Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Too Long


I'm eating dinner on campus with my young friend Qing Yan and since the school restaurant is full, we sit at a table already occupied by a young couple. They're far enough away so we can pretend that we have our own table and start catching up, but of course, after a while we start talking with our dinnermates.

The woman across from me asks my friend if she's Taiwanese, since it's obvious she has a southern accent. I respond saying that she's in fact "one of your compatriots" (she's from Guangxi). Uh oh, I'm getting political. Bad Roni.

Of course, my new mainland friend across the table doesn't waste a second to inform me that "Taiwanese people are our compatriots." I have many Taiwanese friends I know that that's not true and I tell her that. She disagrees, saying young people might say that, but not old people. I decide not to argue with her.

After she and her boyfriend leave, I tell my friend that you're not going to find old or young people in Taiwan who would agree that they are this woman's compatriots. I don't know, either I'm wrong, or people on the mainland are brainwashed. Hmm, which one is it? If I am wrong, can you do me a favor, please humble me and let me know.

Later in the evening, I am on the phone with my Taiwanese friend Jennie. I tell Jennie about my interaction at dinner, and about my semester studying Chinese in Beijing. In literature class, we read a story by the famous Lu Xun. Lu Xun lived in the early 20th century and was a revolutionary, advocating that Chinese people modernize their ways. He believed that Confucius was that worst enemy of the Chinese people. For these reasons, after his death, Lu Xun was beloved by Mao and (therefore) the people of the new communist state.

I am curious, I ask Jennie if in Taiwan they even know about Lu Xun, since Lu Xun seems to be so identified with Mao and the communists. I figure the government of Taiwan would not want his works read.

Jennie kindly tells me that Taiwan is a democratic society and that what they read has nothing to do with what the government thinks, and that people can read Lu Xun there.

We start cracking up together. I have definitely been on the mainland too long.

Feedback? Please send me your thoughts. My mind is open...

Sunday, January 04, 2009

No Rush

Beijing is big, so this evening, after hanging out with Michael at the tea market in the city center, it will take me a while to get home. I'll have to switch trains twice, including taking the fifteen minute walk through the Xizhimen station, which is usually an annoyance, probably because my life in Beijing has been too busy with school and work.

But this evening, I'm in no rush to get home. No tests. No students to teach. I don't even have to go to the gym to work out. I can totally take my time.

I walk slowly through the stations, watching the multitudes. I watch them as they get ready for their Saturday nights with friends. Some young girls next to me are all done up and it looks like they're on their way to a bar or a restaurant. I notice the train station employees, scattered throughout the stations, trying to make a living. I have a little book of Chinese vocabulary in my pocket and read it on the train.

After I get off line two and on the way to line thirteen, there's a guy in front of me who is walking slowly. But this evening, it doesn't bother me one bit.

From the train station, I take a taxi home. I finally get to my building and have to wait some more for the elevator. A youngish Chinese woman and I get in.

Perhaps she's been at the office all day putting in overtime. Her floor approaches and the doors open. She breathes an obvious sigh of relief to finally be home and walks out of the elevator.

Saturday, January 03, 2009

Frank the Peasant Scholar

Living in China, I have already met a certain type of Chinese man several times. He is proud of Chinese culture, knowledgeable of Chinese history, literature, philosophy, arts, and politics. He assumes he understands much about Western culture, but in actuality, he knows little. As a matter of fact, he is quite wary of Western culture and to tell you the truth, he feels Chinese culture is vastly superior to anything the West has to offer.

I call this man the "Peasant Scholar".

Stuck in the back of a Mercedes with Frank on my recent business trip to Shandong, I figured I should make small-talk with him. We were introduced and he began speaking English to me (he did not at the time know that I speak Chinese). Within several minutes, I could tell several things. First, being an English teacher, it was obvious that like most Chinese people, his spoken English was poor. Second, Frank was a condescending asshole.

Frank is about my age, has a degree in civil engineering, an MBA, and is now working on a doctorate in project management. He dresses in the standard dress of the Chinese peasant scholar--mismatching suit jacket and pants, no tie, cheap sweater, and soiled, cheap shoes.

After listening to Frank's shitty English for several minutes, I decided to start talking Chinese to him. After all, I'm not getting paid to teach him English here.

I figure I'm going to have to sit in the back seat of this car for the next four hours with him, so I figure I should make the most of it. I start calling him 老師 ("laoshi", teacher) and tell him that I would like him to help me with my Chinese. He tells me he has a deep understanding of Chinese culture and that he is willing to teach me.

