Luguhu
(Gosh, where to begin?) The bus ride was decidedly unpleasant - the seat was hard; I
had one bag on my lap and the other at my feet; the road was bumpy and in places
could not even have been called a road. Next to me was a middle aged man who smoked
the entire journey - several hours - and asked me difficult to understand questions
in heavily accented Sichuanese. Moreover, I was filled with vague apprehension - what if there had been a misunderstanding and I was not expected at the school? What if they were on vacation? What would it be like? What if I couldn't understand anything they said? A captain with seven children - what's so fearsome about that?

When we arrived at Luguhu, two young women in what I later learned was Mosuo ethnic costume - heavy braided turbans, long, white pleated skirts, and silk Mandarin blouses with woven belts boarded the bus to collect our entry fees. Someone - possibly the driver - had explained to them that I didn't need to pay, since I was there as a teacher. One of the Mosuo women called the school, received confirmation that they were expecting a laowai, and informed me that as there was no time to pick me up, I would have to walk. It was about this time that the spirit of adventure set in. I was ready for anything. I took my bags, clambered down from the bus, and, not looking back, began to walk.

Imagine, now, a long, dusty road. There are mountains in the distance, and here and there a ramshackle shop or guesthouse. Mostly there are fields, for Luguhu is real rural China. I pass chickens and pigs, men leading mules, but mostly what I notice is the women. They are Mosuo, which I am told is the last remaining matriarchal society on Earth. There is no marriage, and women are free to take as many lovers as they want throughout their lives. Older Mosuo women wear dark colored turbans and baggy gowns. Generally they have scarves over their heads and all I can see is their eyes, which seem to follow me - not hostile, exactly, but apprehensive. They have large baskets on their backs, containing babies or vegetables. Some carry water in a
double-bucket arrangement over their shoulders.

I passed a group of young people who greeted me with shouts of "Hello!" as Chinese people invariably do. They asked where I was going and I told them Dazucun. They were surprised to hear me speak Chinese. They pointed me in the right direction and I walked on. Presently a small white van came up from behind me and stopped a few yards ahead. Anxious, I kept walking and did not look at the windows. A man leaned out and asked where I was going. I hesitated, then told them Dazucun Elementary School. They said they were going too and I should get in. I resisted, but eventually, when they told me the name of my contact at the school, I gave in. I spent the brief drive praying to the Virgin Mary that they not be kidnappers, and as
it turns out they were not, merely visiting teachers, same as me. Wu laoshi, one of the men, still laughs about this incident.

The school is very lovely. There are three main buildings: one for the two classrooms and the office, one for the kitchen and meeting room, and one for the teachers' dorm. The buildings are a nice-smelling golden wood, very rustic, with stomped down dirt floors, but glass in the windows, which is fancy. Also there is a proper flushing toilet and shower facilities which are generally very cold. When we arrived, we were given a special sort of Naxi tea (Naxi is the ethnicity of most of the villagers; Mosuo is not an official ethnicity athough they have their own language - they are counted as Naxi) and introduced to some of the teachers, then told that we could have dinner at one of the nearby Naxi houses. This, I think, is one of the coolest experiences of my life.

Outside the house were about twenty or so people of all ages, many of whom wore the traditional Naxi vest as well as scarves over their heads - men as well as women. We were led inside to a fairly large, dark room at the back of which was a raised platform where a pot was cooking over a small fire. I was told to sit down by the fire, next to an old Naxi woman who smiled and nodded congenially as she smoked her cigarette. We were given sunflower seeds and a truly horrible corn-based liquor which I could barely sip. After this extraordinary cocktail hour we were taken back outside and went to the house next door, where we ate dinner with a bunch of Naxi men who toasted us continuously and called me Ou laoshi (Teacher Ou), which pleased
me. Eating dinner in this small, dark house with these cordial, enthusiastic people,
I decided that no matter what else might happen, it was going to have been worth it.
And such has proved to be the case.

