Jamie Doom...

answers his own rhetorical questions.

Exclusive!--Interview with a Motorcycle Cabbie--Exclusive!

Editors Note: Haikou is replete with motorcycles in general and motorcycle cabs specifically. There are so many motorcycles in Haikou that the government will not issue any new motorcycle registration permits. Many motorcycle taxi drivers try to circumvent this law by getting out-of-town registrations even though they are living and driving their motorcycles in Haikou. The government responds by seizing bikes and not giving them back until they are payd a fine. It’s common to see large, flat-bed, police trucks gathering motorcycles on any given street on any given night.

The motorcycle cabbies are a unique bunch. They live a ragtag existence. Many of them have false or expired registrations. Their source of livelihood and transportation is in constant jeopardy, but you wouldn’t know it from the way they act. They gather in gangs of five or six and crowd crosswalks, sidewalks, entrances and exits. Haikou has been called one of the most cheerful and laid back cities in China, and these men are the happiest of the lot. They lounge on the narrow seats of their bikes and spend entire days telling jokes, shouting at traffic, and playfully harassing pedistrians by asking them where they are going.

Regular car taxi drivers are moody, political pundits who charge an arm and a leg. Bus drivers are down right irritable, and the busses are too slow. The bike taxi is my choice—the choice of the common man. It’s fast, exciting (no sidewalk to crowded, no ally too narrow), and is usually half the price of a normal taxi. Here are the transcripts of my exclusive interview with a motorcycle cabbie.

Doom: Hi!

Cabbie: Where are you going?

Doom: I wanted to ask you some questions about your profession. Is that OK?

Cabbie: Sure, but it will cost you fifty quai. I’m busy!

Doom: What do you mean you’re busy? You were asleep on your bike when I walked up. Look, there’s still drool on the seat. I’ll give you five quai to talk to you.

Cabbie: I can’t talk to you for less than twenty-five quai. The other bike cabbies respect me too much. They’ll ostracize me for only charging five quai. Please give me face.

Doom: That’s ridiculous. They were sticking sunflower seeds in your gas tank before you woke up.

Cabbie: OK, twenty quai is a low as I could ever go. Even that is taking a big risk. What if someone needs a bike ride to Sanya (300 K away), and I miss out because I’m talking to you. Surely you understand. Twenty RMB, and nothing lower.

Doom: This is getting too complicated. I’ll just ask the guy sitting right next to you then to talk to me.

Cabbie: OK, seven quai.

Doom: Done.

Cabbie: Before we start, want some sunflower seeds? They smell a bit like gasoline, but they should be good.

Doom: I’ve already eaten. Thanks.

Cabbie: (Laughing) You’re smart for a foreigner. You can ask your first question.

Doom: How did you become a motorcycle cabbie?

Cabbie: Well, I used to be a medical doctor. I was ok. In fact, right before I pursued my passion as a motorcycle taxi driver I was pretty close to having a special cure for that whole cancer thing.

Doom: Is green tea part of that "special cure?"

Cabbie: How did you know?

Doom: Just a guess. Anyway, you were saying…

Cabbie: Yeah, so one day I got on my motorbike because I needed to go perform an important surgery. As I was leaving the entrance of my apartment building an aquaintance of mine waved me down. He said if I gave him a ride to the bank, he would pay me 12 yuan. So we got to the bank. I of course refused the money. He’s my friend. He insisted. I refused. He insisted. I refused. He insisted. I then took his twelve yuan.

Doom: You refused three times, so it was OK…

Cabbie: Right! Then somebody, mistaking me for a cabbie, asked me to take them to the grocery store. It was on the way to the hospital, so I said sure. Five RMB.

Doom: I see where this is going. And at the grocery store?

Cabbie: Back to the bank, five yuan.

Doom: Weren’t you late to the hospital.

Cabbie: Ah, you remembered. But I didn’t. Basically, by that time I forgot I had a surgery to perform, and I was hungry. Plus I had 22 Yuan in my pocket.

Doom: Twenty RMB is a big lunch.

Cabbie: While I was hanging out drinking tea and eating, I met some other motorcycle taxi drivers who kind of took me under their wing.

Doom: So driving a taxi is more profitable than being a doctor?

Cabbie: Most days.

Doom: What do you mean?

Cabbie: Well, I only got paid once a month as a doctor.

Doom: How much?

Cabbie: 8,000 RMB.

Doom: Not bad. So how much do you make as a taxi driver?

Cabbie: Well, right now I’m making seven yuan. I might have to change it to ten yuan if you keep asking questions.

Doom: Well how much do you make in a month as a taxi driver?

Cabbie: Yeah, you are getting charged ten yuan now. Anyway, I get paid every day as taxi driver. Not just once a month.

Doom: But how much per day?

Cabbie: I don’t know. Most days maybe fifty yuan. But that’s every single day.

Doom: But that’s only 1,400 yuan a month. You are making less now.

Cabbie: No not at all. See when I was a doctor, 29 days out of the month I made zero yuan. So, per day this is better.

Doom: I see. Do you ever have any regrets?

Cabbie: They first guy I took to the bank, my friend? I wish I had charged him more. I could have got fifteen yuan for that. It was a long way across town. (wistfully) But we can’t live in the past.

Doom: Who are your influences as far as taxi drivers go?

Cabbie: I get asked that a lot. I think Wei over on Heping Lu has a nice thing going. He hangs out near the five-star hotel and gives fat foreigners ten meter rides to the restaurant for five yuan a pop. He fills up his gas tank once every two months and probably clears two hundred yuan a day easy. I also like Chen on Sun Dong. He’s experimenting with passenger peg placements as well carrying compartments on the back of his bike. Basically, I’m just out to find my own cabbie style. I want it to be what is: the best motorcycle taxi ride of your life.

Doom: So is that your philosophy as a motorcycle cabbie?

Cabbie: It’s more than that. I look at my motorcycle as my paintbrush. The streets, sidewalks, parks, and people’s feet are my canvas. It’s not just a ride, it’s a journey.

Doom: I see. What do you do when you aren’t hanging out here waiting for passengers?

