Foreward

Over the last few years I’ve been noticing that I have more and more friends who are picking up martial arts like Muay Thai and Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. And in case you don’t have friends who’ve caught the MMA (mixed martial arts) bug, the sport has blown to mainstream proportions over the last three years. In developed Western countries, at least.

So you can imagine my surprise when I see, outside of Cafe Paname, an advertisement for Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu lessons (hereafter referred to as BJJ, *snicker*). Upon seeing the advertisement I immediately had questions in my head about who would come to Chengdu to practice BJJ and what the local conditions were like. After all, jiu-jitsu, distinguished by its grappling and 1-to-1 on-the-ground wrestling moves, is a far cry from kung fu.

Without hesitation, I made a call to Jamie, the friendly Englishman listed on the ad, and scheduled an appointment for a lesson. I visited the centrally-located gym that hosts Jamie’s BJJ sessions (adorned in ancient-looking Kenpo armor, very cool) and came back with answers. And a few bruises on my neck from trying to bear the tear-inducing pain of chokeholds as long as I could manage.

Interview with Jamie

Chengdu Living: Who are you?

Jamie Fraser

Jamie: My name is Jamie Fraser and I come from Devon, which is in the South West of the UK. I train in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.

Chengdu Living: How would you describe BJJ to those unfamiliar with it?

Jamie: Brazilian Jiu Jitsu is a martial art which emphasises ground fighting, and the practical application of leverage and technique to overcome a strength disadvantage. Full contact sparring is essential component of BJJ as the attitude of the Jiu Jitsu practitioners is that the validity of techniques can only be demonstrated through the use of the technique against a fully resisting opponent.

There are no punches, kicks, or strikes, things that people typically associate with martial arts.

One of the most apt comparisons I have heard for BJJ is that it is a game of chess (except with choking!), where the combatants start with a full array of options, and each player makes their moves. The aim of the game is to cut down all your opponents options until he is left with only one option left – to submit, otherwise known as to ‘tap out’, or otherwise face the risk of unconsciousness or injury. BJJ has a position before submission attitude, where a safe position (and hence, control) should first be obtained before any submissions are attempted. There is a positional hierarchy, and it is this battle for dominant position which characterises Jiu Jitsu.

Chengdu Living: Who do you think BJJ is for?

Jamie: Jiu Jitsu is suitable for almost anyone, because In Jiu Jitsu the aim is to create your own style of Jiu Jitsu, moulding the techniques to fit your body type and physical attributes.

“Jiu-Jitsu is to protect the individual, the older man, the weak, the child, the lady and the young woman from being dominated and hurt by some bum because they don’t have the physical attributes to defend themselves. Like I never had. “

- Helio Gracie, BJJ founder

Helio Gracie, BJJ Founder (1913-2009)

For children and teenagers, Jiu Jitsu teaches character and confidence, the type of confidence that comes with the knowledge that they can trust their Jiu Jitsu. It will teach them that even when they are in a difficult situation, and under a great deal of pressure, they can still handle the situation and not quit. It is suitable for women, because in a self-defence situation, a woman with a decent guard she would stand a greater chance of being able to defend herself. So If I ever have a daughter I will teach her Jiu Jitsu. If I ever have a son I will do the same.

However with the popularity of MMA, it tends to attract males, and they tend to be athletic. But I do not mind who comes, Jiu Jitsu is for everyone who wants it.

Chengdu Living: When did you get interested in jiu jitsu and what interested you most about it?

Jamie: I like the fact that it is so technical; millimeters, and the distribution of weight can literally make all the difference between a technique working or not against a skilled opponent. I like the fact that you don’t get punched in the head so there is no cumulative brain trauma. I like the fact that Jiu-Jitsu is more a matter of whose mind works faster, than whose body works faster. I like the fact that it is effective. It is really great feeling when you are against someone who is bigger than you, stronger than you, and who is using 100% of their power, and, through the use of techniques taught in Jiu-Jitsu, leave them with no other option but to submit or face being choked out. And then you release the hold, joke around a bit with your partner, and do it again 5 minutes later. A Jiu-Jitsu club is like a sports team, everyone supports everyone else.

Chengdu Living: When did you first get involved in martial arts in Chengdu, and what role have you played so far?

Jamie: I knew that I couldn’t live in a place where I couldn’t train, so when I came to Chengdu I looked for a BJJ club. I found one, but the teacher was of an extremely low level (he had around 2 months training and it showed) yet he wore a black belt when he taught. I wanted to train the way I had trained back in the UK, and it wouldn’t be appropriate to correct his techniques in front of his students as this would lose him face, so I asked him to let me use the room and teach once a week, he didn’t agree. So anyway I left, I phoned around and found this gym advertised in a local magazine, V (the gym owner’s name) was kind enough to let me use the gym, so I started my own club. V has many other martial arts (such as Aikido, Kendo etc) at his gym so if you are interested in other martial arts you can give him a call: 13018236007.

Chengdu Living: Compared to your home country, how would you describe the Chengdu local scene for martial arts? What are the advantages and downsides of practicing in Chengdu?

Jamie: The Chengdu martial arts scene is has an abundance of Tai Kwon Do, and other traditional martial arts, some Judo, but not much Sanda and other forms of Gong Fu from what I can see, which surprised me. Ideally I would like to find a good boxing gym or wrestling gym here in Chengdu, but I haven’t found one yet. Unfortunately there are no really high level BJJ guys here, so that means I haven’t progressed as much as I would have had I moved to Beijing or Shanghai, or stayed in the UK. Also, because MMA (Mixed Martial Arts) is not well known here, the BJJ club does not get the advertising benefits that MMA brings.

MMA is the recent platform upon which Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu has exploded, attracting millions of new fans worldwide

Chengdu Living: Over the last few years BJJ has ascended to near-mainstream along with MMA – how has this affected the art form? Do you see this as a good or bad thing?

Jamie: MMA has always been one of the best advertisements of BJJ, indeed the family that created modern day MMA was actually the same family that created BJJ. They did this because people didn’t believe a martial art that didn’t have striking could be effective, so they created a ‘no holds barred contest’, invited masters of various styles of martial arts to join (including boxing, karate, wrestling, Ninjitsu, Sumo, etc), and entered one of the physically smaller family members. They did this to show the world that a smaller man could win an open weight free style fight using technique. That was UFC1, there are many videos of it online if people are interested.

One of the good influences MMA has on BJJ is that it keeps BJJ from becoming too watered down, I believe that without MMA perhaps some of the more potentially dangerous submissions (like neck cranks, heel hooks ect) could end up being banned, which I believe would be a bad thing. As once you start to remove more and more techniques, and add more and more artificial rules then the art becomes less and less like a fight. Which is what has happened to Judo.

The inclusion of wrestling techniques into BJJ is likely to become more important in the future, however this is limited to some extend by the rules in BJJ. This blending of wrestling and Jiu Jitsu is both good and bad, good because it will bring success to those athletes who are competing in MMA, after all what is the point in ground fighting if you can’t take it to the ground. But bad because wrestling is more strength based, and Jiu Jitsu was created for the weak. The fundamentals however will never change; they are fundamentals because they work. World Championships are won using only the most basic moves that are taught in class.

