Perhaps it was whilst watching the electrician hack at my ceiling [screwdriver in one hand, cigarette in other, balanced on wooden chest of drawers and chair] that I realised China no longer shocks me.
Or perhaps it was when a light bulb exploded inches from Sparkie's face [still balanced atop furniture] and the man didn't even blink.
Must admit that two-hour pantomime in which light was restored to my shitty apartment was as entertaining as a made-for-TV movie.
The scene: Friday morning. The stars of the show arrive [two days and one hour late; not conducive to warm welcome]. Monkey-like man whom I take to be electrician [in torn jeans with broken fly, wielding official-looking toolbelt] lollops into my apartment. Is promptly followed by one of my Chinese colleagues [for translation purposes] and two heavyset uniformed soldiers.
Sparkie's friends, apparently.
All three men have a good nosy around my humble abode. No doubt take in empty baijiu bottles on windowsill and threadbare knickers hanging from hat stand [I don't usually have visitors].
Sparkie points out that electricity works. I point out that I know this. Lights are tested. Lights found not to work. Light fittings inspected. Wiring declared faulty.
Bathroom inspected. Solider 1 produces digital camera and takes photo. Explanation not given.
Men set about clearing a table. Table dragged to centre of living room. Chair added. Up goes sparkie. Unscrews ugly '70s chandelier and deposits on floor. Plaster and bits of wire sent flying as hole in ceiling mercilessly attacked with crude tools. Chunk of ceiling scones me in the head. I move.
Continuous stream of Chinese between three pals. Probably discussing my laundry.
Soldier 1 lights cigarette. I send him out. Solider 2 sniggers.
Hours pass. More plaster flung around room. More Chinese banter. Sparkie attempts to use back of wrench to hammer staples across ceiling. My colleague disappears and returns bearing {rust?]stained hatchet. Duly used as hammer.
At some point, wiring restored.
Assume job is complete when men abruptly storm out of apartment, having re-attached chandelier and dragged chest of drawers back against wall. Leave behind dead lightbulbs, several metres of wiring and sour smell.
I stand amongst ceiling rubble and consider all that I have learned.
Now know that tradesmen care not for punctuality, carrying tools or OSH. Or English. And that a photo of my bathroom is now the property of the People's Liberation Army.
And that my lights [all two bulbs of them] work.
Have odd feeling this won't be the last I'll see of my new friends.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Sunday, April 24, 2011
sunday blues.
Sunday night: sixteen hours of teaching completed [and duly celebrated]. Am in throes of usual post-weekend exhausted stupor.
Usual sense of satisfaction, however, has been obliterated by ugly demons of self-doubt brought on my comments from bitter colleague.
Finished teaching at 7pm with a heaviness I've not known before; deficient immune system means eight hours of "who can draw a big D?" and "what is the opposite of BIG?" and "the Chinese mask comes from ChinAAAA" was something of a battle.
Made an admittedly less-than-flash job of beginner-level adult class. Returned from WC to be abruptly confronted by Chinese assistant teacher regarding whether or not I "enjoy" teaching.
Upon limp attempt to explain that "perhaps some days are better than others", received what seemed at the time a thorough bollocking but was probably some insight into how Chinese colleagues regard us waigourens.
Chinese teachers, X said, they work all the time. They have to think about lesson planning and exams and bums on seats. Not like foreigners. Foreigners, they don't have to work very hard or teach many hours. They don't care about the children or whether the children come back to the school. They don't care about grades. For the foreigners, X concluded, it's very easy. They are only here for the money.
Perhaps some of bollocking was lost in translation, but the message was loud and clear.
Fairly floored me. Had willingly believed that current state of exhaustion [compounded by sleep deprivation and onset of yet another cold] and unnatural buzzing in my ears was sure sign that I'd worked my butt off.