Over the past week I have gotten to know the other teachers, most of whom are fairly young. There is Fang laoshi, a Guangdong man in his late twenties, who has taken it upon himself to educate me in Classical Chinese and who, despite some pompousness, one cannot help but like. There is Hou laoshi, a "Sichuanese hot pepper girl," whose nickname, Houzi, means "monkey," who wears boys' clothing, scoffs at notions of traditional Chinese femininity, and who is at any moment prepared to fly into a temper or make a terrific joke. There is Zheng Xiaoxue, a Chengdu girl my age who has taken me under her wing and invited me to stay at her house when we're through teaching at the school. There is Li laoshi, an older Taiwanese woman who makes me think of a cross between Oprah and an Italian grandmother - she never sees me but
she gives me things: instant coffee, hard boiled eggs, black bananas, chocolate candy - she is extraordinarily generous with everyone. There are Luo Wei and Wang Cheng, who are the two most fun and best-looking Chinese boys I have ever met - so I find it pleasingly symmetrical that they are dating one another. Wang Cheng, who is Naxi, shouts more than he speaks and sings as much as either. He is small and dark, with very wild hair and a wonderful shouting laugh. Luo Wei, a college student from Chengdu, is quieter - beautifully mellow, but with a wicked sense of humor. They are so clearly fond of each other and sweet to everybody and good with the children that it would be impossible not to love them.

There are about fifty students altogether, divided into kindergarden and first grade. They range in age from about six to perhaps twelve, because before Old Li Laoshi came and started this school the children had to travel two hours each way to school

Well, there's been a glitch. I seem to be encountering just about every single possible problem on this journey, but on the bright side, I am surprising myself with my ability to cope. Last night I left Chengdu for Xichang. I had chosen to ride "hard seat" instead of my usual "hard bed," and let me tell you, you do not want to do that. Hard bed is the only way to travel. "Hard seat" evokes splintery wooden boards, and actually it was not too far off, aside from the splinters. The seats are arranged, picnic table style, in clusters of two benches with a table in between. I was with two girls and a boy probably about my age and two older people whom I gathered were Tibetan. I'd have liked to talk to them, but chose instead to attempt sleep, as the train didn't leave until ten and I was tired.

Sleeping, however, proved to be an elusive dream. It's hrd to sleep on a bumpy train on a hard wooden bench with two other people. I tried every possible configuration of my limbs, but to no avail. It was not a comfortable evening.

When we got to Xichang, I was dismayed to find that I had missed the only bus to Luguhu. This was scary, as Fan laoshi had specifically told me not to hang around in Xichang. "It's full of ethnic minorities," she said. "It's very chaotic." Then she hugged me. All in all, I was not so thrilled. I got a cab and asked to be taken to a "safe hotel," where I instantly locked myself in and slept for several hours.

(Here's the part where it starts to be about food again - I know you were waiting.) When I woke up, I was hungry - maybe I hadn't eaten in awhile or something, I'm going to be vague for the sake of my relatives. But I was kind of afraid to leave my room. I watched some English television (oh so exciting!) and ate some raisins, but the pangs of hunger were not to be ignored. Not to mention thirst, as this particular hotel room lacked a kettle for boiling water. So I took a shower in the oddly-designed Asian shower (which is to say, just a tap on the wall, flowing onto
the undifferentiated floor), dressed, and went out to find supplies.

I had a bowl of rather bad noodles containing tomato, cucumber, and what I took to be pork, but did not ask. I was on my way back to the hotel to lock myself in for the night when I saw those magic characters: internet cafe.

Not much has happened since my last post, which I think is actually a good thing. I'm reluctant to wander around in the dark by myself, so I've been going back to the hotel by nightfall and spending my evenings with Saki and Melville. Did you know that Herman Melville actually went whaling and was shipwrecked and lived with savages and did all kinds of other extreme things? Well he did. If he can do that, surely I can survive my vacation.

I received a flurry of emails after my last post regarding my diet of ramen and peanuts. I have eaten several other things since then, but to date have only had two sit-down meals in Chengdu: a bowl of very sketchy noodles in a very sketchy noodle place, and a delightful lunch of bean sprouts and walnuts at the Wenshu Monastary's vegetarian restaurant. However, some of the best meals in China, I find, are those that you purchase here and there on the street. A kuai's worth of spicy tofu skin here, 5 mao of sesame seed cake there, and you're golden. Most of my time in
Chengdu, apart from the interminable hours of sleeping, has been spent wandering around, always a favorite activity of mine in any city. I wandered so much the first day that I actually sustained a minor injury to my knee, and, because I don't want to go back to Smith walking like Gregory House, I said goodbye to my worn out brown Pumas and bought a new pair of sneakers. It made me very sad to ditch the Pumas, but it would be even sadder to have to shell out for orthopedic surgery so I bit the bullet. At least I'm responsible for my well-being in some aspects.

