In other news, having started term, and had 5 days off last week for Mid-Autumn Festival which I spent exploring Dalian and cycling, next week I have 10 days off for National Day. Hence, I will be off to Sichuan to see a couple of ex-students and catch up on my spicy food intake. It should only take 3 days or so by train... I believe all these holidays may be Dalian attempting to break us in slowly to a schedule of 8 am lectures and 6 hours of Chinese grammar a day. Sadly, after this holiday, I have probably one day off for Christmas, and one for New Year until January. As a result, however, I'll be more or less uncontactable save by email for the next week or so.
Other than this, my teachers appear to believe I am good at talking and keep asking me questions as a result and my ayi is still on course for reducing me to 16 year old child status as best she can. I have a slight feeling she may have deliberately washed a tissue in with my clothes, which is probably ayi code for 'this is unsuitably thin clothing for this season, kindly do not ignore my pronouncements in future'. She looked so happy this morning when I appeared wearing jeans and a jumper, and then so very disappointed when I proceeded to wear sandals anyway instead of winter shoes. To clarify, it is still 20 degrees here on average... My host father and I have more or less reached a situation where we agree with her when she is in, and discuss politics as soon as she goes out.
PS The Chinese military student exercises continue - they are now having kungfu competitions, and martial brass band music piped in to help them as they goose step.
Wednesday, 29 September 2010
Tent Lady and Stalkers
This is Tent Lady, whose name I do know, but have forgotten how to pronouce. True to her calling, she runs the tea and gossip tent opposite Dingxi No 1 People's Hospital, and is a matriarch in true Chinese fashion. She brews hot sweet overboiled green tea all day long and keeps the various bemused farmers who visit her tent well in line, and occasionally packs them off to play chess, buy her food, or visit their sick relatives in hospital. She also wishes to adopt me...
I first met her when living in Dingxi when I started buying breakfast off a stall near by, and she'd sort of smile and tut at me in a faintly disapproving fashion everyday. After about 6 months of this, I plucked up the courage to actually go and try talking to her, and quickly found myself drinking very large quantities of her tea, and having wonderful conversations where we both completely failed to understand the other. I am still fairly sure she tried to tell me one day all about how her family left Dongbei (basically where I'm living now) when the Japanese invaded it.
However, I never expected her to remember me when I went back. But as soon as she saw me, I was ushered back into her tent, grilled about my family and marital status once again (please be warned, innocent people who might visit me in China: she will want to meet and interrogate you), chastised for being thin, and had my hands clutched at length.
Sadly, Tent Lady has a son, and is determined we should meet. He now has my phone number, and whilst I am highly fond of Tent Lady, her progeny are another matter. Her son lives in Shanghai, and despite the distance, and the fact that we do not have a language in common calls me almost every day. I'm not sure if he is simply convinced that he will learn English simply by occasionally misunderstanding me down the phone, or if Tent Lady is in fact also harbouring designs on my marital status...
I'm really not very sure what to do. I don't wish to offend Tent Lady as I really do quite like her (and also the thought of her vetting my various relatives as she seems determined to do amuses me highly), but The Son really does not interest me very much...
Friday, 24 September 2010
The Dangers of Mistranslation
My host father is a man I am quickly growing to be highly fond of. He has a face like an amiable pumpkin with added cheekbones, appears to be a disillusioned rebellious intellectual and is a cyclist and winter swimmer to boot. I possibly should have remembered that he really is quite a keen cyclist when he invited me to go cycling with him... He regularly cycles 150k in a day, and owns an Italian roadbike that even I can tell is serious.
Unfortunately for me, he also appears to believe that I am a serious sports sort of person as well. The badminton bureaucrats saga, tales of rock climbing and kayaking appear to have convinced him thus, as does the reflected glory of having an uncle who recently cycled 900 miles in about 9 days or something equally ridiculous. Even my tales of struggling up and down Arisaig by bike appeared to convince him I am actually a fit, keen and capable human being.