Cabbie: I’m always hanging out here waiting for passengers. This isn’t just a job, man. I can’t switch this on and off randomly like Haikou does their entire power grid. I wish I could sometimes…

Doom: Any advice for young, up-and-coming bike cabbies?

Cabbie: Yeah. First, don’t come on my side of town. Find your own street. My street is Gwo Xing. Find your own. Secondly, pay attention to shock life of your motorcycle. Don’t get greedy and start taking three and four passengers at once. It will ruin your motorcycle. One per ride. Share the wealth with your friends. Thirdly, no animal passengers allowed on board. That kind of business just makes us look bad. This is a new century and new thinking. We need to leave that back in the 90’s. Fourthly, padded helmets are for girls. I have seen some people even riding around with face guards on their helmets. Sheesh, pull up your skirt and find yourself a good military helmet or a plastic hard hat to use. If this is a problem then maybe you are in the wrong profession.

Doom: What about children? Do you allow a passenger to bring a child? If so, how many?

Cabbie: I allow one child per parent. I have always been a big fan of the One Child Policy, and I don’t think motorcycles should be any different. But make sure you wedge the kid in good once you get on the bike.

Doom: Well, we are out of time. Thanks for your time.

Cabbie: No problem. That’s twenty quai.

Editors Note: This account is in no way the work of fiction, unless by fiction you mean that it didn’t happen.

posted by: jmedoom at November 29, 2003 17:02 | link | comments (6) |

The China Blog Community

 

From Adam (AKA Brainysmurf) comes a recent article about the rise of the Asian Blog Community. I especially enjoyed Adam’s comments about the article.

 

Long before I started writing my own measly weblog (which receives all its traffic--10 hits a day--from David Beckham haters who Google “Beckham + Doom” and accidentally end up here), one of my favorite pastimes here in China was visiting other China Weblogs. I probably spend about thirty minutes to an hour everyday catching up on the news and reading about my fellow expats’ experiences (some of them lead sad, sad lives which, for some reason, gives me much cheer). These blogs are how I keep abreast of China. Western reporting on China is spotty and incomplete, and news originating at the official source is cookie-cutter at best.

 

The biggest value I derive from these varied links, commentaries, musings and ranting is a sense that I’m not the only one seeing this. Chinese people aren’t surprised at China, but I am. Those people that choose to leave their own country and come to China do it for a million different reasons. For instance, I find myself here because of my almost psychotic love for General Tsao’s Chicken, and--I gotta say--it was worth it. Others come to recover from their failed careers as insurance agents, motivational speakers, and English teachers. It’s exciting to be in China as this point in China’s long history. It’s even more exciting to be able to read about people’s daily observations about it all.

 

China Bloggers are educating and commiserating with each other and the rest of the world about China. Now a person can not only know “the news” in China, but can also know what other people of similar background, nationality, and food palette think about China. Even more importantly, now Chinese students are blogging in English, so we can know what Chinese people are thinking as well.

 

I am one of the most junior “members” of this constantly growing community, but already I am enjoying the release of writing about my life using bad humor and even worse photography skills. I have been writing for about a month, and already people who are thinking of coming to China are E-mailing me and asking me questions(yes to sweet and sour pork, no to General Tsao’s chicken). ESL teachers already in China are E-mailing me to share notes and swap stories. Because of my weblog some of the E-mail in my in-box does not say “weight loss”, “free Viagra” or “make money at home” in the subject line. This is good, because while those Viagra people seem nice at first, trying to carry on meaningful correspondence with them over time can be downright frustrating .

Suddenly China is not as unknown anymore. It’s not as foreboding and scary. Real people just like me are living here and having a blast. Sure, it’s a challenge. Those of us who are here maybe need that challenge (or maybe we are insane and nobody in America, Australia, Ireland, Canada, England or New Zealand loves us). It’s frustrating and difficult and wonderful and inspiring. But we don’t have to be quiet about it. We can let people know it’s more than OK to come to China. Just bring lots of deodorant and a healthy supply of humor.

posted by: jmedoom at November 26, 2003 23:55 | link | comments (9) |

Cure for the Common Cold

 

Sometimes all of this is just too much for me. I wonder why I am here in China right now at this moment. Why am allowed to see this? What am I supposed to do with it? I’m inadequate to record it all. My words are too rough and too Philistine to accurately give this flesh. My mind is busy filtering and sorting; maybe I am missing it. But maybe I can catch a peek, a fuzzy slide on the gray wall of my brain.

 

I spent the half of Wednesday and all of Thursday in bed with a cold. Strong cold medicine conjured dreams of home and fresh coffee. So yesterday afternoon I awoke and went walking to get some fresh air, good coffee, and remind myself I was still in China. It was a little after four o’clock when I started walking, and it was becoming apparent that I had slept through most of a perfect November, Haikou day. It was in the low eighties and the trees planted by the road were making crazy dark shadows which were strewn with bright shards of shattered sunlight. Old couples were gingerly taking their afternoon stroll. Some of them were swinging their arms simultaneously around like swimmers loosening up before a heat. Many of these old couples were carrying with them their reward for still being alive—fat, round-headed grandbabies in split pants.

 

Some of the old people aren’t walking so much as they are shuffling down the street. Ancient men either in dark suits or bare-armed in white wife-beaters walk slightly bent with their hands folded neatly behind them. With each shuffle they alternately look down at uneven cobbled sidewalk then back up at the less even humanity passing them. Often their eyes meet mine, which gives me pause for these are not eyes of shufflers but of sprinters. There is recognition. Often they smile slightly as if suddenly they have remembered something. Sometimes, I sense the hint of a nod.

