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Published: February 23rd 2008
Two weeks to cross south China, aboard a sleeper train from Kunming to
Guilin, an expected two hours later than listed in the time table. A bus parked in front of the station departs for
Yangshuo, an hour's drive down a highway resembling a long parking lot. I'm greeted by a pushy hostel staff member who quickly arranges my onward bus ticket to Shenzhen before booking me into an empty discount dormitory a short walk from the tourist congested centre. I am unwell for my few days stay. A kind young woman, Shanghainese, Christian, English speaking, works in a popular guesthouse tucked inside a narrow alley, and serves affordable coffee al fresco, takes me late morning to the doctor's clinic. He pierces my vein with a needle, hooks up an IV. Proteins, sugars, healthy chemicals drip into my blood stream while I read a novel, a story of an unhappy overweight American housewife learning about Beijing from a hospital's sickbed while her husband, a prominent professor of ecology tours China on a two week lecture series. A half dozen mothers recline on rattan chairs, wrapped in wool blankets, plastic baggies drip wellness down a tube into their bodies. I wander the
town, I cycle the countryside, patches of green and brown, an alluring karst landscape blurred in smog, crowded highways and hidden biways criss cross a once idyllic and otherworldy destination. I stagnate in the cafes, caffeine swirling with a heavy handful of the doctor's finest. I perch atop a hill, nap on a riverside, veg in the hotels' stark white light, my reading only slightly disturbed by a young Japanese' methodical approach to unpacking. Yet another story, two women, half sisters journey from California to the countryside outside Guilin, to the Chinese sister's childhood village. On their taxi ride to the village, they pass a bus accident in which the woman's mother has just died. Amy Tan writes touching stories, humourous, easy to read, a little heavy on the reincarnation and the supernatural, popular themes with west coast hippies turned entrepreneurs who lap up this dribble.
An overnight bus with its too short bunks and familiar musty sheets, ingrained BO and tabacco smoke, brings me to
Shenzehn where a local bus fetches passengers across town depositing them before a shopping mall border crossing. A tall friendly Danish student helps me through the maze of customs and immigration. He is
late to class, a polytechnic university in Tsim Sha Tsui. Nearby, I find the Japanese travel agency in a fifth floor office and hand over my passport. Come back in three days.
Hong Kong is expensive. I check into the cheapest option, a dorm bed on the thirteenth floor of Mirador Mansion up Nathan Rd, a short walk from the ill famed Chungking Mansion, a highrise chicken coop wreaking of sweat and Indian curry, fronted by a mob of Indians, Pakis, Africans in cheap suit jackets hawking copy rolexes or tailored suits or drugs. I splurge on a closet sized windowless single when I tire of the late night college back packers too cheap to take their party into the city. I discover Delifrance and spend breakfast enjoying the late a.m. sunshine pouring through the floor to ceiling glass windows, memorizing a medley of French tunes, sipping cafe au lait, savouring a croque monsieur or a fresh bran muffin, while contemplating the day's itinerary. I don't make it too far. I split my time bewteen Central and Tsim Sha Tsui, scouring Temple Street market for sneakers, bargain hunting the boutiques on Cameron Rd, studying art and history in the museums
by the waterfront, stocking up on novels in the glitzy malls backing the harbour. I ride the star ferry, gawk at the skyscrapers anonymous in the reflected rays, stroll the botanical garden, admire the antiques poised along Wyndham and Hollywood, hike up the peak for a panorama of the harbour and descend at sunset aboard the tram. I explore the gay bars and spend a small fortune in the clubs fending off abrasive sleep-deprived flight attendants but share a good laugh with a couple of locals. They teach me Cantonese for 'Canadian' and 'armpit', spoken with the same syllables but intoned ever so differently. I fail to find any dancing. The jet set are preoccupied with poise and high end cocktails. In the evnings I order masala, teeka, tandoori from the row of subcontinental kitchens tucked inside Chungking Mansion. Digesting a sumptuous dish of curried prawns, I wander along the waterfront and happen upon a most amazing light and sound show. A recorded English narrative lists the big name copanies as their towers across trhe bay flash and pulse in zooming strips of coloured light. Tourists gather and position their tripods, block the view, package their travel in a commercially
rended memory. Stil, its quite funny and I watch to its finale despite the elbow jabs of a Chinaman who's dissimilar notions of personal spcae.
An hour and a half boat ride wisks me off to
Macau, smaller than I expected but unique, a blend of Asia and Iberia, the architecture, cuisine and local faces. I'm kept busy for most of a day exploring austere churches and temples smokey with spiraling incense. The museum of history documents daily life, the customs, trhe local industries and past times, including three jars containing
champion crickets, big winners of the 1960s cricket matches, a miniscule version of cock fights. Disinclined to gamble, the feature attraction of Macau, I while away the evening in a side street cafe before taking in a movie, yet another post 9/11 spin, starring Robert Redford as college professor, Tom Cruise as up and coming senator and Merryl Streep as TV news journalist rethinking her values. Despite its unique place in history, Macau's a mere paragraph in my travels.