Chengdu Living: Where do you see the future of BJJ and other foreign martial arts in Chengdu going? Is anything happening presently to advance the artform here?

Jamie: There is the possibility that an established chain of gyms from Beijing could open up their next gym here in Chengdu, so I am going with a friend to Beijing this coming weekend to have a look at their set up. I will also be competing in a tournament while I am there, wish me luck!

Chengdu Living: Do you practice with many Chinese, or mostly foreigners? If the audience is mostly foreigners, why do you think this is?

Jamie: Before the club was made up of mostly Chinese people, but now it is mostly foreign people. Realistically I expect the club to attract mainly foreigners; there are a couple of reasons for this. First of all, I cannot really explain BJJ that well in Chinese, although thankfully I have a friend who speaks perfect English and Chinese so he can help me in this regard. Secondly, in my experience, when Chinese children grow up, generally physical games and ‘rough and tumble’ is not really encouraged, instead physical education comes mainly in the form of more non-contact movements, where many people will perform the same, organized, predetermined, exercises or routines at the same time. This is not bad or good, it is just the way it is. However BJJ is not like this at all, so it may seem a little culturally foreign. Thirdly, MMA is more popular abroad than in China, and MMA is how most people find out about BJJ.

Chengdu Living: Anything else you’d like to add about BJJ in Chengdu?

Jamie: If you enjoy a physical sports come down and try Jiu Jitsu, it’s quite unique in my eyes. I’ll end the interview with one of my favourite Jiu Jitsu quotes:

“Jiu-jitsu is the gentle art. It’s the art where a small man is going to prove to you, no matter how strong you are, no matter how mad you get, that you’re going to have to accept defeat. Thats what Brazilian Jiu-jitsu is.” -Saulo Ribeiro

Jamie celebrating with training partners and friends in England

Thanks and Conclusion

Thanks to Jamie for participating in the interview, teaching me the basics of Jiu-Jitsu, and creating something cool and unique for people to enjoy in Chengdu.

Foreword

When I was in high school in Washington D.C., I knew graffiti artists who would endlessly sketch their alias’ in notebooks during class, eventually graduating to spray paint and the quiet streets of the nation’s capital. I thought for sure I had left this culture behind when arriving in Chengdu but was shocked and excited to find that I was wrong. For over a year now I’ve been noticing a graffiti tag posted all around Chengdu.

It’s not the first I’ve seen a tag in the city by any means, but two qualities about it made it impossible for me to forget: its sheer abundance and its unmistakable artistry. It’s simple, ever-present, and beautiful. Just three letters: G-A-S.

After noticing Gas and his tag literally proliferate around me and the places where I pass time in Chengdu, I pledged to make an effort to track him down. I was compelled and fascinated by what kind of figure was behind this.

With a little help from a friend (thanks Eli), I connected the dots and interviewed GAS. Following the interview you’ll find a collection of street art created by Gas in and around Chengdu.

Interview with Gas

Chengdu Living: Who are you?

Gas: “My name is Shui Gui (水鬼, literally “Water Ghost”). My tag is ‘Gas.’ I am an art student from Chongzhou, a city outside of Chengdu in Sichuan.”

Chengdu Living: How long have you been an artist?

Gas: “I wouldn’t call myself an artist, just a writer (literally: 写字人). I have been writing since I was 15. I was always into hip hop culture – break dancing, street ball – I tried drawing and using other mediums before then, but 15 was the first time that I picked up a spray paint can and painted a wall. I remember seeing graffiti for the first time – whoa – it blew my mind.”

Chengdu Living: How old are you now?

Gas: “Twenty one. You know, I’m still new to everything. I don’t have a girlfriend; I have never been with a woman. I have never been in love. I don’t have a lot of money or a lot of experience either, I just do graffiti. I want to contribute to Chengdu’s culture. I know that graffiti in China is not at the level of graffiti in the West, so I have to turn it up and keep improving.”

Chengdu Living: How do you see the situation toward graffiti improving in Chengdu?

Gas: “We need more cooperation. Chengdu has a problem with being fragmented- we need to find a common ground. Someone told me that the era of hip hop in Chengdu is dead. I don’t believe that. It’s not reached its pinnacle yet, its time has not arrived. People say they are Chengdu kings but that’s bullshit, Chengdu does not have kings yet. King is like a military rank. You cant just say that you are a King, or say that you are All City, just because you think you’re good. You have to earn that. People don’t focus on the fundamentals enough. In Chongzhou, where I’m from, there is a street- 100 meters long, covered with graffiti on both sides. This was all done by me, legally.”

Chengdu Living: How did you get to do that?

Gas: “I spoke to the town officials beforehand. It comes down to being a good person. They know that I’m a good guy. Some people are really stingy with their art, they just want to make a little bit of money with it. But their skill level really isn’t that good yet. The way I feel is that you got to get your skills up first, then you can try to make some money off of it.”

Chengdu Living: How did you get started in graffiti?

Gas: “When I first started I thought it was really tough to use aerosol, but I was interested in it, so I kept practicing. Now I have a decent control with spray cans. I try to find flow, the rhythm. Having the right color scheme affects the way that people feel about your piece. The relationship between the colors, the relationship between the composition and the wall, the wall and the surrounding environment. It’s all connected.

If you’re just starting, I reccommend you do this. Start with A, B, C and work your way up to Z. Make them look good. Even for Chinese writers, they need to perform this well before they’re ready to move onto Chinese characters which are more visually complex. Hong kong has an influential writer named Xeme. He writes in traditional and simplified characters. He has a ton of style, check him out.

I look at a lot of graffiti online. I use online translators to understand discussions other languages.”

Chengdu Living: Are you a member of a crew?

Gas: “I’m not part of a crew. I’m completely independent. If I join a crew, they want to control me. They tell me what to write and what not to write. Like bombing – they won’t allow it. It’s not that they are afraid of bombing – they all got busted many times – they just want to take a more commercial route. I think that’s ok, as long as you are respecting the roots of the culture, but I’m trying to promote graffiti in a systematic way. My previous crews tag was OCT. Oct = our city, or CTU, the airport code for Chengdu. If you see this tag in Chengdu, it’s definitely mine. I paint a lot, and I have never been busted.

You have to do it with shameless bravery (不要脸加勇敢). If you ever stop doing graffiti, then you never really were a graffiti artist to begin with. If you are just passing through, if you are just enjoying the fad, then you aren’t really doing graffiti.”

Chengdu Living: What are your goals for your graffiti?

Gas: “To give people on the street art to enjoy. Taking pictures of graffiti and putting them online is cool, but that’s not what I’m all about. I don’t write graffiti to collect the pictures, the goal for me is to put it on display in the street. Some people just paint in the small alleys. That’s fine, but not a lot of people are going to see it. Some people have a lot of excuses, I’m tired of the excuses. I’ve been hearing them for 5 years. I want to paint on big streets. I want to find big streets to put my art on, big corners, noticeable places. Take it to the streets.

I hope that Chengdu grows to embrace street art in all forms. I wish that the Chengdu subway would do what the some other cities do, and let artists paint in designated spots. Like sometimes they will put some art up to cover over the people who have written ban zheng ( 办证 , an ad for false documents) – in public places. Sometimes I cover up those things when I paint.”

