methinks

Life in China

This is a story of clich�s - a story so stereotypically China, one might suspect it's an exaggerated contrivance of an old China-hand spinning yarns for a green laowai. (If you don't know what that means, you are one.) But what I tell you is the truth. The plain, level truth.

Be Careful What You Wish For

It was a typical Duyun winter -- frigid drizzle instead of fluffy snow, dreary skies instead of blue horizons, small fires instead of central heat.

You see, there is a policy in resource starved China that forbids the southern half of the country from even having central heat, and since Old Jack Frost is not a good Party member and delivers us weeks on end of near freezing weather despite this heating ban, we locals are obliged to wear countless layers of clothes and huddle around indoor bonfires. Never mind the soot that begrimes or that smoky campout smell. True, the soft coal burning in our living rooms will cause acid rain for the next few months, but to worry about that now is a little too farsighted for us in rural China.

If you have enough money, you can avoid the coal and sticks approach to surviving the winter by using electric space heaters. If you want to do anything more than warm your feet, however, you'll also need wiring that can supply sufficient current to your hungry heater. Windows that completely shut would be helpful, too, as would something more insulating than paint between yourself and the brick walls. In my case, money I had -- the other three I did not. My apartment was intended for someone who didn't mind having a coal furnace in their living room, so efficiency wasn't a top design priority.

Thus it was I spent the bulk of this endless winter sealed in my bedroom behind be-taped and be-draped windows, huddled over an electric heater running at one third of it's potential (I had a small electrical explosion last year when I tried to run it at two-thirds power), often times wearing not only my coat but my comforter, wishing that cabin fever would at least make me warm.

It was a dim existence, literally and figuratively. The overhead light didn't work (yet another previous explosion), and as I've already mentioned, for reasons of heat retention the drapes had to remain shut. During the coldest spells, I would only leave my cave to eat, teach and watch DVDs with David, of which the last required hats and extra blankets to prevent mid-movie hypothermia. It was not the happiest time of my life.

To those dreary conditions add a water heater that couldn't heat beyond tepid, outlets that required repeated wiggling to deliver current, a sink that belched foul toilet odors, an unidentified screeching rodent outside my window that forced its feces into my house through a tiny crack (I taped the crack, but he soon took enough of that off to drop his payload, that rat bastard), a cryptic, wall-sized mural painted by the previous foreign tenant that illustrated the feelings of isolation and alienation we foreigners often feel in China (as if I needed a constant reminder), and a major construction site less than ten feet from my window. All very true elements of my life.

Now mix in the knowledge that David (next door) and I were the only foreigners we knew who lived in such dismal conditions. Compared to other American's in China, our houses were hovels and our salaries were pocket change. We had known all this beforehand and chosen to come nonetheless, but that fact is one of the first to succumb to the cold.

It was while living with all these frustrations that I told the school if I were to stay for another term, I would need more suitable housing. More lucrative, more comfortable options were knocking my door down, but for a sense of pseudo-closure to my multiple Peace Corps evacuations, I dearly wanted to finish my would-have-been term here in Duyun. True, I didn't join the Peace Corps for comfort and money, but I was tired of living in a freezing, motley colored crap-hole. More importantly, I wasn't in the Peace Corps anymore; this was a business arrangement and should be treated as such.

It was December, and my contract was soon to expire. David had decided he would move on to greener pastures, which would leave the school a teacher short and me in a good spot to make a deal. Now, I'm a decent person and a realist, so I understood that even if I wanted to stick it to the school and take them for everything they had (which I didn't), I wouldn't get very much. And I feared that the cost of whatever I did get would eventually be passed on to the students. So like I said, I kept my conditions short and sweet. I needed a nicer place.

