firstmonth/temple/fungqi

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The first month passed with the swiftness of a sparrow chasing sparrow. I had virtually no time to become acclimatized to the culture before I started teaching yoga at Y+ . Teaching yoga brought me into intimate contact with an alien cultural before I could say “ni hao” . Pronounced “nee how” it is the Mandarin greeting. And with a very sensitive and specific sector of its population - educated upper middle class and upper class women. The vast majority of whom were being exposed to and practicing yoga for the first time. The impact was cushioned to a large extent by the bubble of the Y+ environment with its staff of very friendly women all eager to learn English and very curious about the foreigner in their midst. We quickly established a relationship of mutual respect and quid pro quo as I was as eager to learn Chinese and find out about them also.
Teaching yoga, regardless of the environment involves certain constants, certain rules of engagement. The instructor needs to be sufficiently knowledgeable about the depth and complexity of the philosophy and practice of this ancient system, be prepared to impart this knowledge in a very professional manner and be sensitive to the needs of each individual student regardless of the size of the class. Above all, there needs to clear and unambiguous communication between the parties involved. As every yoga instructor knows, regardless of experience, this can be quite a daunting challenge even teaching in one’s own culture where everyone speaks the same language. Attempting to maintain this delicate balance in a culture one doesn’t speak the native language and where there are so many degrees of separation between instructor and student can prove to be more challenging than a no hand head stand. Yoga is, in the most general terms, the balancing of opposites and at the same time in its most specific and particular sense, the same.
Any dissatisfaction with any aspect of my teaching was summarily reported. It did not
matter if this was due to insensitivity or unprofessionalism on my part or inexperienced students with unreasonable expectations. I took total responsibility for, and responded positively to everything.
The overarching lesson of the past month, as I quickly learned that this was going to be an interactive learning experiment as all yoga classes are anyway, was the power of non-verbal communication and the power of being present and the energy that that transmitted to those around me. The extraordinary circumstances presented here demanded an especially acute awareness of this reality. The Chinese are masters of body language and they are as sensitive to the vibrations of gesture and action as a Geiger counter. Or inaction as a matter of fact. They have also practiced kan - xiang (kahn-she -ang) or face reading, for millennia. They are able to divine such things as a person’s health, character and personality by looking at a person’s face. I became more vigilant in observing my own breathing and the volume and tone of my voice as my voice has a tendency to trail off and soften towards the end of my sentences.
I made a deliberate attempt to raise the timbre of my voice and project it towards the center as well as both sides of the room. A student doesn’t have to speak or understand English to know if a voice projects authority or inconfidence and uncertainty.
I taught three different classes hot yoga , based on the Bikram system, flow yoga,
a modified astanga first series, and basics, an introductory class. It was my first experience teaching “hot’ yoga, but I had several months practice in the system and had not only readily taken to it but had enjoyed its benefits and felt competent enough to teach it. For the most part I practiced along with the students, demonstrating the postures
and adjusting them as necessary. Throughout all my classes, as I have always done, I emphasized the importance of breathing. Three of the first words in Chinese that I learned was xi qi (shee- chee) inhale, hu qi (huu-chee) exhale and hu xi (huu-shee),
breathe. I also learned how to say “breathing is most important”.
The Chinese are well aware of the importance of breath and have a long tradition of qichong or deep breathing which they know has remarkable health benefits. They know that the same energy that yogis call prana and which they call qi permeates the universe and is a spiritual type of energy that enervates all life forms. The ancient practice of acupuncture as well as the awesome power of kung fu is also based on this knowledge
Connie, (almost every Chinese woman I have met so far adopts an “American” moniker not only for the sake of convenience, but also because quite a lot of them identify with American T.V. and movie characters) a young fashion designer who speaks functional English, communicated her intention to me from the second class her desire to work on her breathing and correct posture. I was impressed with her insight into the heart and intention of asana practice. I worked a lot with her during that class and was quite pleased with myself when, at the end of it, she told me that she already felt some improvement. Her face reminded me of that photo of Donna Summer
on a certain album cover where she is made up to accent the shape of her eyes
and high cheek bones. Her bang hanging over her forehead and the shape of her face made the resemblance a bit more uncanny. She had the toothy grin of a young girl.
Two of the more experienced students approached me at different times sharing their opinions of the classes. One, Mary, enjoyed the structured set procedures of the hot and astanga routines while, another, Amy expressed her dissatisfaction with “doing the same thing over and over again”. I discussed with both the merits and demerits as I saw it with both approaches, but neither seemed satisfied with my response. You just can’t please everybody, now can you?. People are people wherever you go.
One other told me that she worked in a bank and just looked forward to yoga to help her maintain some modicum of sanity and peace of mind. We had a conversation about yoga during which she asked me how long had I been practicing, and what does yoga mean to me. I told her that I was introduced to yoga since I was a teenager and how it has come to affect every aspect as my life, spiritually, psychologically and physically. She explained to me that she had a previous experience practicing at another place with another teacher whom she thought placed too much emphasis on the spiritual and was a little bit too proselytizing. When I remarked to her that spiritual revelation has to come from within and not from outside indoctrination, she concurred .
Yes”, she said, “It has to come from the heart”.
“Absolutely”, I replied
I further elucidated that ‘yoga’ translates as ‘union’.
“Union,” she mimicked
“Yes, union between you and the universe, the spiritual and the physical and so on”.
“Ah, I never knew that. That makes it a lot of sense to me now.”
I found it a little surprising that anyone could be practicing yoga for any amount of time and not had that explained to her, but happy that I was able to have this conversation and shed a little light on yoga for her.