Really I would like to paint on trains. But I gotta be realistic. You gotta start with the tagging, and work up to the bombing. Systematically.

Chengdu Living: Who are your influences?

Gas: “Ren, in Changsha Hunan province. He’s the craziest writer in mainland China, and a good friend. Xeme in Hong Kong. He writes the most elegant Chinese characters. Revok and Ewok. Pose and Sever. Mad Society Kings (MSK).”

Chengdu Living: Where can we find you online?

Gas: “Follow me on Weibo. My username is Gas1. I have a blog also.”

Chengdu Living: Anything else?

Gas: “There is one more thing I would like to say. China is a harmonious society. I have a big brother- a brother named HuJinTao, and I will always be loyal to him. I have another big brother named WenJiaBao. I believe in their policies. Even though some people might think that they are wrong, I think in this era, they’re doing a good job.

In the face of problems, there will always be some people who don’t like the way that you are handling them. But I feel like they have helped a lot of people in the middle. Not the richest, not the poorest, but the people in the middle. Please include this.”

More Gas Pieces

Thanks and Conclusion

Special thanks to Eli for not only making the introduction, but conducting, translating and transcribing the interview along with me. The interview was recorded in Chinese and we played it back in another session, translating and transcribing at the same time. Thanks of course goes to Gas for participating in this interview and providing images to share.

We’re looking forward to upcoming interviews with other Chengdu personalities. If you have a suggestion for someone who’d make an interesting candidate, go ahead and send us a message and let us know!

First Round of Additions

I added some more images, below. If anyone has anything else that you see and want it posted here, email me.

Second Round of Additions

I went to Gas’ hometown of Chongzhou a few days ago and got some photos while I was there. Lots of really nice stuff there and a nice town otherwise, worth checking out since it’s about 40 minutes from Chengdu by bus.

This morning I stepped into the elevator and noticed a good looking young kid, maybe seven or eight years old, with slightly brownish dyed hair and an unmistakable curve to his features that told me he wasn’t all Asian. His grandmother was right behind him and he kept his head down when I entered, but his grandma perked right up and got the face many grandmas get here when they catch a foreigner near their grandchild. The expression of hope (oh please please let my child become friends with this foreigner) and fear  (oh no oh no what do I do, how do I act?) that tends to mortify the kids.

Naturally, I left the kid alone because his body language told me that he didn’t want to be noticed right now. But his grandma wouldn’t leave it alone and said,

“Hey, it’s your Lao Xiang (someone from your hometown)!”

“Not necessarily,” the kid grumbled.

“Yeah I could be from Germany,” I said.

“He’s from Los Angeles!”

“Oh yeah? You speak English?”

No answer.

As we left the elevator I looked back at him again as he clutched his grandmas arm tightly and avoided my gaze. I asked him again if he spoke English and they replied yes in unison, grandma loudly with obvious pride and the youth in a whisper with a slight blush. Then they were gone. I watched them go and I couldn’t help but notice how tightly he squeezed grandma as he went and how obvious his unique looks were among the crowd of kids filing into the school yard.

My Reaction

This was a brief interaction that took all of one minute, but it got me thinking. I would wager that the kid does not flaunt his mixed-blood status and tries to deflect it any time it comes at him. I also suspect everyone in the school knows he is a mixed-blood and there is probably a group that calls him hun xue’er (biracial) — maybe not the other kids, but someone sure does and not necessarily in a bad way. They probably mean it as a mark of distinction. As something that not only sets him apart, but sets him above the rest.

I bet that kid was raised here in China by his grandparents and he is desperate to be normal like everyone else but deep down he knows he’s not and he’s been treated with deference all his life and I just tried to get into that mind state and figure out what I could do to help, because I got a little mixed-blood of my own and I see how this society treats him.

They love him too much.

Little Mixed Blood Treasure

Wherever we go, we get looked at. Every woman within 100 meters peers into my arms or into the stroller to catch a glimpse of our son and when they see him they always squeal. Then they look at us and ask the obvious, is he a mixed blood? And when we nod with that tired polite but still proud smile they coo and dip in for a closer look. As soon as one lady dips in, every other lady on the street who has been surreptitiously watching scurries over to get a look too.

My son is a ham. He is a good looking kid and he loves the ladies and loves to smile. He has two dimples and long eyelashes so the ladies always go wild when he flashes that three-tooth grin at them. They all clamour to hold him and the cool thing is, we know it’s all good. We’ve been to dozens of restaurants where the boss lady has taken him out of our arms and paraded his grinning little ass all around the shop for everyone to squeeze and coo over. They clap their hands at him; ladies jostle to be next in line to squeeze him; men gather around and praise his alert eyes and long legs. He’s perfectly safe in their arms.

Then the inevitable comparisons come:

“Mixed blood kids are smarter.”

“They are stronger too.”

“‘Chinese kids can’t handle the cold like mixed blood kids can, notice they don’t dress him up as thick?”

“Yeah and I bet they don’t use baby formula either do you?”

We confirm that no, Momma breastfed him.

“See? That’s why his skin is so soft and white!”

“And his eyes are so alert and lively!”

“And his grip is so strong!”

“Look at those dimples!”

And on and on while my son just grins like a fool and tries to bury his head into every woman’s bosom.

We definitely take advantage of it. When he’s getting tossed back and forth, we gobble food down as quickly as possible because when he’s around one of us (usually Mom) has to hold him and eat at the same time. It ain’t easy. My wife positively relies on the kindness of strangers. She’s been frequenting a post-natal treatment clinic recently and the nurses take care of Mom and her son.

Its perfect for her because the nurses can’t get enough of him and he can’t get enough of them. She gets her massages on and there is no question that he is in good hands. Win-Win right?

Special vs. Strange

The people on the street never show even the tiniest inkling of animosity, racism or jealousy to my boy when they see him. They treat him like a treasure and if I gave him the chance, he could probably get every one of those old ladies to give him a cookie every time he happened by. Maybe I should teach him to hustle his Otherness …

But something doesn’t feel right. Just like when I am the superstar here in China, I know its not real. I’m just different and the way I get treated here — no matter how much respect and love might be behind it — its not because of me, its because of some skewed perception of race and status and class. And therefore it’s all fake. Maybe I should teach him hide his Otherness …

I’m not sure if I want my son to grow up special/strange in China, where concepts of class and race are so one-dimensional. My wife is certainly against it. She wants him to grow up in a multi-cultural type of environment where his bloodline doesn’t really mean that much. So do I actually. Maybe I should take him to where he is not considered to be the Other …

Conclusion

When I was a kid in fifth grade, my teacher Ms. Ewart had a Third World Breakfast and I happened to sit at the First World table. Our table had ham and eggs and toast and juice but the other tables had gruel or just plain water. Instead of sharing my stuff with them, I led the gloating parade around the classroom. I threw pieces of my left over sausage on one table. I laughed the loudest and hooted the most. It was pretty bad and when I finally came to my senses I was so ashamed of myself that I broke down and cried in the boys room instead of staying in class and listening to the other kids read out the essays describing their feelings about the exercise. I knew what they would say; I was the example that helped teach everyone that day about power, class and greed.