As we all talk in Chinese, I ask Frank to teach me the meaning of some words I don't understand. He explains them to me. Although I feel I am being gracious and allowing Frank to be my teacher, relieving him of the need to speak his shitty English, he nevertheless is still quite condescending.

Frank waxes philosophical about the wonders of the Chinese language. He then begins to dis the English language saying that Chinese has so many subtle ways to describe certain things, but that the English language doesn't.

I think back to my Chinese Literature teacher at the university where I am studying, Professor He (pronounced Huh) . Professor He studied Chinese in college (including classical Chinese) and has written books. Recently, his greatest passion is reading English literature, and during our class breaks he shows me passages (in English) in the Virginia Woolf book he is reading that he needs me to help him understand. I look at the passages and they bowl me over with their beauty, their complexity. I tell He Laoshi that even most college students would have difficulty interpreting these passages, but I do my best explaining to him what they mean. In Chinese. The English language is indeed beautiful.

So, when Frank tells me, in his way, that Chinese is so beautiful and subtle and complex, and English isn't, I quickly retort, "Frank, maybe your English level isn't quite advanced." For the time being, Frank shuts up.

Later in our journey, I tell Frank about the story we just read in Professor He's class, about a man who gives up his dream of music so that he can have a stable marriage to a woman he's not in love with. I ask him why most Chinese people would support the man's decision. Of course, I know why most Chinese people would, but I want to hear Frank's opinion.

Frank remarks about my Western lack of understanding of Chinese culture to his coworkers in the front of the car. His tone is mocking and once again condescending. Our car is going about 80 MPH. I think to myself that it's not a good time to push him out of the car and so I restrain myself.

The conversation lulls and then Frank turns to his coworkers and makes a remark about my Chinese name. "Do you know whose name Kaiyuan's name sounds like? It's a person in Chinese history."

David and Candy are too young to know, but I know, because I've lived in Chinese culture for a little while and some others have made the same remark. My name, Yao Kaiyuan, sounds like one of the members of the Gang of Four, Yao Wenyuan. Frank asks again, but David and Candy still don't know.

With no response from the front, I tell Frank I know and he seems astounded. "Really?", he asks, "Who?"

I tell him Yao Wenyuan and he is flabbergasted (I mean how could a Western guy know this stuff?). He is truly dumbfounded and can't believe I know. He asks me how the heck I know this.

I tell him, "You know, Frank, you're not the first smart Chinese guy I've ever met."

David looks at me in the rearview mirror and gives me a big smile. I'm not even good with clever lines in English. I can't believe I was able to pull that one off in Chinese.

The car grows silent, and thankfully, Frank shuts the fuck up for the rest of the afternoon.

The next morning, Frank and I head back to Beijing by plane. We are driven to the airport in the client's van and when the driver drops us off at the airport, he pulls out two small flashlights. He gives them to Frank, and in Chinese he says, "This is a small gift to you and the foreigner guy. It uses our company's technology."

Frank smiles and puts both of the flashlights into his purse and we continue to check-in. I am curious if Frank is going to give me one of the flashlights, but I don't say anything yet.

We line up to check in and I get out my passport, which I am now holding in my hand. Frank turns to me and says "Get out your passport."

"I have it in my hand," I say, and show it to him. I really want to say, "I have it in my hand, fuckhead!" but I know his listening ability isn't up to the task.

I then say to him in Chinese, "Hey, can I see that gift the client just gave you?" Frank gives me a half smile and a slightly nervous laugh that says, "Hey, I wasn't going to give that to you, but you are a clever laowai, so here you go", as he pulls out a flashlight and gives it to me.

Of course, I don't really give a shit about the flashlight, I just want to bust Frank.

We get on the plane, and I think I perhaps should ignore Frank. After all, he just tried to steal a flashlight from me. But, I let it go and read my Chinese book. Of course, Frank is curious and tries to help me with my Chinese. I let him do this and of course he tries to explain very basic words to me, as if I am an idiot.

I find it ironic that Frank, who has devoted years of schooling to studying subjects that were invented in the West, has little respect for a Westerner. There are so many ways that living in China tests my patience. Unfortunately, I feel I've probably failed the Frank test.

But fortunately for me, I haven't lost it and for the rest of the flight, I continue with the "Frank Laoshi" game and the Peasant Scholar teaches me some more Chinese.

