I was handed what looked like a fashion magazine, right after a Chinese girl on the street asked Kelly and me if we knew where to find a Church. (The girl said, “I want to go to church. Do you know?” When we said we didn’t, she asked, “Do you read Bible?” I’m wondering if this chick thinks that all white-looking people are in China as missionaries. Kelly’s convinced this was Jesus seeking her out.)
I don’t know if the magazine passer had anything to do with the Bible-asker, but when I got home I was shocked at what I saw.
These are the feature articles on the cover:
Privacy Plastic: so that the Well-being of Women Flowery Bloom; The Young Friend: You Understands the Contraception?; Huanghaibo: My Ass-Getting Career Path is Sweet; Women Don’t Do it: “Workplace Darling Female”
Ok, so I don’t know what most of that is even talking about. It seems to me that this is a feminist magazine, willing to produce taboo media to raise awareness on contraception and career planning. But part of me isn’t convinced because of the Privacy Plastic article, which seems to be about plastic surgery, the two-page spread about weddings, and the picture for “ass-getting career path” which includes two woman fondling a billboard of a smiling Chinese man.
Other article titles include:
Wrapping and Prostate Story: New Wrapping and DIY (complete with an add that contains a picture of a banana)
Drug Minefield
The Flow People: How to Avoid Second Ary Damage
A Man’s Silence Means What
To Change Life Habit from Hemorrhoids
Four men’s Impotence: Do not into the pitfalls of self-diagnosis impotence
The Psychological Pressure Created Man “is a woman.”
One page has a picture of a girl, carelessly leading against a wall in a short dress, with the caption “sweet” woman.
If nothing else, the reason that I was given this magazine is clear. Motivation granted, my study of the Chinese Language is on.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Madness
I’ve had a pretty crazy time these past two days, so I’m just going to write about it stream of conscious.
Yesterday, J, one of the five head teachers in my school, didn’t show up for work. It was even stranger because he knew that his T.A. wasn’t going to be in until the afternoon. His 17, 10-yr olds were in their classroom alone until they saw Kelly in the hall and asked her to come in. She ended up running a spontaneous morning meeting.
At first, knowing J, who was here last year, is cozy with the director, and is known for having a nightlife, I wasn’t too concerned. By the afternoon, however, when the primary and middle school directors left school to go to his house, 45 min. away, I was a little nervous. After school, when all we’d heard was that he had left for work in the morning but hadn’t shown up, I had that achy feeling in my stomach. By night, when he had been reported to the embassy, who would check the hospitals and police stations for him, I was a nervous wreck. It probably didn’t help that the day before we were informed of a serious community tragedy. A 7th grader from our school and his mother were killed over the break in a car accident, and I had to tell my kids before they heard it on the bus. That made for a solemn closing meeting with six year olds.
At home, it was hard to think about anything else, even while at the back of my head I felt that this could all be a misunderstanding. It’s J! I’m sure he’s fine! It did make us realize, though, that we have no contact information here. I don’t even carry ID on me, because there’s no drinking limit, so if I were to be in an accident there’d be no way to identify me... All really awesome things to think about while you’re stressed and in a foreign country.
Finally, in the morning, I got an email from the director that said she heard from J, his phone was dead and he had no internet, and he will be back to school tomorrow. WHAT THE HELL? Where was he? What is this? Since then I’ve been unofficially told by my administration that he was “helping a friend in an emergency” and officially that he had a fever and “took Chinese medicine that made him pass out after he thought he sent a text that he wasn’t coming.” What shady madness is going on at this school?
This morning was also stressful for me because all of my student’s parents had called a meeting with my director and the vice principal of my school to address their “concerns,” namely, that I don’t use text books, focus enough on math, or give enough mindless worksheets as homework. There is nothing like knowing that I was being ripped apart by my “sharks”, after a night of being worried sick, to help someone run a successful morning meeting. And to top it all off, it’s the 6th day of an 8 day week of consecutive school. It’s “Saturday” in my life- damn it!