I want my son to learn what I learned that day. I just hope he can learn from his old man’s mistakes so he doesn’t end up holding shameful acts in his memory for 20 years or being too fearful to answer for himself when someone asks if he can speak his daddy’s language. Maybe I should just make sure he knows me real well.

"Study Lu Xun's revolutionary spirit", 1978

The literary and online communities are calling this “Lu Xun’s Great Retreat” and there are already theories floating about trying to explain why this is happening now. The official line has been to claim that different generations require different textbooks to reflect different conditions. In an interview with the chief editor of the Jiangsu Education Publishing Company, the removal of some of Lu Xun’s works are attributed to their length and complexity.

The Chinese blogosphere points to a more sinister motive: the government is nervous about what young children might think about this society if they read Lu Xun’s social and political commentaries, look around and see that history is busy repeating itself.

Today’s Lu Xun

Yet, if this is really a move by the censors to remove certain troublesome aspects of Lu Xun’s literature, then this would not be the first (or presumably the last) time. In 2007, there were discussions concerning the removal of Miss Liu Hezhen, which was supposedly replaced with Jin Yong’s Kung Fu inspired short stories. In fact, the Chinese education system has a long history of re-arranging its curriculum based on the winds of change and Lu Xun is just one of the more prominent victims.

If one takes the time to read and analyze all of the works above and then place them within the context modern Chinese society, there probably is a valid reason why the Story of Lin Xiangru is being replaced with MLK’s Speech. That is beyond the scope of this essay, because when this began it was under the assumption that Lu Xun alone was being removed and after further research the truth, whatever that might be, has become blurred by the competing, confused cries of Chinese Netdom.

Lu Xun's hometown, called Shaoxing, in Zhejiang Province

No One Can Be Sure

A statue of Lun Xun and his wife in Guangdong Province

Something is happening within the Chinese education system. It might be political revisionism, which has many a precedent in China (and in the US school system for that matter) or it might be a modernization of the system through the introduction of foreign writers (which also has precedent in China) or it could be a sinister plot to protect the filthy rich bastards that speed around in unlicensed black sedans by leaving out any social commentary texts that might help children see them for they are: filthy rich bastards. Many a precedent for that last one.

Or nothing is happening at all, which is the case according to this article published in China’s Education Daily, which quotes yet another Jiangsu Education Publishing Company editor as saying that, NO, there were no changes made whatsoever to any of the textbooks in any grade.

This could be a classic case of news leaking and then the officials responding by obfuscating any and all references to the news or it could be a phenomenon known as “fake news,” in which the Chinese gossip mill fueled by a million bulletin board groups and 370 Million users takes a snippet of something and turns it into a mountain.

We don’t really know. But we’ll follow this story to its murky end and keep you, the reader, informed of what muck we step in. If any of you can shed light upon the subject or have an opinion or thought to share, we welcome your comments below.

For a continuation of this discussion, head over to ChinaTravel.net  …

My Affinity With Chengdu

All my friends in China refer to Chengdu and me in the same breath and I am proud of that. Wherever I go, people say I speak Sichuan dialect and I am proud of that too. I am an alien in China and for me having a place that feels like home is important.

I have been moving from place to place all of my life and I fear that I will never find a place that I can truly call my home, but when I fly into Chengdu’s Shuangliu International Airport, breaking through the cloud blanket onto dusty south Chengdu, I feel good. I start beatboxing to myself, find the nearest cabbie and start spitting my dirtiest Sichuan hua. The cabbies are awesome because they take it in stride and just hand me a smoke.

I love Chengdu. But I gotta go.

I took a job editing Chinatravel.net in the antithesis of the ‘Du: glitzy, glamorous Shanghai, hereafter known as The Hai.

Representing

You know how you can tell a German apart from an Englishman or from an American with just a glance at his bearing, clothes, facial expression and the look in his eyes? The same thing exists for laowai.

When I see a Kunming laowai walk down the street I know it when I see it and he knows it too. He might be a little bit dusty and his dress code screams “Fuck a 9 to 5!” and when he swings his head around at the scent of Southwest cuisine a lone dreadlock might crack a passerby in the jaw. I know he is from the Spring City and he knows I am from the ‘Du.

When I see Beijing foreigners walk around I can usually tell that too, because although they tuck their shirts in and most likely do not sport dreadlocks, there is a grittiness about them that bespeaks underground clubs and a circle of friends dominated by thinkers. Laowai from the provinces inbetween Chengdu and the coast have that special lost look about them that says: I may have forgotten my mother tongue and my stomach can’t handle Mom’s cooking anymore.

The Shanghai Vibe

Shanghai is different from the rest of China in a way that isn’t exactly cool, although laowai in Shanghai would say that Shanghai is by far the coolest city in China.

There are a lot of ex-frat boys and MBA grads here: East coast boarding school cats with trust funds and famously rich grandparents and I have never identified with them or their hand-me-down sense of superiority. The Hai also has a large population of young, beautiful foreign women. This is a very unique thing in China, because as we all have noticed, beautiful foreign women don’t often venture out to Chongqing or Urumuqi. They tend to stay where the living is easy and the shopping diverse.

Way back in the day I read The eXile book: Sex, Drugs and Lies in the New Russia , founded by Mark Ames and Matt Taibbi and they mentioned a phenomenon known as “expatella,” which refers to Western women trying to live in places like China and Russia.

Western women tend to lose out to local girls in one-on-one confrontations over men, for a variety of reasons that I don’t really care to get into right now. So, in order to distinguish themselves from local girls, Western women tend to adapt a somewhat bitter, perhaps wary attitude towards Western men, maybe they go ahead and give local guys a shot, maybe they go all out and try and be the party girl, but basically, they change a bit in order to compete with local girls. No disrespect, I’m just calling it how I see it (and others have seen it as well).

Now in Shanghai there is a Western woman population with some confidence and some style — they might still display a few expatella traits, but its not the same as the Western girls out in Chengdu. Its interesting and merits further investigation.

Shanghai's cityscape is like a sprawling labrynth of new construction and development

Shanghai has a bit of Gotham to it, with all of the high rises that block the views for most people, but at the same time there are shopping districts like Xintiandi and the like where you can watch trophy ladies strut their stuff in high heels, swinging tiny little brand name shopping bags as they saunter by. Off the boat Europeans and rich Middle Eastern families are on display.

There are a lot of hot, nice cars cruising up and down the French Concession and you can hear them revving up and down the boulevards late at night, no doubt filled with laughing harlots in Daisy Dukes and ketamine addled rich kids who just don’t give a damn.

Every morning when I head to work, I take the subway (Line 10 to Line 2) and the 9-5 crowd really trips me out. I feel like a lurid observer, but then i look down at my key card dangling from my neck and realize separation is an illusion. I remember laughing haughtily at tales of stuffed subway cars and bobbin’ my head to Del’s Bob Dobalina (Youtube blocked? Freedur has the key!) track and now I find myself elbowing fat sweaty dudes out of my way so I can get to the escalator 2 seconds quicker.

Its just one of those types of towns: up and coming, flush with office workers, fast cash and loose women. The city feels like it is trying to prove to itself and to everyone else that it truly deserves to be mentioned along with New York and London and Tokyo by doing all the things expected of an up and coming city. Whatever I might think about offices and suits, you gotta give propers where propers are due: Shanghai is goin’ global and doing it in style.