Another highlight of my first month was when another student brought her infant son over to introduce to me. At two years old I could tell that he was a bright boy, not only in the clear and unaccented way in which he said “Hello Ian”, but in the way his face engaged me eye to eye and man to man. Like he recognized me and wanted to hang out and talk a while. This was no stranger here.
I discovered that even in the streets, people with children, mothers and fathers alike, tended to point me out to their children and encourage them to greet me. Occasionally I would pause for a moment just enough to exchange greetings with them. I found this quite delightful and each time this occurred it would definitely brighten my day and lighten my steps.


The Visit

I don’t know why the first thought that came to me when I heard my doorbell ring around midday, as I sat in my apartment reading, was that it was the authorities. Maybe it was from reading and hearing about the ever vigilant police and spies that permeated Chinese society. A couple bill collectors had already dropped by and I did not expect my teaching colleagues to drop by without calling. At that time they were the only people who knew where I lived. Well, so I thought.
Anyway, I quickly put some clothes on and opened the door. A woman, smartly dressed in a green uniform, stood there with a pleasant look on her face holding a large manila envelope with Chinese characters written all over it. I, who only spoke a handful of words in Chinese, and when I say a handful I mean like 5 or so, instantly realized by the friendly smile she tried to communicate with that she didn’t speak a word in English. I knew that this was gonna be a tricky one. As I greeted her she pulled out some documents and from her gesture I knew that she was asking me for my papers. I quickly retrieved my passport from the pouch that I kept it in and opened it to the page with my visa. She looked at it then pointed out to me a copy of the specific document that she requested. I looked it over with a perplexed look on my face as if trying to decipher the incomprehensible. I tried to invite her into the apartment so that she could speak on my stationary home phone to someone at the office, but she refused to cross the threshold. No entreaty would inveigle her.
Realizing my predicament, or our predicament I should say, she, still smiling, signaled her intention to leave me in peace, at least for now. Then the thought occurred to me that I should call Sean, the teaching director, who was conversant with Chinese enough to hold a conversation, but that would be of no use if she wouldn’t speak on the phone.
I decided to try anyway and luckily he was home in his apartment, seven floors below me having his private Chinese lessons with his Chinese teacher. Phew !!
They promptly came up together and clarified the matter for me.
The Chinese have a policy that requires everyone who visits any city to register with the police within 24 hours. The policy known as deng-ji (doong-jee), or signing in was originally instituted by the Communist regime to regulate the movement of foreigners in their country. Also once used to monitor contacts between Chinese and non-nationals it is now regarded as merely a standard security measure.
Next morning, accompanied by Emily from the Y+ office, we promptly went to the police station and had me registered with no problem. To my amusement though, a part of this process involved me adopting a Chinese name. I could imagine a million different things that I might do or experience in China, but adopting a Mandarin name was not one of them. After discussing the possibilities we agreed on the name Deng Yi En . Yi En was the closest that we could get to Ian and Deng is the Mandarin word for light. We couldn’t come up with anything close to Mair so I told them that the name derived from the Hebrew name Meir , Meyer , Maier etc etc , which means light or “one who brings light”. So there we go. And, of course it comes with Chinese characters to boot. How cute.

Although my colleagues had been living in the building for more than two months, they
hadn’t received any such visit, but they ended up having to go through the same process eventually.