Roni's Chinese Mafia Story

David calls me on a Tuesday. "I got your name from Rebecca. We need someone to do some proofreading for us. We'll go to Shandong and we need you to come with us. But first we need to interview you."

I don't know David, and to be honest, I don't know Rebecca, but I tell him sure, let's set up an interview. He says he'll come to my campus tomorrow at two. Later in the day, I remember that I did interview for a teaching job with a woman named Rebecca. I call her and ask her if she knows this David guy and if she sent him to me. She has no idea about this guy.

The next day, while in the library studying, I get a call from David. He says he's at the west gate of the university waiting for me in a black Mercedes. I ride my bike over to the west gate and find his car. It's a new, black Mercedes, and there's a twenty-five year-old Chinese kid sitting in the seat talking on his cellphone inside. "David?" I say. He tells me to come in.

David speaks English well and says he has a master's degree from Oxford. His English isn't bad, and it's possible that he is actually telling me the truth (any Chinese person who knows about "A-levels", i.e., the university entrance exams in the UK, must have done his homework).

He tells me he works at an investment company and that they have a new client located in Shandong, which is about a four hour drive from Beijing. Since they'll need to do some Powerpoint presentations in English related to the client in the future, he explains, he'd like to take me along so I can get familiar with this project. He tells me that we'll stay in a five-star hotel and all meals will be covered. We negotiate a rate and he gives me a business card, telling me that he'll send more information to me by email. We depart on Thursday morning.

"You know," he say, "there are many bad guys in China, but don't worry, we're not going to kidnap you or anything."

I feel reassured and on my way back to the library I call up a couple of good friends and tell them about the interview, joking that I think I was just hired to be an English teacher for the Chinese mafia. One friend is completely worried, telling me to not be so naive.

I come home that evening and look up the website on David's card. Nothing comes up. I try google the name of his company (which has "offices in Beijing and London"). Again, nothing. The whole theory about becoming English teacher to the Chinese mafia is looking more probable.

The next day, I call David and tell him that his website doesn't exist. He tells me that sometimes the Chinese government blocks it, not to worry. I tell him that he should have a contract ready for me in the morning. With any new project, especially with a Chinese company, I always get a contract to make sure they pay me and that the terms of the job are clear. He says there's no time for a contract, that he'll just pay me in full, in cash, at the beginning of our trip. See you tomorrow morning at 8:30, he says.

I call up a few friends. "Listen, if you don't hear from me by Friday afternoon, call the police," I tell them. The friend who told me I'm naive still thinks I'm taking a big risk. One of my friends doesn't understand what's the big deal. I make some money, get to visit another province, and get to stay in a five-star hotel. Not a bad deal, she says, right?

That evening, I go out to the local department store and buy a killer blue-striped tie. I come home and get out my fake Armani suit that I bought in Shanghai for $86. I swear, I am ready for GQ. I am ready for an adventure. At best, I get a high-paying job with the Chinese mafia. At worst, I have to defend myself against a couple of skinny Chinese thugs using all those aikido moves I've practiced maybe thousands of times. I have been lifting weights recently and doing taiji, so I figure I am up for it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, you know?

I wake up early the next morning, get dressed, and walk out of my shitty apartment building in the suburbs of Beijing, looking like a half-Moroccan Ashkenazi Jewish-American-Israeli James Bond.

David arrives in his Mercedes at the agreed-upon location with two of his coworkers, Candy and Frank. I sit in the back with Frank and David makes introductions. We're going to be in the car together for the next four hours, so we try to get to know each other. David senses I'm a little nervous, so he tries to reassure me again that he's not going to try to kidnap me. I am once again reassured.

Candy's English isn't bad, but I'm sitting in the back with Frank, and his English sucks, so I start speaking with them in my passable Chinese. David tells me that when we get to Shandong and meet with the client I should not speak any Chinese at all. He doesn't want them asking me all kinds of questions. He tells me to especially avoid the Taiwanese guys that work for the client because their English is better than the mainlanders. He tells me that if they ask about my background, I should tell them that I have a background in investment banking and have worked for several firms in the States. No problem, I say.

He further explains that the client is a tech company looking for investors and so not only will we be investigating their operation, but they will also be trying to ascertain whether we are a legitimate investment company. I ask him a few questions about the field of investment banking and figure I should be okay.

We finally arrive in Shandong, where the client meets us for lunch. About six people meet us at a hotel and we have a short but elegant lunch there. The director of the client's operation, a young man with an authoritarian demeanor in his mid-thirties, makes toasts with wine and smokes a cigar, inviting Frank to smoke with him. For some reason, Frank suddenly becomes a big shot.