Urban Analysis

Now, Hong Kong has a similar environment — riches, hard dialect, good shopping — but the vital difference here is history. Shanghai has the French Concession and a history of being the Pearl and such, but the Hai is constantly re-inventing itself. It lives in the trendy moment, just a hair’s breadth behind Tokyo and a length or two behind Paris or New York.

But Shanghai tries so hard to be those cities and that smacks of fakery and pretender-ism. Hong Kong has an elegance that permeates the trendiness of this Fall’s coming fashion, whereas Shanghai seems to be constantly  re-designing its own identity. It’s a fashion-money-sex city in many ways, but its the fashion of the 20-something sex kitten, constantly changing her hairstyle, not the more mature diva, whose honed style influences the kitten.

What is the Hai Exactly?

I am not sure yet. I go on the impressions I built in my many stays here. I have friends here that can fit in anywhere and will be my friends for life, transcending any No Coast – East Coast rivalry that really only exists in my head anyway. It is one heck of a leap, from down low country living to a 9 to 5 in the big city, but I remain adaptable and life here will most likely proceed according to Sascha Time as it always seems to.

I hope that over the next few months I discard my “Chengdu Spy in the Belly of the Beast” mentality and just be a missionary of Southwest culture out here or — which is much more likely — just accept the fact that repping your spot stems from fear and enjoy this new chapter of my life: Dirty ‘Du Veteran Chillin’ in the Hai.

Unfortunately, getting your bike stolen is generally part of the same experience.

Whether you’ve dropped  a few grand on a shiny Giant or you’re pushing a rusty beater, no one likes getting their bike stolen. It’s a terrible feeling; I should know, I’ve had it happen to me four times in five years. But you can benefit from the lessons I’ve learned (read: stolen bikes) by adhereing to these five principles.

#5: Get a Good Lock

This seems obvious but you’d be surprised at how many people go for the cheapest lock, which costs less than 10 yuan. Bicycle thieves love this kind of thriftiness because it means they can break through it in a heartbeat – literally.

Take note: incorrect U-lock usage

You don’t necessarily have to drop a few hundred yuan on a fancy imported lock, but a good quality U-lock is probably your best bet. This should run you about 30 yuan at the bike shops which are ubiquitous across China. When you use it, make sure to use the lock on the frame of the bike, not just the wheel. Because returning to your bike to discover a locked up wheel sucks.

An alternative is the chain-style lock which will work great in combination with your U-lock since both of these locks require separate (and very cumbersome) tools to break through.

#4: Use the Lock, Always

Once you’ve got your lock in order and its key on your keychain, make sure you use it at all times. If you think your bike will be safe for a minute unlocked while you run inside a building to grab something, you are wrong. It’s not safe – not even for a minute.

China is teeming with bike thieves and it makes virtually no difference where you’re located. If people are around, bike thieves are around.

I learned this lesson the hard way when I stepped inside a shop in my neighborhood to pick something up. The proprietor was expecting me and my bike, parked just outside the door, was left unattended for less than 90 seconds. When I emerge from the shop, the bike was nowhere to be found, even after looking in both directions. It was a dumbfounding experience.

#3: Don’t Leave Your Bike Unattended For Long

The longer you go without seeing your bike, the less likely you are to ever see it again. If you go on vacation for a month, leave the bike inside your apartment or with a friend. Once a bike appears to be discarded, thieves will wise up to the fact that the bike has been neglected and it’ll be identified as an easier target with fewer strings attached. Leaving your bike outside of a locked area overnight is really pushing your luck, regardless of where you are. The safest place to keep your ride when it’s not between your legs is in your apartment and as near your person as possible.

#2: Park in the Attended Lots Near Housing Complexes and Shopping Districts

No matter where you’re located in China, you’re bound to be stunned by the sight of hundreds of bikes parked next to eachother in these attended lots. Similarly to how apartment complexes in the West have parking lots for residents, you’re entitled to a space in the shared bike lot outside (or inside) your apartment complex in China. This is a safe place to keep your bike as long as you check on it or ride it a few times a week. Likewise, when you ride down to Carrefour or a shopping district, you’re bound to find a sight just like this:

Bike parking areas like this are everywhere across China. Pay a few cents to keep your bike safe.

Here’s how they work: when you arrive you’ll pay the parking fee (which in Chengdu averages 2 jiao, the equivalent of a few cents) and receive two cards on elastic bands, one of which you carry and one which gets affixed onto your handlebars. When you return to pick up your bike you return the two cards which prevents thieves from bringing in a beater and leaving with someone elses’ bicycle. Since these lots are supervised by attendants and you can’t extract any of the bikes easily, parking your bike here will dramatically reduce the chance of it being stolen. Especially if the alternative is locking it up by itself on the street.

#1: Don’t Have a Bike That Looks Expensive

If you buy a rusted bike with a basket on front for 50 yuan, you won’t have to worry too much about your bike getting stolen because thieves don’t stand to make much from its sale. But in the case that you’re comfortable spending some more money getting a bike that’s more comfortable and enjoyable to ride, you can greatly increase your chances of holding onto your bike by making it stand out less.

Essentially it comes down to this: if you think your bike looks great, so do thieves. New bikes are big targets which is why you often hear stories like “My new bike was stolen in the first day/week/month.”

Should you buy a name-brand bike, you can use sandpaper to remove the brand name, or just cover the bike in a new coat of paint. You can affix stickers onto the frame to give it an older appearance (while also hiding the brand of the bike), or you can simply buy a quality bike that’s seen a few years. You’re simultaneously saving money and protecting your investment.

Conclusion

Although there’s never a 100% guarantee that you won’t have your bike stolen in China, abiding by these common sense policies will go a long way toward protecting your bicycle from thieves. If you have any stories about bicycle thieves in China or tips on how to hold on to your bike amidst the persistant threat of theft in China, I’d love to hear them.

Note: As expected, the comments have yielded some great tips (thanks Daisy, Zach, Harland, and Maomao):

• Don’t park a bike outside overnight, ever
• Lock your bike to something that can’t be moved
• Get a lock from your home country, it’ll be unfamiliar to thieves

A "Forever" brand bike which was the Rolls Royce of bicycles in pre-automobile China

]]> http://www.chengduliving.com/5-steps-to-prevent-your-bike-from-getting-stolen-in-china/feed/ 66 http://www.chengduliving.com/the-day-of-the-gaokao-in-photos/ http://www.chengduliving.com/the-day-of-the-gaokao-in-photos/#comments Wed, 04 Aug 2010 17:15:14 +0000 Charlie http://www.chengduliving.com/?p=3793 Ever wonder what taking China’s Gaokao is like?

We do.

Although high school graduates in America take the Scholastic Aptitude Test before moving onto college, it doesn’t seem to compare to the level of stress put upon millions of Chinese teenagers each year who take the Gaokao. In Chinese it’s called simply the “high test” and as our guest contributor Maomao told us last week in his article about Preparing for the Gaokao, many Chinese youths believe that this is the single event which determines their status in academia and then the larger society.

Put simply, it’s do or die – figuratively for most and literally for an unfortunate few.

This time, Maomao shares his story of what the day of the Gaokao is like.

