Wo Shi Frogger

Traffic here is … special. Crossing the street is like a study in attrition, where the goal is to get out far enough into the street so that the oncoming car is forced to go around your back (a nice way of saying ‘swerve.’) Adding to the fun is the four-lane road that we cross several times daily, because it runs along the campus, in between it and anything else. Nothing says “Good morning” like dodging cars at 7:30 in the morning.

A favorite game is trying to find the ‘Perfect Cross.’ A Perfect Cross is one where you walk straight across the road at a constant speed without having to change direction or stop to avoid certain death. A Poor Cross gets you a silver medal, while a Failure to Cross is considered losing, but at that point you should probably pay attention to what the doctor is asking you rather than bemoan your failure.

Car rides are entertaining, but mostly when viewed from an American perspective. The fun gets taken away when you begin to share the Chinese casual disregard for the lines of the road. White, yellow, they’re mostly just suggestions. So it is not uncommon to find yourself speeding down the road, looking straight at the front of another car, as the distance between you shrinks from ‘acceptable,’ where there is a lot of open space between you, to ‘curious and thought-provoking,’ typified by uncomfortable memories of that video that they show you in Driver’s Ed, to ‘distressing,’ where all rational thought is superceded by the instinctual repetition of unsavory words. Then you tuck into a space that magically appears beside you, or the oncoming car swerves a bit, and the danger passes – at least until your taxi driver decides that the car in front of him is going too slow.

I think that may be one of the things I like best in China. It is a believer in natural consequences. There are no fines for jaywalking, but the penalty for walking across the street without looking might be getting squished. At least for a foreigner, it feels like there are fewer restrictions, but there is also less of a buffer if something goes wrong. It seems somehow … right. The problem with civilization is that we civilize ourselves right out of the world. Consequence gives meaning, and so a world without consequence is a world without meaning. Or a world where money is the consequence is also a world where money is the meaning. China is an opportunity to get away from that, to step out – at least for a short time –from under the expectant burden of my own wealth and comfortable civilization and live a little more simply.

Thoughts From An Icebox

I hate being cold. I spent about 10 minutes thinking of a witty way to open this up, and decided that nothing could convey the depth and sincerity of my hatred of inadequate warmth. It’s almost primal in its simplicity. There is no room for equivocation, there is no rationalization or “finding the silver lining.” I hate the cold like the cavemen hated the T-Rex. It is a simple emotion, but very, very fervent.

It’s not that Chongqing is so very cold, but that it is completely cold. There are many places much colder than here, but I think that most of those places either have heaters, or a distinct lack of life. Nothing is heated here, and so I spend my days bundled up in long underwear, sweatshirts, beanie, gloves, and three inches of down jacket. My night wardrobe consists of a long sleeve top, thick knit socks, and pants that inhabit the dubious region between sweatpants and long underwear. This, in combination with an electric heating pad, two hot water bottles, and five inches of assorted blankets serves to keep me warm enough through the night. Even still, I still wake up every morning to the sight of my breath hanging a few inches from my face like a tiny Charlie Brown cloud. I was watching a movie in my living room, huddled around my space heater, and realized that, as I exhaled, my breath would catch the light from the television and do funny things to it. While mildly amusing, the living room is no place to see one’s own breath.

I am probably less suited to the cold than most, and so my reaction has been slightly more extreme than my other counterparts. The one driving factor in my day is now to find some place of warmth. The only places that I have found heating is in the two tea houses that I have found. Bebei has been regrettably lacking in the tea house department. But these have heat, and so I can buy a glass of tea for 10 yuan (roughly $1.25, or one-and-a-half meals) and sit for a few hours in blessed warmth. Another highlight is the Chinese class that I had previously been skipping (too easy, and other things were more fun). Strangely enough, when I realized that there was free heating in the classroom, my interest in studying rudimentary Chinese grew exponentially.

The remarkable thing, though, is that I rarely hear complaints. This is not (as I might be apt to refer to it), an atrocity against humanity, but just the way things are. Rather than curse the cold, they bundle up, because there isn’t much else that can be done. That may be one of the biggest differences here. Things tend to be accepted rather than evaluated, whether due to cultural conditioning or lack of outside experience, I’m not sure. Probably a combination.

More on that later, because now it’s time to put tomorrow’s clothes under the blanket (one of my better ideas) and fire up the hot water bottle. Man, do I hate the cold.

Goodbyes

SPU left today, and Beibei was a different place. Things were colder, less vibrant, the sun was gone, and in its place there was nothing but rain. I’m actually not being poetic; weather took a significant turn for the worse that day. As Beibei cried for its loss, I scavenged through their leftovers, gathering power strips and endless amounts of laundry detergent, then closed each door for the last time. It seemed strangely appropriate that these final acts of practical frugality were so marbled with sentimentality.

The dark truth is that every ‘hello’ has a ‘goodbye’ lurking in its shadow. I have grown callous in the wake of my travels, and so I was surprised at how deeply the loss still cut. I realized that while I was used to the ‘goodbyes,’ I was always the one saying them and then moving on. This may be the first time that I have been left, and I was unprepared for the feeling of abandonment and jealousy as they went on to the ‘next big thing.’

The pain, though very real, is only important in its all-consuming immediacy. It is but temporary, and I am excited for the opportunities that will be revealed in its passing. I was at a talent show hosted by the foreign students dorm, and realized how little I am involved in Southwest, and – more surprisingly – how much I feel the lack. I very much enjoyed my time with SPU, but their presence has precluded my involvement with any SPU-independent part of Southwest.