 

At this time of the day, sidewalk and bike path sweepers are out en masse. Their equipment is as course as my memory: large and irregular straw brooms, four-wheeled rubbish carts and metal dustpans. Their uniform consists of wide straw hats and neon orange traffic vests finished with bits of reflecting material. As I am walking, I am stepping over tidy piles of dirt and rubbish. Later, they will return for any piles not leveled by foot of nature. One older lady is diligently making the cobble stoned sidewalk clean. I look closely at her. Her orange vest is covering a smart gray business suit, and she’s wearing matching long-toed high heels as well. Many of the sweepers have forsaken sweeping and are basking in the sidewalk breeze while leaning on their brooms and making glib conversation with shop keepers and fruit venders. I imagine they must be talking about the most important things. For when I approach, they quit talking and look up at me. They resume their discourse after I am five or six paces away—foreigners aren’t privy to complicated conspiracies whispered about by sweet sweepers!

 

School is now letting out. In contrast to the plodding, platinum-headed sages, hundreds of uniformed children are running frantically from those horribly confining institutions. Most don’t see me at all; the ones that do looked surprised before showing me a gapped-toothed smile which is sometimes accompanied by a brave, adventurous “hello.”(I may tire of “hellos” but never from them. They can sing it to me as often as they like. And I never feel more sincere than when I am smiling back at them.) Then they are off, back to the extraordinary business of being young. But usually, they don’t see me at all. They only see each other; others, large adults especially, are only props to hide behind or obstacles to swerve around. Unlike the adults inhabiting the years between youth and old age, these children are occupied with far more interesting things than a random foreigner walking by. Two young boys in identical uniforms are slurping at identical ice cream pops. Arms are slung carelessly around each other’s necks, and they are laughing hilariously about it all. Universally, children’s laughter is medicine. Indeed, “it’s sweet to your soul and health to your bones.” My cold is beginning to clear.

 

I continue my stroll past a new park; older middle school and high school students, also in uniforms, are lounging on ridiculously green grass under tiny trees. From time to time, they prop themselves on elbows to spit sunflower shells into the wind. Their communication is less frantic but no less lively. Boyfriends and girlfriends are getting their alone time here. It’s apparent; they are in love. They are alone in front all of us sidewalk pedestrians, beeping taxis, and fellow students. The rest of us could be banging on pots and pans with large wooden spoons while screaming loudly, and they would scarce look up. Their world is two people, and it has little to do with the other world. Blah! At least they could hide their happiness or feign some distress for the rest of us sad wretches.

 

Soon, I am crossing traffic. The secret to arriving at the other side of the street safely has little to do with cross walks or green lit pedestrian signs. I have learned this much here in China. Walking across traffic is about singularity of purpose. Once you begin your journey to the other side, don’t slow down; don’t look around. You will only confuse the matter by acknowledging the busses, taxis, or motorcycles that are hurtling towards you to cause your certain doom. As the primary damage inflictors, they have the responsibility of beeping and swerving. If they are going to hit you, they will beep loudly; then and only then should you look up and see what the situation requires.

 

I’m across the street now. I walk past a dirty homeless man, completely naked, sleeping under some steps. A large carwash is busy washing cars less than twenty feet from where he sleeps soundly. Mercedes and BMW’s gleam and drip in the afternoon sun. Blue-uniformed car washers pop their towels and stroll around admiring their work. The air is filled with car air freshener and the stench of something decaying. Next to the car wash, a gold-toothed street vender is using a newspaper to fan the coals under thick sugar cane.

 

Soon I arrive at my supermarket which is a nice modern place only recently opened. I stock up on chocolate, Maxwell House Coffee, Jiffy Peanut Butter, and sliced Kraft Cheese. Sometimes, I wrongly imagine that these make me more at home in a culture so different from my own. But then I remember that home isn’t a building or food or a location on a map. I think it’s the people that you know and love. It’s being known and loved. Maybe that’s why Thomas Wolfe said we can’t go home again. People aren’t static. They change and become. So these days in China, I am feeling a little bit more at home; not because I have identified with a bit of “real” coffee, but because I have identified with some real people. Slowly, sometimes too slowly, I am beginning to notice less and less of those easily caricatured preconceptions and more and more of that familiar life.

 

In China, most of this is still beyond my comprehension. Some of it remains inscrutable. Maybe I will never be privy to all of it or even most of it. Much of it is my fault. I walk past naked homeless people and quickly change my thoughts to the business of car washes. I don’t want to think about all of it. I can’t. But I’m happy to catch glimpses.

Today I took a walk to the store. On the way there, I think I saw 1.4 billion people; but I can’t remember them all. I’m trying; but when I close my eyes, it’s all shattered sunlight under cool shady green. Old couples, bent slightly at the waist, shuffle eternally towards me. And somewhere children are laughing.

posted by: jmedoom at November 21, 2003 14:24 | link | comments (4) |

Die Turkey, Die! Uh...­Can I Have a Receipt?

I have agreed in principle to spending USD $80.00 for a Thanksgiving turkey. What kind of sucker pays almost a C-note for a turkey? The kind that would come on his own blog and brag about it is what kind. Being the lone American bachelor in my school means I have acquired guilt over never preparing food when we have parties and shindigs. To remedy this, I am responding to my slacker guilt the proper American way--by buying myself out of it. But here in China with the same $80.00 I can buy:

 

1--Roundtrip Airline ticket to Hong Kong. I can go out to nice restaurants and hangouts where I can practice the word for pretentious in both Mandarin and Cantonese. Hey, Hong Kong! Anything you can do, Shenzhen can do better, and cheaper, all without creating ten new boy bands in the process.

 

330--Trips to the supermarket on Bus 39 (Authentic Chinese Bus smell is gratis).

 

330--Trips back from the supermarket on Bus 39 (Authentic Chinese Bus smell that is now permeating my groceries...gratis).

 

26--Massages by a blind guy with big forearms. He will give an amazing massage; he won't relinquish his cigarette. Watching the cherry burn on the end of his cigarette while he massages foreign guys draws large crowds of cheering, betting fans. Advantages of having a blind masseuse: he doesn't snicker at the large "Hansen Rules" tattoo covering my back. Hey we have all done things we are ashamed of.

 

94--DVD's. All of them pirated. Most are filmed from the rear of a theater filled with 128-Ounce Big Gulp slurping, middle-aged men with miniature bladders, huge prostrates, and tall hats by a nervous, asthmatic cameraman who chews popcorn with his mouth open and kills the boredom by playing with the zoom button. Half of them will have their real closing credits inexplicably replaced by the closing credits to that classic art house film Ski School.