Later [having imbibed glassful of something not dissimilar to paint-stripper] took a walk around neon city to ease troubled mind. Came to conclusion that X is probably bitter, and has every right to be; her future is painfully limited in comparison to my own. Most Chinese women [brains or not] are destined for either a career in the classroom, the supermarket or in the home. Most don't want either and most could do much better.
But, bitter or not, X has a point. Of the foreign teachers I know here - myself included - few are in it for the sake of imparting knowledge on eager young minds. High salary and low responsibility equals a carefree lifestyle perhaps unattainable back home.
As mentioned earlier, have discovered that one [sometimes unfortunate] consequence of high demand for foreign teachers here is that effort comes down to the individual.
Certainly some have a real passion for the job; shining example is British colleague Paul who, at 44, has found his true calling in leading kids through their ABCs.
Some are here for love, some for money, some for the culture. And some because they can get away with rolling out of bed [following a night on the turps], staggering into class and slurring through a pre-packaged lesson plan.
Me?
I'll be honest. I'm not passionate about teaching. I love the kids, I love the challenge and I love Chinese food, but there are days when I'm not a teacher's asshole.
I'm a traveller, a wanderluster, a restless spirit. Dust and cockroaches and ill health and a less-than-adequate apartment are a small price to pay to fund my desire to traverse South-East Asia; just like the thousands of other Kiwis and Australians and Brits and Americans and godknowswhoelse scattered all over China.
Still, X's accusations certainly forced me to [guiltily] reflect on whether I have a right to live so selfishly.
It's one of those riddles without a good answer. At least, not an answer I can dredge up post-midnight.
Am done with philosophizing as means to alleviate sting of being told [implicitly] that I'm crap. Eyes are on the horizon.
And baijiu close to hand.
Usual sense of satisfaction, however, has been obliterated by ugly demons of self-doubt brought on my comments from bitter colleague.
Finished teaching at 7pm with a heaviness I've not known before; deficient immune system means eight hours of "who can draw a big D?" and "what is the opposite of BIG?" and "the Chinese mask comes from ChinAAAA" was something of a battle.
Made an admittedly less-than-flash job of beginner-level adult class. Returned from WC to be abruptly confronted by Chinese assistant teacher regarding whether or not I "enjoy" teaching.
Upon limp attempt to explain that "perhaps some days are better than others", received what seemed at the time a thorough bollocking but was probably some insight into how Chinese colleagues regard us waigourens.
Chinese teachers, X said, they work all the time. They have to think about lesson planning and exams and bums on seats. Not like foreigners. Foreigners, they don't have to work very hard or teach many hours. They don't care about the children or whether the children come back to the school. They don't care about grades. For the foreigners, X concluded, it's very easy. They are only here for the money.
Perhaps some of bollocking was lost in translation, but the message was loud and clear.
Fairly floored me. Had willingly believed that current state of exhaustion [compounded by sleep deprivation and onset of yet another cold] and unnatural buzzing in my ears was sure sign that I'd worked my butt off.
Later [having imbibed glassful of something not dissimilar to paint-stripper] took a walk around neon city to ease troubled mind. Came to conclusion that X is probably bitter, and has every right to be; her future is painfully limited in comparison to my own. Most Chinese women [brains or not] are destined for either a career in the classroom, the supermarket or in the home. Most don't want either and most could do much better.
But, bitter or not, X has a point. Of the foreign teachers I know here - myself included - few are in it for the sake of imparting knowledge on eager young minds. High salary and low responsibility equals a carefree lifestyle perhaps unattainable back home.
As mentioned earlier, have discovered that one [sometimes unfortunate] consequence of high demand for foreign teachers here is that effort comes down to the individual.
Certainly some have a real passion for the job; shining example is British colleague Paul who, at 44, has found his true calling in leading kids through their ABCs.
Some are here for love, some for money, some for the culture. And some because they can get away with rolling out of bed [following a night on the turps], staggering into class and slurring through a pre-packaged lesson plan.
Me?