He first suggested we go a little while back, and assured me we wouldn't go too far... Possibly I should have listened to my ayi who reacted with horror to hte suggestion that I might go cycling with him and his friends, describing dislocated shoulders, how safety was the most important and that we were just saying it to annoy her. The reaction I got when trying to reassure her and told her I like adventure (and am used to it...) was truly wonderful. She erupted in a chorus of 'bu xing' that must have lasted half an hour, whilst my host father grinned like a naughty schoolboy.
Sure enough though, the next day when my ayi had vanished off to visit her father he came knocking, and out came the helmets, bikes and the gloves to protect your hands when you fall off, and the spandex-clad friend with intimidating leg muscles (again maybe a slight clue). He also asked how far I felt I could go, asking if I felt up to 3,4 or 5 kilometres. I of course said 5 would be no problem at all....
Having set off at a fair pace and having watched the spandex clad friend disappear into the distance, about an hour later my host father said we'd already done 15 kilometres, and I realised he hadn't meant 3,4 or 5 kilometres. He meant 30, 40 or 50 kilometres.
Fortunately for me, cycling around Dalian proved easy, once we'd escaped the city outskirts and the lorrys that seemed to be aiming for us. The scenery was glorious - trees, mountains, reservoirs and the occasional temple, all green and feeling very much like the last fine day of autumn before the cold starts to set in.
There was just a little of me that died inside when he said we'd reached 26k, and were about to start turning back, and I realised I had another 26 to go.... By the last couple of hills, the agony in my legs was just starting to be unbearable, but just at the point where I thought I was going to crack, give in and apologise for ever saying I knew how to ride a bike, we turned a corner and I realised the last 10k was going to be downhill. I finished with mud all over my face, and ache in every leg muscle I own.
We made our way back inside to find my ayi waiting for us with dinner on the table and a scowl on her face. She made it quite clear I was to make sure my mother knew she had definitely not agreed to any of this, and that we really shouldn't do it again.
I'm really not sure I'm going to make a satisfactory surrogate daughter, at least as far as she is concerned. I also have made a mental note to listen properly to my host father slurring numbers at me in future. I survived 50k, and would probably do it again, but right now, it hurts...
Unfortunately for me, he also appears to believe that I am a serious sports sort of person as well. The badminton bureaucrats saga, tales of rock climbing and kayaking appear to have convinced him thus, as does the reflected glory of having an uncle who recently cycled 900 miles in about 9 days or something equally ridiculous. Even my tales of struggling up and down Arisaig by bike appeared to convince him I am actually a fit, keen and capable human being.
He first suggested we go a little while back, and assured me we wouldn't go too far... Possibly I should have listened to my ayi who reacted with horror to hte suggestion that I might go cycling with him and his friends, describing dislocated shoulders, how safety was the most important and that we were just saying it to annoy her. The reaction I got when trying to reassure her and told her I like adventure (and am used to it...) was truly wonderful. She erupted in a chorus of 'bu xing' that must have lasted half an hour, whilst my host father grinned like a naughty schoolboy.
Sure enough though, the next day when my ayi had vanished off to visit her father he came knocking, and out came the helmets, bikes and the gloves to protect your hands when you fall off, and the spandex-clad friend with intimidating leg muscles (again maybe a slight clue). He also asked how far I felt I could go, asking if I felt up to 3,4 or 5 kilometres. I of course said 5 would be no problem at all....
Having set off at a fair pace and having watched the spandex clad friend disappear into the distance, about an hour later my host father said we'd already done 15 kilometres, and I realised he hadn't meant 3,4 or 5 kilometres. He meant 30, 40 or 50 kilometres.
Fortunately for me, cycling around Dalian proved easy, once we'd escaped the city outskirts and the lorrys that seemed to be aiming for us. The scenery was glorious - trees, mountains, reservoirs and the occasional temple, all green and feeling very much like the last fine day of autumn before the cold starts to set in.
There was just a little of me that died inside when he said we'd reached 26k, and were about to start turning back, and I realised I had another 26 to go.... By the last couple of hills, the agony in my legs was just starting to be unbearable, but just at the point where I thought I was going to crack, give in and apologise for ever saying I knew how to ride a bike, we turned a corner and I realised the last 10k was going to be downhill. I finished with mud all over my face, and ache in every leg muscle I own.