 

2--Chinese Bio-Engineers/Rocket Scientists working round the clock for one month straight to clone the same turkey then send it into space for one complete orbit of the earth. That's right and for only eighty bucks. Is it that labor is so cheap in China or so expensive at NASA? Everybody knows NASA uses all those extra billions on fancy catering and new videogames for their geeks...er I mean employees. And what do we have to show for it? Velcro. I say you can have your turkey orbit the earth, and eat it too.

 

A few other things for those people that care (if your name isn’t Mom you don’t have to read any more):

 

I’m very new to this Blog thing (obviously), but I didn’t realize until yesterday half the pictures I post on here don’t work. I am learning though. PhotoShop will be my friend. Today, I spent two hours reading about HTML! (stupid proud grin) Coming soon is a text box to the side that will always contain something stupid and inane about me and by me (I’ll make sure it’s in a box so you can separate it from the rest of my posts). 

 

Also, as of yesterday I’m a subscriber to the website Questia. Questia allows you access to over 47, 000 entire books and 375,000 magazine and journal entries. I can feel myself getting smarter every time I say the word Questia. Why should you care? With all this research at my fingertips, it means fewer posts about my nose hair.

 

I got the entire menu of my favorite restaurant (which I talked about here) translated into Pinyin and English. Thanks, Xu Mingji! This restaurant is within walking distance where I live, and now I get to enjoy new dishes while practicing their Chinese names. I’m sure this will result in me gaining weight. But now it means that the other foreigners and I can stop ordering beef stew with eggs and tomatoes every…single… time we go there (which is every day for me). Variety is good.

 

My Asian acting career begins next weekend. I will not have a speaking part. Because I am playing the part of a knife-throwing scuba diver, this came as no surprise to me. In my vast knife-throwing scuba diving experience, I’ve found speaking underwater to be downright tricky.

 

 

posted by: jmedoom at November 18, 2003 19:25 | link | comments (6) |

Advantage Beckham

 

I have never been called handsome more than in my past five months in China. In fact, I hear it so much that it ceases to mean anything at all to me, even though I agree with the basic statement. However, hands down, the most ludicrous thing I hear is that I look like David Beckham. So far, no less than nine girls and three guys have on different occasions told me that I looked like Beckham. I know the exact number because that kind of absurd thing sticks in my swollen head. Now there are several possible explanations for this. 1.) They are having a little fun by telling the ugly American that he looks like Beckham. Later, when I’m not looking, they will punch each other in the arm and say—“Ha, Beckham. I think he believed us.” 2.) They really think I look like David Beckham. This seems far fetched, but could be a reality, of course with me being the slightly better looking of the two. 3.) I really do look like David Beckham, and my good old “American modesty” is making me block out this glaringly obvious fact.

Let’s take a closer look at this comparison, and see who actually has the advantage.

 

	Beckham	Doom in China	Advantage
Brings home…	12 Million Dollars per year	12 pirated DVD’s per week	Beckham
Best known as	Real Madrid Soccer player	Real Live English speaker	Beckham
Current Hairstyle	Blonde Pony Tail	Blond and thinning	Beckham
Biggest Showcase	English National Team	English Corner	Beckham
In China:	Hundreds of screaming Chinese girls camped out in front of his team’s hotel and chanted “Da-vid, Da-vid”	Hundreds of small Chinese children scream in fear when they seem him on the street and chant “Lao-wai, Lao-wai”	Beckham
Biggest Moment	Efficiently scoring the winning penalty kick for England against Argentina in the 2002 World Cup	Efficiently explaining the sentence “I’ve got the runs, so I have I to cut English Corner short.	Beckham
Transportation	Custom made Ferrari, Porsche 911, Hummer, Rolls Royce	Bus 39 A.K.A. “The Urine Bus”	Beckham
Something you may not know about me:	I named my dog Puff after my favorite rapper Sean Puffy Combs, AKA Puff Daddy, AKA P-Diddy, AKA J-Lo’s-boyfriend-before-he-shot-up-a-nightclub-which-caused-caused-her-to-marry-one-of-her-dancers-divorce-him-then-date-that-bad-actor-with-a-stupid-smirk	I ate a fried rat this summer in Baisha, Hainan, PRC.	Doom in China
Guilty Pleasure	Wife is Posh Spice (Spice Girls)	KFC Spicy Chicken Sandwich	Doom in China

 

Beckham barely edges Doom in China 8-2 in this comparison, but don’t tell anybody here in Hainan. The similarities are just too uncanny.

posted by: jmedoom at November 16, 2003 20:29 | link | comments (9) |

 

  

 Five Reason Why I’m the Greatest

 

 

English Tutor in All of China (and Maybe the World)

 

 

 

 

 

Before I begin, let me make it clear that I am not claiming to be the greatest English Teacher. I am not an English teacher. I have taught English though. I have a great deal of respect for all ESL teachers, but I do claim to be the Greatest English Tutor. How can I claim this? Read on.

  

