TheBanyanTree: First Day in Beijing (another of my previously unwritten stories)

[Pat M]

Another piece to add to my manuscript.

Beijing, First Day



I sat perched on a high stool in front of a computer terminal oblivious to
everything except my racing fingers and the words streaming across the
screen in front of me. For the first time since my arrival in China, I was
able to let everyone back home know I was safe. I had so much to tell. In
spite of the countless challenges presented by the language barrier and the
unappetizing food, I felt high on life and grateful to be visiting such a
fascinating country whose culture was so different from my own. I still
couldn’t believe I had breakfasted with hundreds of Buddhist nuns on my
second day, something most Chinese never get to experience, let alone a
laowai (foreigner). China—the sights, the smells, the noise—assaulted the
senses; I hadn’t felt so alive since Guatemala.


On our arrival in Beijing the previous night, we’d hired a taxi to take us
to the hostel. The driver, a middle-aged man with a cigarette hanging out
of his mouth skilfully manoeuvred through the dense traffic before finally
entering a narrow, dimly-lit alleyway (hutong) and slowing his vehicle to a
crawl. A rapid spew of Chinese ensued.


“He’s doing us a favour,” Joyce translated. “It is against the law for
taxis to enter the alleyways. He will get a ticket if he is caught.”


Our car stopped in front of a squat three-story building with a
postage-stamp courtyard. Huge pots of bamboo lined the path to the front
door and hanging red lanterns cast a warm, inviting glow. We stepped into a
tidy, well-appointed lobby where guests congregated to visit or access the
Internet. I noticed the cleanliness instantly; it was in line with what I
was used to back home, and I immediately felt comfortable. This place
catered to an international clientele and was much nicer than the places
I’d previously stayed.


The petite Chinese girl at the front desk spoke first to Joyce and Ocean in
Chinese, and then said, “Hello Madam. May I see your passport?”


English!  What a treat! Until now, I had been as helpless as a deaf mute
who didn’t know sign language and had depended on my companions for
everything. Now, I could regain a small degree of independence; I could do
it myself.


The clerk had taken my passport and meticulously copied all of my details
onto a form. This hadn’t occurred at any of the previous places I’d stayed,
and the girl must have seen the question in my expression.


“The Public Security Bureau needs to know where foreigners are at all
times,” she explained. “We must give them your information within 24 hours.”


The Public Security Bureau is another name for the police. My first week of
travel had been off the radar and I realized I had already committed a
crime. Why did the authorities need to know where all foreigners were? Why
couldn’t visitors move about freely without telling the police? I didn’t
like it.


Before leaving Canada, I had researched China on the Internet and been
horrified by some of the stories I’d read and the YouTube videos I’d
watched. China has a terrible reputation for human rights violations and
corruption. My discoveries had left me with a deep mistrust of the Chinese
government and their legal system. I had feared I would unintentionally do
something illegal (and I already had!) or that I might even be falsely
accused of a crime and be forced to pay a large sum in order to be
released. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than being jailed in China.


Our hostel room, basic but clean, contained three single beds, and the
Chinese toilet (a porcelain hole in the floor) cast no foul smells.  What a
relief!


First thing in the morning I hurried to get ready so I could get to one of
the computers. Joyce and Ocean had gone out for street food and I had opted
for an in-house Western breakfast at ten times the price. As I wrote my
email, I waited in anticipation of my fried eggs, toast and coffee. For
seven days I’d struggled to use chopsticks and had been only slightly
successful. I’d cautiously picked at unfamiliar fare all the while
wondering what I was eating. Authentic Chinese cuisine differs from the
Chinese food we enjoy in the West and consists of many unknown greens,
vegetables, mushrooms, and exotic spices. The Chinese also enjoy a variety
of meats and animal entrails that aren’t consumed back home; I’d already
eaten mule thinking it was beef. My worst fear, however, was that I would
accidentally eat dog meat.


The Chinese have consumed dog for thousands of years.  It is thought to
have medicinal properties, and is especially popular in winter as it is
supposed to generate heat and promote bodily warmth.  China's first man in
space, Yang Liwei revealed that while in orbit, he and the crew of the 2003
Shenzhou Five mission ate dog meat.


Being a dog lover and a product of Western culture, I found the idea of
eating canines abhorrent. I had already had a close call.   Before taking
the train from Taiyuan, my friends and I had shopped for snacks—for me, an
exasperating task. Unable to read Chinese, I couldn’t identify the contents
of packages unless there was a picture on the label or the item was wrapped
in clear plastic. I’d picked up a package of beef jerky along with some
crackers and cookies and joined Joyce and Ocean in the checkout line.
Turning the jerky over in my hand, sudden doubt washed over me.


“This is beef. Right?”


“It’s dog meat,” Joyce said matter-of-factly.


I stifled a gasp and willed my face to remain expressionless. My stomach
flip-flopped.


“Oh. In Canada we don’t eat dog,” I told her politely before returning it
to the shelf.


Adjusting to the food was proving to be my biggest test. I had eaten little
for the past week—nothing appealed—and my stomach grumbled constantly. A
small breakthrough had come on my fifth day when my friends had treated me
to a feast of roasted hog’s head. By then I was so desperate for protein, I
had used my novice chopstick skills to pick meat from the pig’s sightless
skull. No matter that it was a part of a pig’s anatomy I had never before
sampled; it was roasted pork, something commonly eaten back home.


Today I would enjoy a taste of home; I would eat with a knife and fork
again, and enjoy my first cup of coffee in over a week. Until now, that
hadn’t been an option. Most Chinese drink boiled water or tea, and coffee
is only found in touristy areas, some high-end hotels and youth hostels. After
a week’s abstinence, a dose of caffeine would be heaven.


A male server caught my eye as he delivered my breakfast to a nearby table.
Real food, a typical Canadian breakfast waited! I hastily signed off the
computer and nearly toppled my stool in my haste to get to it. I stopped
short, and then dropped onto my chair. Swallowing a yelp of disappointment
I gaped at my plate where two over-cooked eggs floated in a sea of golden
cooking oil. There was so much grease that I considered draining it into
the ash tray. Instead, I scraped off the eggs as best I could, but the oily
taste prevailed and I had to force them down. The coffee?   Thank gosh for
small mercies. Someone in the kitchen had got it right, and I enjoyed ten
minutes of pure bliss.


***