Luckily, my director is totally on board with me. She came in after the meeting, watched my class, and reassured me that my kids are so much more engaged and in control than they were before. She helped to remind me that these parents don’t understand progressive ed., and that most of them aren’t going to get it this year.
Needless to say, I’m looking forward to parent teacher conferences.
Yesterday, J, one of the five head teachers in my school, didn’t show up for work. It was even stranger because he knew that his T.A. wasn’t going to be in until the afternoon. His 17, 10-yr olds were in their classroom alone until they saw Kelly in the hall and asked her to come in. She ended up running a spontaneous morning meeting.
At first, knowing J, who was here last year, is cozy with the director, and is known for having a nightlife, I wasn’t too concerned. By the afternoon, however, when the primary and middle school directors left school to go to his house, 45 min. away, I was a little nervous. After school, when all we’d heard was that he had left for work in the morning but hadn’t shown up, I had that achy feeling in my stomach. By night, when he had been reported to the embassy, who would check the hospitals and police stations for him, I was a nervous wreck. It probably didn’t help that the day before we were informed of a serious community tragedy. A 7th grader from our school and his mother were killed over the break in a car accident, and I had to tell my kids before they heard it on the bus. That made for a solemn closing meeting with six year olds.
At home, it was hard to think about anything else, even while at the back of my head I felt that this could all be a misunderstanding. It’s J! I’m sure he’s fine! It did make us realize, though, that we have no contact information here. I don’t even carry ID on me, because there’s no drinking limit, so if I were to be in an accident there’d be no way to identify me... All really awesome things to think about while you’re stressed and in a foreign country.
Finally, in the morning, I got an email from the director that said she heard from J, his phone was dead and he had no internet, and he will be back to school tomorrow. WHAT THE HELL? Where was he? What is this? Since then I’ve been unofficially told by my administration that he was “helping a friend in an emergency” and officially that he had a fever and “took Chinese medicine that made him pass out after he thought he sent a text that he wasn’t coming.” What shady madness is going on at this school?
This morning was also stressful for me because all of my student’s parents had called a meeting with my director and the vice principal of my school to address their “concerns,” namely, that I don’t use text books, focus enough on math, or give enough mindless worksheets as homework. There is nothing like knowing that I was being ripped apart by my “sharks”, after a night of being worried sick, to help someone run a successful morning meeting. And to top it all off, it’s the 6th day of an 8 day week of consecutive school. It’s “Saturday” in my life- damn it!
Luckily, my director is totally on board with me. She came in after the meeting, watched my class, and reassured me that my kids are so much more engaged and in control than they were before. She helped to remind me that these parents don’t understand progressive ed., and that most of them aren’t going to get it this year.
Needless to say, I’m looking forward to parent teacher conferences.
Monday, October 4, 2010
French Fries, the Mission
Ordering at KFC was more complicated than I’d imagined right from the start. I figured, (as I must learn to STOP doing), that this fast food joint would be geared towards Foreigners, or at least English-friendly enough that I could point or gesture to get by. The entire menu was in Chinese, and most of it was displayed in lists with no pictures. I managed to order what looked like a special deal, as it was featured on its own panel with what I hoped was the price in Yuan. The cashier asked me a string of questions, which I could only assume meant “original or extra crispy”, and was met with my blank stare and poor attempt at “sorry” (Duay bu tchi), shake head. Eventually, as is often the result of my ordering, she chose some answer for me and took my money.
In my life, this is actually considered a success. Therefore, when the smell of fries from the people next to us somehow sparked a second appetite, I was happy to walk back downstairs to the counter. I decided to go to the same cashier, so that she at least knew that I had no idea what I was doing. While waiting in line, however, I realized that there were no pictures of French fries on the menu. As I inched closer and closer I tried to think of strategies. By the time I was face-to-face with the cashier, I had nothing. How do you mime French fries??
My first attempt was just to say the word and hope that either her or someone around would recognize the word. I gave raised eyebrows to the people trying to order their own meals to the right and left of me. Nothing. I looked behind her to see if there were some I could point to. Nothing. She tried holding some chicken nuggets up for my approval. Nope. My low point was actually trying to draw the shape of a French fry on the counter.