1. I Incorporate Ancient Chinese Stick Fighting into My English Lessons. When Mr. and Mrs. Linda’s Parents first approached me about teaching Linda (see picture), I looked deep into their eyes (I’m am able to look deep into four eyes simultaneously) and asked them, “Do you want Linda to simply learn English or do you want her to learn English AND learn how to beat people with ordinary households sticks(see picture)? For just a few more RMB, I can teach your daughter more than English; I can teacher her a way of life—the way of Fluent English Speaking/Ancient Chinese Stick Fighting.” At first they were skeptical; but in no time, I had them seeing the value of a Bi-lingual, stick-swinging four year-old. Now, not a day goes by without them thanking me for transforming their cute four-year old into a chatty, English-speaking warrior. Now their only trouble is forgetting to hide the brooms and mops before they tell Linda (see picture) to go to bed or turn off the cartoons. But I think that’s kind of cute.
2. I Supply the Stick and the English Books. That’s right. Not only do I supply years of Native English Speaking experience and Ancient Chinese Stick Fighting experience*, but I also supply the stick…and the English books. Notice Linda’s stick (see picture) is purple with pink trim. What four-year old little girl wouldn’t want to thwap somebody’s noggin with those cute colors? I invested much thought into the color of her stick; and let me tell you, she loves it. In fact, one time I brought her back some children’s English books from Shenzhen, and she looked through them once then asked where her stick was. That’s dedication, and that’s knowing your stick color.
3. I Only Have One Student.** Linda (see picture) is my only student. She solely receives my vast wealth of English and Ancient Chinese Stick Fighting knowledge. I hate to brag (but I will), but Linda (see picture) has rapidly become one of the top English-Speaking Ancient Chinese Stick Fighting four-olds in all of China. Don’t let the cute face fool you. She’s a killer. I have seen her ruin people’s day with ordinary household sticks (see picture). Also, because she is my only English student I can tailor her lesson plans so she never learns stupid English words. Which bring me to my next point:
4. I Don’t Teach Stupid English Words. You will never hear Linda (see picture) say the word “hello.” In fact if you greet her with “hello,” you are just as likely to get a mouth full of stick as any other response. Linda (see picture) says “hi” like normal people. To explain why “hello” is so harmful here in China , first let me give you a little history. A long time ago China invented a little something called “Chinese water torture,” here in China known simply as “water torture.” In the ancient past, this was an effective means of making people crack/tell them secrets/agree to let them have the Olympics. But this is a new century now, and their methods are much more subtle than water torture. Now they use the ingenious “hello torture” instead. Some people (foreigners for instance) are subjected to thousands and thousands of “hellos” every day. Like the drops of water before it, it doesn’t seem so bad at first. At first, like the water, it seems refreshing. Quickly it becomes too much. Everywhere these people go they hear thousands of “hellos.” It usually ends tragically with some timid ESL teacher going crazy and punching some poor street vender in the face, getting kicked out of China , then going on Dave’s ESL Café and complaining about his school. Other useless or harmful English words or phrases I shelter my pupil from are: “politically correct”, “Yesterday Once More” and “boy bands.”
5. I Have Never Visited the Dave’s ESL Café Website. Somebody told me about it, and I took their advice and never visited that website. So the way I see it, I’m automatically five times smarter than any ESL tutor who has.

*Note # 1. You may wonder how I am such an expert at Ancient Chinese Stick Fighting. Perhaps, you have observed, I am neither ancient nor Chinese. Well, let me ask you a question. When did you become so narrow? Maybe if you would quit going to KKK meetings, you would have more time to read a little something called…books. Maybe then you could broaden your mind. But no, no, it’s much easier to stereotype people. (I enjoy getting upset about my own hypothetical questions. Is that wrong?) Also, when I was young, I was alone in the woods a lot (something I did?). My parents also never bought me toys. One day as I was trudging glumly through the woods alone and bewildered, I suddenly looked around and saw a forest full of sticks—Ancient Chinese Stick Fighting Sticks that is. These sticks became my friends and soon my world was changed. Years later I learned English as a native language. The rest is history (see picture).

 

 **Note #2. Next summer I will be leaving China and going back to America . By then, Linda (see picture) will be getting on with the business of taking over the world with her stick; meanwhile, I’ll be available to teach English and Ancient Chinese Stick Fighting. I realize with the proliferation of MTV, video games and well…the Internet, most children in America can no longer use basic English words. I will be searching for one worthy pupil. Please don’t E-mail me though. I’ll find you.

posted by: jmedoom at November 13, 2003 02:39 | link | comments (9) |
china, jamie doom

 Me, Quan and Natalie

posted by: jmedoom at November 11, 2003 15:20 | link | comments |

Big Holes, Monkey Voices, and Chicken Toes

Camping went off without a hitch. Mountains were hiked, photos were snapped, new associations were made, a lot of chicken feet were eaten (none by me), and along the way I got a closer look into Chinese group psyche.

 

On Saturday I received a cheery wakeup call from Mr. Quan at 5:45. At first I didn’t mind because I incorporated the ringing of the phone somehow into the amazing dream I was having about ditching the camping trip and sleeping all day. But soon I realized that the phone really was ringing, and I answered with my standard 5:45 A.M. greeting,

 

“What?”

 

Twenty minutes later, wearing camping attire and a backpack, I met Mr. Quan at the front gate of the school. He explained that he wouldn’t have woken me up so early, but we needed to eat a good breakfast before our big day of hiking. He was so happy and chipper. He petted my backpack and hiking shoes and cooed like they were baby puppies or something. Soon we were slurping noodles and pounding hot cups of tea. Things were looking up. We were getting out of Haikou, away from our daily routines, and into the county. This was going to be good times. And so it was.

 

We met about forty other hikers at the hiker meeting place. We piled into two large busses. Even though the busses were large, they were equipped with comically small seats—well comically if you aren’t riding in them for six hours. I’m not complaining, just reporting. Around 1:00 PM we stopped for lunch at a remote forest ranger station/restaurant. “We need to eat a big lunch so we can have strength to hike.”

 

My fellow hikers ranged in age from 22 to 60. Most of them make up China’s silently emerging Yuppie class (Hush Yuppies?). Many of them were decked out head to toe in North Face, Columbia, Jack Wolfskin and Mountain Hardwear. A large portion of the camping club members had went the military route—full camo down to their boots. A few of these guys had improbably large knives attached to their sides. I wondered what it was like riding in a cramped seat for six hours with a knife that would make Rambo blush attached to your body. I didn’t ask. Others were just normal people (and judging from how they packed and what they were wearing) that may have got on the wrong bus. Some of the ladies were wearing nice blouses and stylish shoes. One man was wearing some snazzy slacks and a shiny, fake Italian, dress shirt.