There are certain things that you read in travel guides which invariably are written by westerners and invariably about non - westerners that makes you wonder if that really merits mention or whether or not it’s just white folks trying to make “people of colour”
seem uncivilized. Y’know, the old cultural bias that we have become used to over the decades. So when I read about the despicable habit among mainland Chinese of scraping up some clot of mucus from the lining of their trachea and violently expel it regardless of where they are whether it be in a restaurant , hotel, shop, school or house it kinda gave me reason for pause. Well not too long into my visit here I had to witness that several times in the streets. But I could very well be in New York or Miami. However, when I stopped at a convenience store one evening to purchase a chocolate bar and the man who apparently was the owner demonstrated this unhygienic practice within five or six feet of me, I was shocked out of my fucking wits. I had just paid the cashier who apparently was his wife for the bar, but left it right there on the counter and walked out sick to my stomach. In this age of SARS and avian flu virus and who knows what not you would think that they could be a little more feng shui about such behaviour.
I have also witnessed men urinating on sidewalks in broad daylight with total disregard for passing pedestrians.
This is a place of incongruities and these are often juxtaposed to each other in stark contrast. Just across the street from the Hubin Road Boutique Mall with its Gucci and Armani stores, Ferrari dealership, etc etc , I had to duck sharply one afternoon to avoid walking into someone’s bed linen hung out to dry just head height above the sidewalk. It was not uncommon to see people hanging out their laundry with the help of long poles on telephone lines and on the branches of trees planted in public spaces like entrances to hotels.
I have been passing the sidewalk shoe shine hawkers for a month now declining their invitations to shine my shoes for 2 yuans. Not that I couldn’t afford it or that my shoe couldn’t use some polish but I just didn’t feel like breaking my stride to stop for five minutes or so required. Anyway, one evening after walking past one shouting at me I checked my pocket for change and discovered that I had a few yuans change that I wouldn’t mind getting rid of and didn’t mind pausing for a moment. So I turned around to her glee and sat down on the little stool provided and put my shoe up on her little foot stand. I noticed how well dressed she was and wondered to myself how she managed to charge 2 yuans for a shine and still keep herself so well dressed and clean. I admired the dignity and quite pleasant air which she projected. She went about the job quite professionally, inserting cardboard squares inside my shoes around
my ankles to prevent my socks from getting smudged and proceeding to wipe, then polish, then waterproof with a little orange disc of wax which she repeatedly demonstrated by dripping water onto the leather and letting it runoff in tiny beady droplets, then polishing, then shining to a nice sheen.
A couple of women stood nearby chatting to each other and witnessing to scene visibly amused.
Soon she was finished and here was one very satisfied customer with brand new shoes. I thought that she had done such a great job that I would pay her at least 8 yuans- $1. No, no she wagged her finger, laughing.
“er - shi” ,she said pointing to a the number she had written on the sidewalk with water.
Er shi? , I said stunned.
The two women were now totally into the scene and drifted closer to hear what was unfolding. One of them signaled to me with a disappointed, almost distraught look on her face- no, don’t pay her 20 yuans, pay her 2 yuans she gestured.
I hesitated for a moment, indecisive, realizing that I was being taken.
Within a few seconds I decided that it wasn’t worth the wrangling and forked out the 20 yuans which she promptly plucked from my fingers and stepped off muttering what sounded to me like her disgust at the interfering woman who stood there for a moment, her eyes wide open, her hand over her mouth in disbelief.
“It’s ok”, I said. I couldn’t afford to let that bother me, I had to teach a yoga class in 20 minutes.


Wuquin Bamboo forest


There are no perching or lingering clouds here today at “winding lane through bamboo forest at clouds lingering”. It is a crisp, clear autumn day and sheets of sunlight slice between the bamboo stands. Legend has it that a colourful cloud once drifted this way and hovered for awhile. Walking up the meandering path is a moving meditation. The bamboo meditates. An orchestra of birds perform a symphony in endless parts. What magic did the lingering cloud disperse below?
There is a special quality of bamboo that I am observing for the first time. The bamboo plant is quite familiar to me since childhood, growing up in rural Jamaica. It’s a grass the botanists say. By whatever name, bamboo, even as they stand in the forest dressed in their viridescence maintains an air of solitude and tranquility.
Centuries old horse chestnut, pagoda trees and camphor trees, their solid mass encrusted trunks standing stoically, snake their gnarly branches across the canopy overhead. Moss and lichen cover the cut stone path and the embankments with a green velour. Fern fronds wave from the interstices.


The main road to the bamboo forest runs thru a tea plantation, the plants rolling up and down and over the hills like wool on the hides of sheep. A few farmers tended to their plots gliding between the plants with the serenity of swans. A brook coursed along the edge of the road.

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Comments

[mix match]

Nice article
Hey, Nice article, if you can add some pictures, will be better :)