Defeated and embarrassed for myself, I gave up and left the line. On my way to the stairs, ready to climb back to the second floor seating and admit newfound inability to order French fries at a fast food place, I noticed a couple sitting by the window, leaning over a tray of fries. I’d like to say that I hesitated and thought out my next move, but that’s not the case. I went straight up to them and tried to explain myself. It went something like this: “Hi. I’m trying to order French fries (wild gesture towards their fries). Do you know the word for this? How can I order this? Do you know what I’m saying?”
The answer was no. Eventually, the guy just looked at the tray, picked up a single fry, and held it out to me, eyebrows raised, which I interpreted as, “Do you want this fry you crazy stranger?”
My answer was yes. I took the fry and marched right to the cashier girl, holding it up triumphantly from my place at the back of the line. She laughed and placed my order next.
I’d rather not admit this, but after I victoriously paraded my fries back to our table, Kelly asked, “Why didn’t you just use your guidebook?”
And there it was: French fries, jah too-doh, tyow.
In my life, this is actually considered a success. Therefore, when the smell of fries from the people next to us somehow sparked a second appetite, I was happy to walk back downstairs to the counter. I decided to go to the same cashier, so that she at least knew that I had no idea what I was doing. While waiting in line, however, I realized that there were no pictures of French fries on the menu. As I inched closer and closer I tried to think of strategies. By the time I was face-to-face with the cashier, I had nothing. How do you mime French fries??
My first attempt was just to say the word and hope that either her or someone around would recognize the word. I gave raised eyebrows to the people trying to order their own meals to the right and left of me. Nothing. I looked behind her to see if there were some I could point to. Nothing. She tried holding some chicken nuggets up for my approval. Nope. My low point was actually trying to draw the shape of a French fry on the counter.
Defeated and embarrassed for myself, I gave up and left the line. On my way to the stairs, ready to climb back to the second floor seating and admit newfound inability to order French fries at a fast food place, I noticed a couple sitting by the window, leaning over a tray of fries. I’d like to say that I hesitated and thought out my next move, but that’s not the case. I went straight up to them and tried to explain myself. It went something like this: “Hi. I’m trying to order French fries (wild gesture towards their fries). Do you know the word for this? How can I order this? Do you know what I’m saying?”
The answer was no. Eventually, the guy just looked at the tray, picked up a single fry, and held it out to me, eyebrows raised, which I interpreted as, “Do you want this fry you crazy stranger?”
My answer was yes. I took the fry and marched right to the cashier girl, holding it up triumphantly from my place at the back of the line. She laughed and placed my order next.
I’d rather not admit this, but after I victoriously paraded my fries back to our table, Kelly asked, “Why didn’t you just use your guidebook?”
And there it was: French fries, jah too-doh, tyow.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Inner Mongolia Day Three: Tourist Traps
We were taken to an outdoor court of the Hun Emperor, a Buddhist Temple, The Museum of Inner Mongolia, and a Textile factory (aka labyrinth of venders selling everything from milk products to gem stones to combs and swords). It’s amazing I was able to escape with just four bags of milk product.
I really enjoyed the Museum, which began with “Ancient Times”, which in this case meant dinosaurs. The English translations were a breath of fresh air, even if a bit wanting for grammatical accuracy. I loved how the museum focused on the specific dinosaurs found in the area, and the signs warned us all that the dinosaurs were on Earth much longer than humans, and we should be cautious of our pollution “before man also become extinct.”
The Buddhist Temple was also one tourist trap that I was happy to have been blindly dragged to. The first rooms of the buildings were old and worn from use, with damp thick air. Then, in the back, through a small hall there would be an incredibly ornate room, decorated and glittering with gold statues of Buddhas as high as the ceiling. I was able to sit in on an interesting session of bell-ringing and bowing that had amazing energy, until cranky, complaining lady’s husband, Workaholic, allowed his incessant cellphone ringing and work calls to disrupt the moment.