 

One of the “fun parts” about the trip is that every new member of the club is assigned a nickname—and is called that from then on. As it turned out, this impeccably dressed gentleman owned his own clothing store. His nickname was “Ten Percent Discount.” I guess the ladies on our bus had cleverly given him this name in hopes that he could hook them up with shiny, fake Italian, dress shirts. You could suggest your own nickname; and if it was clever, they would use it. But ultimately the other hikers would usually decide one for you. One young man was named Dog Meat (his favorite dish?), while his girlfriend was named Disagree(a sign of things to come), another girl Papaya, and Mr. Quan was stuck with the name Bandit (evidently his hometown is famous for outlaws).

 

I pondered my own hometown’s residents (Asheville N.C.) and asked Mr. Quan the Chinese translation for “Trust-Fund Hippy.” I gave up trying to explain it when we got to “hippy.” Somebody wanted to call me McDonalds, which received a couple of chuckles. I proudly suggested in my broken Chinese the catchy name “Waigou Mogui” which means “Foreign Devil.” A still silence came over the bus, then mercifully the silence was broken with polite laughter, soon everybody was laughing politely “no, no.” Finally I suggested the name “Bu Zhi Dao” which means, “Don’t Know.” I explained that was my standard answer for most of the questions I would be asked. I proved this several times over the course of the weekend much to everyone’s enjoyment. So now I had a nickname and had eaten two incredibly large meals, so I was ready to hike.

 

But not so fast. After we ate, we had to drive three more hours to see a “big hole in the ground.” Well at least that’s how they Mr. Quan kept describing it as we were bouncing around rocky hair pinned curves with all the windows up and the A.C. off. I started to tell him that if I had wanted to get up 5:45 in the morning to go see a big hole in the ground with knife-toting guys named Dog Meat, I would have stayed in North Carolina; but I kept quiet once again, and happily we arrived at a nice cavern. We walked around the cavern, which had unfortunately been tagged by generations disenchanted graffiti gangsters obviously marking their hood.

 

“Oh, you have Bloods and Crips here too?”

 

Near the cave was a nice, scenic river. As Mr. Quan and I walked back down the road to the river, we met one of the G.I. Joe looking people. He had his twenty inch knife blade out and was punishing a small, pitiful looking bush that was growing by the side of the road. He looked up sheepishly then finished the bush off with a few more wacks. We gave him wide berth as he suddenly rushed passed us to search for more offensive vegetation.

 

I picked up some flat stones, so I could impress Mr. Quan with some good ole-American- stone-skipping-know-how. I proudly skipped a few rocks about ten times across the river. I looked up at Mr. Quan and nodded as if to say “this is what we do when we have the amazing combination of flat stones and rivers in America.” I turned around to skip another rock; but suddenly out of the corner of my eye, I saw a rock go whizzing into the river. It skimmed the surface of the water beautifully, skipping maybe twenty or twenty-five times before it left the river on the other side.

 

Mr. Quan is a rock skipping genius. I looked at the my own stone still in my hand and half-heartedly skipped a good four times. I declared Mr. Quan the best rock skipper I had ever seen. I told him that in my mind, rock skipping is an essential test of manhood, and he had passed with flying colors. He thanked me for all the praise and wistfully told me he didn’t get to skip rocks much any more.

 

Back on the bus and bouncing around more dirt roads, we headed further away from civilization. We stopped from time to time to take roadside pictures and fix flat tires. By this time it is getting to be about 6:30. I wondered if we were going to make it to the camp site before dark. Mr. Quan shrugged his shoulders. It hadn’t occurred to him or anyone else to worry about that. At about 9:00 at night we get to the place where we will leave our bus. At least it’s a full moon anyway.

 

We load up our backpacks with sleeping bags and tents and set off into the jungle to find our camp site. As we are getting to the edge of the jungle, on camo attired man wanders back and tells me through Mr. Quan that I sure am lucky. He says it a few times, while rocking back and forth on his heels. I bite. “Why am I lucky?”

 

“You are lucky because foreigners are forbidden to enter this forest. You must have got special approval from Beijing.”

 

I stared at him blankly. Of course I didn’t get special permission. I just paid my 250 RMB. What was I supposed to say? Well, I wanted to say a lot of things—things like—“don’t worry, I can’t see anything anyway because we are hiking through your secret jungle at TEN O’CLOCK AT FREAKIN’ NIGHT.” or “Why are we forbidden to enter the forest, because we might steal some of your amazing hiking/camping secrets— wait is that a guy with a suitcase*?” But instead I just nodded and kept my mouth shut.

*Inexplicably an older couple had brought a red suitcase on wheels. I wondered if they had visions of rolling it through the jungle. Luckily a strong young man hoisted it on his backpack for them and lugged it the two miles to the campsite for them.

 

Even though the campsite was only a couple of miles in, it took us a good two hours to hike there because forty-plus people of various ages were hiking single file through thick jungle in the dark takes time. We “rested” every fifteen minutes. The trail was wonderful when I saw it the next day in the light—a dense rock and root strewn trail that crossed over bubbling brooks several times as it winded its way through a jungle with hundreds of plants I had never seen before.

 

At the campsite we put up all our tents. Most of the people in the group had packed in with large expedition style packs (think Sir Edmund Hillary’s sherpas without the snow or the Everest). I thought this was like the large knives, a lot of overkill. What did they have in all those huge packs? We were only camping overnight. But as they began to unload their huge backpacks and rolling suitcase, I found out. They had packed a lot of food "because they would need their energy for the big hike (which by this time I doubted was actually a reality)." Yep, their bags were crammed full of food, and not just food but more specifically--chicken feet.

 

Want culture shock? Ride around ten hours packed uncomfortably in a bus with twenty people that stare at you and chant your nickname every fifteen minutes, hike two hours into blackness, and when you get there, hang out and watch forty-plus people suck on chicken feet while they put up their North Face tents. But in all seriousness, it was a blast! And they had forgot about the hiking song time, so I didn’t have to sing for them.

 

Before we went to bed around 1:00 AM they told us about the rare long-armed monkeys that lived in the forest. There are only twenty-something of them left in the world. We probably wouldn’t see them, but if we were lucky--very lucky--maybe we would hear them. OK, I’m just here to hike. I don’t need to see any monkeys to make it a success. I awake the next morning to the sound of monkeys calling. I wake Mr. Quan up and tell him to listen to the monkeys.

