How Can a Foreigner Act a Fool in China? Let Me Count the Ways...

Want to be a foreigner in China? Then, you’ve got to be comfortable with the idea of making a complete fool of yourself at organized events in front of a crowd of photo-snapping, video-taping, tour hat-wearing locals.

Little did I know that this is what I signed up for when I agreed to attend Hangzhou International Day.

“A government tour for foreign teachers, to show Chinese culture,” is how my boss, Mark, innocently described it.

So, given a perfect excuse for canceling three of my classes in the middle of the week, I climbed into a mianbao che with Wendy and Roger at 7:30am on a crisp Wednesday morning and headed toward the meeting place for the HZ International Day at Hefang Jie (河坊街).

It all started out normally enough. There was an inordinate amount of foreigners milling about the entrance to Hefang Jie, waiting to begin their “tours.” I also noticed a few cameramen weaving in and out of the throngs of multicolored, international heads of hair that stood out starkly against the sea of black heads that shouldered past us. But, after our tour guide began marching us down Hefang Jie and droning into his microphone about the importance of the ancient streets of Hangzhou, I started to zone out and prepare myself for a drab day of Chinese-style mass tourism.

I was so wrong.

The presence of cameramen should’ve tipped me off. But, at 8:30am, I just wasn’t cognizant enough to make that connection.

As I nonchalantly skimmed the placards describing the ancient roads of Hangzhou and daydreamed about what I’d eat for lunch, someone suddenly shoved a microphone in my face.

“Excuse me, can you speak Chinese?” inquired an eager journalist. The cameraman behind her trained his camera on my face.

“Uh. Uh. A little,” I stammered in Chinese.

“Ok. We want to ask you a question.”

“Okay…” They wouldn’t ask me anything hard, right? Something easy like, Where are you from? What are you doing in Hangzhou? Do you like Hangzhou?

“Why are the ancient roads in Hangzhou important?”

“Um. What?”

Is this a trick question? Some sort of test?

“The ancient roads. Why are they important?”

Yep, I heard that correctly. This is problematic. Definitely should have been listening to the tour guide earlier when he was discussing precisely why the ancient roads were important. Damn me and my propensity to daydream about food at inappropriate times.

This was even more awkward given the fact that I was supposed to be replying in Chinese.

“Um. The roads, are very famous,” was all I could muster.

“Did you know about the ancient roads before?” inquired the reporter further.

“No?”

“No?! “ cried the reporter incredulously. “You had never heard of the ancient roads? Really?!”

It was as though I’d insulted the entirety of Chinese history and culture with my professed ignorance of “the ancient roads.” This was getting exceedingly awkward. And the microphone and camera were still shoved in my face.

When is lunch?

“No…but, I do now. And I understand that the ancient roads help explain Chinese history . Chinese history is very long. 5000 years, you know”

“Ah yes! Very long history,” agreed the reporter happily, finally satisfied with me and my answers.

(Note to anyone ever caught in an awkward conversation with a Chinese person about Chinese history, culture, politics, ect: Merely mention the fact that China has 5000 years of history, and you will instantly resolve said awkward encounter. This is a surefire way to demonstrate that you know that your country is ultimately inferior to China in all aspects).



So. Who knows what parts of that ridiculously awkward interview ended up on the Hangzhou CCTV News. But I do know that, if my debut interview didn’t make it, at least one of these other awkward encounters from Hangzhou International Day probably did:

•Being handpicked from an audience of foreigner teachers, university professors, and government officials to dance the cha-cha with an award-winning dance instructor at one of Hangzhou’s art schools…and failing miserably to rise to the occasion and put one foot in front of the other.

•Being handpicked again from the same audience to do a fan dance with one of the art school’s female dancers…and failing even worse than I did at the cha-cha.

•Having an exceedingly hard time using my chopstick skills to pick up and eat a Traditional Chinese Medicine-inspired radish, and then looking up to see the cameraman trained on my face just as I sloppily drop the slimy radish from between my kuazi.

•Playing a rusty rendition of “Heart and Soul” with Roger at a piano in the music school, and accidentally muttering a not-so-nice swear word when I messed up the harmony—only to look up and see the very same cameraman leaning over the piano with the microphone and taping the entire performance. Great. My cover as a sophisticated, classy lady is blown.

Basically, I have now experienced the timeless and universal Chinese hobby of watching foreigners embarrass themselves while attempting to experience "Chinese culture." It really is a perfect way for Chinese not only to showcase their generosity, hospitality, and kindness, but also to reaffirm in their minds (and maybe ours) that their culture is absolutely superior to that of the bumbling, awkward, unsophisticated foreigners.

Reason #2353789 why I grow more fascinated by the Chinese political and cultural system every day.

China v. Google: Chinese Students' Surprising Perspectives

On Wednesday, I started out my classes the way I always do: with a self-deprecating story about the father I’d met at Starbucks the day before who told me I was the strangest looking person his son has ever seen, and a lesson on how to appropriately use the word “Haterade.”

But, instead of following this with an uncontroversial activity on dating advice or movie topics, I wrote the word “Google” on the board, and turned to face my class.
A wave of hushed whispering in Chinese swept across the classroom.