The Day of the Gaokao

To begin, the Gaokao isn’t only a matter between students and the education ministry, but an event that concerns all of Chinese society. What happens on the day of Gaokao may give you a better understanding of how important a role this examination plays in the lives of most Chinese people.

gāo kǎo xué shēng

Students who are taking the Gaokao print “gāokǎo xuéshēng“（pictured at right） on a large sheet of paper. Displaying this in the windshield of their cars, other traffic will yield to students and make way for them, acknowleding the importance of this event. Traffic police often intervene in traffic jams to make room for students to pass, ensuring that they won’t arrive late to the examination. Short of a medical emergency, there are almost no other circumstances under which traffic police will take such action.

Should the student be running late, police can be seen personally escorting students to schools where the exam is administered by police car or event motorcycle. This happens every year without fail. It’s said that on this day it’s forbidden to honk your horn and police maintain a constant presence in the streets of Chinese cities from Beijing to Chengdu.

Guards stand at the gate of each testing center ensuring that the crowd remains orderly

Once you’ve arrived at the school, the safety inspection is very strict. Students are only allowed to bring a clear plastic bag inside the testing area (pictured below ) to carry writing implements like pens and pencils. Watches are forbidden as there are clocks inside each of the testing rooms. As you enter the room, one of the three administrators in the room will check the certificate of each student to ensure that each student is him or herself. Finally, they search each student for electronic devices which the students are allowed to explain should the administrators detector start beeping.

The bag you're allowed to bring into the Gaokao is clear and contains only pen, pencil and eraser

As students are inside rushing through the exam, nervous parents wait outside under the watch of policeman who maintain the traffic and crowds just outside. Teachers wait alongside parents and ease their concerns about students’ performance. Upon their exit, teachers encourage the students to be confident and hopeful about the next subject in the examination.

Police outside control the traffic and crowds gathered around schools

This post was authored by Maomao and edited and introduced by Charlie. All photos were taken by Maomao. Look for the next post on the Gaokao and check out Preparing for the Gaokao if you haven’t already.

What is the Gaokao?

It’s similar to the SAT in in the U.S. in that it’s a higher entrance examination, but the sheer numbers of China make this a far more daunting test that determines much of your future. So I wasn’t hugely shocked when I recently heard that several students had met an untimely fate due to the tremendous pressure of the Gao Kao. In spite of knowing so little about what the Gao Kao is actually like, I found a great opportunity to learn more by way of making a new friend in a recent high school graduate named Maomao.

Sascha and I met with Maomao at a tea house in Chengdu and he told us about his journey climbing the academic ladder in China. This is what he sent us afterwards:

Preparing for the Gaokao

After three years of a hard and busy life in Chinese high school, the Gaokao (高考) is coming. The Gaokao is the final exam of high school and is the sole exam that determines which university or college you’ll be allowed entrance to. This makes the Gaokao the jumping off point of life in China.

In the day before the Gaokao, most of us stopped studying and begain to say our goodbyes to high school. Students took cameras to school to capture memories of their peers, teachers and the school environment.

Ordinarily, when final exams come, we won’t waste even a precious moment that could be used to to review test material. Sleeping hours aren’t off limits, either. But the Gaokao is different. Like the Olympic athletes aiming to capture a gold medal, students are instructed to relax our minds and bodies in the week before the fateful exam. All of our courses are halted: teachers come to the classroom but don’t teach. At this point, their job is to answer our questions and help us relax.

This is a photo of me taken by my friend in our classroom. This was our last day there.

Our math teacher came to our classroom remind us again: be careful. which he had told us thousands of times. He's given us this advice a thousand times, but we're no longer bored by it. On the last day we take photos with him.

Many students sold their textbooks before the Gaokao exam: they're heavy and useless now. We shared a depressing joke amongst our other classmates: we used a bag of money to buy our textbooks but in the end after we've sold them, we can no longer afford the bag.

This post is part of a series on making the transition from high school student to college and adulthood in China. Maomao is a recent high school graduate and new contributor to Chengdu Living who’ll be attending the University of Science & Technology, a prestigous college in Chengdu, this fall. We’re looking forward to getting more of an inside look into what life is like for a young adult in China.

Is there anything you want to know about the Gaokao?

It was callus of me to say to my girlfriend “she is going to die while we are gone,” but that’s how I was feeling at that moment. Koko was just finishing two months of work in Shanghai, and we were getting ready to go to Thailand for the wedding of one of my close friends when her mother called to tell her that her maternal grandmother, her Laolao, was having health problems. The trip was scheduled for ten days, and I imagined a graph showing “number of days you wait to visit her” on the x axis, and “likelihood that you will see her alive again” on the y axis, with a downward sloping line heading towards ten.

Koko did not want hear this. We had been living in different cities for 6 months, and Koko was looking forward to our reunion, so she reassured me that her grandmother was strong. She knew very well the fragility of her grandmother’s condition, but she was already gearing up for the romance of a cross-cultural wedding in the tropics, and she was not interested in breaking down her morbid dilemma. She was probably aware of the gamble that she was running though, and maybe it was the unstable combination of giddy excitement and filial guilt that combusted into the sickness that hit her as soon as we got off the plane.

She lay in bed for days, vacillating between stoicism and self-pity, with a strange fever that returned each day, and a cough that covered the floor in soiled tissues and empty medicine packages. But the wedding was beautiful, and two days later, we flew from ChiangMai to Phuket with the newlyweds and several other friends. We sipped drinks on the beach, and on New Year’s Eve we kissed, and posed for pictures in front of a sky flooded with twinkling paper lanterns. The next morning Koko reported feeling better, but by the afternoon she was sweating with fever again, confined to the room with the ceiling fan whoofing overhead.

On our last day with the honeymooners, Koko stayed in the hotel sick, while I went to the beach with our friends. I called from the beach and she was in tears. She had spoken to her mother, and Laolao’s condition had taken a turn for the worst. It was not clear (to me) if she was dead already, or in a vegetative state, but the bottom line, I gleaned, was that she was on her deathbed, and Koko now understood she would not see Laolao again.

Why is it so important to be present for the death of a loved one? Is it to see them one more time? It’s not really about a number of times, is it? Is it for the afflicted? Of course. But there is something in it for the visitor as well. It’s not that the visitor wants to be there – there is an implicit obligation: if you love me, you will suffer with me when I depart. Right then. That very instant. Not when it’s convenient. You visit the deathbed to remind yourself that you are supposed to be unhappy. Grief demands focus. You cannot grieve on vacation.

Koko and I lay on top of our sandy sheets, and she cried enthusiastically. I wracked my brain for something helpful to say. “It’s not your fault,” I said over and over again, imitating how I imagined a psychotherapist might sound. One of the friends we were traveling with knocked on our door to ask for a bottle of whiskey in our room, and at that moment Koko sprung off the bed and vomited on the floor. The friend took the bottle and left.

The realization of Laolao’s imminent death was followed by a desperate, frustrating, and ultimately fruitless attempt to change Koko’s plane ticket back to China. There were only a few days left on our trip, and it seemed worth any price to potentially give Koko a chance to see her grandmother alive again. But it was a day after New Year’s, on a resort island, and finding a plane ticket short notice was a preposterously expensive dream. So we plowed ahead.