I'll be honest. I'm not passionate about teaching. I love the kids, I love the challenge and I love Chinese food, but there are days when I'm not a teacher's asshole.
I'm a traveller, a wanderluster, a restless spirit. Dust and cockroaches and ill health and a less-than-adequate apartment are a small price to pay to fund my desire to traverse South-East Asia; just like the thousands of other Kiwis and Australians and Brits and Americans and godknowswhoelse scattered all over China.
Still, X's accusations certainly forced me to [guiltily] reflect on whether I have a right to live so selfishly.
It's one of those riddles without a good answer. At least, not an answer I can dredge up post-midnight.
Am done with philosophizing as means to alleviate sting of being told [implicitly] that I'm crap. Eyes are on the horizon.
And baijiu close to hand.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
seeing the light.
Plans to compose insightful blog have been thwarted by current lack of cognitive function [owing to last night's over-zealous participation in beverage appreciation] and also by latest development [un-development?] in apartment saga.
Total darkness.
Electricity, yes. Lights, no.
At least the gremlins responsible for this un-ending bad luck are creative.
Was initially and cruelly fooled into believing bathroom lightbulb had simply blown. Bought new bulb. Tried to screw in new bulb in dark bathroom. Had bright idea [ha ha] of switching on living room light to carry out said task.
And found living room lights do not work. Bedroom lights do not work. Kitchen light - does.
Unbelievable.
Accomplished tricky business of showering in otherwise pitch-black bathroom by balancing bedside lamp on toilet. Am already becoming adept at using aforementioned facility in darkness.
Landlord [or rather, landlord's flunkie] arrived to begrudgingly inspect fuse box. Failed to solve problem. Bestowed me with, "Maybe tomorrow a man will mend".
Added that perhaps I should fill a few buckets. Water is due to go off again tomorrow.
Flunkie then escaped dark hole to return to own apartment. With working lights. And water.
Well. I guess sometimes all you can do is laugh.
Ha.
Have put my sleep-deprived, patience-tried self to bed. Am looking for the silver lining [I refuse to call it the bright side]. My internet works. My fridge light works. I have a roof over my head. I have legs.
[touch wood touch wood touch wood touch wood]
And I thought I wasn't going to blog tonight.
Total darkness.
Electricity, yes. Lights, no.
At least the gremlins responsible for this un-ending bad luck are creative.
Was initially and cruelly fooled into believing bathroom lightbulb had simply blown. Bought new bulb. Tried to screw in new bulb in dark bathroom. Had bright idea [ha ha] of switching on living room light to carry out said task.
And found living room lights do not work. Bedroom lights do not work. Kitchen light - does.
Unbelievable.
Accomplished tricky business of showering in otherwise pitch-black bathroom by balancing bedside lamp on toilet. Am already becoming adept at using aforementioned facility in darkness.
Landlord [or rather, landlord's flunkie] arrived to begrudgingly inspect fuse box. Failed to solve problem. Bestowed me with, "Maybe tomorrow a man will mend".
Added that perhaps I should fill a few buckets. Water is due to go off again tomorrow.
Flunkie then escaped dark hole to return to own apartment. With working lights. And water.
Well. I guess sometimes all you can do is laugh.
Ha.
Have put my sleep-deprived, patience-tried self to bed. Am looking for the silver lining [I refuse to call it the bright side]. My internet works. My fridge light works. I have a roof over my head. I have legs.
[touch wood touch wood touch wood touch wood]
And I thought I wasn't going to blog tonight.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
we are not amused.
Despite my lifelong ambition to avoid creating a spectacle of myself, it seems my morning stomp around the local city park has become something of a cheap thrill for the people of Hohhot.
Having previously dragged my blonde, pale-skinned ass around India, I am fairly accustomed to drawing blatant stares from genuinely curious locals.
Yet, nothing quite compares to the delighted laughter that rings out behind me as I jog, nonchalantly, between my fellow park-users every morning.