The Sichuanese have been taking their tea-drinking very seriously for over 3000 years, and when in Chengdu I think it is well worthwhile to put in some time at one of the many teahouses that line the streets and fill the parks. My first day I went to a tea house in one of the parks and read Moby Dick with my bottomless teacup for a few hours. It's been chilly and damp, unfortunately, but that hasn't stopped me. While drinking my tea I was interrupted several times with offers of Mary Kay sunscreen, foot massages, and "ear cleaning," which is done with an assortment of terrifying-looking bamboo rods. I said no thank you.

Yesterday I spent most of the day at the aforementioned Wenshu Monastary, which I've decided may be one of my favorite places in China. I went there the last time I was in Sichuan, in March, and thought it deserved another visit. In their teahouse, I spent about an hour talking to an ancient, toothless Chinese man about Anna Karenina, Dream of the Red Chamber, and how I really should visit Shanghai. I understood much, but not all, of what he said, and it was valuable language practice, but it's difficult for me to relax when approached by strangers. Since I was a little girl I've been told not to talk to strangers, and it's a hard habit to break.

Tonight I leave Chengdu for Xichang. In a moment of insanity, I purchased a hard seat, which is kind of worrying me. I expect it will be very uncomfortable. From Xichang I leave immediately for Luguhu, where the principal of the school I'm going to has said he would pick me up. Please keep me in your thoughts or prayers, if you're into that, over the next few days, because the Chengdu to Luguhu stretch of the trip is in some ways probably the trickiest. I don't think there will be internet access in Lugucun (the "cun" is what gives it away - it indicates village) but there will be stories galore when I am back in civilization.

Chengdu. So Operation: Travel Alone In China is underway, and I can't say it's been without mishap. First of all, the first day on the train I spilled about a liter of water on my bed, so I had a very cold, damp evening. Sleeping in one's jeans always leaves much to be desired, and damp jeans are among the least comfortable garments known to man, and trains are cold at night, so you can imagine the general state of things.

The next day, I was feeling all right: chipper, and pleased by Moby Dick, which is much better than I had expected. I took a little nap, and then decided to have lunch. Lunch, like dinner the day before, was ramen noodles. Breakfast and the previous day's lunch had both been peanuts. I got my ramen assembled and was just about to add water when I was struck by how very hot it was. I was covered in sweat. I stood to get the water and was suddenly very dizzy and nauseous. Leaving the ramen, I staggered to the bathrooms at the end of the car, both of which were
occupied. I slumped to the floor and closed my eyes, thinking of what an unfitting
end this would be.

Apparently you can't just lounge around in points of egress on a train, so a woman came and helped me to my feet and asked what was wrong. I told her I was very dizzy and she went off to get the conductor or something. Another woman came and gave me a Wet Nap to wash my face. I was feeling rather confused but still desirous of using the bathroom so when one of them was vacated I went in.

It's hard to use a Chinese squat toilet when you're really dizzy and it's moving. There was a knock at the door and I said "Please wait a moment!" I heard people talking outside, then the turn of a key.

The Chinese are not terribly delicate about these things. The woman from before peered in at me and explained that she'd found some staff to talk to me. Fine, fine, I said, just a minute. She closed the door; I washed my hands and stumbled out.

About half a dozen train personnel were there, including a man who spoke English. I explained the situation and they took me to a lower bunk and told me to lie down. I was anxious, not wanting to spend my time in Chengdu in the hospital, but I lay down for a bit and then felt better. I had a nice chat with the girl who's bunk had been stolen for me - an English major at a university in Chengdu - and an old lady gave me some corn-flavored hard candy and all was well. I appear to be fine now but I haven't had an actual meal in two days and I'm about ready.

When I got to Chengdu, I had a great deal of bother because none of the cab drivers or civilians I interrogated had ever heard of any the nice hostels I'd researched (but not actually booked, because I am a moron). A lisping bellhop at an expensive hotel finally agreed to help me ask a cab driver, who took me on the most utterly terrifying ride of my life. He actually pulled over at one point to holler at a small white minibus. (Actually, perhaps I should be glad he pulled over. Maybe that's actually safer.) When we finally got to the hostel, it was full. They directed me to a nearby hotel, and at that point I was ready to admit defeat. I shelled out for an actual room with a bathroom and everything, and I am a failure. A broke failure with weeks and weeks of vexing travel to go. Once again I ask you, rattling the bars of my cage, Why must we have six weeks of vacation?!