Sitting next to me is one of the Taiwanese guys. I know I am not supposed to talk too much to him, but I tell him that I "visited" Taiwan before. Of course, I am dying to tell him I lived there, to tell him how much I love Taiwan, how much I miss it. But, I hold my tongue.

Lunch is short so that we can begin the afternoon meeting with the client. We go to the factory, which has been recently built and is not yet in operation, and after a brief tour, the games begin. We sit, about fifteen of us, in a conference room, with David presenting the terms of the contract. I sit at David's left, listening to them talk in Chinese. A lot of the Chinese that they use, of course, is legalese and is related to finance and investments, so I only understand about 70%. Nevertheless, it's an excellent exercise in my Chinese listening skills.

The factory director smokes several cigars and speaks with the forcefulness of someone with a military background. Besides the two Taiwanese engineers with PhDs from the U.S., I have no clue who the rest of the people are.

David introduces me as the guy in charge of client relations for his company and tells them I don't speak Chinese. We sit there for about four hours and since the talks are exclusively in Chinese I wonder what everyone is thinking I am doing at this meeting.

When they say, "Everyone turn to page four, paragraph three" (in Chinese), I turn to page four, paragraph three and try to practice my Chinese reading skills. I wonder if any of the guys around the table notice.

At one point, one of the Taiwanese engineers introduces their technology to us, a metal tube that conducts heat very quickly. He puts it in a cup of boiling water and asks me to touch it. It's very hot and without thinking, in Chinese I burst out saying, "很快就熱了!" ("It gets hot really fast!"). Too late, I realize I've blurted out Chinese when I am not supposed to know any Chinese. The hyper cigar-smoking factory chief's jaw is on the table. Fortunately, it's not a big deal. For us foreigners, it takes two years to learn to respond like that spontaneously in Chinese, but to a Chinese person, you couldn't convince him that I've studied for more than a month or two.

Finally, the big meeting is over and it's time for the time-honored custom of the business banquet. We all head back to the hotel for a big dinner, which includes, of course, lots of alcohol.

The food is traditional cuisine from Shandong. I figure I haven't gotten kidnapped yet, and as an extra bonus I get this incredible food, so I am quite delighted. The waitress pours me a small cup of expensive baijiu ("white alcohol", Chinese vodka) and during our meal, everyone makes toasts. I think the baijiu is about 58% alcohol, so each sip is like drinking a beer to me. While I like drinking, I'm not a professional drinker. A couple of beers are enough for me.

I notice to my right that the guy two seats over just poured his water into his baijiu glass, and so after I finish by baijiu, I follow suit. Throughout the evening, people are making toasts and somehow I get by with just drinking water.

At one point, a member of the client's delegation tells the waiter something quickly in Chinese and she comes out with a small glass of baijiu. It looks like I've been found out, and I have no choice but to drink it down with him. It's okay, given all the water I've been drinking, I think I should be fine.

What I like about drinking in China is that you don't do it alone and that you do it with dinner. In China, if you want to drink, you raise your glass, look at the person (or people) you are toasting, and then drink with them. This continues throughout the night as people toast each other. David's face is very red. As the head of our operation, he is getting heavily toasted.

I think I'm a bit tipsy by now and I know I'm not supposed to speak any Chinese, but I can't resist turning to one of the Taiwanese engineers and saying (in Taiwanese), "Hodala!" ("Bottoms up!"). He is surprised and looks pleased. Later in the evening, he says, perhaps half-jokingly, that he knows I know Chinese.

The banquet wraps up and a young member of the client's team pays me a compliment, "You can really drink that baijiu!"

"Thanks," I respond, as humbly as possible.

After dinner, David and his team finish up the negotiations with the client and we meet back in his hotel room. It turns out it has all been successful. He asks for my passport number so he can book an airline ticket for me and Frank back to Beijing in the morning. He and Candy will stay in Shandong for another day to get a tour or the area.

David gives me details about tomorrow's flight and says I did a good job. The next morning, I wake up and a car is waiting for me and Frank and we fly back to Beijing. I arrive back in Beijing and send text messages to my friends letting them know I haven't been harmed or kidnapped.

I realize that not once did David or his team talk about any Powerpoint presentations. And I realize that I have just performed an essential function in the negotiations with David's client--I was just paid to be a Western "flower vase" (花瓶), as they say in Chinese. In other words, David hired me to be a white guy in a suit sitting next to him during negotiations.