Most days it's tolerable, sometimes even amusing, trying to figure out whether it's my powerwalk-slash-jog, my three-quarter-length pants or just my freakishly round eyes that cause such a stir. It may well be that baring three inches of leg is a sure way to draw gasps and pointed fingers [skin is rarely flaunted here].
Some days, however, it really gets my back up.
Yesterday, having woken to no power, no water and a fermenting stink from blocked toilet, I was feeling less than humorous when a middle-aged female jogger took one look at my head-down, minding-my-own-business self and burst into peals of merry laughter. Right in front of me. As I passed, she continued chortling and guffawing and clutching at her friends and pointing and carrying on.
Snap. I wheeled around [mid-arm-swinging, butt-shaking stride] and bellowed "What?"
And added fuel to the fire. The poor woman [and about twenty other equally bemused locals] were fairly helpless with joy. It was pure theatre.
Needless to say, I motored on. Fuming.
Fortunately, I'm not usually such a grouch [yeah, right, I hear all the way from New Zealand].
Ironically, it was I who was one suppressing giggles the first time I ventured to this public place of leisure and exercise.
To Westerners, a 'park' is usually a grassy area equipped with swings and slides and dog-poop stations. Not so in China. Here, the park near my apartment is a huge complex laid out with transplanted trees [I saw a heap brought in a truck last week], temples, cobbled paths, filthy pond and a hodge-podge of dilapidated fairground rides.
But it's the people that bring the park to life. From dawn, the place is alive -not with kiddies and yummy mummies pushing strollers - but with white-haired, bespectacled retirees. In one corner, crowds of them gather before giant tinny loudspeakers blasting Chinese pop music to practise what appears to be the standard hobby of ballroom dancing. Clad in boots, heels, sneakers and flats, they dance alone, in groups, or couples; men and women, women with women and men with men. All utterly expressionless and utterly devoted to the music and the movement.
Scattered around the rest of the park are oldies doing tai chi, oldies dancing with fans, and groups of oldies clapping or massaging their knees together. Younger ones, if around, walk or jog - forwards AND backwards. I've seen them pounding pavement in every possible kind of attire from sleek tracksuits and fur-lined jackets to the guy today wearing jeans and what appeared to be a lab coat.
There's men splitting the air with huge whips, men playing trumpets, women singing opera, choirs singing anything.
My favourites, though, are the ones who simply walk around and yell. Wrinkled little old women, casually sauntering by with a bag of veges under one arm, will suddenly and inexplicably shriek out some unintelligible syllable. The more practised ones will let loose with a long, mournful trill that lasts a good ten seconds or so.
On good days, someone will answer back with an equally impressive holler from across the pond.
Perhaps there's some deep and meaningful message in whatever my fellow park users are calling; perhaps some cathartic release from their heart/soul/lungs/gastronomic reflexes. I haven't figured it out yet. For now, I am content with being ignorant.
At least, however, I can suppress my giggles.
Having previously dragged my blonde, pale-skinned ass around India, I am fairly accustomed to drawing blatant stares from genuinely curious locals.
Yet, nothing quite compares to the delighted laughter that rings out behind me as I jog, nonchalantly, between my fellow park-users every morning.
Most days it's tolerable, sometimes even amusing, trying to figure out whether it's my powerwalk-slash-jog, my three-quarter-length pants or just my freakishly round eyes that cause such a stir. It may well be that baring three inches of leg is a sure way to draw gasps and pointed fingers [skin is rarely flaunted here].
Some days, however, it really gets my back up.
Yesterday, having woken to no power, no water and a fermenting stink from blocked toilet, I was feeling less than humorous when a middle-aged female jogger took one look at my head-down, minding-my-own-business self and burst into peals of merry laughter. Right in front of me. As I passed, she continued chortling and guffawing and clutching at her friends and pointing and carrying on.
Snap. I wheeled around [mid-arm-swinging, butt-shaking stride] and bellowed "What?"