We made our way back inside to find my ayi waiting for us with dinner on the table and a scowl on her face. She made it quite clear I was to make sure my mother knew she had definitely not agreed to any of this, and that we really shouldn't do it again.
I'm really not sure I'm going to make a satisfactory surrogate daughter, at least as far as she is concerned. I also have made a mental note to listen properly to my host father slurring numbers at me in future. I survived 50k, and would probably do it again, but right now, it hurts...
Pictures
It would appear that pictures are now in fact a possibility... However, due to various factors, I can't actually see them, so if there are issues and they don't display I won't know - please tell me! I also can't reply to comments very easily. I appreciate them greatly, however.
The picture below is of Dalian, specifically the view looking towards where I live from the top of the mountain in the middle of the zoo. I live about 20 minutes further away from the bay you might just be able to make out. I still can't quite believe I live in a Chinese city that has this kind of scenery so close to the centre... The city itself is kinda bigger though - it curves round the mountainous area I took the picture from. The section you can see in that picture might be where I live, but its still a good thirty minutes or so from there till the actual city centre...
The picture below is of Dalian, specifically the view looking towards where I live from the top of the mountain in the middle of the zoo. I live about 20 minutes further away from the bay you might just be able to make out. I still can't quite believe I live in a Chinese city that has this kind of scenery so close to the centre... The city itself is kinda bigger though - it curves round the mountainous area I took the picture from. The section you can see in that picture might be where I live, but its still a good thirty minutes or so from there till the actual city centre...
Thursday, 23 September 2010
Tuesday, 21 September 2010
Update: Chinese Military Madness
It still hasn't stopped. They are still there in their units, every day, standing and shouting.
Although the elite units have now moved on to some kind of kungfu. Whilst walking through a group the other day, they are abruptly shouted 'hai!' and punched the air in unison, before returning to standing still and staring into space. Odder still however, was the slow motion marching. This unit took four goose steps, and then paused with one leg in the air, toes pointed, a little like they were training to be in one of those Chinese military ballet performances (like The Detachment of Red Women style). They held this pose for a few minutes wobbling gently, and then took another four goose steps and then stood on one leg again. I really have no idea why.
Except today, they were gone. It started to rain, and the Chinese military student detachments all vanished. Though if all it takes is a little rain to vanquish them, I don't think much of their training...
PS I may be in some trouble. I demonstrated quite how silly goose stepping looks to a friend, and turned round to find most of what was probably a women's tank regiment glaring at me.
Although the elite units have now moved on to some kind of kungfu. Whilst walking through a group the other day, they are abruptly shouted 'hai!' and punched the air in unison, before returning to standing still and staring into space. Odder still however, was the slow motion marching. This unit took four goose steps, and then paused with one leg in the air, toes pointed, a little like they were training to be in one of those Chinese military ballet performances (like The Detachment of Red Women style). They held this pose for a few minutes wobbling gently, and then took another four goose steps and then stood on one leg again. I really have no idea why.
Except today, they were gone. It started to rain, and the Chinese military student detachments all vanished. Though if all it takes is a little rain to vanquish them, I don't think much of their training...
PS I may be in some trouble. I demonstrated quite how silly goose stepping looks to a friend, and turned round to find most of what was probably a women's tank regiment glaring at me.
Saturday, 18 September 2010
Only Child
I am now an only child. My host sister departed for Taiwan this morning, and that leaves me. I'm a little worried, I don't think I'm going to make a good surrogate daughter (I don't write papers in international journals, especially not ones to do with chemistry). I came in at three the other night to find my host mother still up, although she swears she wasn't really waiting for me at all, honest.
Oh dear.
Oh dear.
Chinese Military Madness
I have now finally started class, which is long and full of Chinese and starts at 8am every morning, and occasionally goes on for 6 hours before it stops. On the whole, however, I do quite like it, although the amount of new words I am supposed to be learning is faintly obscene. I think it is something like 30 a day. True to form, I have also just bought myself Harry Potter in Chinese, and suspect I might end up reading that a lot, rather than the textbooks I am supposed to be reading...
