. And what celebration is complete without… more beer. Someone had apparently stashed some cans away just for this purpose. More toasts. To the moon. To the mountain. And, of course, to the “meinu.” We then hiked back to the campsite. Everyone crawled into their respective tents (it was around 3 AM by that point) and fell asleep.

We didn’t stay asleep for long. As happens early every morning in every park in the city, people—mostly the elderly—come to “duan lian shenti” or “work the body.” Zijin Shan, despite being a sizeable mountain, was not exempt. In fact, the added challenge of climbing the mountain seemed to draw larger numbers of early morning exercisers. A wide range of workout activities were practiced, from Tai Chi and other forms of martial art to dance and using the workout machines (which, when clustered together in the clearings scattered across the side of the mountain, looked like a bizarre, run-down playground). Also, large numbers of elderly men seemed to prefer exercising their voices. That entails hollering and grunting and doing something that sounds reminiscent of yodeling—all at maximum volume—while walking up the mountain. Mind you, this all starts at around 5:30 in the AM.

That unwelcome yet unique alarm clock was sufficient to wake up all of us in the camping group. Whether ready to wake up or not, we decided to start disassembling camp and heading down the mountain. We took a different and apparently more popular path on our way down, and the closer we got to the trailhead, the closer the crowds were packed together.

The previous evening, when we met to start our climb at 8:30 PM, I was wondering, ‘Why start so late in the evening?’ Now it made sense. The mountain is a popular destination for locals and tourists from other parts of the country alike. During the daylight hours, the trails are packed with people. We made our way with our bulky camping backpacks through the crowds, me as the only foreigner in the group attracting a lot of surprised stares. Once we made it to the bottom and out into the busy streets of the surrounding city, we hiked a little farther to find a spot for our breakfast. Our group leader ended up bringing us to his favorite baozi (steamed bun) spot, their specialty being tang bao or small flying saucer shaped baozi filled with a tasty broth or tang. After we ate our fill of tang bao, we stood out on the street to say our goodbyes and then went our separate ways, through the busy streets with bulky backpacks in tow.