And added fuel to the fire. The poor woman [and about twenty other equally bemused locals] were fairly helpless with joy. It was pure theatre.
Needless to say, I motored on. Fuming.
Fortunately, I'm not usually such a grouch [yeah, right, I hear all the way from New Zealand].
Ironically, it was I who was one suppressing giggles the first time I ventured to this public place of leisure and exercise.
To Westerners, a 'park' is usually a grassy area equipped with swings and slides and dog-poop stations. Not so in China. Here, the park near my apartment is a huge complex laid out with transplanted trees [I saw a heap brought in a truck last week], temples, cobbled paths, filthy pond and a hodge-podge of dilapidated fairground rides.
But it's the people that bring the park to life. From dawn, the place is alive -not with kiddies and yummy mummies pushing strollers - but with white-haired, bespectacled retirees. In one corner, crowds of them gather before giant tinny loudspeakers blasting Chinese pop music to practise what appears to be the standard hobby of ballroom dancing. Clad in boots, heels, sneakers and flats, they dance alone, in groups, or couples; men and women, women with women and men with men. All utterly expressionless and utterly devoted to the music and the movement.
Scattered around the rest of the park are oldies doing tai chi, oldies dancing with fans, and groups of oldies clapping or massaging their knees together. Younger ones, if around, walk or jog - forwards AND backwards. I've seen them pounding pavement in every possible kind of attire from sleek tracksuits and fur-lined jackets to the guy today wearing jeans and what appeared to be a lab coat.
There's men splitting the air with huge whips, men playing trumpets, women singing opera, choirs singing anything.
My favourites, though, are the ones who simply walk around and yell. Wrinkled little old women, casually sauntering by with a bag of veges under one arm, will suddenly and inexplicably shriek out some unintelligible syllable. The more practised ones will let loose with a long, mournful trill that lasts a good ten seconds or so.
On good days, someone will answer back with an equally impressive holler from across the pond.
Perhaps there's some deep and meaningful message in whatever my fellow park users are calling; perhaps some cathartic release from their heart/soul/lungs/gastronomic reflexes. I haven't figured it out yet. For now, I am content with being ignorant.
At least, however, I can suppress my giggles.
Monday, April 11, 2011
the plumbing sucks.
So, tonight, the WC has shat itself and is refusing to flush. Again.
As previously mentioned, I've already encountered, endured and [more or less] overcome a few hiccups in this apartment. I've even managed to laugh sometimes.
Broken toilets, however, I do not take kindly to.
Less bearable is the constant tinkling of water in the blocked pipes.
So, short of drowning my sorrows in baijiu [apparently it's not healthy to drink alone], have turned to my growing collection of googlemusic-pillaged Kings of Leon and Morrissey in order to distract myself.
But, really, it's not all bad. Have a few things to look forward to; none more than our first payday on Friday. Will be appropriately celebrated with a tipple or two and a meal that isn't la mian.
And, despite latest apartment-related crisis, have had a few laughs lately. Like, trying to elicit 'the pig is sitting on my shirt' from a class of eight-year-olds [hey, I was just following the textbook] and failed, with brilliant results. Similar thing happened when showing boisterous five-year-olds [whose parents are glued to the classroom door] a picture of a horse. Turns out the letter 's' isn't one of their strong points.
On Sunday I made my nine-year-old students write a list of class rules. One little charmer came up with, "You have to drink WC water".
Have fallen in love with a four-year-old called Milly; a kid once too terrified of her big ugly waigouren teacher to speak but now chases me around the staffroom crooning, "Katie-maow, Katie-maow!" [something to do with Katie-kitty-cat-miaw, apparently].
And tonight, had a few "awww..." moments when a couple of amorous six-year-olds kept planting kisses on one another during English Corner class.
Separated them when a third kid joined in.
Ah, you have to laugh.
Can still hear that damn toilet.
As previously mentioned, I've already encountered, endured and [more or less] overcome a few hiccups in this apartment. I've even managed to laugh sometimes.
