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I have discovered
that it is undoubtedly in my best interests to avoid the pirates that disguise
themselves as taxi drivers operating in this city. I have decided to meet
the challenges of early winter mornings and crowded busses to make my way
from Hua Xiang to early weekend classes at Zhongshan School.
The sun rises
late, and it is often in dim dawn light that I carry my heavy black leather
satchel along Runway 2 towards the bus stop. This is a relatively new area,
being built on the old Shenyang air base, which is the reason why the road
names reflect their original purpose. You couldn't tell by looking; the
apartment walls are stained from the rust patterns rained on over ungalvanised
window frames, the shabby brickwork seems as close to tipping over as do
any of the older areas of Shenyang.
Vegetables hang
from the upper levels and sit in rows on the sidewalks. At first, I thought
they were for sale, and watched horrified as passers-by trod on the corners
of cabbage leaves, as dogs chewed at stalks and as the coal dust settled
in fine layers upon them. It was little wonder that noone appeared to be
buying them. However, I was later to learn that they were merely left out
to dry: after some weeks they will be collected, sterilised, and stored
together in enormous preserving jars to provide greens for the winter;
apparently they are involved in many delicious hot recipes. Even so, I
was still wary... those dogs are generally not given any kind of veterinary
treatment. I wondered what happened when they became older, and discovered
that in some neighbouring regions they are still eaten. A colleague informed
me of having seen a dog hung up and bled for its meat in the nearby city
of Fushun - although this practice is considered a little barbaric even
there.
I find myself
walking with the locals on the road itself rather than on the usually vacant
footpath. I have been told that the Chinese word for footpath translates
as 'side road' and thus contains no concept of being built for the purposes
of walking on it. Actually, the sidewalks are more regularly used as parking
spaces, which certainly eradicates parking problems in the inner city areas.
Crossing the road here is a matter of playing chicken with every car, bicycle
and fellow pedestrian encountered. There are laws on traffic conduct here,
but they are of little use. I have seen police cars drive happily on the
wrong side of the street for the sake of convenience, parping at the jaywalkers
and cyclists as they go.
At the bus stop,
there is little chivalry or good manners. There are a limited number of
seats on any bus, and there appears to be no upper limit on how many passengers
a bus will be prepared to pick up at any given stop, so the first to embark
may be the few who are granted the relative convenience of sitting. At
every designated bus stop we pull over for more passengers, and those wishing
to alight must push their way to the back door in hope of squeezing out
before the bus sets out again.
I find myself
in a small pocket at the rear of the bus. The bus is slow today, there
are many passengers and my thick winter jacket has become uncomfortably
hot in the interior. The windows are steamed over and white. Amongst the
faces I notice one girl whose nose has been involuntarily pushed close
to the window, her black eyes and hair in silhouette against the frosted
glass. Concerned she will miss her stop, she breathes gently on the glass
and raises her woollen-gloved hand to wipe away the steam. She spreads
her fingers out like a fan, then with one finger carefully draws a small
box around the semicircle she has made. She smiles delightedly at the pattern
she has created, and I am reminded of doing the same when I was very small.
Outside, these drab clouds seem poised to snow.
Behind me, a
fight has broken out between a few women, probably after one accused the
other of shoving too forcefully. The bus has to stop, I see a woman in
her thirties beat another in her forties with her handbag. They are all
shouting incessantly, it's amazing that in a temper they can find so much
to say to each other, let alone manoeuvre around the other passengers in
order to throw punches. Noone appears to be intervening; finally one is
held back by a friend, who quickly changes her mind and joins the fight.
I step carefully between two of the most vicious contestants, one behind
me is blocked and the woman in front ignores me. I reach up and put my
hand on her cheek and put my nose right in front of her face - she looks
at me in the eyes for a moment, and I say, 'Please stop'. Even though she
cannot reach her opponent, she decides to ignore me still and continues
shouting. The bus has now moved on, and they have missed their stop. They
get off at the next opportunity and I see them shouting still as the bus
moves away.
I watch the
shop fronts as we pass by. At one corner, I examine an unusual advertisement
for long underwear which has the brand name 'Maoren' which means 'cat people'.
A couple are dressed in silky white body-hugging samples of the product,
one a slender Chinese girl with stunning black hair, the other a white
man who looks rather disturbingly like me. She is kneeling on his lap,
the man is pulling off her top with his teeth. As the bus moves away I
wonder who is really responsible for the suspicion with which foreigners
like myself are afforded here. The advertisement, I suspect, plays on such
dangerous associations Chinese people have made with Western people. I
wonder if it sells well.
A Christian
has found his way onto the bus, and takes the opportunity to proclaim his
faith in a forum where he presumably can't be caught. He delivers a stream
of Mandarin at the front of the bus about Christ, some are amused, I notice
one elderly woman approaches him after he finishes speaking. He gets off
quickly on his way to Church.