Some background info: The day before, Google had ended its tense stand-off with the Chinese government over Internet censorship by making the bold and very public move to cancel its Google.cn operations in the mainland. The Chinese government criticized Google for politicizing commercial matters. Google defended its belief in protecting users’ right to free speech and the free flow of information. In the end, given the choice either to submit to the Chinese government’s laws on Internet censorship or end its google.cn operations, Google chose to leave.

This very public stand-off with the world’s largest Internet search engine provider has shined a very bright spotlight on the Chinese government’s policy of restricting information access to its 1.3 billion citizens. I wanted to gauge my students’ opinions, even though I didn’t know how they would react to my queries.

The reactions were incredibly interesting and unexpected.

My first two classes consisted of freshmen English majors. In China, freshmen university students have not yet been recruited into the Communist Party, so their opinions and perspectives are much less influenced by CCP policies than older students. This had a significant effect, I came to realize, on my students' reactions to my discussion on Google.

“So, why is Google such a hot topic in China right now?” I asked the class of wide-eyed freshmen.

The excited whispering in Chinese ceased, but four hands immediately shot up.

“Google left. It was not happy with our government’s opinion about how to manage the Internet,” responded a usually shy girl with wide-rimmed glasses.

“That’s true. What do you think about that?” I carefully nudged them on.

“I am very disappointed. Now, how will we get information from foreign media? Before, that was the only way for us to learn about things that the government did not want us to know about. Now, we will be less informed,” offered another student.

Surprised and encouraged by this perspective, I gently pressed on.

“What do you mean by, they did not want you to know?”

“Things that are negative about China or the government. The government doesn’t want a lot of people here knowing about it. It will decrease the government’s legitimacy.
The government thinks it will make China weaker.”

Of course, I would have expected these comments from American students, but never did I expect them to come so readily from a classroom of shy, respectful Chinese freshmen. I was astounded.

“So, do you think Google’s decision to leave was based on politics or business? You know, it was having trouble competing with Baidu (China’s version of Google), so maybe it left because it wasn’t profitable in China anymore?”

This time, one of my more thoughtful students spoke up. “I think that Google does not care about money, in this case. It is already very successful. I think Google wants to use its power to show that China is not a place for free ideas. That means it will lose money, but Google thinks it is okay to lose money if it increases freedom instead.”

Innnnteresting.

“Do you want China to be a place for free ideas?”

“Yes. Free ideas are what we need to become more powerful. If we stay unfree, we will never be the most powerful country in the world. We need freedom for power.”

Wow.

Emboldened and excited by my discussion with my freshmen, I posed the same question to my sophomore class later in the day.

This time, the reaction was incredibly different.

“So, what happened with Google yesterday?”

Silence. Uncomfortable, shifty glances.

“Google left.” That was all I got.

“Why did Google leave?” I pressed them on.

The students hung their heads, suddenly intensely interested in the wood patterns on their desks.

“We don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means we don’t know. So please don’t ask us.”

Shut down.

But, knowing that students had access to more information on the dispute than that,
I tried one more time to get more discussion going.

I asked: “Google left because it had different opinions than China about how to do business, right? What was the Chinese government’s opinion?” Maybe I’d at least get some party-line perspective on the matter from this question.

“The government is not happy with Google for turning business into politics. It is not happy that Google refuses to obey Chinese laws but wants to take money from China. The government welcomes Google back, as long as Google agrees to do business only, and leave politics to government.”

Interesting. Completely complacent towards the Chinese government’s stance on the issue, and completely different from my freshmen’s critical eye on the motivations behind their government’s stance.

“Okay. So, do you think Google will come back?”

“Yes, because Google needs China. China is the world’s biggest market. Any international company needs China to be successful. Google will be back.”

A nationalistic response from a group of students who, as sophomores, had recently been integrated into the Party system.

For the first time, I saw my students as a political force. Instead of shy, giggly girls and awkward, lanky boys, I recognized them as participants in China’s fragile political apparatus. I observed, first-hand, the mental transformation that Chinese university students across the country undergo as they become irrevocably intertwined with the political philosophy and policies of the Communist Party: from intellectually curious freshmen with the confidence to voice their opinions in front of their peers, to indoctrinated upperclassmen reticent to voice dissent in front of their Party member classmates.

This seems to be a vital aspect of the Party’s plan to maintain power: take the best and brightest students from China’s university system, recruit them into the Party, “teach” them the party line through monthly meetings, and then disperse them to watch over their classmates to ensure that all students are abiding by the Party’s laws and policies.

The result: students who, before their first official foray into the Party, were comfortable questioning government policies, become unwilling to publicly convey displeasure with their government’s actions.

To diffuse the tension that pervaded the classrooms during our Google discussion, I followed our talk with a very uncontroversial and harmless children’s game of Screaming Viking. The students all loved this. As we stood in a circle, collapsing into laughter as we watched each other fail to assume the proper funny poses upon command, I almost saw my students the way I had before: as fun-loving, giggly teenagers.

Except, now I know that there’s so much more to them than meets the eye.

Hangzhou Bucket List

So, I’m entering the home stretch of my time in Home Sweet Hangzhou. And, even though I’m really excited about what next year holds, I’m also already getting a wee bit nostalgic for all the little things that make Hangzhou (and China) quirky, unique, and lovable. When will monks in their orange robes cheer me on as I jog past them on my morning run? Am I going to find another dumpling lady who decides whether or not she likes me based solely on the length of my hair? (apparently, the shorter my hair, the uglier I am. Good to know.) And I highly doubt I’ll ever again have students who welcome me back to class after break with a slightly inaccurate, very off-tune, but nevertheless hilariously passionate rendition of Lady GaGa’s “Bad Romance.”