In all honesty, I expected this to be an impossible request. I mean, the school does have apartments sitting empty, but they are all worse than what I had. I expected them to squirm for a week in fear of losing yet another teacher then come to me with heads hung and say, "We can make any improvements you need to your current apartment, but we can't afford a new place." I would feign a disappointed acceptance, hand over the list of necessary improvements I had prepared the week before, take a long vacation in Yunnan and come back to a freshly painted apartment with new (hopefully safer) switches and outlets. And, in fact, that's exactly how it played out. That's where we stood in late December.

In mid-January the unthinkable happened. The President of the college himself informed me (in passing, not like he came to my house) that they had a new place for me. It would be ready in ten days. My heart leapt as my head swirled. I asked for something and would not only get it -- I would get it in a timely manner?? This was not the China I had come to know. The little boy in me was skipping circles, while my inner-cynic stood with folded arms and watchful eyes.

Ten days passed, then two more, then about another two weeks of "It'll be ready in two days." Then the Semester Break came, which is a mammoth of a holiday (over a month) during which nothing remotely productive is permitted to happen, so obviously no moving then. Then school started again and the Cynic, Little Boy and I were still living in the same nasty apartment. Another two or three weeks of "Ready in a few days." Then apparently someone filled the place with toxic fumes that needed to be aired out. That would take ten more days.

The Cynic was lashing out with "told you so's" at the Little Boy, who retorted in classic form with a round of "I'm like rubber, you're like glue?" You know how it goes. And me, I was trying to remind the cynic of our Peace Corps cross-cultural training. It's not that they're deceitful, duplicitous liars who told us what we wanted to hear just so we would stay; it's just a different culture. Things work at a different speed.

In mid-March, the school finally made good on their early-January promise, and gave me the keys to a luxurious (though last generation) apartment. But by that time, I wasn't so sure I even wanted to move. Winter was almost over, so the cold factor soon wouldn't be a factor. More importantly though, I wasn't thrilled about packing up and moving across town so I could live in a nice place for three and a half months. Seven months? Of course. Three months? I don't know.

Once the seed of doubt was planted I started to get all nostalgic about my old place, the motley colored crap-hole. The Old Man elbowed the Cynic and Little Boy out of the spotlight and started to reminisce about all the "good old days" in that apartment and how it would be such a shame to abandon it so near the end. It was my first real place to myself. Not a dorm room, no roommates. It was my apartment and as such I - however reluctantly - had grown attached to it and all its quirks. I sat on the issue for a week. It was clear that on both practical and sentimental grounds I didn't want to move, but it was going to be one heck of a trick explaining that to the school without making myself sound like a spoiled brat and without causing whoever was responsible for the two month delay to lose some serious face.

In the end, I tried to use classic Party dogma to save us all. I explained that the apartment was too nice for me. "It has too many rooms for one person, and I could never be so selfish in a nation with so many people. For the good of Our China, I will stay where I am, and you give this apartment to someone needier. I want to act in the interest of the People." None of which was untrue. I just hung more weight from that particular thread of truth than it was intended to hold. I thought I was being clever and saving everyone face, but evidently I was wrong. The following week I was "relocated".


Better Late Than Never

Justin, the English speaking (yet still Chinese) assistant at the college's Foreign Affairs office, called me to tell me he wanted to come over and discuss something. Hoping a surplus of enthusiasm on my part would make him forget what ever ill news was brooding in his mind, I chuckled out an overly chipper, "Sure, come on over, man." I guess it didn't work because as soon as he entered, he politely (almost nervously) informed me that not moving was not an option. He said that the school had promised my apartment to someone else, and that I need to move so the school could do some remodeling.

There is a custom in China that someone receiving a gift should refuse at least once (often twice) to be polite. To be certain that we weren't playing this game -- he firmly re-offering in reply to my humble refusal a few days prior - I tried to look dour and disappointed about the ordeal, which wasn't too hard to do. He didn't budge. I would have to move. It would be foolish and wrong to argue that point (I did ask to move in the first place), so I conceded on that front. My thoughts turned to plan B.

"Justin, what if I just move across the hall into David's old apartment? I mean, I could do all that by myself in an easy day. I wouldn't even have to pack."