Broken toilets, however, I do not take kindly to.
Less bearable is the constant tinkling of water in the blocked pipes.
So, short of drowning my sorrows in baijiu [apparently it's not healthy to drink alone], have turned to my growing collection of googlemusic-pillaged Kings of Leon and Morrissey in order to distract myself.
But, really, it's not all bad. Have a few things to look forward to; none more than our first payday on Friday. Will be appropriately celebrated with a tipple or two and a meal that isn't la mian.
And, despite latest apartment-related crisis, have had a few laughs lately. Like, trying to elicit 'the pig is sitting on my shirt' from a class of eight-year-olds [hey, I was just following the textbook] and failed, with brilliant results. Similar thing happened when showing boisterous five-year-olds [whose parents are glued to the classroom door] a picture of a horse. Turns out the letter 's' isn't one of their strong points.
On Sunday I made my nine-year-old students write a list of class rules. One little charmer came up with, "You have to drink WC water".
Have fallen in love with a four-year-old called Milly; a kid once too terrified of her big ugly waigouren teacher to speak but now chases me around the staffroom crooning, "Katie-maow, Katie-maow!" [something to do with Katie-kitty-cat-miaw, apparently].
And tonight, had a few "awww..." moments when a couple of amorous six-year-olds kept planting kisses on one another during English Corner class.
Separated them when a third kid joined in.
Ah, you have to laugh.
Can still hear that damn toilet.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
waiguorens, Bicardi and horse wine
Have had a crash course in Hohhot's very separate Chinese and Western cultures within the same week.
The Chinese part was meeting Yinghong today and seeing Hohhot through a native's eyes; that is, the way a native wanted me to [note to self: Tibet is not a good dinner table topic]
The Western part was last week. It was messy and bewildering and strangely comforting all at the same time.
I was invited out to a 'party' on the other side of the city by J. Navigating the taxi driver with my abhorrently limited Chinese required three phone calls to three different people before I finally deposited myself on J's doorstep. It was worth the hour of girls-getting-ready that followed; wine, hair-straightening, eyeliner, gossip. Something I've missed.
Taxi to party accompanied by paper cups of vodka-laced Miranda in the backseat. Arrive at huge apartment complex on outskirts of city and am suddenly confronted by a roomful of fifty or more loud, boozed foreigners crammed around food, alcohol and, oddly, electric guitars.
Considering I'd seen maybe three other foreigners in six weeks, this was a bit of a shock to the system.
A bit more vodka and some incomprehensibly foul Mongolian horse-milk wine (?!) later, I was fairly comfortable with the situation. Talked rubbish to an endless stream of people from all corners of the earth - England, America, Denmark, Greece, China. Mostly guys. Mostly thoroughly enjoying life here in Hohhot.
Ended the night on a slightly harrowing note. I'd turned down the offer of drinking the wee hours away on imported Bicardi and coke [and winding up on someone's floor] and left my original company to attempt flagging down a taxi. By this time it was 2am and, despite slurred advice that it was nigh on impossible to get a taxi in this place at this hour, I set off. I'm stubborn like that.
Arrived at locked gates outside apartment grounds to be ushered into guard's headquarters and barked at in Chinese. A phone call to T and some rapid Chinese later, a button was pushed and I was directed through the gates. Mad gestures towards the highway either meant "Go this way and you'll be able to flag down a taxi," or "P*** off, then".
And so it came to be that, at two o'clock on a Saturday morning, I was walking down an empty road in a barely-familiar Chinese city in almost utter darkness, numbed by fear and rum and with no f***ing idea where I was or how to get home.
Strange, how your head copes in these times.
I'm not ashamed to say I did the only thing I could think of doing. I prayed.
Lights ahead. Lights became car. Car became taxi. Taxi stopped. I got in. Driver confused by address on business card. I attempt pronounciation of the only road I know. Driver nods. We drive.