Yep, China’s pretty sweet.

But, time is running out on me. So, in hopes that I won’t squander my time during my last few months in Hangzhou, I have composed a Hangzhou Bucket List of all the things I want to do before I set out on my kayak back to America:

1. Sing in public more often. Unlike in America, where this only puts your sanity in question, in China, it wins you lots of friends and free food.
2. Hike Huangshan in Anhui Province.
3. Hunker down on my Chinese and ramp up my private lessons.
4. Spend all my money in/fall in love with Hong Kong.
5. Hang out with the Uyghurs in Xinjiang.
6. Jog around the West Lake—a formidable challenge, indeed.
7. Finish a plate of stinky tofu. (might not be able to accomplish this one, but it’s good to have goals)
8. Be a better teacher for my students. I am officially and irrevocably attached to all 150 of them, and they deserve the best of me.
9. Ride the Maglev in Shanghai.
10. Get a new Chinese name. I can't really pronounce my current one, which is always problematic when meeting new people.
***Check! My students have now bestowed upon me a new Chinese name: Qian Duoduo. Literal translation: More and more money. I could get behind this one.
11. Play badminton with the neighborhood kids instead of always coming up with excuses so they don’t have to see how bad I am at the sport.
12. Have that Disney-themed karaoke night that we’ve been talking about for months (I can show you the world…)
13. Go hiking in Moganshan.
14. Explore the gardens on the west side of West Lake that I never went to before because they weren’t “urban” enough for me.
15. Go to Nanjing, Jiangsu Province—the city home to the topic of my senior thesis.
***Almost check! Going this weekend!
16. Embrace Zhuantang, the traditional, completely un-Westernized Chinese town next to my campus.
17. Read more—I’ve returned to China from America with Barnes and Noble’s entire inventory, and I am determined to read it all before I come home.
18. Make more memories with my four--or five, or six, depending on the day--awesome new housemates (yes, I live in a frat house).
***Partial check on this one already, thanks to the guys’ enthusiastic embrace of “International Women’s Day” by insisting on cooking incessantly for me and Wendy...tehehe.


My house!

















19. Live in the moment.
20. Eat all the chao la mian that I can get my hands on mmmmm.
21. Reflect more upon what I’m learning, how I’m growing, and what new thoughts, perspectives, and beliefs I’ll be taking back to the US with me....I should journal.
22. Continue my loyal patronage of the 1 kuai baozi and 1 kuai doughnuts.
23. Dance with the big pink bunny rabbit at Club 88 (don’t ask).
24. Be fearless.

The Ring of Fireeeeeee.

I was ready to get to Southern Thailand.

Although I really valued learning about the sociopolitical turmoil that ravaged Southeast Asia during the 1960s and 70s--visiting graphic Vietnam War memorials and the unimaginably disturbing Killing Fields and Tuol Sleng Prison that keep Camobdia's genocide alive--all of this “genocide tourism” had really gotten me down. I was ready to trade somber meals spent trying to make sense of the tragedies for a little more lighthearted environment.

Koh Phi Phi was calling.

The Lonely Planet description was absolutely intriguing: “in contention for the title ‘most beautiful place in the world,” “paradise on earth,” “so beautiful, it will evoke tears.”

Well, Koh Phi Phi didn’t quite evoke tears, but it was the perfect way to end an amazing trek through Southeast Asia. After spending a few intense days on Khao San Road in Bangkok, where we weaved our way through throngs of travelers, ladyboys, and the unfortunately ubiquitous Thai prostitutes, we excitedly bordered our last sleeper bus (!!!) to Krabi, a sleepy beach town with a boat to the island of Koh Phi Phi.

Needless to say, I was excited. With my hideous sunburn from Nha Trang, Vietnam finally fading away into a somewhat-tan, I was ready to take these tear-evoking beaches by storm.

And, oh we did. Koh Phi Phi turned out to be a paradise of translucent waters, out of which soared impressive, tree-topped limestone cliffs. Soft, white sandy beaches hugged the coastline, and quaint long-tail boats taxied visitors to and from the surrounding islands.



Yep, this was happiness. We spent a day snorkeling in the reefs around Koh Phi Phi, where I decided that I should have been a marine biologist (is it too late?). Equipped with my trusty fins and snorkeling mask that I didn’t really use, I dove down into the unknown to propel through skittish schools of tropical fish and to examine sea anemones, inches from the animals’ gently swaying polyps and tendrils. So awesome. Despite my love for aquariums, they will just never seem sufficient after this.



But, the real crescendo of excitement happened at the beach party the evening prior to our snorkeling adventure. Every night, the bars on the beach host parties illuminated by fire twirlers and ropes set aflame and left to dangle from the metal overhangs. Not exactly safe, but awesome nonetheless.