It was then his eyes betrayed him. It was an expression I'd met many times in the market on the faces of guilty sellers hoping to take advantage of me undetected. The eyes look to the side, and then the neck realizes how obviously avoidant that gesture appears, so it nonchalantly turns the head to catch up with the eyes, as if to say "Oh, I just noticed a particularly fascinating object in the distance over there. That's what I'm looking at." With head still to the side, the chin drops and returns to center and then quickly up to meet your gaze lest you suspect they have something to conceal. This is the gesture Justin made. I'm not calling him a liar - it could very well be true that someone else will move into that apartment - but it was obvious he was not telling me the whole truth.

He started to ramble. "We want to have all the foreigners live in that complex [where my new place would be]. We need to remodel this place. Like you said the conditions are not so good, the windows. We should install some new windows for the new people. Should I call Rao Hui [the head of the Foreign Affairs office] to ask about David's old apartment?" I said 'yes' so he could pass the responsibility to others' shoulders (I like Justin and didn't want to see him squirm), even though I already new what the answer would be.

"Hmm, Rao Hui says we need to re-do all the windows at the same time, so you can't move there."

At that moment, I was 99% positive that what he said was not true. No one was going to touch those windows. It was just an unfortunately chosen excuse; unfortunate because that miniscule one percent of doubt - the fact that the school might really install new windows for the next tenants - made me snap. My tone was civil, but my words were harsh. It's the only thing in this story I regret. I should have held my tongue.

"Justin, I feel cheated. The entire time I have lived here, with the Peace Corps and without, I have pleaded with the school to improve these windows. Alfred and I begged and badgered for three months just to get someone over here to make these windows close [generous use of a hand plane was his solution]. A bird lives on this end and throws bits of its nest into my house. A rodent lives on that end and drops it crap onto my floor. No matter how much I clean it, my back porch smells like a dirty pet shop; I can't even hang my clothes out there to dry anymore. And now you're telling me I am being relocated because the very thing I've always asked for is coming true. Ironic, isn't it?"

A testament to his professional character, he apologized for the past oversights of the Foreign Affairs Office, noting that he wasn't there at the time, and sincerely explained his commitment to preventing such misunderstandings from happening in the future. A testament to his personal character, he's so far made good on that pledge. He is the most helpful FAO member I've met.

So that was that. Whether being pushed out of the old apartment or mysteriously pulled into the new one, I would be moving. I decided --after letting all my stress out in the window rant -- that I'd optimistically jump into the move. A new look at my old city, however brief, would be too good to pass up. We parted with smiles and a handshake, and I got to work sorting my things, packing the good and pitching the bad.

Five days later, six strong-backed freshmen came and carried my life down four flights, loaded it into a truck, then carried it back up six flights. I wouldn't call them professionals (for example, the components of my computer lay in a jumbled heap at the bottom of the case when it arrived at the new place?but that's an entirely different story), but they got the job done before lunch. I treated them to beef hot pot (6 kuai hot pot, Alf...but it's now 7 kuai hot pot), after which they went back to their dorms and I went to make a new home.

Better Safe Than Sorry

About this same time another clich� was unfolding, a clich� not of China but of parental worry.

I'd been telling people I was moving since the school told me in January, but I think my three months of reporting turned me into the Boy Who Cried New Apartment. Moreover, when moving day actually came, I didn't really formally tell anyone; I thought I'd be set up and back in touch in a day or two and no one would even notice I was gone. Well, if you haven't guessed, it took far longer than two days to get my phone service switched over. An excerpt from one of my many conversations with the phone company:

"The only contact number I have is that one. The one I want to move to my new house," I pointed at the paper.

"Well, we can't use that. You won't be there. That's the old house."

"Right."

"Well, you have to have some contact number so you know when the service man wants to come to your house."

"I don't have one."

"Well, you should get a cell phone."

"I am not going to get a cell phone so I can get a normal phone."