We took a boat to a beautiful remote tropical beach, and Koko spent the whole time in the room. Reefs went unexplored, jungle paths unhiked, water caves unkayaked. Large bats swooped between the palm trees around our bungalow at dusk. But there was no cell phone reception at the bungalow, so Koko and I walked to the beach to call her family. Grandma is still hanging on, she was told. We had walked about 30 meters back through the grassy path in silence when Koko turned to me with a quizzical look and said, ‘I think my sister was lying to me.’ And then after a brief silence, ‘I think my grandmother is already dead.’ The idea had crossed my mind and to hear her say it made me immediately certain it was true. I was strangely proud that my girlfriend had seen through the polite deceit that her family was trying to pull on her, but I played coy when she asked me what I thought. I knew it would not be comforting for me to voice strong confidence in her morbid hunch, but of course once prodded, I did, and her suspicion coalesced into grim conviction, then desperate grief.

I lay next to her in bed as she thrashed and wailed, breaking into spasms of deep coughing. Koko said she was sure Laolao would have wanted her by her bedside, because Koko was Laolao’s favorite grandchild. She lamented that I had never gone to meet Laolao, a trip that she had repeatedly pressured me to make, but I had always found reason to avoid. My reluctance to go stemmed from a fear that a full family introduction was tantamount to a tacit marriage engagement, but seeing Koko’s inconsolable disappointment, I regretted not having gone. I cried with Koko. I felt sympathetic, then numb, then sympathetic again. I stroked her hair and wondered why I didn’t feel such a close bond with my living grandmothers. My eyes strayed to a Dutch soccer game playing on the television in the background. One of the players scored an incredible goal by chip shot. Koko continued to sob.

The picturesque sunset that we couldn't ignore. Thailand tends to have this effect on people.

Then Koko suddenly sat up again. “Give me the phone,” she said. “I’m going to call them back. I want to know what time Laolao died.” I protested briefly, but Koko’s mind was already made up, and moments later I was walking behind her on the path, buttoning my shirt as we headed toward the beach. The sun was setting in a very picturesque way (the photo above is the one I took) and seeing it, Koko declared matter of factly, “wow, I didn’t realize how pretty this place was.” Then she dialed her sister. I knew she was going to say that Laolao was dead, and as I listened to their conversation, Koko tearfully interrogating her sister, I drifted into a fantasy about the poetic juxtaposition between the beautiful sunset, and the bad news being delivered. Then suddenly Koko was handing the phone to me- “she wants to talk to you.” I looked at it like she was holding a snake. “Me? What? Why?” “She says Laolao is not dead.” I picked up the phone. Her sister’s voice was clear on the line “Eli, hello, it’s me. Koko is talking nonsense. She won’t believe me so I want to talk to you. Laolao is not dead. What I can tell you about her condition is that…” Then the call cut off. The phone was out of credit, and there was no way to buy another card on the beach. “What did she say?” Koko asked. “She said that Laolao is alive,” I said, puzzled. “Yeah, that’s what she told me too,” Koko said, leaning her hand on her neck.

I found out about Laolao’s death when I returned to ChiangMai four days later. Because my passport had been within six months of expiration, I hadn’t been able to get a Chinese visa and had applied for a new passport before we left ChiangMai. Getting my new passport meant changing my plane ticket and flying back to Chiangmai while Koko went back to China alone. From Phuket she flew to Kuala Luampur, then to Chengdu, and then to ZhengZhou, in Henan. At the airport her uncle met her and drove her to XinXiang, where two other relatives got in the car, saying they were going to the hospital to visit Laolao as well. Koko called her mother. She could hear the sound of funeral dirges playing in the background. “That’s the sound of a funeral ,” She said to her mother. “I’m watching tv,” her mother retorted. Riding into Laolao’s home village, the unpaved street was lined with condolence wreaths and Koko knew she was too late. She stepped from the car and dropped to her knees in the muddy snow.

When I visited Laolaos grave, it was exactly 45 days after her burial – just the amount of time that the soul of an old woman from Northern Henan’s soul stays in her body after death, I was informed. To mark the milestone, a procession of 15 of Kokos relatives and I, dressed in white, walked to the fallow field on the edge of town where Laolao was buried. I carried a coffee table atop which apples and steamed buns were placed it in tribute. A mound of red spirit money was burned. Laolao’s eldest son moved the process along curtly, ushering the men and women into separate groups and initiating a series of greetings addressed to the deceased. After each series of chants by the men, the women would kowtow, weeping loudly. This happened five or six times and then it was over. Crying as she walked away, I held my girlfriend’s hand, wondering if someone was going to come back later to retrieve the coffee table.

As these things often go, the irrational terror I felt about meeting my girlfriends family dissolved upon contact with the mundane reality of the encounter. We played mahjong and made dumplings. Exchanged red envelopes stuffed with money. Her father asked me about the American tax system. I drank baijiu with her grandfather. Her mother gave me a pair of long underwear, then another pair, and finally, sensing my weakening resistance, a third pair. All the time I couldn’t help wondering, when exactly had Laolao died — had I been lied to on the phone?

When my girlfriend finally told me directly that yes, her sister had lied to me, she followed with an impassioned defense of her entire family’s deception of her, so it was very hard for me to sustain any indignation. Had they not deceived her, she argued, she would have lost the shred of optimism that carried her home from Thailand. Confronted by Koko on the phone, her sister had had no choice but to double down on the lie and bring me into it.

I wanted to feel wronged, but I couldn’t help but imagine that things would only have been worse if they had told the truth. Their thinking had been the opposite of mine. To them, protecting Koko from emotional stress far superseded the need to be honest with her. Although it had occurred to me before saying “you know, she is going to die while we are gone,” that it would make Koko upset, I went ahead, thinking that confronting the ugly truth would only make her stronger. But then again, she got violently ill two days later, so I was evidently wrong about that – at least in the short run.

Billy flew out to Chengdu from New Jersey with both his wife and the ultimate goal of recruiting Chinese elementary school students to attend his summer camp in America. As Billy’s personal Chinese interpreter, I was constantly assessing my role in our entourage, mostly maintaining Billy’s position as leader while judging when I should step ahead, and when to just keep quiet. Billy had come last year to Chengdu with his son on the invitation of his former camper, Nick. This year the trip would focus on relationship-building with the heads of private elementary schools, where parents send their children to live Monday through Friday from as early as age one.

The following roles are listed in order of appearance throughout our business trip and are in no way an indication of importance. As you read this, you may find it useful to re-order them according to your own system. Also, being that much of the prose below describes the minutia of body language, you might also want to leave comments at the bottom with your own interpretations and questions for clarification.

Role # 1: Cultural Consultant

Wading through suburban traffic with Chinese Ray at the wheel, I familiarized the venerable Billy with the format of Chinese meetings. I needed an example he could relate to, so I recounted a clumsy meeting I’d observed between Nick (also a close and long-time friend of mine) and a prospective Chinese business partner. My story illustrated that Chinese meetings usually begin with each side establishing trust, mainly talking about their own background, interests, and experience in the business. I explained that from Nick’s perspective, it was best not to promise anything that might lead the Chinese solicitor on (or let him suck Nick into a business deal). Nick’s meeting, in which the Chinese man’s aim was to interest Nick into joining his nascent agricultural advertising firm, went something like this:

Chinese man in his late 20s: “I studied art for a long time, and really believe the advertising industry has potential.”