We were released into the Mongolian Wild (aka. downtown near the train station) by 6 p.m. for our 10:30 train. I had wanted to take this time to explore on our own, without the constraints of a group and predetermined plan. After dinner (if you can call what I ate from China’s KFC food), however, I was out voted and, compromised by my sudden food-induced-lethargy, I was persuaded to return to the train station.
By the end of the trip, I had grown quite fond for my Chinese traveling companions, many of whom did their best to communicate for us and watch out for us over the trip. Without them, I would have been surely still in my Yurt, unaware that lunch had been served, the bus was leaving, or a feisty horse was waiting for me to ride.
Because fate is too proud of her own sense of humor, of course, the three of us finished the trip by sharing a six person sleeper car with Cranky Lady, Workaholic, and their teenage daughter, Texty-Sullen Face.
I really enjoyed the Museum, which began with “Ancient Times”, which in this case meant dinosaurs. The English translations were a breath of fresh air, even if a bit wanting for grammatical accuracy. I loved how the museum focused on the specific dinosaurs found in the area, and the signs warned us all that the dinosaurs were on Earth much longer than humans, and we should be cautious of our pollution “before man also become extinct.”
The Buddhist Temple was also one tourist trap that I was happy to have been blindly dragged to. The first rooms of the buildings were old and worn from use, with damp thick air. Then, in the back, through a small hall there would be an incredibly ornate room, decorated and glittering with gold statues of Buddhas as high as the ceiling. I was able to sit in on an interesting session of bell-ringing and bowing that had amazing energy, until cranky, complaining lady’s husband, Workaholic, allowed his incessant cellphone ringing and work calls to disrupt the moment.
We were released into the Mongolian Wild (aka. downtown near the train station) by 6 p.m. for our 10:30 train. I had wanted to take this time to explore on our own, without the constraints of a group and predetermined plan. After dinner (if you can call what I ate from China’s KFC food), however, I was out voted and, compromised by my sudden food-induced-lethargy, I was persuaded to return to the train station.
By the end of the trip, I had grown quite fond for my Chinese traveling companions, many of whom did their best to communicate for us and watch out for us over the trip. Without them, I would have been surely still in my Yurt, unaware that lunch had been served, the bus was leaving, or a feisty horse was waiting for me to ride.
Because fate is too proud of her own sense of humor, of course, the three of us finished the trip by sharing a six person sleeper car with Cranky Lady, Workaholic, and their teenage daughter, Texty-Sullen Face.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Inner Mongolia Day Two: The Kobqui Desert
I didn’t realize that I’d never seen a desert until I was rocking in the ski-lift and in front of my eyes were miles and miles of sand dunes against clear blue sky. It was disheartening that I felt I’d seen it before, just from screen savers and the discovery channel. Our tour took us to somewhat of an amusement park on the top of the dunes.
After the initial ski lift we were instructed (by pantomime, of course) to put on “sand socks.” These are brightly colored sacks of thick cloth with ties around the ankle and top, which land just below the knee. I suppose that these are to help keep the sand out of our shoes, and apparently we paid for them in our package, but I was ready to don them for their sexual appeal and fashion statement alone.
In the first 20 min. I was able to realize my life dream of riding a camel. The scariest part is when they stand up and sit down with you on them, rocking sharply forward and then dropping back like a boat in tumultuous water. The camels brought us to the train, which was the most surreal of the excursions. Watching the red and black train coming around the sand dune against the bright blue sky, its tracks covered completely, looked like a sight from a DreamWorks Production. I was half-waiting for complementary soft music and credits to appear on the scene.
The train brought us to the Gallery of Sand Art, which consisted of several hill-sized, sand-castles made into scenes with Buddha and Genghis Khan. In one, the duo was placed inside a convertible, running into some type of creatures who were plastered to the front bumper. I’ll never understand art.
We were seriously tempted to rent a 4 by 4, but were too worried for our lives without being able to hear the instructions like, “Stay on this side of that dune” or “This is how you stop.” Instead we got on this boat-shaped 40-passenger vehicle and went “Sand Surfing”, which felt like being on a roller coaster through sand dunes. It had been some time since I’d been on an actual roller coaster, and this one, not having any secure metal base or track (save a rough path made by the wheels of previous vehicles), it took a while for my stomach to fall back in to place.