But, perhaps the even less safe fixture of these nightly pyromaniac parties is the invitation for travelers to play “fire jump rope.” Yes, it’s exactly what it sounds like. Two employees ignite a large rope, and then travelers see how long they can leap over the billowing flames before catching themselves on the rope and burning their legs. It was quite a spectacle to watch, as tourist after tourist took on the rope of fiery death, and, inevitably, lost the battle.

I’d like to say that I was “brave” enough to take on said rope. I wasn’t. I was, however, brave enough to take on another fiery challenge: the Ring of Fireeeeee. (imagine me saying this in the most intimidating and melodramatic way possible).



As we watched our fellow tourists somersault and gazelle leap through the fire, we became increasingly confident in our ability to do the same. Finally, after watching our friend, Phil, successfully conquer the Ring of Fire, I handed our friend my new Cambodian side-sling purse and said, “I’m going in.”

Now, when you’re careening toward an intimidating ring of fire, with the flames licking the interior of the ring, you can’t stop to think about the possibilities of injury. If you do, you’ll probably lose your momentum, take a wrong step, and find yourself face-first in the fire. Not an ideal situation.

So, I elected not to think. I just ran, and jumped, contorted my body into a position I didn’t know was possible, and rolled through the ring of fire out into the safe cool air on the other side.

Niceeeeeeeee. I had conquered the Ring of Fireeeeeee (cue the menacing and melodramatic voice).

Feeling accomplished and very bad ass, I trotted back over to the other side and told Wendy that it was her turn.

“I don’t know guys. Knowing me, I’d trip. You know me, I always trip! I’m going to
trip and fall and die.”

“Noooo, you won’t! We all did it! Come on, do itttt!” I’m such a good influence, I
thought.

“Okay, fine.” She hikes up her dress and sprints like a madwoman toward the flames. Right toward the flames. She starts to catapult herself into the air. This is looking good, this is going to be awesome, this is….

“Gooooo Wendy! Woooooo!…....oooooo. Ooooouch.”

Wendy trips over the Ring of Fire. Trips right over the bottom piece of metal, lands right onto the fiery ring.

Wah waahhh.

To the sound of onlookers going, “boooooooo,” we run over to her and try to help her off of the Ring of Fire. She’s obviously in pain, but this is also kind of a
hilarious situation, considering that she wasn’t hurt thaaat bad.



So, for the rest of the night, we help her put ice on the burn, and try to soothe her wounded ego: “It’s okay, lots of people have tripped over...(dramatic pause) the Ring of Fireeeee.”

Cambodia is a paradox to me.

I don’t really know what I expected from the small, culturally rich country that became tragically infamous after Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge's genocide killed 2 million of the country’s 7 million residents. The worst part was that almost all of the perpetrators, including Pol Pot, escaped prosecution and continued to live among Cambodian citizens and refugees throughout Southeast Asia. Perhaps more so than any other genocide in the world, this country’s residents have lacked closure. Instead, they’ve had to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives alone.

Maybe I was expecting a country whose relatively recent terrors stilled simmered close to the surface. I imagined that the tension, the distrust would still be palpable.

But, if it is, they hide it well. We rolled into the capital of Phnom Penh on a sunny, unseasonably warm and pleasant weekend afternoon, and were immediately met by the nicest, most agreeably persistent Cambodian tuk-tuk driver ever. His name was Lucky, and he had an easy-going smile and an excellent command of English (with an Australian accent that made him even more charming). He approached me as soon as I’d descended from the cramped bus that had delivered us to Cambodia from the motorbike-clogged insanity of Saigon. He pleasantly offered to take me around to find a guesthouse.

Now, by this time, I’d been traveling long enough to know that you don’t accept the offers of cabbies or tuk-tuk drivers that lurk around bus stations—they’re more likely to scam you of your life savings, leaving you stranded in a city that you don’t even know if you like yet.

So, I waved him off and we started to walk towards where we thought a potential guest house would be located. But Lucky was following us, the easy-going smile never leaving his face.

“It is so far, and it’s so hot. Come on, let me take you. I’ll even drive you to several guesthouses so you can shop around and see which one you like best.”

We were beginning to realize that it was hot, and our bags were heavy (and the rice paddy hat I’d recently acquired in Vietnam was becomingly increasingly awkward to carry around), and the guesthouse began to seem farther and farther. Besides, Lucky seemed exceedingly affable, unlike the pushy taxi drivers I’d come to expect in other countries.

“Take us for a dollar?” I asked.

With a wide grin and a big thumbs up, Lucky said, “A-OK!”

So, before we knew it, we were in Lucky’s colorful tuk-tuk, careening down the crowded markets and wide avenues of Phnom Penh—a city that, for me, was surprisingly beautiful. As he drove us around, he chatted about his life in the capital; how he’d lived here for 8 years since moving from a small town northeast of Siem Reap, and that he’d fallen in love with the city because, as he said, “It’s always changing, and, more or less, I think it’s changing for the better. It’s not perfect, but it’s a good model for Cambodia.” So interesting considering Phnom Penh had been the center of the genocide only 30 years ago.

Upon finally selecting an awesome guesthouse that hugged the banks of the Mekong River, we agreed that Lucky would be back to take us to the Killing Fields of Cheong Ek and Tuol Sleng Prison the following morning.

He was waiting as promised at 8am, his characteristic wide smile greeting us as we climbed back into his tuk-tuk and made our way 10km out of the city to the Killing Fields. I was enjoying Lucky’s company. Probably unbeknownst to him, he was becoming the face of Cambodia for me: easy-going, affable, and happy.