Fifteen minutes and fifteen kuai later, I am yanking my coat off and yahooing at being home, sweet home, in my manky apartment.
Harrowing, yes. Stupid, yeah, that too. But I survived. And I learned some things:
- Foreign teachers in Hohhot are generally those who have found they can live in near-luxury here and do. Hence the market for crazily-priced imported Australian wine and Fisherman's Friend.
- Foreign teachers tend to stick together. And party together. And not much else.
- It is possible for one to live in Hohhot with all their home comforts and hang out with people who have the same eye colour and same shaped nose.
- Hohhot is a bloody nightmare to navigate if you don't speak Chinese.
- Miracles do happen. Or, there is really is Someone looking out for me up there.
Anyway. Everything's an experience.
The Chinese part was meeting Yinghong today and seeing Hohhot through a native's eyes; that is, the way a native wanted me to [note to self: Tibet is not a good dinner table topic]
The Western part was last week. It was messy and bewildering and strangely comforting all at the same time.
I was invited out to a 'party' on the other side of the city by J. Navigating the taxi driver with my abhorrently limited Chinese required three phone calls to three different people before I finally deposited myself on J's doorstep. It was worth the hour of girls-getting-ready that followed; wine, hair-straightening, eyeliner, gossip. Something I've missed.
Taxi to party accompanied by paper cups of vodka-laced Miranda in the backseat. Arrive at huge apartment complex on outskirts of city and am suddenly confronted by a roomful of fifty or more loud, boozed foreigners crammed around food, alcohol and, oddly, electric guitars.
Considering I'd seen maybe three other foreigners in six weeks, this was a bit of a shock to the system.
A bit more vodka and some incomprehensibly foul Mongolian horse-milk wine (?!) later, I was fairly comfortable with the situation. Talked rubbish to an endless stream of people from all corners of the earth - England, America, Denmark, Greece, China. Mostly guys. Mostly thoroughly enjoying life here in Hohhot.
Ended the night on a slightly harrowing note. I'd turned down the offer of drinking the wee hours away on imported Bicardi and coke [and winding up on someone's floor] and left my original company to attempt flagging down a taxi. By this time it was 2am and, despite slurred advice that it was nigh on impossible to get a taxi in this place at this hour, I set off. I'm stubborn like that.
Arrived at locked gates outside apartment grounds to be ushered into guard's headquarters and barked at in Chinese. A phone call to T and some rapid Chinese later, a button was pushed and I was directed through the gates. Mad gestures towards the highway either meant "Go this way and you'll be able to flag down a taxi," or "P*** off, then".
And so it came to be that, at two o'clock on a Saturday morning, I was walking down an empty road in a barely-familiar Chinese city in almost utter darkness, numbed by fear and rum and with no f***ing idea where I was or how to get home.
Strange, how your head copes in these times.
I'm not ashamed to say I did the only thing I could think of doing. I prayed.
Lights ahead. Lights became car. Car became taxi. Taxi stopped. I got in. Driver confused by address on business card. I attempt pronounciation of the only road I know. Driver nods. We drive.
Fifteen minutes and fifteen kuai later, I am yanking my coat off and yahooing at being home, sweet home, in my manky apartment.
Harrowing, yes. Stupid, yeah, that too. But I survived. And I learned some things:
- Foreign teachers in Hohhot are generally those who have found they can live in near-luxury here and do. Hence the market for crazily-priced imported Australian wine and Fisherman's Friend.
- Foreign teachers tend to stick together. And party together. And not much else.
- It is possible for one to live in Hohhot with all their home comforts and hang out with people who have the same eye colour and same shaped nose.
- Hohhot is a bloody nightmare to navigate if you don't speak Chinese.
- Miracles do happen. Or, there is really is Someone looking out for me up there.
Anyway. Everything's an experience.
the begrudging tourist
I was brushing my teeth tonight when a chunk of plaster fell out of the ceiling and smashed onto the washing machine. Next to my head.