Traffic is slow
in this cold weather - I am lucky not to be late for class. Sunday is my
busiest day, requiring two trips across the city as I move between a couple
of schools. I enjoy the day, however, in particular my adult class at Tie
Xi school, where I have the opportunity to discuss my language in a little
more depth. I am aware that I am really unable to present my students with
any significant degree of English in this short course; instead I attempt
to inspire them to take their studies seriously, so that after their class
is over they might have a better idea of just what it means to study this
language.
Foreign Amongst Foreigners I am certainly the only New Zealander working at Guan Ya, in fact, I am the only foreign teacher from outside North America. Even amongst my English speaking colleagues, I am pretty much on my own culturally. Americans have a reputation in my country, and perhaps worldwide, for being somewhat loud and opinionated. In the view of the Chinese, this is a somewhat endearing quality. American English is, admittedly, clearly spoken and in its standard pronunciation clearly delivered with strong consonants. Despite my initial reservations, I'm quite contented to instruct these kids in the American dialect, who would have immense difficulty with the diphthongs of my own accent. On one afternoon at Lan Ting hotel, where I am more resigned to live now for the sake of its convenient location, I sat in our common room discussing experiences with Peter, a teacher from California. He's been in China for over a year, having taught in Dalian in 1999, generally considered an attractive seaside city several hours drive away from Shenyang. It was an easy opportunity for the pair of us to let out some as yet unexpressed frustrations on local methods and quirks. As some of the only foreigners in Shenyang, Chinese habits are rawly exposed and often irksome. Peter seemed more than comfortable to observe his nation's tradition of unbridled and continuous critique. I spent almost an entire day engaged in the discussion, most of which consisted in my attention to his experiences of Chinese aggravation. Nothing escaped Peter's scrutiny - the incapability of locals to correctly fit electrical appliances or perform minor feats of plumbing, the complicated egotistical strategies of business partners which repeatedly retard good business, half-attempted renovations and unrealistic estimations of Western people. After more than a year of suffering inconsistent hot water and kamikaze taxi drivers, a degree of cynicism is hard to curb. Even now as I write, my hotel room is teeming with superfluous workmen in response to the foreign teachers' requests for heaters. Instead of providing heaters that can be plugged in to a wall socket, we have been issued with heaters which require a new electrical system to be installed, and which will only be activated when the hotel deems it to be cold. Perhaps illuminating was Peter's appraisal of Chinese women. Having survived a relationship or two with locals in Dalian, he now claims to be waiting to meet an American girl. Chinese women, he tells me are a dangerous choice. For a start, by his estimation, Chinese girls are too interested in European men. There are three main reasons for this - on a basic level, the corpse-white skin, thinning hair, wide eyes and big noses we Europeans are endowed with are for reasons of their novelty attractive items here. Secondly, the opportunity to go overseas is very important to Chinese people, and the chance of emigrating with a foreign husband is for some perhaps their only option - and foreign men are certainly a scarce resource here. Finally, and most importantly, Chinese people care more about the future of their children than they do their own. Peter told me that as far as he saw it, there wasn't a woman in the city who wouldn't accept a foreign husband for the sake of her children's opportunity to grow up overseas. He told me, 'if you are a white male, not physically deformed in any way, and are single in this city and you don't think you could successfully attract any woman here, you're selling yourself short'. I wondered if this was something of an arrogance. Peter, however, was very dismissive of people who might use that insight to their advantage. He told me of a foreigner he knew in Dalian who frequented discos, bringing home at least one or two different girls on a daily basis. He was for all purposes sent out of the country very quickly. These places have plain clothes government officials who do know who comes and goes, and who were certainly aware of the behaviour of this particularly offensive individual. In fact, Peter's assessment of the likelihood of a cross-cultural relationship here was most dismissive. 'The thought of bringing home a Chinese girl is a nightmare', he said. 'Think of the amount of education you'd have to go through to bring someone who's never left Shenyang into your life. There are so many levels upon which these cultural values just don't match - from basic issues on personal hygiene to the practicalities of Los Angeles street smarts - it would take years.' There are, of course, some here who have done it. Chris told me he's scheduled to marry a local girl soon, and there is another male teacher who has been here a long time with his Chinese wife. They both have great Mandarin - another, however, has married a girl without any great command of Chinese, and she speaks but little English too. It makes their occasional disputes in the hotel quite interesting, in that they need to bring in a translator if they are to argue. Yet another of the American teachers has a steady girlfriend living here who used to be a student - 'I've always liked exotic girls' he told me - 'her English isn't great, but we're getting there'. He invited me to a night club he knew which was 'teeming with young girls looking for foreigners'. However, for me the prospect of being a foreigner on display doesn't really appeal. As far as I can tell, the general level of education regarding what foreign people are (i.e. fellow human beings) is very low here. In English, the word 'foreigner' has a negative connotation - noone really wants to be a foreigner, it's a word reserved for other people. Making friends can be disappointing, for the reason that just when you are starting to feel that here is a person who has no qualms about communicating with someone from overseas, suddenly a subtle word or indication is dropped that you're still really something of a peculiarity, and perhaps a threat. Given the reputation foreign teachers have earned thanks to the behaviour of predecessors like Peter's philandering colleague in Dalian, this I suppose is not a surprise. |