The Killing Fields and Tuol Sleng provided a jarring complication of that sunny image, however. The eerily bright and foliaged fields where people had done such horrendous things to each other were indescribably disturbing. We paid an elderly local to give us a “tour” of the field. This tour provided us with an unscripted and genuine perspective on the genocide by someone who’d lived it. He said it was difficult for him to give these tours, but he did it because it ensured that the victims—his friends, family members, and acquaintances—would not be forgotten. He saw it as his duty.



Over and over, as we silently walked among the fields, finding it difficult to comprehend what had happened on the grounds upon which we were treading, he muttered, “Crazy Pol Pot. Crazy man.”

This seemed to be the encapsulation of Cambodians’ perspectives on the dictator. Even upon somberly exiting the Fields and returning to Lucky’s bright tuk-tuk, our usually cheerful driver simply said, “Pol Pot. Crazy, wasn’t he?”

This damnation of the country’s dictator stood out to me in stark contrast to the admiration that Chinese citizens still hold for their own controversial leader, Mao Zedong. Despite Mao’s similarly destructive policies that drove the country into economic and sociopolitical destruction, his face still adorns every piece of Chinese currency, and my students are still quick to complement his unifying leadership abilities.

Why is this so? Were Pol Pot’s policies more transparently evil than Mao’s? Possibly. Was the Chinese Communist propaganda machine more effective than its Khmer Rouge counterpart? I’d imagine so. But it still seems interesting that one evil leader has earned rightful criticism from his victims, and another has largely escaped historical retribution unscathed, at least domestically.

But, despite that exceedingly depressing day of “genocide tourism,” we returned to the public square of Phnom Penh to sights and sounds of residents enjoying their leisure time. Children squealed with delight as they ran in and out of clusters of pigeons, and families spread blankets on the bright green grass to have picnics under the twilight. There was even a balloon seller that had an unusually large line of customers—all men, in fact—waiting to purchase their bit of helium-filled goodness.



What an emotional whiplash from the sights we’d witnessed today. We happened upon an outdoors aerobics class that was moving and twisting to the sounds of early 90s dance music along the banks of the Mekong. Feeling inspired by the exercisers’ carefree smiles as they jumped and sashayed to the beat, we cast aside our bags and our somberness and joined in. We shared laughs with our fellow participants as we initially struggled to figure out the movements, and then giggled goodnaturedly when we accidentally bumped into each other as we struggled to master to the hop-step-two turn-jump maneuver. I never claimed to have rhythm.

It was a beautiful evening in Phnom Penh. It was the perfect way to end such a day: by following the reminders of the evil of which people are capable with the reassurances that the human spirit cannot, in the end, be broken.

I am the Luckiest Loser in the World.

I was really looking forward to my last day in Kunming. A day to relax, recharge, and prepare for my first foray in Southeast Asia the following day.

We ate a leisurely breakfast, caught up on emails, and prepped info for the next legs of our respective trips over creamy cups of coffee. Yep, it was shaping up to be a good day. When we finally headed out on the town around 11:30am, I was feeling good.

Hm. Go to the Yunnan Museum, or take a little stroll in the Muslim Neighborhood?

Wait. Better check to make sure my wallet and phone are still in my pocket. Yep. Both still present. Very good.

Okay. Here’s the game plan: Lunch in the Muslim Neighborhood, then a trip to the Museum. Perf.

Better check the pockets again, just to make sure. Yep, phone’s here, and here’s my….

Wait.

Where’s my wallet?

I dig a little more vigorously around my cavernous North Face pockets. It’s got to be in here somewhere. I just had it. Nope. Not there. It must be in my backpack then. More frantic scrambling. Nothing.

Oh no.

Panic-stricken, but trying to maintain calm, I turn around and start retracing my steps. It must have slipped out
of my pocket. I must have dropped it just now. It must still be there.

No wallet in sight. We ask street cleaners and passersby if they’ve seen a little green wallet with a ID of a goofy-looking brown-haired foreigner in it. Nobody’s seen anything.

Hope is slipping away. All my money…I’m supposed to go to Laos tomorrow….

We finally ask a street vendor if he has any info. He advises me to call the police, and very helpfully does it for me. Within three minutes, a Chinese cop car pulls up to the street, blue lights flashing.

“Are you the foreigner who’s lost the wallet?” they ask me very official-like in Chinese.

“That’s me, unfortunately.” I reply.

“Come with us.” They turn and head back into the cop car.

So, one minute I’m contemplating what yummy Muslim meal to enjoy; the next minute, I’m in the back seat of a cop car. Lights still flashing.

I’d be kind of intimidated. Except that these cops are legit.

“So, you guys have any friends in Kunming?” they ask Tae and me casually.

“Nope”

The cop points to a shady looking bar. “Go there. You can find friends there.”

Hahaha. Awesome. Nightlife recommendations from China’s police force.

Right after, one cop points to a pedestrian sporting a scarf on his head, then turns to his partner, and says,
“Taliban.”

So much for political correctness from China’s finest. This day was getting more and more interesting by the second.