Aiiyaa, I thought. That's not good.
Yesterday morning, I stumbled into the bathroom for urgent business with the can and was welcomed by a twitching cockroach on the seat.
Aiiyaa, indeed.
Cockroaches and crumbling ceilings aside, I feel like I'm starting to really settle into this mad city. Today I was treated to a few of the city's meagre - but elaborate - tourist attractions. I met Yinghong through couchsurfing, and it was her idea to go to Zhaojun's Tomb. Normally I hate anything that requires the handing over of money in order to wander around some over-dressed monument but, considering I've been here six weeks and not paid for anything other than food and booze and clothes, I figured I could justify sixty kuai to see a bit of history. Just a bit. And, while I found Zhaojun's Tomb rather stark (grey concrete, grey sky, grey trees), the view of the surrounding farmlands made for a nice change from urban sprawl. And I felt like I'd done something good. Even took photos.
As it turned out, leaving was probably the best part; a minute down the highway we were pulled over by the Chinese police. Apparently they didn't like the sticker on Yinghong's license plate [blatantly obscuring one of the numbers]. And the fact that we weren't wearing seatbelts.
Somewhere between surly grunts from the chain-smoking cops and Yinghong's nervous giggles, we were let off with a warning and sent on our way. I still don't really know what happened; all I got from Yinghong regarding the number plate was that 'someone naughty' had put the sticker there.
Back in snap-happy tourist mode, I got camera out again to capture the bleak wilderness of the mountains beyond the city. Apparently their Chinese name translates as 'big green mountains'. Rubbish. Big, yes; green, no. Still, the desolation was eerily beautiful; so too were the villages of misshapen brick huts in between.
Can now say I've 'seen' Hohhot. Well, seen beyond school and the strip of road between my place and Holiland's. Feel like an accomplished tourist. Have the photos to prove it.
Now, excuse me whilst I dump the camera, kick off my tourist shoes and slip into something more comfortable. Like, my pyjamas.
Aiiyaa, I thought. That's not good.
Yesterday morning, I stumbled into the bathroom for urgent business with the can and was welcomed by a twitching cockroach on the seat.
Aiiyaa, indeed.
Cockroaches and crumbling ceilings aside, I feel like I'm starting to really settle into this mad city. Today I was treated to a few of the city's meagre - but elaborate - tourist attractions. I met Yinghong through couchsurfing, and it was her idea to go to Zhaojun's Tomb. Normally I hate anything that requires the handing over of money in order to wander around some over-dressed monument but, considering I've been here six weeks and not paid for anything other than food and booze and clothes, I figured I could justify sixty kuai to see a bit of history. Just a bit. And, while I found Zhaojun's Tomb rather stark (grey concrete, grey sky, grey trees), the view of the surrounding farmlands made for a nice change from urban sprawl. And I felt like I'd done something good. Even took photos.
As it turned out, leaving was probably the best part; a minute down the highway we were pulled over by the Chinese police. Apparently they didn't like the sticker on Yinghong's license plate [blatantly obscuring one of the numbers]. And the fact that we weren't wearing seatbelts.
Somewhere between surly grunts from the chain-smoking cops and Yinghong's nervous giggles, we were let off with a warning and sent on our way. I still don't really know what happened; all I got from Yinghong regarding the number plate was that 'someone naughty' had put the sticker there.
Back in snap-happy tourist mode, I got camera out again to capture the bleak wilderness of the mountains beyond the city. Apparently their Chinese name translates as 'big green mountains'. Rubbish. Big, yes; green, no. Still, the desolation was eerily beautiful; so too were the villages of misshapen brick huts in between.
Can now say I've 'seen' Hohhot. Well, seen beyond school and the strip of road between my place and Holiland's. Feel like an accomplished tourist. Have the photos to prove it.
Now, excuse me whilst I dump the camera, kick off my tourist shoes and slip into something more comfortable. Like, my pyjamas.
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