 

He says: “I don’t know. I have never heard this monkey before.”

 

“Well, it’s definitely monkey noise. And they are the only monkeys that live here, so it has to be them,” I say feeling suddenly like Jane Goodall.

 

“How do you know it’s a monkey noise,” he says.

 

“Whenever somebody makes a monkey noise, just playing around imitating a monkey…it sounds almost exactly like the sound we are hearing,” I say feeling stupid but also feeling very right.

 

As it turns out, we were hearing monkey noises. Around 8:00 AM, we hit the trail to hike to the top of Overlord Mountain. I felt a little better about the impending degree of difficulty of the hike because all the older ladies and a few fat people were staying back at the campsite. One older man was going which did cause me some consternation.

 

As it turned out, the old fella was a beast. During our six hour hike, he hiked our butts off. He made it up first and made it down first. I thought, when I’m his age I want to be in be that fit. Then I thought, sheesh, I want to be that fit now. On a side note, Ten Percent Discount had changed into a new set of snazzy clothes for the hike. I would see him in two more outfits before the day ended—each one clean and neat. And he was no less a hiking fiend than the old man.

 

The hiking was wonderful. It wasn’t too difficult, but steep and difficult enough to be interesting. It may sound corny, but it was just nice to be on the trail again. I like the familiar burn in my calves, leaves slapping my sweaty arms and my ears stopperd by the breeze rushing through the jungle. I made friends along the way. We chatted quietly, so as not to scare away the monkey. Several spoke English much better than they let on the first day. Then a wonderful thing happened. They began to ignore me. The trail and possibilities of monkeys was more interesting than whatever I was doing. And when I felt I had blended in with the hiking group, I became the happiest. I was pounding on a thick trail through forest, and I was in my own world with my own thoughts, and it all seemed familiar to me. We didn’t see any monkeys that day. But thirty of us had gone up a mountain because it was there and deserved to be hiked.

 

When we got back to the campsite we had a nice “I just got done hiking feeling.” The hikers were happy. Bags were opened again and insults and good natured jibes were tossed around with chicken feet and granola bars (by me). Soon we hiked back out to our bus. In the daylight, this hike only took us about forty minutes. Mr. Quan and I hiked fast and furious way ahead of everyone else. We used this opportunity to discuss the past two day’s events.

 

“Did you have fun?” he asked.

 

“Yes, I love it. It really made me happy to be outside. Did you have fun?”

 

He took of his shirt and grinned. “I love it. I can take off my shirt way out here and nobody cares. I have made new friends this weekend. I like it because there are no bosses or positions here, only nicknames. We are all the same. We are all out here to just enjoy ourselves. If I had my shirt off in Haikou, people would look at me and say I was a hoodlum.”

 

That night the bus trip home was long. We ate a huge supper at the same Ranger Station because we needed our strength after a long hike. We got back to Haikou around 11:30.

 

Mr. Quan looked at me and said. “I don’t want to go back to my apartment. I don’t want to go back to work tomorrow. I don’t want this weekend to be over.”

I nodded. I told him there were times in my life in the past when I felt the same thing—the dull ache of daily routine piling up on you. I told him, that is why I was happy to be in China.

 

“It’s all different here. I love it. Don’t worry though, we will go hiking again.”

 

“If we do, I’ll feel very lucky.” Mr. Quan said.

 

I nodded, but I already felt “lucky.”

posted by: jmedoom at November 11, 2003 15:16 | link | comments (7) |

Why?

I have found since I have been living on the Island of Hainan that my ear and nose hair is growing at an alarming and equally adverse rate to the hair on my head. I don’t know if something in my diet or the tropical humidity, but this is phenomenon that is becoming a more certain reality with each passing week. I don’t ever recall noticing hair around my ears in the States. Granted they are white and fine, but still. I don’t know much; but sheesh, I’m twenty-eight years old. I shouldn’t be worrying about sprouting nasal and ear shrubbery until I’m at least fifty. It is more than a little disturbing. Plucking hurts. It’s a full time job trying to take positive action against the gangs of renegade follicles that have migrated from the perfectly suitable living quarters known as The Top of My Head to become Dwellers of the Ear and Nose Caves. And they move there to do what? To sprout out at the worst times, scaring away small children and beautiful Chinese girls, is what. What did I do to deserve this? Am I being punished for something? I used to make fun of my grandfather’s old European bushy brow sensibilities. Maybe that’s why. I don’t know if I can blame this on China. Maybe it’s my time—my lot in life --to be a bushy nosed Slovak looking fella. I haven’t noticed excessive nasal and audio canal hair in the other good people of Hainan, but I haven’t exactly been looking. I take heed to the whole, “worry about pruning the foliage sprouting in your own nose before you point out someone else’s bit of grass." I’ll be sure to keep you all up to date. And…I thank you (and to think I find myself still single...unbelievable).

posted by: jmedoom at November 07, 2003 16:07 | link | comments (2) |

Hiking Song

 

            I’m going hiking this weekend with the foreign affairs official at the school, Mr. Quan. Mr. Quan is twenty-six years old, cheerful, helpful smart, and extremely good at his job. I consider him one of my best friends here in China. Weekly, he and I have long, broad discussions about American and Chinese culture, economics and history. His generation is old enough to be traditional themselves but young enough to understand the next generation of Chinese coming behind them. He had provided valuable insight into China on more than one occasion. Last week when we were talking, I told him that I really missed hiking. Hiking is the one thing I haven’t done much of since I have been in China, and I really wanted to get out and do some hiking. We went online, and I showed him pictures of the Appalachian Trail and explained the entire hiking culture behind it. He said he also loved to hike, but that he never had time for “leisure activities” anymore.

           

            Later that day he came to my office very excited. “Jamie, I have found a hiking club based here in Haikou. We can go hiking on the weekends.” He is a happy, upbeat man by nature, but he seemed especially cheered by the thought of getting outside and sleeping in the woods. He and I then made plans to join the hiking club. We are going this weekend to a mountain range called the Overlord Mountain Range in the southern part of the island not too far from the beach resort town of Sanya. There are a rare species of long haired monkeys living on that mountain. I’m taking my camera and will be telling you all about it here.

