TheBanyanTree: Transition to the Real China, Part 3 (very long)

[Pat M]

Transition, Part 3
September 1, 2007


It was finally happening.  By the end of the day, I'd be in my own apartment
and I could start making a home for myself. Frank had spoken with head
office on my behalf and they'd agreed to let me teach at Buckland Lintong
English College.



"We'll meet Alice and Mayo (the teacher who was leaving) for lunch," he told
me. "Pack your things."



Alice (the principal), Amy (the college's Chinese English teacher), Ms Zhang
(the cook) and Mayo arrived at the restaurant just moments before Frank and
I pulled in.   After introductions, Alice ordered a feast for us.  Enjoying
food with friends or business associates is a big part of the Chinese
culture. Alice made a toast to thank Mayo for his work and to welcome me to
the college before we settled into eating the beautifully arranged culinary
delights that continued to arrive at our table. The food, although
unfamiliar to me, was delicious.



Most of the conversation was in Chinese so Mayo and I weren't able to take
part in it.   I used the time to find out from Mayo what his experiences in
Lintong had been like.



"There are hardly any students at the college," he told me.  "And, it can
get kind of lonely being the only foreigner in the city."



That was news to me.  I'd known I would be the only foreign teacher at the
school but hadn't realized I'd be the only foreigner in the entire city of
half a million people.   I took a moment to mentally reassure myself.



Foremost on my mind was the computer in the apartment.  It had to be
functional.   It would be my connection to the familiar—to my family and
friends and I intended to set it up to use MSN Live to make free phone calls
to my family.   The computer's CD player would play my English music.



"How's the computer?" I asked Mayo.  "Is it working properly?"



"There's something wrong with it," he said.  "I think it has a virus. It
needs work."



If there were problems with it, I planned to make Alice aware of them as
soon as possible.



"How far is the college from the apartment?"



"It's a 20 minute walk or about 5 minutes by taxi," Mayo said.  "I used to
ride a bike back and forth but someone stole it.   Lots of times I take a
taxi; it's only 3 yuan (about fifty cents).  You get kind of tired of being
stared at."



I recalled my travels in July with my Chinese friends, Joyce and Mao.   We'd
visited some cities where everyone had gawked at me, so I knew what he was
talking about.


After lunch, we drove to the apartment.   My first observation: there was no
elevator in the building.  Thankfully, Frank and Mayo were there to help me
carry my heavy luggage up to the sixth floor.   As soon as I entered the
apartment, I went straight to the computer and turned it on.   As I waited
to see if it would boot up, I walked through the apartment.   It was huge,
and very clean, except for the bathroom and especially the toilet.  Both
needed a thorough scrubbing and disinfecting.   Most Chinese toilets are
disgusting and the standard of bathroom cleanliness is poor.  I'm not one of
those obsessive compulsive freaks who can't stand a few spots of grime, but
I have my standards, and bleach and a scrub brush went to the top of my
grocery list.

Frank joined me and together we made sure everything listed in the contract
was there.   I returned to the computer and checked my email without any
problems.  That was a relief.  Mayo asked if he could go on the computer to
try to retrieve some photos he'd been having trouble accessing.



"Go ahead," I said.



While waiting for Mayo to finish on the computer, I asked Amy, "When will I
start teaching?"  I was fighting a cold and hoped I would not have to start
immediately.



"You'll be off this week," she said. "You need time to get your apartment
set up and to become comfortable in Lintong.   For the next few days, I will
go everywhere with you."



Great!



"The school provides your meals.  Breakfast is at 9, lunch at noon and
dinner is at 6 o'clock."



If the food was anything like it had been in Yangshuo, I'd take a pass and
cook my own.   If I never saw another bowl of steamed rice, it would be too
soon.   In Yangshuo, rice had been served for breakfast, lunch and dinner,
everyday.



"Have a rest," Amy said, as everyone headed out the door. "I'll come back at
5 to take you to the college for dinner."



After soon as I was on my own, I dug through my suitcase for my CDs,
unwrapped the speakers and turned on the computer.   I couldn't wait to
listen to English music. But this time, the computer would not boot up; an
error message came up saying there was a serious malfunction.   What a
letdown!  I had been so excited.   I wouldn't be able to listen to English
music or set up MSN Messenger, and who knew how long it would take before
the computer was fixed?   Although I tried to tell myself it didn't matter,
after nearly 8 weeks without music, another couple of days seemed like an
eternity.



When Amy arrived to take me to dinner, I told her the computer would not
start.



"I will talk to Alice," she said.



I enjoyed a delicious (although very spicy) meal at the college and felt
hopeful that I would be able to take advantage of having my meals cooked for
me.   Ms. Zhang, it seemed, was quite the cook.



After supper, Amy returned me to my apartment in a taxi.