To exit, I stood on the edge of an 8-story-high sand dune with a 2 foot plastic sled. I made it down with my feet on the front bar and my hands trailing behind me in an attempt to control my pace. I figured this out by watching others, such as the 5 yr-old girl who went before me. Her mother watched, carelessly, as her young one went hurling down eight stories. (I thought, “Please give me some of that ease and trust in the world so that I may not smother my own potential future child with my hereditary anxiety.)
Greatest Success of the Desert: Not being the last tourists back on the bus, even without being able to decipher when exactly we were leaving.
Things I’m getting too used to in China: Talking about anything I think out loud as if I’m invisible. We found out (or rather it was revealed to us) only by the end of our trip, that quite a few of our group members speak some English: even that cranky, complaining woman I was always trying to avoid. Whoops!
After the initial ski lift we were instructed (by pantomime, of course) to put on “sand socks.” These are brightly colored sacks of thick cloth with ties around the ankle and top, which land just below the knee. I suppose that these are to help keep the sand out of our shoes, and apparently we paid for them in our package, but I was ready to don them for their sexual appeal and fashion statement alone.
In the first 20 min. I was able to realize my life dream of riding a camel. The scariest part is when they stand up and sit down with you on them, rocking sharply forward and then dropping back like a boat in tumultuous water. The camels brought us to the train, which was the most surreal of the excursions. Watching the red and black train coming around the sand dune against the bright blue sky, its tracks covered completely, looked like a sight from a DreamWorks Production. I was half-waiting for complementary soft music and credits to appear on the scene.
The train brought us to the Gallery of Sand Art, which consisted of several hill-sized, sand-castles made into scenes with Buddha and Genghis Khan. In one, the duo was placed inside a convertible, running into some type of creatures who were plastered to the front bumper. I’ll never understand art.
We were seriously tempted to rent a 4 by 4, but were too worried for our lives without being able to hear the instructions like, “Stay on this side of that dune” or “This is how you stop.” Instead we got on this boat-shaped 40-passenger vehicle and went “Sand Surfing”, which felt like being on a roller coaster through sand dunes. It had been some time since I’d been on an actual roller coaster, and this one, not having any secure metal base or track (save a rough path made by the wheels of previous vehicles), it took a while for my stomach to fall back in to place.
To exit, I stood on the edge of an 8-story-high sand dune with a 2 foot plastic sled. I made it down with my feet on the front bar and my hands trailing behind me in an attempt to control my pace. I figured this out by watching others, such as the 5 yr-old girl who went before me. Her mother watched, carelessly, as her young one went hurling down eight stories. (I thought, “Please give me some of that ease and trust in the world so that I may not smother my own potential future child with my hereditary anxiety.)
Greatest Success of the Desert: Not being the last tourists back on the bus, even without being able to decipher when exactly we were leaving.
Things I’m getting too used to in China: Talking about anything I think out loud as if I’m invisible. We found out (or rather it was revealed to us) only by the end of our trip, that quite a few of our group members speak some English: even that cranky, complaining woman I was always trying to avoid. Whoops!
Friday, October 1, 2010
Survivor: Season 26 – Inner Mongolia
I was not ready for the cold.
“It gets a bit chilly at night,” I was told. I thought back to the chilly nights of my childhood in MA. I thought of my apartment on the L.E.S. that had no heat in the NY winter. I figured that if I could survive those nights, I was more than ready to take on the chill of Inner Mongolia.
Packing became a seriously ambivalent inner monologue. My backpack could only hold so much. I packed all of my warmest clothing, and then, thinking of the second day desert trip, packed my sunglasses, sunscreen, and t-shirts. Convinced that I was being “too MA” in my approach, I unpacked my hat and resisted the urge to stuff my ear muffs into the little crevices of my bag.
We arrived at our lodgings for the night, a series of yurts, which are round, one-room huts. Ours had three beds inside, and, surprisingly, a TV. and a western toilet. (I assume, though, from the stench, that there was no western plumbing underneath.)