However, whilst I have started class, the Chinese haven't. Instead they have started their compulsory military training, which means on emerging from class, dazed and dizzied and no longer sure which language I speak, I am quite often greeted by the site of our campus full of teenagers in khaki goosestepping in formation. They are quite literally forced to use every available piece of ground in the campus to find space for all the classes/regiments, and most of their training appears to consist of how to march in formation, shout 'yi,er, yi', and how to stand very still for hours on head, which are of course important skills for any university student. Occasionally we do hear distant war cries drifting through our open classroom windows, so I am not entirely sure that they aren't doing something more exciting when we can't see them.
Most of the students though look reassuringly like they don't really care. They run amusingly out of formation, you can spot the couple who are refusing to sacrifice their hairstyles to khaki baseball caps, and half of them are so short they look about 14 and are a little swallowed by their fatigues. Most of them give the impression they'll just be really happy to finally get into lectures.
More worrying was wandering through campus one night, I was a little startled to hear the familiar 'yi, er, yi', but shouted with enthusiasm, and turned round to find an entire regiment of older men running in formation bearing down on me, and not about to stop. They were a little scarily professional, moving in time, all the same height, all slightly muscled, and all appearing to belong to our university. I'm starting to wonder what exactly kind of university it is...
Last night, we were also treated to half an hour of air raid sirens to mark the anniversary of the Manchurian Incident. It mostly resulted in a lot of dogs barking, although I was woken this morning by what sounded suspiciously like gunfire, and I'm really hoping they haven't decided to reenact the rest of the Manchurian Incident as well.
However, whilst I have started class, the Chinese haven't. Instead they have started their compulsory military training, which means on emerging from class, dazed and dizzied and no longer sure which language I speak, I am quite often greeted by the site of our campus full of teenagers in khaki goosestepping in formation. They are quite literally forced to use every available piece of ground in the campus to find space for all the classes/regiments, and most of their training appears to consist of how to march in formation, shout 'yi,er, yi', and how to stand very still for hours on head, which are of course important skills for any university student. Occasionally we do hear distant war cries drifting through our open classroom windows, so I am not entirely sure that they aren't doing something more exciting when we can't see them.
Most of the students though look reassuringly like they don't really care. They run amusingly out of formation, you can spot the couple who are refusing to sacrifice their hairstyles to khaki baseball caps, and half of them are so short they look about 14 and are a little swallowed by their fatigues. Most of them give the impression they'll just be really happy to finally get into lectures.
More worrying was wandering through campus one night, I was a little startled to hear the familiar 'yi, er, yi', but shouted with enthusiasm, and turned round to find an entire regiment of older men running in formation bearing down on me, and not about to stop. They were a little scarily professional, moving in time, all the same height, all slightly muscled, and all appearing to belong to our university. I'm starting to wonder what exactly kind of university it is...
Last night, we were also treated to half an hour of air raid sirens to mark the anniversary of the Manchurian Incident. It mostly resulted in a lot of dogs barking, although I was woken this morning by what sounded suspiciously like gunfire, and I'm really hoping they haven't decided to reenact the rest of the Manchurian Incident as well.
Sunday, 12 September 2010
Accidental Near Marriage
I was wandering one of Dalian's many parks with a few friends the other day, when we came across a number of notices pinned to trees, with a gaggle of Chinese grandmothers, matrons and termagents clustered round them... Being somewhat intrigued, we ventured over, only to discover they were lonely hearts ads, of a kind, posted by Chinese mothers determined to find respectable partners for their children (said children normally being mid-twenties).
Sadly, in the process of working out what was on teh posters, and scribbling down characters we didn't recognised, we attracted the attention of the mob. They closed in slowly, but inexorably, until we found our backs against the trees, and were stammering answers to questions such as 'How old are you?', 'What are your job prospects?', 'Are you sure you aren't Russians?', and finding that our various pleas that we w all already had boyfriends fell on deaf ears.
Believe me, there is something truly intimidating in watching a Chinese matron gaze at you fixedly, slowly remove her sunglasses and still staring, mutter 'I've found a good one'.