"What are we going to do? Maybe you can borrow one." She looked at her computer and sighed, "Oh dear...you haven't gotten your DSL yet. We can't move your phone number until this job is finished."

"I don't want the DSL at that house. I want it at the new house."

"But you signed up for it at the old house??"

Right then I wished she would understand the depth of, "What is your major malfunction?" But I new she wouldn't, so I just left.

I went back a few days later and was lucky enough to speak with the one phone lady who seems to want to help me. She spent about fifteen minutes on the phone sorting things out, gave me two numbers (one for the phone man, one for the DSL man) and told me I should call them and tell them when I have free time. She's so clever. I was connected in two days.

Of course my family didn't know that I was having fun with the phone people. Their best guess was that I was "collapsed in [my] apartment and no one thought to check why [I] didn't show up for work." Eventually, my dad became worried enough to start emailing my friends, one of whom happened to be a former teacher in this city and was thus able to give my dad some phone numbers. My dad calls the cell phone of an English teacher here. He calls the office. The secretary - who likes to practice her English but has of yet mastered only the most direct, forceful expressions - comes into my class and says, "You must call you father." My heart hit my stomach.

One half of my brain was at work churning out the most gruesome death scenarios for members of my family; not that I wanted to, but I have an unbridled imagination. The other half of my brain was working on logistics: airfare, rescheduling classes, should I just ship things home with me now never to return? I knew I was going to have to call from a public phone, so I thought it prudent to go to an internet caf� and hopefully get some hint of the tragedy beforehand lest I erupt with sobs of grief alongside the street.

Scanning my Inbox I saw phrases like "where are you?" and "we're worried" and "give us a call." I never thought that someone else being worried would make me less so, but it did. I saw no hints of emergencies or of deaths tragic or otherwise. I steadied my breathing and tried to get my heart rate back below a hundred. I would call ten minutes later just to be safe. Other than that I woke them up, I learned there were no problems at home. They learned there were no problems here. Everyone was relieved.

All's Well That Ends Well

Along the far eastern edge of town, nestled in the foothills of mist-covered gumdrop mountains, my new home stands along an antique alley too narrow for cars. Instead of the seemingly ubiquitous Chinese cacophony of horns and construction, one hears the countryside melodies of chickens and dogs (and the occasional pig slaughter). In front of old buildings with courtyards and tile roofs sit even older people bathing in what little warmth the Guizhou sun can offer.

I've been living here for over a week now, and in contrast to the surroundings, the inside is very posh. I have faux marble floors in the common rooms, parquet floors in the bedrooms and blue tinted sliding windows everywhere. Red lights in the living and bed rooms add a touch of Chinese class. The kitchen is outfitted with a dual-burner gas range and high power exhaust fan. And one better than that, the kitchen sink has hot water! The DSL is up and running as is the DVD entertainment system. After three months living large like this, moving back to America is going to be like joining the Peace Corps all over again.

I got to meet my first neighbor today. Unfortunately, he came by to tell me that I was dripping water through his ceiling. It seems that when Justin gave me the grate for the sink drain and said, "This is so food doesn't go down the sink," his meaning was, "You must use this so food doesn't go down the sink," and not, "If for some reason you don't want food to go down the sink, here's a clever little cover." The actual drain (a hole in a tile basin in the floor under the sink) had clogged and created a mire of water and food waste in the cupboard below the sink that was slowly percolating into his apartment. Oops.

No one has touched my old apartment. Actually, I still have the keys for both David's and my place. I take naps over there sometimes. (Although, after the school's spies read this blog entry, I'm sure they'll need the keys back ASAP.) And I've learned that the owner of this apartment has the same family name as the man who decides where the foreigners live, which might possibly explain why I was pulled into this place. But you know, I don't really care about that. The school did a good thing for me. I prefer to think of them as wise parents who pressured their childish son into making the right decision. Whatever hassles it's caused for us all, it's been for the best. That's the truth. That's life in China.

Posted by dacriss at March 23, 2004 06:16 PM