The next morning, Amy met me at the apartment and we walked to the college
together.   She led me through many side streets and alleys telling me,
"This is the shortest route." I knew I'd never be able to find my way home
on my own. Again the lack of English signs made it difficult for me to
choose points of reference.   Along the way, people stopped to stare at me
as I passed by.



After lunch, Amy and I walked to the Supermarket and I shopped with her
assistance.   The store clerks and most of the shoppers stared at me as I
made my way up and down the aisles trying to locate items that looked
familiar. The store was very large but the products I knew could be counted
on one hand.   I found instant Nescafe coffee, Minute Maid orange juice,
Tide laundry detergent and some Oil of Olay skin products.  All of the
product labels were in Chinese and I could not tell dish detergent from
bathroom cleaner or bleach without Amy's assistance. There were an abundance
of store clerks in each department, all of them intensely interested in me.
As I passed them, there were whispers and giggles.   Some began to follow me
around.  When I stopped to look at something they mobbed me, shoving
products in my face and speaking to me in Chinese.   They would not leave me
in peace to 'just look.'   I was in good humor though and just smiled at
them.



I was able to purchase an iron (if I was going to teach, I'd have to look
presentable) but Amy told me that if I wanted a toaster, I would have to go
to Xian, an hour away by car.   I found it hard to believe that in a city of
half of million, there were no toasters.  But then, the Chinese do not eat
western-style sliced bread.   Instead they eat steamed buns, made by placing
balls of dough in bamboo steamers.   (I've added photos to my photo album to
show the buns and steamers.)



In Lintong, as in Yangshuo, there was no fresh milk for sale in the
supermarket, only processed long-life milk. Butter, impossible to find in
Yangshuo, was available in Lintong. In both cities there was an absence of
coffee cream and whip cream.   The only cheese available was individually
wrapped cheese slices that came in 'original flavor' and 'chocolate'
flavour.  Chocolate flavour cheese? I noticed that most skin-care products
in China contained a whitening agent or skin bleach.   Chinese women, it
seemed, were anxious to have paler skin.


We returned to the college.  After supper, I asked Amy to write my
apartment's address down in Chinese to show to the taxi driver; I'd find my
own way home. Laden with shopping bags, I flagged down a taxi.   Before
getting in, I passed the address to the driver to make sure he knew where to
go.  With a quick nod, he gestured me into the cab.

He had only just pulled out from the curb when I realized he hadn't a clue
where to go.  He wound down the window and began shouting out to other taxi
drivers.   None bothered to slow down to answer him. The taxi inched
forward.  Behind us, cars began to hoot. He turned to me with a grin that
seemed 'too friendly' and began to speak to me in Chinese.   I had no cell
phone; I couldn't speak Chinese.  There was nothing I could do but wait and
see what happened.  He pulled out a cell phone and dialed but got no answer.
I knew he was not driving in the right direction but I couldn't tell
him.  Finally,
someone answered his shouts, and he delivered me unscathed but 'rattled' to
my apartment.   Because he had taken twice as long as he should have to take
me to my destination, the meter charge was double what it should have been.
I paid him the correct fare (not what the meter said), gathered my shopping
bags and made a hasty exit.



It was an ink-black night and I discovered there were no lights on in the
stairwell of my apartment building.   The building was still under
construction and only a few of the apartments in it were finished and
rented. I couldn't see a thing so felt my way along the wall hoping to find
a light switch.   When I did, I was jolted with a strong electric shock.   In
the darkness, I hadn't been able to see that the cover was off the light
switch.



Feeling sorry for myself, I crept up six long flights of bare cement steps,
arms laden with packages, unable to see. I certainly wasn't going to touch
any more light switches. My footsteps echoed in the semi-vacant
building.   When
I finally arrived at my apartment door, it was so dark I couldn't find the
keyhole.  I set down my bags and fumbled in the darkness.   After many
attempts, I was able to fit the key into it but was unable to turn it.   More
fumbling… and a few curses.  Several minutes later, I entered my apartment; I
was not happy.



The next morning, I decided to try out the propane stove.  I'd asked Mayo if
it worked and he said it did.   It was only three months old and it looked
brand new, but when I tried it, it wouldn't start.  When I glanced at the
gas meter on the wall next to it, I noticed that it was running, which
indicated that propane gas was leaking into the apartment. No one had
explained the system and I did not know how to shut off the gas.   Panic set
in.  Propane is dangerous; it's explosive.  It makes me nervous to deal with
it. I'd heard of entire houses and boats blowing up.



Immediately I called Amy and said I needed her help, there was a gas
leakage.   I tried to explain the problem in simple English; I spoke slowly,
but although she is a Chinese English teacher, her English comprehension
isn't that good.   I kept repeating myself as I sensed she didn't understand
much of what I said.   I felt certain though that she could not mistake the
urgency in my voice.  While I waited for her to arrive, I opened the windows
and paced, muttering to myself. Ten minutes passed, then twenty.   At most,
she should have been only ten minutes.  Finally, highly agitated, I phoned
her again.