At the police station, I registered the loss/theft of my wallet. The cops were all jovial, and highly interested in learning more about the wide-eyed foreigner who was silly enough to lose all of her money. We left after 15 minutes with their reassurances that they’d try their best to recover my qianbao.

But, with every passing minute, I was feeling more and more hopeless.

It’s okay, I told myself. I’ll just go to the Kunming branch of my Chinese bank, cancel my old card, open a new one, and use that money to get around SE Asia until I can get the replacement cards for my American bank accounts.
Nooo problem.

Only, there was a huge problem.

The nice lady at the bank told me that the only way for me to get a new card would be to go the exact same bank branch from which I originally opened the account. Yep. That means I have to go all the way back to Hangzhou just to get a new card. All the way across the country. And, to make matters worse, I may not be able to get the card until 5 business days after I registered for a replacement card.

This is a nightmare. My own personal hell.

I called my boss back in Hangzhou, almost in tears, hoping that he could use his Chinese to persuade the Kunming bank to give me a card.

Nope. “You must cancel all of your travel plans, and come back to Hangzhou,” he said.

Bleak. All hope lost.

So, I go back to the hostel, completely defeated, and cancel my flight to Laos for the next day, book a flight to Hangzhou, and go through the painful process of freezing my bank accounts and applying for new ones—all over the staticky Skype phone connections.

What if I can’t go to Southeast Asia at all? What if I have to stay in Hangzhou allllll winter break?

I go to bed that night super depressed. I wake up the next morning, still depressed, although I was trying my hardest to stay positive. I wanted to enjoy my last few hours in Kunming.

At 1:30pm, five hours before my flight to Hangzhou, my whole world changed.

As I sat lounging in the hostel café, recounting my woes to Nick, a fellow PiAer, Tae comes rushing over to the table, all excited.

“Chandler, was this in your wallet?” He holds up a piece of printer paper with photocopies of my UGA Student ID and Georgia Driver’s License on it.

Oh. My. God.

“………..Yes.”

“Someone found your wallet! They’re on the phone with the hostel right now.”

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.

I rush over to the reception desk. The staff-person tells me that the person who found my wallet was coming to the
hostel at 3:30pm to return it to me.

“Did they say what was in it?”

“No. They just sent me this photocopy.”

Don’t get too excited. Your IDs could be the only things in there. Someone could have easily taken everything else, and you’ll still be stuck in the same boat as you in are now. Don't get excited yet.

So, I spend the next hour and a half in nervous anticipation.

At 3:15pm—four hours before my flight to Hangzhou—two men enter the hostel, and ask me to come outside with them and sit down.

At the table, one of the men ceremoniously places his fanny-pack on the table, and pulls out my beloved Vera Bradley wallet.

It looks fat and full. It looks like still has stuff in it.

It does. Everything. Even the cash I’d kept in it. It was all there.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Now wait a minute, we want to tell you that we’ve been looking for you since noon yesterday,” the man says. “We work at a TV station, and a student in our audience found your wallet on the ground outside the studio. She gave it to us, and we’ve been looking for you ever since. We searched for you on the internet, tried to find an address or phone number for you, but couldn’t. Finally, we called the police station to see if you’d reported it missing. You had, and they gave us the number of this hostel. We are so happy to have found you.”

Oh my god. So much effort, for someone they didn’t know at alllllll.

“I don’t know what to say. Thank you so much.”

“Don’t thank us. Thank the woman who gave us the wallet. If it weren’t for her, you would not have it. I can give her a phone call, so that you can thank her.”

Touched by their humility and kindness, I graciously took the phone and thanked her myself.

Would this have happened in the States? Would someone have gone through that much trouble and effort to return a wallet to a stranger? I really don’t know.

I was in a state of euphoria. For the next two hours, I reactivated my cards, canceled my flight to Hangzhou, and booked a morning flight to Laos. Right now, its Wednesday night, January 13. I’m going to Southeast Asia tomorrowwwwww.

What a whirlwind 24 hours. All is right in the world. And I have renewed faith in the kindness of people. Wow.

A Hiker's Deeee-light. Or, How I Conquered Tiger Leaping Gorge

I can do this. I can do this. I can do….ahhh no I can’t.

I quickly stepped back away from the slippery rock and repositioned my heavy backpack higher on my shoulders. The winding, narrow path of boulders, dust, and rocks had taken us along the edge of the 10,000-foot deep gorge, pressed us against jagged edges of exposed granite and limestone, and had now brought us to the precipice of a steep cascading waterfall. Nope. Nowhere to go but across the slippery rocks and rushing water, mere feet from the waterfall’s edge.

One wrong move, and over you go. Becoming one with the waterfall. Plummeting to an aquatic death.

I tried again, slowly and deliberately placing my foot upon a relatively dry and secure boulder, and shifted my weight onto its surface, wincing with the knowledge that it could easily loosen, and I could easily slip. And I could easily go tumbling over the edge, Humpty-Dumpty style, into the rushing currents of the Yangtze River below.

Slow and steady wins the race.

After a few more tense moments of staring death in the face, I somehow managed to make it across the waterfall. Turning back to take in my feat, I thought, Yep, lived to survive another night in the Gorge.