Anyway, girls who pass out on trains are entitled to three nights in a proper bed, don't you think? And my next stop is Luguhu, where I'm damned if I'm staying anywhere with running water.

One last thing...

Saw Lili off this morning with jiaozi and a hearty handshake (followed by a hug - some people are so sentimental) followed by a good two hours of previously unwatched Jeeves and Wooster to cheer myself up a bit. I finally got around to calling the school in Sichuan where I'm going to be teaching, and I was pleased to discover that the guy I talked to seemed to understand what I was saying and I think I understood what he was saying, too! This is marvelous because as I've mentioned I'm terrible at using the phone in Chinese. Plus I'm given to understand that he might be picking me up in Luguhu on his scooter. But it occurs to me now that it's also possible "moto che" means "motorcycle," and that's a very very frightening thought. But you should not be worried! Everything is going to be super!

Right, now I'm off to Chengdu.

Graduation

Yesterday we had our final exam, and it went all right, and the moment I got back to my room the phone rang.
Me: Wei?
Voice on Phone: Ni hao!
Me: Uh, Ni hao?
Voice on Phone: Hi! It's me! Your mom!
I talked to my family for a really long time, especially since this was only the third phone call since I've been here. I have been complaining a lot lately, and my mum was worried, I guess, but as it happens things are still pretty okay and should continue to be so.

After the phone call, I went to go buy my train ticket to Chengdu - Y400 for a hard sleeper. It's weird, buying the ticket means I actually am going on this trip. It's hard to believe. I'm not a person who deals well with uncertainty, and the fact that I don't clearly know where I'll be a week from now is stressful, but I suppose the key is to take it one day at a time. My mission in Chengdu is to buy a pair of shorts - it's pretty tropical down south - and to find a guidebook, especially the Lonely Planet one because it's great. I've been copying down all the information in my roommate's copy, but that's not really the best methodology. I'm also going to visit a monastary or two, because I never get sick of looking at Buddhist and Daoist places of worship. I might even go back to Wenshu Yuan and have my fortune told by the blind fortune tellers who line up outside the gates with clay bowls and bamboo spills.

Then I returned home and worked on the speech I was asked to give at graduation and watched American Idol and Oprah with my roommate and her boyfriend, Lili, and Mi Yike. At three thirty we split up to dress for graduation - ostensibly a semi-formal affair but a lot of the boys wore jeans and a lot of people had been drinking since 10 a.m. when they finished their tests. (Not me though! I waited until after noon to share a Bacardi Breezer with Lili!) My speech went all right, but I was extremely nervous and it messed up my rhythm. It wasn't an especially good speech, but I mentioned cursing the ancient Chinese who thought it would be fun to make a tonal language, and that got a laugh. Actually there was an entire cluster of teachers just laughing their heads off at a part that wasn't intended as a joke, which made me even more anxious because in Chinese you never really know what you're saying. But it was got through, and then the language pledge ended.

I will tell you, internet: I did not obey the language pledge the entire semester. I obeyed it a lot, but ... And I feel bad about it, kind of, but on the other hand there were several times when I had such a great time with my friends (and usually foreigners who didn't speak Chinese, which was normally why we broke the pledge) speaking English. Everyone is leaving now and I won't see them again and I wouldn't trade a single one of my memories with them, so I can't feel too bad about the English speaking.

After graduation I wasn't sure what to do with myself. My roommate had locked me out by accident, which has always been a dream of mine because when you're locked out you get to climb in the window. But I was wearing a skirt, so one of the boys did it for me. I was so disappointed I went and put on pants, locked the door again, and climbed up to let myself back in. It was great fun but I scraped my arm rather badly.

Then all the teachers and students went out to the nearby Beijing Duck restaurant, which was disappointing - Lili and I got stuck at a half empty table of people not interested in making conversation, and of course neither of us eats duck. One of our teachers got drunk and started speaking fairly okay English, but in a very embarrassing way - he's one of my favorite teachers and so it was awkward and weird. We went back to the dorm, feeling uprooted and off-center, and chatted with Mi Yike and Yi Weida. I'm going to miss people a lot, and I know I'll never see any of them again, and it's kind of a depressing thought. But at the same time, I know that a lot of the social errors I made this semester are avoidable next semester - I'm going to have another chance, and I am looking forward to that. Summer semester is going to be good. I'm hanging onto that.