We beat a hasty retreat, at this point.
Postscript: It could have been much worse. The one guy in our group was told he had 'eyes like Bill Gates' rendering him irresistable to Chinese women... I'm still not sure that the guy who annouced this to him wasn't himself interested...
Sadly, in the process of working out what was on teh posters, and scribbling down characters we didn't recognised, we attracted the attention of the mob. They closed in slowly, but inexorably, until we found our backs against the trees, and were stammering answers to questions such as 'How old are you?', 'What are your job prospects?', 'Are you sure you aren't Russians?', and finding that our various pleas that we w all already had boyfriends fell on deaf ears.
Believe me, there is something truly intimidating in watching a Chinese matron gaze at you fixedly, slowly remove her sunglasses and still staring, mutter 'I've found a good one'.
We beat a hasty retreat, at this point.
Postscript: It could have been much worse. The one guy in our group was told he had 'eyes like Bill Gates' rendering him irresistable to Chinese women... I'm still not sure that the guy who annouced this to him wasn't himself interested...
Dalian
Issues of computing notwithstanding
(lack of pictures), I better get on and introduce the place I'm
actually living.
(lack of pictures), I better get on and introduce the place I'm
actually living.
The city of Dalian has turned out to be
a pleasant coastal monolith of a mere 6 million people, dotted with
mountains, beaches, mosquitoes Communist tower blocks and the
occasional incongruous ex-colonial building. Sadly the majority of
the real colonial buildings are now what passes for Dalian's slums
and in common with most of China being ripped down and replaced with
a fake as fast as possible.
a pleasant coastal monolith of a mere 6 million people, dotted with
mountains, beaches, mosquitoes Communist tower blocks and the
occasional incongruous ex-colonial building. Sadly the majority of
the real colonial buildings are now what passes for Dalian's slums
and in common with most of China being ripped down and replaced with
a fake as fast as possible.
It is true to its billing, quite
pleasant for a Chinese city, save for the mosquitoes, the recent oil
spill and an odd obsession with sea cucumbers (they come packaged
like cigars in very fancy shops in downtown Dalian, rubbing shoulders
with the likes of Armani, Anmani, and Gucci). I'm still a little in
shock – this is a side of China I've never quite seen before. Its
no longer a miracle to find peanut butter or tampons, I keep being
mistaken for Russian, and living standards are somewhat higher than
Dingxi. I simply miss the food – Dongbei cuisine appears to believe
in ample, bland portions, not quite the fiery Sichuanese scorch I'm
used to.
pleasant for a Chinese city, save for the mosquitoes, the recent oil
spill and an odd obsession with sea cucumbers (they come packaged
like cigars in very fancy shops in downtown Dalian, rubbing shoulders
with the likes of Armani, Anmani, and Gucci). I'm still a little in
shock – this is a side of China I've never quite seen before. Its
no longer a miracle to find peanut butter or tampons, I keep being
mistaken for Russian, and living standards are somewhat higher than
Dingxi. I simply miss the food – Dongbei cuisine appears to believe
in ample, bland portions, not quite the fiery Sichuanese scorch I'm
used to.
The family I'm living with are lovely,
although stressed due to their daughter shortly sitting a major exam.
As a result I'm bound to silence much of the day, in case I should
disturb her studies. However, my host father and I have managed
whispered/mimed conversations about all sorts of things, from the
merits of Mao's poetry to jury service (that one took a lot of
miming).
although stressed due to their daughter shortly sitting a major exam.
As a result I'm bound to silence much of the day, in case I should
disturb her studies. However, my host father and I have managed
whispered/mimed conversations about all sorts of things, from the
merits of Mao's poetry to jury service (that one took a lot of
miming).
My host mother fusses wonderfully, and
disapproves of young people having fun. She is currently celebrating
a moral victory – I went out one night and came home a little late,
and two days later am down with a cold. This she appears to be taking
as comeuppance for the error of my ways and is rejoicing accordingly.