"Where are you?" I demanded.



"I'm still at the school.  I'll come later," she said.



"I need you to come now!" I cried, semi-hysterical.



"Okay, okay," she said.



Ten minutes later she arrived.  Like me, she didn't know how to handle the
problem.   But she also did not seem to know that leaking propane gas is
dangerous. The gas meter continued to turn. She left to find the maintenance
person for the building and returned with a middle-aged woman. I stayed out
of their way.  After the woman left, Amy showed me how to shut off the gas
supply and indicated another button I wasn't to touch. The stove, although
virtually new, was not working properly.  I decided I'd use the microwave
for any cooking.



Before Amy and I caught a taxi back to the college for lunch, Amy said,
"After lunch, we must go to the police station.   You need to bring your
passport. You must register with them within 24 hours.  It is the law."



That sounded a little ominous, but I'd heard of that requirement so it
didn't surprise me.   Nevertheless, I felt a little intimidated when Amy and
I entered the police station later that day and were shown to a small office
containing four police officers.   Amy and the senior officer had a lengthy
conversation in Chinese while the other three officers looked on with great
interest.   More police arrived to look at 'the foreigner'.  The senior
officer and Amy kept looking at the different pages in my passport.   They
did not know which part was my visa and which part was my passport.  (I had
a Chinese F visa that took up one entire page.)   There are many different
types of visas and I had never been clear on whether I was allowed to teach
on an F visa.   It seems the law is interpreted differently depending on
which province one taught in, so I felt a little apprehensive.



While I smiled pleasantly at the officers, I was mentally reassuring myself
that everything would be okay.   The police officer spoke loudly and someone
not familiar with spoken Chinese would have thought he was angry.   After
living in China for close to two months, I had realized that is part of
regular speech for Chinese.   The Chinese language is tonal and many words
must be said very forcefully.  After about fifteen minutes, Amy told me that
none of the officers in the building knew what to do; we'd need to see a
more senior officer in a different police station the following day.
Wonderful!



After supper, one of the students walked me to the corner and spoke with the
cab driver before I got in so there would be no doubt where he should drive
to. I didn't want to deal with another 'lost' taxi driver.  When I pulled
out my Chinese address to show the driver, the student indicated I should
put it away; it wasn't needed. "He knows," the student said.



The cab pulled out into busy traffic and we set off.  It'll be okay, I told
myself.  What could go wrong?  The driver had been given clear directions in
Chinese.   A few minutes later, I sensed something was wrong.  I didn't know
how to get to my apartment but I knew it shouldn't be taking this long.   The
driver on the other side of the bars separating the front and back seats
kept driving.   I'd never been on the road we were on but, trying to be
optimistic, thought it might be another route to my apartment.   Many
minutes passed before the taxi pulled up to an apartment complex



"Boo, boo, boo," I said to the driver (no, no, no) Nevertheless, I clung to
some hope that this was another entrance to Li Jang, the huge apartment
complex where I lived, but nothing looked familiar.



The driver began to speak to me in rapid Chinese.  Meanwhile, a woman on the
street was already opening the cab door to get in.   Not knowing what to do,
I paid the driver 3 yuan, not 6 yuan as indicated on the meter.  He began to
shout at me.   Ignoring him, I stepped out into the dark, strode past the
guards at the gate, and began to search for something that looked familiar.
Nothing.  Where was I?   What to do now?



My heart raced as panic set in.  I wanted to cry.   Instead, I took a deep
breath and returned to the security office next to the gate where 3 men were
talking.   I pulled out my address paper, showed it to them and pointed to
the ground.   They shook their heads.  "Boo, boo, boo," they said. (no, no,
no)  They spoke to me in Chinese but I couldn't understand a word they
said.  I gestured with my arms to let them know I didn't understand.



I was lost.



Just then my cell phone rang.   I'd forgotten I'd been given one earlier
that day.   I dug through my purse for it, and then answered.  It was Alice.
She began to apologize; she'd called me by mistake.



"I'm lost," I said.  "I don't know where I am.   The taxi driver dropped me
off at the wrong place."



"Where are you?" she asked.



"I don't know!" I repeated. "I'm at the gate of an apartment, and there are
three men here."



"Let me speak to one of them," she said.



After speaking with the guard, Alice organized a taxi to pick me up and take
me home.



This time, the taxi driver got it right.  In the pitch dark, I climbed six
flights of steps and struggled to open the apartment door. Tears stung my
eyes.



I recalled my teachers' training at Buckland College in Yangshuo.  Owen
Buckland, the CEO and owner of the Buckland Group, had stated that the first
week would be the worst and that it would get better. I clung to that hope.


It will get better; it will get better, it will get better, I told myself.

***