I arrive back home at about lunch time with a good story for my friends. And a hope that the Chinese mafia might need my services again.

Chinese Police

At the start of the semester at Beijing Language University, the head of the local police station station comes to our orientation and speaks to us for an hour and a half. Actually, the whole orientation is just him talking.

He is an animated kind of guy in his fifties. He tells us what you would expect--try to be on good behavior, don't drink too much, don't ride gas-powered motorcycles with large motors, don't overstay your visa, don't visit brothels--common sense kind of stuff. He is very down-to-earth and his stories of former students getting drunk and doing stupid things are funny.

You can't help but like him.

At one point during his talk he mentions that although he'd like students to drink responsibly, he enjoys drinking. After the talk, I am outside unlocking my bike and see him pass by, lighting up a cigarette (as most middle-aged men in China do). I almost introduce myself to him and tell him I'd like to have a beer with him, but I let him go on his way, surrounded by a group of what look like fans.

Fast forward about four months later. I come home from Christmas Eve out with friends and before going to bed, I get a text message. In Chinese it says: "You want a girl?" I have no idea who would send me this kind of message. I get several more and I finally send back a message asking them who they are. They tell me that they are a "massage center".

I am a little dumbfounded and I still have absolutely no idea how they could even get my cellphone number. Now I am curious. I call them up. A guy answers the phone. It's quite loud in the background. I ask the guy where he got my name from. Surprisingly, he is not shy about telling me the answer. He tells me very matter-of-factly, "from the police station."

Only after I talk to him do I remember the police chief's orientation speech. He tells us not to "visit brothels" but at the same time, someone in his office is selling the names of foreigners to "massage centers".

I send the guy back a text message telling him to stop with his promotional text messages and I can only laugh and shake my head.

Welcome to China, folks.

Tea at Maliandao

I teach this morning and then feel some excitement as the class ends. My friend Michael has invited me to Maliandao, the home to Beijing's tea markets, where we'll sample some tea. Malindao is blocks and blocks of tea markets and if you are looking for tea, teapots or tea paraphernalia, this is your heaven.

Michael and I both love zhongguocha (Chinese tea) and so as you can imagine, we are both in heaven.

We first walk around a large indoor tea market. It's the New Year's vacation and everyone must be out of town or at home watching TV, because this place is empty. Seriously, walking around we don't see any other customers--we're the only kids in the candy store.

First, we check out teapots. If it's a good teapot, looking at a teapot is like looking at a whole universe. There's all the time and effort that was put into crafting it. You feel it in your hand when you pick it up and see it in the finish of the clay. And then there are all your future pours.

There are the standard red ones, brown ones, the odd ivory or black ones. I love the teapots with small Chinese characters etched on them. Sometimes it's the whole Heart Sutra. But mostly, I like the simple pots with flowing, classic lines, nothing too avant garde.

As we walk by one shop, we see that the sign is for heicha ("black tea") from Hunan. We've never seen this before and soon Michael, who is very curious, is leading us into the shop to sample some.

Keep in mind, what we know as "black tea" in the West is called "red tea" in China, so this tea seems special. We find out that it is an aged tea similar to pu-er, with fungi introduced into it to give it a special fungi taste. The young girl gives a magnifying glass so we can look at the fungi, and then she pours us some.

The truth--it's nothing special, but it is fun to try something new and practice our Chinese. We both decide it's time to get some real tea. Michael loves Taiwan Tie Guan Yin, a roasted wulong tea, and he's in search of a tea on the mainland that comes close to what he's tasted in Taiwan, and so we find a shop that sells the famous Da Hong Pao (Large Red Robe) wulong tea from Fujian with hopes that it'll come close.

The owner of the shops and her mother, who are from Fujian, pour tea for us and ask us personal questions. The tea is great stuff and I think Michael is in heaven. I love it too, but I'll always be in love with Alishan Gaoshan (High Mountain) wulong from Taiwan.

Having lived in Beijing for about four months now, it is a breath of fresh air to hear their southern accent and their southern sense of humor. Northerners and southerners are quite different in China, and being that my laojia (my "hometown", my first home in this part of the world) is in Taiwan, I am quite enchanted.

It's not always easy living here in China, living your life in another language, in another culture. But there are times that are clear, sublime. Laughing in Chinese and drinking tea, I forget about all my cares. As we leave, the owner's mother tells us to come back soon, that there are lots more teas to try.

We tell her we surely will.