Nick: “I hear you, but I’m not ready to commit.”

CM: “Right, I want to make it clear that I’m really committed to the very essence of art, and that it’s always been a passion of mine.”

Nick: “I understand that, I just can’t promise you anything yet.”

CM: “Alright, let me explain. From a young age I always loved art…”

Their meeting went on for several hours, but could, in theory, have been accelerated, had Nick satisfied the Chinese side by simply letting him know that he trusted him. Had Nick just listened politely to his counterpart’s story, nodding and smiling, the meeting could have quickly moved from the “establishing trust” stage into the “discussion of details” stage.

Billy appeared to be amused by the story about his former camper, now grown up. “The introductory segment of a Chinese meeting can usually go on for 45 minutes to an hour,” I told Billy, “but may be longer, so you’ll have to be patient. Today’s goal is just to establish trust.” Billy was smart, and had already thought of a strategy: talk about his current role as principal of an elementary school during the school-year, as well as his 40+ years as a school teacher in order to help the Chinese principals relate to him personally and professionally. Billy would wait until later to describe his summer camp and intentions for recruitment. Perfect.

Role #2: Censor

Just before we arrived for our first school visit, Billy turned to me in the back seat and said, “I’m not accustomed with Chinese culture, and I’m thinking that in order to avoid saying anything that might offend anyone, you should change what I say sometimes.” I laughed, “Don’t worry about that, Chinese and English are so different that Ray and I will be changing everything you say to fit Chinese ears. You just focus on what YOU want to say.” Later when the Chinese principal was sitting in the back seat with me on our way to lunch, Billy requested that I ask the principal whether or not he had a family.

I thought back to when I’d started at That’s Yangzhou magazine a few years ago: I had asked my boss if he had any children, and everyone in the office shot me a surprised look. The general manager said to me, “In China, when you talk to a man over the age of 40, you should ask, ‘How old is your child’.” Asking if he has any children questions his manhood.

I quickly wrapped up this story for Billy, and suggested I ask the latter question. Billy consented with amusement. Ray then prodded me to translate the entire explanation and story for the Chinese principal. I did. Premising it with “This is a Sino-American cultural difference” —  the principal’s face washed over with a rainbow of expressions, from interested to offended to perplexed to understanding to delighted, all within about 20 seconds.

Role #3: Direct translator

As we had initially waited for the principal, Billy took seat on the sofa nearest the only individual armchair in the principal’s meeting. We’d all decided the armchair chair generally felt “more powerful,” and that we should be mildly obsequious. The principal entered with a warm smile, sat and said “非常欢迎您.”

I turned to Billy and said, “He says ‘Welcome to our school’.”

“Well I’m happy to be here,” Billy said toward the principal. The principal then directed his attention from Billy toward me.

“很高兴能够来,” I smiled and nodded. Everyone was happy, because protocol here demanded a direct translation of the greeting-response to establish the status and roles of both the principal and Billy.

Role #4: Observer of Tone and Body Language

It quickly hit me that I was dividing my attention, maybe 80%-20% between whichever person was talking at the time and the person I’d be translating to, respectively. The reason I was doing this was I had to get the fullest understanding of the speakers meaning, and then re-jumble it around to carry the fullest meaning for the other person, who would then get my 80% attention. When I observed the Chinese principal gyrating his torso and shoulders and lifting his head brightly as he said, “我觉得孩子都有不同的特长,” the meaning I gathered would be totally different if he’d said the exact same words but dully and flatly, and without the excited body movements. And so I turned to Billy and, myself, popped into Western mode. My tone meant “this is simply how he feels,” and with uplifting hand gestures (the Chinese principal had used neither my tones nor gestures, but I felt, again, that this would convey the closest feeling to Billy), I said “He believes that every child is unique in their abilities.” Billy gave a resounding nod. As Americans, I spoke with Billy as I would with a peer, and when I spoke to the Chinese leaders, I maintained a friendly deference.

Role #5: Moderator

When each speaker had completed about one or two full thoughts–about my limit–I’d have to cut them off and translate for the other person. If I had the speakers eye contact, I could simply nod, and they’d usually consent and wait. If not, then a patient touch on the shoulder for Billy, whom I sat next to in all our meetings, or else a more exaggerated head-nod for a speaker out of reach was pretty effective. Also, my turning toward the listener tended to alert the speaker that it was time for a quick translation.

Role #6: Brainstormer

Billy had a lot of ideas as we walked around each school campus, and Ray and I would sometimes offer a tweak here and there. One was to start a Skype pen-pal system between the Chinese elementary school students and Billy’s American students. Ray and I told him that it would be easier to get the American students to download QQ than to convince Chinese students to switch to Skype.

Role #7: Self-Sacrificer

At our lunch banquet, the Chinese principal would eat lightly while watching Billy talk to him to him, and then he’d listen to my translation. Billy would then get a few bites in while the principal responded. Either way, I had to be on constant alert to keep up their rapport, so I’d wait to pack down food until either one was distracted by their colleges or away at the toilet.

Role #8: Child Pacifier

When we stepped into the first elementary school classroom, the children perked up in their seats, and with beaming smiles, began yelling, “外国人，哗！外国人!” My experience in elementary school classrooms (regardless of what country), alerted me with a premonition of impending doom:  that if more than three or four of the children charged at us, the rest would soon mob us. So I took the offensive. I rushed to the front of the class with an imposing-yet-whimsical look on my face, and stood broadly at the front of the room. I raised both arms out, largely and firmly, in a suppressive gesture that communicated, “Calm down and sit down first.” All eyes were on me; I had their attention. I nodded with a warm, friendly, yet heavy, glare at each of the students who were away from their seats, gesturing for them to return. I kept up my heavy nod as I put my index finger to my lips (a visual “shush”), getting direct eye contact from each of the students. The class quieted down quickly. The Chinese teacher, unprepared for our visit, simply announced that the “foreign friends came to speak to us today.” I nodded to Billy to come take center stage. I yelled a warm, “大家好!” and the children echoed in organized unison, “老师好!” I went on to translate Billy’s personal introduction, and then I ran to each student as Billy fielded their individual questions.

Role #9: Personal Coach

As we wrapped up a day of meetings, rummaging through the gifts from the schools–one school had given Billy a beautiful ceramic plate that had been hand made by the teachers and students together in their Pottery Workshop, which is great because traditional Chinese gift giving tends to focus on price–Billy expressed regret that he hadn’t thought to bring gifts for the school leaders. Redirecting to the positive, I reminded him that from the perspective of the school leaders, who were nervous and anxious to make a good impression on him, the school’s gifts for Billy were more important. Ray and I were being honest when we then told Billy that while a guest bringing gifts is a nice gesture, what was more important was that Billy invited each principal to come visit him at his school, summer camp and home in America. Reciprocation is a strong gift. Billy was also very reflective and conscientious after we left each meeting, as anybody might be, asking Ray and I, “Was that ok, the way I brought up the summer camp proposal?” Ray and I would then pump in the confidence: “Yeah! Oh, yeah. Great. Yeah, really good.” Again, as long as we were being honest, it was important to keep morale up.