It was a bit early to go out, so we hung around in the dorm for awhile, chatting of this and that and watching the Simpsons. Geqingr, one of the nanzihan Yale lads, had torn his jacket and asked if anyone had a needle and thread, which of course I did, and when I gave them to him he asked if anyone knew how to use them. So I made him hold my Tsingtao and sewed up his jacket. He was so pleased he kept showing people my handiwork, remarking that my stitches were so neat and even, and I couldn't help but feel gratified.

Eventually I went with a big group of people to San Li Tuanr, the bar district, for dancing. A lot of ACC students were there, as well as some teachers, and we danced for awhile and then got bored and went across the street for french fries and cider on the patio of a little fish and chips place, followed by more dancing. We didn't actually stay out past eleven-thirty, but we'd started early so a lot of people went home much earlier than I'd expected. Lili and I went back to the dorm, where we ended up talking until past three with Mi Yike, Jiani, and Zhiwei about women's colleges (which everyone is opposed to for some reason except me), saying goodbye, and so on.

Saying goodbye is stupid and wrong. I hate it. Even people I never really got to know, but whom I am so used to seeing every day. I will miss my roommate, Mi Yike, Zhu Meina, Yi Weida, and most of all Lili, who put up with so much of my weirdness and hung out with me and was such a good friend all this time. But I am going south, where they eat goat cheese and noodles, and I will read Moby Dick and it will be good for me.

My next post will be in Chengdu. The adventure has only just begun.

Tidbits of Eggplant and Other Things

Shortish attention span today, so this will be a dim sum sort of entry.

I don't know why, but I have a lot of trouble with the distinction between "eggplant" (qiezi) and "wife" (qizi).

It's some sort of big important stores-are-closed-all-week holiday at the moment, but I can't be bothered to find out exactly what. Aren't I a good little cultural anthropologist?

Today was our oral exam, in three parts. The first was skits- Lili was Batman and I was Rogue and she interviewed me for a talk show called "Today's Superhero." We now know a lot of good superhero vocabulary, including the Chinese names of several characters. Rogue is "Luocha," Batman is "bianfuxia," Wolverine is translated as "wolf man" and Cyclops as "laser eyes," which makes a lot more sense than his English name. These utterly useless vocabulary words will no doubt stay with me for years, long after how I have forgotten how to discuss the U.N. and taking one's bird for a walk in the park.

The second part was a five minute speech on "My Most Something Something." I chose to introduce my favorite logical paradox, which I guess is the Liar because, horrifyingly, I was only able to come up with two and the Heap is hard to explain in Chinese (I know because I tried). I have clearly been in China for too long.

The third part was just a bunch of crazy rambling and I don't want to think about it anymore.

I don't think there are many people in the world I would like to travel with for six weeks - that's a very VERY long time. But the thought of being alone for six weeks doesn't entirely appeal either. Even apart from my concerns about safety (note to all relatives: There are no concerns about safety), I'm afraid I will be lonely. How long does it take to go insane from isolation? Of course, you're never really alone in China, and it's not as though I don't speak the language (ha) but all in all I do wish I could just skip this bit. I fear there must be something wrong with me, to be so unmoved by the thought of six weeks, footloose and fancy free in one of the most beautiful places in the world.

Tomorrow is our graduation ceremony and I have been selected to make a speech (in Chinese, obviously). I don't know what I'm going to say. I feel kind of down on the whole experience at the moment, even though strictly speaking I am still very happy.

Before I came to China, I used to spend a lot of time thinking "I'm going to China" and feeling a deeply distressing vertigo, like looking over the edge of a cliff. For the first few months of actually being in China, I often thought, "I'm in China," and felt an amazing floating sensation, like being lifted off the ground. Now I think, "I'm in China," and there's nothing. I'm like a dead battery. Moreover, before I left the States, I found it very hard to believe that I was actually going to China - it just seemed so unlikely. For the past few days, however, I've felt like I will never go home. I keep thinking, "I'll never read Kavalier and Clay or see the wallpaper in the bathroom in Washburn or eat catfish pecan meunier ever again." It's very irritating and I wish it would stop.

The Chinese guy next to me is definitely swearing in English as he plays his computer game. Where on earth did he pick up a word like that? I wonder if there's money to be made teaching Chinese youth American vulgarities. I should look into that.