We studied TEFL in Zhuhai. Subject, predicate, direct object, indirect object. In English, typically the beginning of a phrase contains the more important element. Here, 'we' requires embellishment,
an explanation, and is in this case provided by an 'I" contained in 'we'. 'I' becomes a part of 'we', a group of otherwise unlikely associations, in a classroom of a private English school. TEFL is common enough, especially to native English speakers galivanting about East Asia but
Zhuhai is perhaps a question mark for most. Zhuhai is to Macau as Shenzehn is to Hong Kong, a border crossing, a special economic zone, cleaner and quieter than other Chinese cities of like size.
I email my friend in Kunking a character sketch illustrating the odd mix of participants seated around the table. To my left, at the foot of the table, Ben Sein Tun, fluent in Cantonese, Thai, Burmese and English but able to read only in English. Ben is my flatmate for the month, friendly, easygoing, lazy with house keeping chores. He grew up between three countries born to a millionaire family with investments varying from a hotel in Bagan to a hospital in Bangkok. He's a year older than me and I learn intends to wed his fair skinned Thai girlfriend in the coming year. But why is he studying TEFL, a course intended for comparatively low
pay jobs? He says it's a bit of a retreat. Three months back, after years of crazy parties, fast cars, fat liines of coke, he had a nervous breakdown and is taking time out to detox. During yet another evening drinking too many Tsingtao, Ben comes clean with me. He places before me a glossy brocure advertising an English school based in Hong Kong and soon to open a branch in Zhuhai. He's brought two wealthy buddies together, each with experience managing private English schools, in Hong Kong and in Bangkok. Ben likes my teaching style and image and wants me to come on borad. The school is set to open next month.
Across the table sits May Ling, young fortysomething, from Singapore, with several years business experience in China and over a decade of education in Southern Ontario. She's looking for a change of profession, something more meaningful and less hectic. Her mother is staying with her holed up in a hotel room all day. The school offers few materials. May Ling brings new supplies to class each day, passed around the table, ink and felt nibs pour into lesson prep. The second to last day May Ling
disappears, no good-bye, a mystery in sharp contrast to her bright and personable nature.
Next to her is Bonnie, a petite Cantonese, a high school English grammer teacher from Guangzhou. Married to a military doctor, we speculate as to her comfortable but confined lifetsyle, cooking, cleaning, preparing her two children for high school. Her speaking and listening are atrocious, unable to understand tomato in my North American accent, and often struggling to make sense of the instructors' questions. Are the lessons helpful, I ask her in confidence. "No, I hate the models." She appreciates the opportunity to improve her listening skills and has no desire to return to her old job.
Kamoshi Deiwa, he introduces himself in bastardized Chinese, is our class flunky. The teacher writes
golden on the board, "what's this?" she asks. "Past tense," Dave cries out. Dave is a run-on sentence, a tangent, a danger to students and locals and especially the young women he meets online, attractive potential brides. He's from New York, a micro-biologist and army reservist. His lessons are entertaining when the poor kids are not fearing for their lives. He means well but his inability to learn new stratagems, to listen,
to cooperate with others, to take a hint and shut up a moment, leaves the rest of us clearing a ten metre radius around him. Our instructors lead from the head of the table, either Brad or Jenny. They seldom teach together. We concur among each other that Jenny's in charge. Born in Hunan, she has settled in Zhuhai and enrolled her daughter in a local private school. Jenny organizes out teaching practicums around town and unbeknownst to me, sets up a job offer at ahighschool an hour out of town in a banana jungle boredom. Colin remarks from time to time on Jenny's unChinese valuptuousness. She's an encouraging teacher and friendly once she has observed how personable we act towards our Chinese students. I admit openly that I prefer Jenny over Brad. The man has issues, a self proclamed hippy, an Australian with a white pony tail and a clown's wardrobe of garrish vests, amusement park ties and a collection of oversized belt buckles. He teaches grammer and lesson models in a laissez faire approach, and quickly stifles any criticism from us.
Mohki sits to his left, struggling to follow the play of language, British, Australian, Candian humor,
and creating new phonetical interpretations with her Uzbek accent. She dresses in figure hugging black and tall leather boots, wears thick eyeliner like an Egyptian pharoah and leaves her long curls down. At a pre xmas party in Gongbei, shmoozing at a stylish bar one might expect aboard the starship galactica, complete with TV screen in the toilet playing
It's a Wonderful Life, Mohki reveals her energetic love of salsa. She speaks Russian with the young Ukraine next to her, Yara, short for Yaraslava, a fighsty over achiever with blond hair, glasses and a great build. She moved to Guandong with her fiance a couple years ago where she teaches part-time. She majored in Poli-Sci, including a year of studies in Boston but lost her ambition to bring freedom and democarcy to the Ukraine. She's whiney and spoiled and "needs to improve her interpersonal skills" so says her final interview.