They're going to be fun, I think.
disapproves of young people having fun. She is currently celebrating
a moral victory – I went out one night and came home a little late,
and two days later am down with a cold. This she appears to be taking
as comeuppance for the error of my ways and is rejoicing accordingly.
They're going to be fun, I think.
However after a week long grace period
we start classes tomorrow - 8am start, and an average of 4 hours of
Chinese a day. I'm looking forward to it, in a thoroughly
apprehensive/I am not designed for such sleeping rhythms kind of way
we start classes tomorrow - 8am start, and an average of 4 hours of
Chinese a day. I'm looking forward to it, in a thoroughly
apprehensive/I am not designed for such sleeping rhythms kind of way
Monday, 6 September 2010
Return to Gansu
I freely admit, even two years into this degree that one of the main reasons for doing it was simply as it would allow me to go back to Dingxi, as part of my third year abroad. Arriving jetlagged and disorientated into Beijing, more or less the first thing I did was to head straight back out again, catching the slow train to Gansu.
Sadly, they only had hard seats, and according to the guy who sold me the ticket the train would take three days... 12 hours in, as my backbone started to creak and the novelty of the scenery (Inner Mongolia, mostly) and playing cheat in Chinese started to wear off, I began to wonder whether it was all actually such a good idea. Thankfully, at this point, I was beckoned by a Chinese guard, who gestured frantically until I gave him 100 yuan, at which point he led me to a hard sleeper berth, and I spent the next 16 hours asleep. By the time I woke up again, we were trundling through Gansu, and pulling into Lanzhou, a day earlier than expected.
In a very Chinese way, all the problems I'd anticipated (floods, lack of emails/numbers etc) more or less vanished as soon as I actually arrived. Dingxi turned out to be as dustridden and dry as ever, Deanna called as I got off the train, and I spent 15 minutes arguing with a taxi driver who tried telling me he'd be honoured to drive me all the way to Dingxi, despite having almost crashed en route to the bus stop.
Returning to Dingxi was a strange mix - both so reassuringly familiar and subtly strange. The mice taxis I knew have vanished, tower blocks sprung up on every corner, but students still drill at 6am outside my window, and the tent lady who I used to have wonderful conversations with where neither of us understood the other at all recognised me instantly. I spent a week more or less being fed, catching up with friends I'd thought I'd never see again (mostly wonderful, save a few disillusioned former students) and generally behaving as though I'd never left.
Stranger incidents included walking into the Dingxi All-Comers Spacehopper Competition, auctioning off my stock of British currency to a shouting mob of farmers, and truly off the wall trip to Lanzhou...
Sadly, they only had hard seats, and according to the guy who sold me the ticket the train would take three days... 12 hours in, as my backbone started to creak and the novelty of the scenery (Inner Mongolia, mostly) and playing cheat in Chinese started to wear off, I began to wonder whether it was all actually such a good idea. Thankfully, at this point, I was beckoned by a Chinese guard, who gestured frantically until I gave him 100 yuan, at which point he led me to a hard sleeper berth, and I spent the next 16 hours asleep. By the time I woke up again, we were trundling through Gansu, and pulling into Lanzhou, a day earlier than expected.
In a very Chinese way, all the problems I'd anticipated (floods, lack of emails/numbers etc) more or less vanished as soon as I actually arrived. Dingxi turned out to be as dustridden and dry as ever, Deanna called as I got off the train, and I spent 15 minutes arguing with a taxi driver who tried telling me he'd be honoured to drive me all the way to Dingxi, despite having almost crashed en route to the bus stop.
Returning to Dingxi was a strange mix - both so reassuringly familiar and subtly strange. The mice taxis I knew have vanished, tower blocks sprung up on every corner, but students still drill at 6am outside my window, and the tent lady who I used to have wonderful conversations with where neither of us understood the other at all recognised me instantly. I spent a week more or less being fed, catching up with friends I'd thought I'd never see again (mostly wonderful, save a few disillusioned former students) and generally behaving as though I'd never left.
Stranger incidents included walking into the Dingxi All-Comers Spacehopper Competition, auctioning off my stock of British currency to a shouting mob of farmers, and truly off the wall trip to Lanzhou...
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