 

            So all this week, Mr. Quan has been coming in every day to give me the countdown. Around five on Monday he showed up and said, “Only four more days.” We went to two “hiking specially stores” in Haikou. Neither store had a large selection of hiking gear, but I already have some good hiking shoes and a backpack. The hiking club will provide tents and sleeping bags. I picked up a North Face shirt for less than twenty bucks at one of the stores, so I was happy. Mr. Quan has some hiking shoes as well. We are going shopping for hiking food tomorrow.

 

            Today, Mr. Quan came in and told me about his training regime for the hiking trip this weekend. He is already in great shape, but he told me he had been running more this week etc. Then he said something that made me smile and still makes me smile when I think about it. He told me he had been practicing “his song.” He then asked me if I had been practicing “my song.” I of course didn’t know what he was talking about.

 

            “My song?”

 

            “Yes,” said Mr. Quan. “At night there will be a campfire and everybody will sit around and eat and sing songs. I have a bad voice, and I don’t want to be embarrassed, so I have been practicing my song. You should have one picked out too.”

 

            I didn’t know what to say. He was so sincere and honest when he said it that I couldn’t laugh. When I normally make plans for camping, it doesn’t occur to me to pick out a song too. To him it seemed like a rational act though. And he is really excited about this trip. In addition to being the college’s FAO, he is studying to get his law degree on the side. I get the feeling that he doesn’t get a lot of R and R. This will be a great chance for him to escape the office and hang out with the boys.

 

            So anyway, I guess I had better pick out a song before the big hiking trip. I could sing the Chinese Standard English Song: “Yesterday Once More.” However after living here for five months, I’ve decided if I ever sing that song again on purpose I want somebody to put a bullet in my brain.

 

            “Yesterday Once More” is omnipresent in China-- lurking somewhere in the background, the volume about to be turned up. It’s mind boggling. It’s a national phenomenon. Everybody knows it. Everybody sings along on the chorus. I even heard “Yesterday Once More” Muzak in a restaurant which I thought was totally redundant. I don’t understand how they entire country doesn’t get tired of it. I mean we have stupid songs that are popular for six months, but then we move on to another stupid song. Not so here, unless you count “I’m a Big, Big Girl in a Big, Big World.” Karen Carpenter, you are missed…in China anyway. Maybe if she could have seen how popular her song has become in China, she would have eaten a twinkie or something at the last minute.

 

            So these days I’m busy training for the big hike. I just hope my voice is ready.

posted by: jmedoom at November 05, 2003 20:34 | link | comments (3) |

Togalicious

 

So this past weekend I went to a Halloween party dressed as Mark Anthony. Erin went as Cleopatra. Normally, I get a lot of attention here in China because I am a foreigner and because…well let’ face it…I’m hot. But the fact I was only wearing a toga and sandals as I got into the taxi didn’t seem to register in the faces of the gawkers on the street. I was receiving the exact same penetrating gazes as usual. I may have stumbled on something here. I no longer can achieve shock value. In China, me being me on the street is shocking enough for everybody. If I wear a toga, they just assume that’s what I would usually wear. I am completely free now. Free to be me. Free from expectations. I can now throw off the chains of good manners, smart fashion sense, and hygiene…like…like…the Germans or the French. Ooooh. It’s disappointing when you realize your “cutting edge” social idea is already a way of life for people of two entire nations.

 

When I arrived at the Halloween party, my costume was a huge bomb. All the Chinese party goers kept asking me why I came as a Buddhist monk. I pointed out that my robes weren’t saffron, and my wrapping method was an obvious Greek style. If I spent more than two minutes explaining my lame costume, they would shake their heads and say with a big smile and glazed over eyes, “Oh yeah, I know, Greeks!” Which is roughly translated, “I’m humoring you because you’re an idiot, and maybe later you will speak more English to me.” In order to clear up the confusion, I spent much of my evening eating hotdogs—a decidedly un-Buddhist action I felt.

 

One of the Americans approached me and complimented me on my Julius Caesar costume. I told him that my lack of head garland should be a big indicator that I was not in fact Caesar. Everybody learns the proper equation in college: man + toga - garland = Mark Anthony. (insert compulsory Et Tu Brute joke here) I then complimented him on his costume idea, Tacky American Tourist, right before he told me he hadn’t changed into his costume yet. Costumes can be a cruel, messy business sometimes. The host’s of the party made jack-o-lanterns out of gourds, and they were great. Apples were bobbed, children were scared, and English was spoken the entire time—like a big scary English corner--so everyone had a good time. My favorite costume of the evening was a young Chinese student who came as an apple tree. She had spray painted her hair green and stuck paper apples all over herself. It was a simple and effective costume. There was no confusing what she was. Nobody mistook her for say a banana tree or a Hari Krishna. She probably went home very satisfied. For two hours she had been an apple tree…and people had understood.

 

I on the other hand had not faired so well. I had eaten way too many hotdogs. In America, we often eat the left over parts in the form of a hotdog. In China, no part of any animal is ever “left over.” Realizing this forced me into a deep, almost meditative, contemplation about the composition of Chinese hotdogs. Also, I had allowed myself to d become a bit irritated during the evening. My toga kept coming unwrapped at the worst times, like when I was putting on the mustard or having my picture taken with the Pirate.

 

During the taxi ride home, the other Americans were quiet also. I was riding comfortably in the front seat. The four in the back were packed a bit tighter. All the windows were down, and we were lost in our own thoughts amid the sound of swirling breeze, beeping taxi horns, and busy mopeds. Ten minutes passed; we rode on into the Haikou night. Even the taxi driver possessed a wide-eyed distance in his face. No doubt he was pondering the meaning of obscure side streets, monotonous meter beeps, and the constant leaving and returning of humanity. Then finally from the back of the taxi, the silence was broken.

 

“That apple tree was a really good idea.” We all nodded silently in agreement. I adjusted my toga.

posted by: jmedoom at November 04, 2003 09:54 | link | comments (2) |