A gentleman in his early fifties sits at my right, Colin, from Manchester whose daughter is enrolled in the same course scheduled for next month in Thiland. He hopes it will encourage a greater sense of responsibility on her part. Colin has a couple of dgrees and several years
window shopping
Hong Kong offers consumers a far better range and quality than exists on the mainlandexperience in psychlogical profiling, working with society's misfits, school drop-outs and ex-convicts. It's his first trip to China and he's psyched. In the eveings we drink and explore restaurants up and down the block. Ben's face glows bright red with a few botles. Yara relaxes, grows less defensive and takes Colin's jabs with an improved sense of humor. Bonnie doesn't drink and Mohki, for religious reasons, will accept only a nip of wine on special occasions. May Ling enjoys her pint but usually stays in to mind her mother. Fortunate for all involved, Dave moved into a hotel, dissatisfied with the school's accomodations, and spends his evenings harrassing the locals. Each morning he recounts to the class his exploits, his online interviews, his political ebates with other hotel guests, his fondness for Mao's little red book, his pointless never ending diatribe on how America went wrong. Usually it's just Colin and I sharing jokes about the others, speaking admiringly of the diverse personalities presented around the table. I place our orders, relying on pictures or a few characters I recognize from Japanese, sometimes employing a translator from another table or falling back on recognizable favourites, Xinjiang noodles, gongbao jidin, curbside
barbecued skewers of pork, tofu, cauliflower brushed with hot pepper flakes.
The days grow colder as xmas approaches. We celebrate it's eve at Ryan's Bar, an expat pub managed by Ryan from Thunder Bay, Omtario, a heavyset, easy going guy hosting a turkey dinner, complete with stuffing and glases of rum & egg nog, drinks extra. Group dynamics have split the gang. To one end six of us carry on merrily, drinking, laughing, drinking enough to enjoy Dave's company. Yara sits next to him mimicing his elaborate Italian American hand gestures composing crack theories. Bonnie and May ling raise their glasses in continuous cheers of
gambei! The final few observed lessons are finished with. I score well. Colin and I celebrate a last night out three nights in a row, shooting pool on bar street, doubles with Yara and Bonnie, while a troupe of dancers from moldova in flshy costume twirl and high kick on stage. The muscled young man and I exchange glances. I'm tipped off by his Tom of Finland sailor outfit's tight embrace of biceps and chest. We pay a second visit to the outdoor sushiya, a popular meeting place for the Japanese expats, sip plum
wine and shochu. Next doorColin and I uncover a labrynthe of karaoke rooms and a large club where a black DJ from Shenzhen keeps the crowd hopping. Two women inspired by a high blood alcohol level start kissing each other at the bar. A regiment of pencil thin security guards struggle to seperate the ladies and drag them outside.
Then it's over. Bonnie returns to her family in Guangzhou and Yara, to the same town to her newlwed nest. Being one of his prefered topics, Colin has filled my head with his opinions of Yara, his habit of analyzing people, groups, psychological cause and effect. Yara and I took a walk after class one evening, the sun set in a smokey tropical haze. Her mobile rang, her employer on the other end. I agree with Colin. Yara's finacee has his hands full ahead of him. I admire Yara too much to share my own observations, something I do when I recognize aspects of myself in others. May Ling dissappears to Singapore or so we assume. Colin and Ben colaborate with business partners to establish a curriculum for the new school. Mohki remains unsuccessful with landing a position at GLV,
Hong Kong
evening light show our host school, but will volunteer as a tutor. Colin and I laugh about the teaching staff, what effect it shall make on students' pronunciation, a mix of Phillipino, Uzbek, Indian and Cantonese, and textbook outdated expressions made worse by poor American grammer. Dave's ability to twist a situation with a run-on sentence reminds me of a politician low in the polls. He fails the course but in a single breath admits a half dozen excuses: online weekend rendez-vous that require long evenings at the keyboard, apartment hunting, a weekend spent in Hong Kong dealing with the arrival of a large shipping container, his home bundled and brought across the Pacific, or "It's just not in my training to do it that way," his most consistent belief through the last two weeks, ever since his five minute peer teaching completely derailed and had us in hysterics.
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Ann
non-member comment
Your chinese student
Hi!Kevin,How are you today?I forgot to tell u:To make PuEr tea does't spend too much time-only 1-2minuts,otherwise tastes too bad.u see?Have a good time!Keep contact. From Ann