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.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
"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).
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).
Monday, December 15, 2008
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。
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.
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.
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。
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。
Sunday, November 23, 2008
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!)
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!)
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