If you know me at all, you know I appreciate dramatic effects in a story. But, I’m not really exaggerating the risk involved in tackling the wild, crazy Tiger Leaping Gorge. And, now that I’m safely back in Dali, sipping Yunnan coffee and nursing a pair sore legs and a twisted ankle, I feel like I’m in a good position to document my 3-day, 2-night, 14-mile hike up, across, and down Yunnan’s famed Tiger Leaping Gorge.

We started out as fresh-faced, excited TLG novices, marveling at the first sights of the impressive Snow Mountain in the distance and the web-like alluvial fans reaching across the low-lying lands along the Yangtze’s edge. The hike started out easily enough with a gently inclining dirt path up one of the gorge’s shorter mountains. As we excitedly made our way up the first trail, a woman from the Naxi minority community in Yunnan began not-so-subtly following us with her horse. Every time we stopped to take pictures of the vista, she stopped, pretending to let her horse graze. And every time we resumed the climb, she gestured for her horse to continue its climb, as well.
This continued even when we stopped at the first guesthouse along the path for a short break and a snack. Finally, after an hour of awkward silent stalking, she approached us with a map, emphasizing the exhausting and hazardous nature of the approaching “28 bends” portion of the hike (a steeply inclining and admittedly exhausting collection of 28 switchbacks leading up to the crest of the mountain—the highest point in the hike.)



“I can carry you to the top on my horse, no problem. You will be so tired if you try to climb it yourself, especially with your heavy backpacks.”

At this point in the day, I was feeling a little fatigued. The ascent up heavily bouldered, narrow paths was already doing a number on me, and the increasingly heavy backpack on my shoulders was not helping matters.

But I wanted to have the bragging rights of being able to say that I had done this on my own.

“No, thanks. We don’t need a horse.”

The wowan looked at me as though she knew that I couldn’t make it.

“Okay. But I’ll be here when you need it. 80 yuan, I’ll take you up.”

Talk about ye of little faith. Do I really look that incapable?

So we continued, up the dreaded 28 bends. And oooooh it was dreaded. And to make matters worse, there, always 20 feet behind us, was that woman with the horse, tempting us with an end to the pain.

Noooo. I’ve got to do this myself.

And so we forged on, up, and up, and up. I finally had to resort to my iPod to take my mind of the pain. And I breathlessly panted the lyrics to “Eye of the Tiger” and “Livin’ on a Prayer,” we continued to climb.

“It’s the….eye of the tiggerr…” Nope. Not going to make it. I will die of exhaustion. “Tina works the diner…all day…..” I’m going to take that lady up on her offer. Survival on a horse is better than death on foot.

But all of the sudden, the incline slackened. The path flattened, and we could see the clear blue sky hugging the summit of the mountain. I’d made itttttttttt.



And what a view. The bright snow-capped peaks of the Jade Snow Dragon Mountain towered before us, and the broad expanses of rock and forest disappeared into the rushing water of the Yangtze below. It was, in a word, incredible. Words can’t do it justice.

That night, we stayed at the Teahorse Guesthouse, in a room overlooking the mountains. We lounged outside and, over beers, marveled at the twinkling canvas of stars that unfolded over our heads—probably more than I had ever seen in my entire life. I even saw three shooting stars! It was absolutely beautiful. I didn’t even mind that I had to walk 100 feet to shower in a dark community washroom. The view was worth it.

And, thus, for two more days, we hiked the length of the trail—from start to finish. We lost fellow trekkers along the way—those who either lacked the time or the desire to finish the hike in its entirety. But we had made a promise to ourselves that we would finish.

A few highlights from along the way:



•Discovering my Doctor Dolittle-like ability to talk to the mountain goats that grazed along the mountain trails. I’m not kidding. All I needed to do was utter a little “Baaaaaaaa” and they’d look up from their grassy feast, give a complementing “Baaaaaa” in return, and then trot over to me as if we were old goat friends. Legit. (BTW, I credit my mastery of the Wicked soundtrack, and the song “Something Bad” for my mad goat language skills. Just saying.).
•Sharing my Oreos with two young girls we met in a village along the way. I’m always a fan of spreading my bounty of processed junk food.
•Falling face first along the flattest, straightest, safest part of the trail. Just call me Grace.
•Meeting a real, live Man of the Mountains—a gregarious and eccentric Italian expat named Marco who lived with “his woman” in the neighboring town of Zhongdian and who hiked the trail regularly, spreading his chorus of Italian words of wisdom and jovial chuckles wherever he
roamed.
•Realizing that the final quarter of the trail consisted of an unmarked hike into a rural Chinese mountain community…complete with a bevy of ambiguous forks in the road, paths that ended in one location and picked back up at random spots hundreds of yards away, treks through active Chinese construction sites, and a lively climb up, over, and down a collection of human-sized boulders.

After a barge trip across the Yangtze, we crossed to the other side of the gorge, and took a bus back to civilization in Lijiang, where we’d left the majority of our luggage a few days earlier.



So. I officially conquered Tiger Leaping Gorge. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t feel a sense of accomplishment for completing this physically and emotionally challenging hike. If you didn’t think I had it in me to go a few days without showering, travel without my straightener, and live without my Bare Escentuals (Mother, I’m talking to you), I have just proved you wrong ☺. But beyond this physical feat, I am even happier that I got to see one of the most beautiful environments I have ever witnessed. The gorge is absolutely breathtaking, and the incongruous assortment of landscapes, vistas, and geological features along the way is truly amazing.