As our yurt had broken panes at the top, it was basically like sleeping outside. We decided to purchase some “bi geo” or liquor, to ease the pain of the cold as they did in the olden days before settling in for the night. I wore my regular socks, knee socks, and fluffy slipper-socks to bed. I tucked in my leggings and my stretchy pants. And there, inside the yurt, under two blankets, deep inside a sleep-sack, under my fuzzy hoodie, wrapped in my scarf, inside my pink fleece and my long sleeve shirt, under my t-shirt and white strappy tank top, with bi geo in my stomach, layered as a Russian doll, I finally fell asleep.
“It gets a bit chilly at night,” I was told. I thought back to the chilly nights of my childhood in MA. I thought of my apartment on the L.E.S. that had no heat in the NY winter. I figured that if I could survive those nights, I was more than ready to take on the chill of Inner Mongolia.
Packing became a seriously ambivalent inner monologue. My backpack could only hold so much. I packed all of my warmest clothing, and then, thinking of the second day desert trip, packed my sunglasses, sunscreen, and t-shirts. Convinced that I was being “too MA” in my approach, I unpacked my hat and resisted the urge to stuff my ear muffs into the little crevices of my bag.
We arrived at our lodgings for the night, a series of yurts, which are round, one-room huts. Ours had three beds inside, and, surprisingly, a TV. and a western toilet. (I assume, though, from the stench, that there was no western plumbing underneath.)
As our yurt had broken panes at the top, it was basically like sleeping outside. We decided to purchase some “bi geo” or liquor, to ease the pain of the cold as they did in the olden days before settling in for the night. I wore my regular socks, knee socks, and fluffy slipper-socks to bed. I tucked in my leggings and my stretchy pants. And there, inside the yurt, under two blankets, deep inside a sleep-sack, under my fuzzy hoodie, wrapped in my scarf, inside my pink fleece and my long sleeve shirt, under my t-shirt and white strappy tank top, with bi geo in my stomach, layered as a Russian doll, I finally fell asleep.
Horseback Riding for Milk Products
The excursion of the day turned out to be a two hour horseback ride to taller grasslands and what looked like someone’s house who offered us my first taste of “milk product.” This famous treat, found at each stop of my trip from the museum gift shop to the grocery store, is called “cheese” but is more like a mix between wax, chocolate, and taffy with an aftertaste of sour. Through no fault of my own, this “milk product” soon became irresistible to me, and I ended up buying four packages before I left.
I hadn’t ridden a horse is years, and I found the ability to use a living thing as transport, strangely exhilarating. The mountains and planes stretching as far as I could see also made the journey remarkable. What did not help the trip, however, was the biting cold. At the little milk product house, I made sure to put up my hood and wrap my scarf tightly around my face before beginning the journey home.
Most Unexpected Entertainment: Demonstrations of Mongolian wrestling, where two people put on leather, jacket-like armor which they grab as they face each other, trying to pull the other to the ground. When they asked for volunteers, a short-haired obvi-dyke volunteered, to the amusement and disbelief of Mongolian crew. The rest of us tourists watched as they wrestled for an uncomfortably long time, interspersed with grunting and groaning, until the girl was literally thrown to the ground and pinned by the body weight of her contender. Most unfortunately, I thought, “This is the closest thing I have to a community.”
I hadn’t ridden a horse is years, and I found the ability to use a living thing as transport, strangely exhilarating. The mountains and planes stretching as far as I could see also made the journey remarkable. What did not help the trip, however, was the biting cold. At the little milk product house, I made sure to put up my hood and wrap my scarf tightly around my face before beginning the journey home.
Most Unexpected Entertainment: Demonstrations of Mongolian wrestling, where two people put on leather, jacket-like armor which they grab as they face each other, trying to pull the other to the ground. When they asked for volunteers, a short-haired obvi-dyke volunteered, to the amusement and disbelief of Mongolian crew. The rest of us tourists watched as they wrestled for an uncomfortably long time, interspersed with grunting and groaning, until the girl was literally thrown to the ground and pinned by the body weight of her contender. Most unfortunately, I thought, “This is the closest thing I have to a community.”
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