In many ways, I am back to where I was three months ago, and the world seems full of opportunities. I hope to give a much more concerted effort to my language study, as well as spend significant amounts of time with my gymnastics and martial arts friends. Beyond that there is nothing but a big question mark, and my excitement is honed by the fear of the intangible unknown.

A Pleasantly Unmemorable Weekend.

Undying love for The Mix hostel. Anyone who charges ¥25 for a bed, maintains western toilets, and can maintain a friendly demeanor in the face of 30 loud American collegiates deserves sainthood. A few blocks from the city center, they have carved out a little piece of backpacker heaven resplendent with Tibetan tapestries and secluded by bamboo walls. I have no great stories from there, just a lot of gratitude.

Chengdu is … relaxing. Pleasantly flat and peppered with tea houses, it is a good place to kick back. While there I went to the Tibetan quarter, an oldtown Chinese tourist town, the panda reserve, a bamboo garden, an art market under a bridge, and had possibly the best burger in the world. The Tibetan quarter was blah, tourist town was a good use of an hour, the pandas were cute, the bamboo garden was peaceful, the art market productive, and the burger was … a religious experience. There. Now you know what I did in Chengdu. Mostly, I just hung out and had a good time.

I do, however, harbor great animosity towards the city’s taxis, or rather the dearth thereof. I spent a particularly unpleasant forty minutes alone on various street corners with my luggage, vainly looking for a taxi. Eventually I found what appeared to be a favorite taxi-driver bathroom and waited alongside a car as its driver was inside. When he came back I informed him that I would be riding in his taxi.

I’m really trying here, but am drawing a blank on any stories worth repeating. So, Chendgu: Great city, amazing hostels, far too few hostels. Done.

+3 Intellligence, Wussiness: -1

There are many busy days here in China, but today was not one of them. It was pleasant in its simplicity, though. The few days of sunshine had just come to an end, and we were bunkering down to weather the rain for however long it may choose to stay with us. Schedules were empty, and spirits were low.

Taking a mannequin, dressing it up in a Halloween costume, and hiding it in The Furor’s shower while she was at yoga only provided brief distraction. The results were satisfactorily amusing, but required patience, and delayed gratification has never been my thing.

The day before I had seen a glass pot that looked interesting, and so I parted with my 34 yuan (4ish dollars). Perhaps the most interesting feature of the pot was that it was filled with baijou, a corn-based liquor that is essentially the Chinese equivalent of moonshine. And so as I carried my 4 dollar, 2.3 litre pot of 60% alcohol, I had little hope for the quality of the contents, and began musing on how best to dispose of it, should it prove to be less than delicious.

Upon the taste test, it was utterly disgusting. Baijou is a bit of an artform here, and China has its share of Michelangelos as well as a few Picassos, but unfortunately all too many Kinkaids. I actually enjoy the drink, but this particular specimen was unconscionable, an affront to alcohol, and even to the entire ‘beverage’ family. Suffice to say, it was not fit for consumption.

However, on a slow day, one might remember that any alcohol over 80 proof can be lit on fire. That same person’s gaze might then alight on a certain large and unwanted quantity of 120 proof liquor. One might then say that it lit one’s imagination. Har har. Sorry. We then spent more time than I would like to mention lighting shot glasses on fire, pouring them into the sink, lighting them on fire again, pouring them into the sink again, lighting them again, pouring them into the sink again, then using a spoon to pick up the liquid flame and light another shot of baijou on fire. It was a gratifying day. There were brief experimentations with painting on the countertop with baijou and then lighting that fire, but our first attempts were unsuccessful, and we decided that success would mean too much lit alcohol in too uncontrolled of an environment (IE between the toilet paper roll and a 6-week old copy of Time. Deduct one point for lack of balls, but score three for intelligence.

More Pictures for the Not-So-Facebookly-Inclined

The first week or so in Beibei
When the SPUers got here
Hainan

An Evening Visitor

Karma, sweet karma. A few days ago, one of the students found a huge spider in their room. As far as I was concerned, though, they were on the ground floor (I’m on the fourth) in another building, so it seemed pretty remote. Still, I had my fair share of laughs at other people’s expense as they squirmed at the thought of behemoth arachnids showing up in their bedroom. I didn’t stress about it.



And then tonight, I was woken up from 2 minutes (literally, I checked my clock) of sleep by some noises in my living room. I looked, and there were no robbers, which was a relief. Unless they were afraid of half-naked white guys, I think I might have found myself a bit unprepared for any sort of intimidation. I laid down for another minute, and then heard strange noises in my bathroom. All of a sudden, I was stressing about the spiders.

I turn on the light once more, look in the bathroom, and thought, possibly for the first time in my life, “Thank God, it’s a rat.” I tried to close the door, but the rat was faster. It streaked out, and into the little crevice between my bed and the wall. As far as my apartment furnishings go, the only possible instruments of death that I could think of for a rat this size would be my knives; I’m not about to sully my kitchen knife on rat, and the thought of me chasing a rat with a military-issue search and rescue knife seemed a bit absurd. And messy. So that was out. I had nothing to catch it with, and besides, it was raining outside and I didn’t want to take it all the way downstairs. So I moved my nightstand to block off his entrance. With him trapped, and the hour so late, I laid down and went back to sleep, lulled by the faint bumping noises coming from 8 inches below.

UPDATE:: I woke up this morning, and lifted my mattress to make sure the rat was still there. He wasn’t. However, three of my saltines were. The little bugger stole my crackers! Then on the way out, I saw that he gnawed his way through one of my hackey sacks. This means war, rat. This means war…