Again, words can’t really express.

One Afternoon in Dali

Dali endeared itself to me on two very different fronts: its raw meat market and its music.

Allow me to explain.

After a relaxing Western breakfast of fried eggs, toast, and hash browns at one of Dali’s several Western cafes, we decided to explore the city and get away from all of the tourism and “fakeness.” So, backpacks on our backs and cameras in hand, we took to the streets, through alleyways and down unmarked roads.

Upon coming to a bustling food market in the outskirts of the Old City, we decided to go in and peruse the food selections.
Ooo, this will be great. I’m pumped to take some quaint, colorful photos of oranges, bananas, and pineapples.




As soon as we started making our way through the aisles of goods, however, we realized this was no quaint fruit market. This was a bustling, raw, down-and-dirty Chinese meat market.

We meandered past buckets of fish lashing around futilely, rows of chicken coops filled with unlucky birds waiting to be handpicked for slaughter, and dirty pig pens. As we rounded a corner, we saw a man gutting a chicken with his bare hands, then handing it off to the lucky purchaser who’d just scored himself an avian meal for dinner. We witnessed a row of pig heads, each attended to by one person whose task it was to break the jaw from the head with his hands in preparation for consumption.
Yep, we were definitely off the beaten path now.

The oddest thing was, we didn’t attract any attention at all. Nobody really looked at us as though we were a novelty, or as though we were out of place in this bastion of traditional Chinese culture. Nobody really paid much attention to us at all. As we meandered past their stalls and stands, they went about their jobs as though we weren’t there. It was as though we were ghosts, moving unseen through the throngs of people jostling for fresh fish and fruit. It was an odd sensation, considering the fact that being a foreigner in China almost always attracts a bevy of attention—both wanted and unwanted.

After we’d had our fill of pig heads and chicken guts, we exited the market in search of more of this raw authenticity that we’d been craving.

We found it in the form of a community park near the north side of the Old City. There, a host of elderly locals had gathered to enjoy the nice weather and each other’s company. Feeling charmed by picturesque scene, we sat down on one of the benches to people-watch. Groups of old ladies, dressed in vibrant clothes of intricately interwoven colored threads, sat in huddled circles, laughing, joking, and reminiscing with each other. Clusters of old men leaned lazily against the park’s stone pillars, dressed in matching blue workers’ jackets and blue berets, dragging on their cigarettes and mumbling short, pithy phrases to each other as they surveyed their surroundings.

But what really drew our attention was a group of elderly men and women who’d assembled near the back of the park. They’d erected rusty music stands and placed crumbled sheets of Chinese music on the shelves. Fine tuning and testing their instruments, they leaned back in their chairs and chatted with one another. Hoping they’d begin play, we sat down and waited.



Suddenly, the cacophony of discordant tunings and testings melted away into a harmonious melody of traditional Chinese music. As the music reached its crescendo, the other park goers took notice and gathered around the spontaneous band. Old women started dancing merrily with each other to the music, and young children wobbled unsteadily on their stubby legs in tandem with the beat. One man joined in with his own hand held clapper instrument, and began a dramatically dancing to the music.



We sat there, entranced and charmed by the peaceful scene we’d stumbled upon. It was music for the sake of music. Happiness for the sake of happiness. There was beauty in the simplicity of the joy we were witnessing. I can’t quite articulate how I felt as I listened to the band, but I do know that we sat there for a nearly an hour, mesmerized by the scene unfolding in a little park in a little town in southwestern China.

A Tale of Two Cities: Lijiang (丽江） vs. Dali （大理）

There’s an old, enduring, and interminable debate between backpackers in Yunnan, China. Which town is better: Dali or Lijiang?

On the surface, they seem pretty similar. Both are popular destinations for backpackers and hikers making their way to Tiger Leaping Gorge in the north. Both have acquired a robust tourist industry, complete with fake Chinese souvenir stalls and persistent locals promising to take you to all of the city’s attractions…for a hefty price. Both have a self-proclaimed, “charming ancient city” that represents the “real China of yesteryear.”

Yet, travelers who’ve stayed in both towns fiercely maintain that one is superior to the other in terms of authenticity and appeal.

Now, that I’ve been to both, I must admit that I’ve become a loyal member of “Club Dali.” Yes, I am publicly stating here that Dali is a superior place to Lijiang. While Lijiang’s “ancient city” seemed to me more like a contrived replication of old China with its unending rows of souvenir stalls and harried crowds of Chinese tour groups, Dali seemed like a real Chinese town that happened to have a booming tourist industry. Add to this the fact that Dali boasted absurdly cheap meals, bountiful WiFi, and the nicest hostel I’ve ever seen, and I was sold.

Chandler's Southeast Asian Odyssey Commences

So, I’ve been a bad blogger. I have the courage to admit it.

But, I have returned to cyberspace. After a whirlwind December of giving and grading final exams, moving to a new house, and celebrating Christmas and New Years “China-style” in Shanghai, I have officially begun my two-month vacation in Southwest China and Southeast Asia. I’ll be visiting Yunnan Province in China, and then trekking down to Laos, Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand, and Malaysia for my first taste of Asia south of Yangtze River. More posts on my maiden experiences with tuk-tuks, authentic Pad Thai, and elephant rides to come. Hollaaaaa.