Perhaps it's the elation of being invited to share in a family's modest dinner [ironically, in their own restaurant]; perhaps it's the flicker of pride in realising I spoke more Chinese than English today.
And, perhaps, it's the drop or two of bloodcurdlingly-sweet putaohongjiu [Chinese red wine, not dissimilar to motor oil] I imbibed earlier this evening.
Whatever made today a good day, I'm closing my eyes tonight feeling a little less alienated.
Set out on foot this morning in anticipation of usual aimless wander. For I am the Cat who walks by Herself and all Places are alike to Me. Never know where I'm going, or how far, or why; my stomach dictates the route.
Chanced upon fruit and veg market. Oh, boy. I love a good market. Rarely do I actually want anything, let alone buy anything - I just love the assault on the senses. The push and crush and noise and smell and utter chaos of it all.
Turns out Chinese markets are the epitome of such. Bellowing vendors, dirty vegetables spilling out of carts, raw meat bleeding on chopping boards, fish dying in shallow buckets. Sacks of chamomile dried lemons sunflower seeds bean pods spices mushrooms; stalls crammed with socks dishbrushes woks tablecloths crotchless knickers. Brilliant.
Dates and fruit leathers are thrust at me; I am obliged to buy sultanas and dried apricots gathered and weighed in vendor's cracked bare hands. My crap Chinese produces usual hilarity.
Later, indulge in bread pancake [fail to recall Chinese name] stuffed with egg and spring onion and cooked in hot oil on [open-air] stove. Served in plastic bag. Epic.
Post-lunch wander takes me back into city centre. Investigate black market mobile phones sold from makeshift tables on street corners. Turn down offers of 50 kuai for quality brands of NCKIA, SamSing, Sharb.
Later [en route to purchase of aforementioned sickly alcohol] take a detour through backstreets near my apartment. And feel somewhat ashamed it has taken me three months to discover entire network of shops/restaurants run by Chinese Muslim community. Alleviate this by buying a kuai worth of sweets and having a conversation in bad Chinese with headscarfed shopowners. Who tell me I'm beautiful.
Salty dinner required. Head to our local; a restaurant dubbed Mary One in honour of eleven-year-old waitress who fairly runs the place. Restaurant is unusually empty; the only diners are the family themselves [who live in the next room]. Headscarfed mum [head waitress] is dishing up noodles to husband [cook] and daughter [Mary One]. I make lame acknowledgement of their food [hao chi ma? - It is delicious?]. Husband eagerly fetches saucer. Much nodding and gesturing follows; generous serving of their evening meal is ladled out and handed to me.
Hao chi, indeed. Just like mumma would have made.
I eat, and watch the family eat and talk, and feel the tiniest pang of homesickness.
Then real diners arrive and mum, dad and Mary are back on duty.
Return home, sated.
And wonder, dreamily, if I am perhaps beginning to forgive Hohhot for its dust/wind/bad plumbing/doorless toilets/cellphone thieves/mad traffic/spoilt children.
If, perhaps, this is the beginning of some kind of affection for the place.
And find cockroach in bathroom sink.
Oh, well. Only three more months.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
put it in the zoo.
Three months. The halfway mark.
And still a freak.
I admit I'm one of those people who has never really fit in anywhere. One of those restless misfits, destined [doomed?] to wander the planet, anxiously seeking 'the' one place I belong. Searching, perhaps, for somewhere I don't stand out.
But if China has taught me nothing else, it's that my freak status is the highlight of their day.
Sat in the park with my journal last week; portrait of the aspirational writer, full of literary intent and intellectualism.
For four seconds.
Heads turn. Elbows nudge; excited murmur breaks out.
Fellow park dwellers suddenly torn from blissful observation of spring blooms to observe the stranger, the creature, the utter freak that has wandered into their midst.
I, harmless and unsuspecting, am beset on all sides by throngs of jabbering schoolkids and toothless elderly men and mothers with toddlers. Thirty or so delighted Chinese bodies pushing and jostling to get a closer look at me, at my journal, at my sandalled feet, at my oh-so-strange nose.
Have flashback to when I used to catch spiders butterflies and seal them in a glass jar.
Nervous giggling and pointing all round. Whispered phrases in broken English; suspense builds until one bold individual [a kid of about nine] dares to shriek, "Ha-lo!!"
Explosion of raucous laughter. Sea of thrilled faces above me closing in; kids in red tracksuits tripping over one another to get a closer look. Dribbling toddler shoved at my side by grinning mother. Camera flashes.
Am running out of oxygen.
Not, unfortunately, my first experience of celebrity treatment. Have learned that this is a lose-lose situation; responding elicits more laughter, silence produces near-hysteria.
Some days, it's almost amusing.
Some days, I'm hungover and it's not. This is one of those days.
Whistle blows. Kids scatter like fish. Some genius tosses a "Bye-BYE!" in my direction. Hysterical laughter fades with pounding feet.
Am left with damp toddler and a transfixed mother. Camera flashes again.
Leave park in haste with warm cheeks and unopened journal.
Three months here and I still can't quite comprehend magnitude of cultural barrier in such situations.
Can only conclude that - in Hohhot at least - an individual who doesn't look like everyone else also doesn't think like everyone else. They are, instead, an object of utter fascination.
An alien. An exotic bug in a jar. The Elephant Man. Utterly thrilling and exciting and untouchable all at the same time.
And, ultimately, inhumane.
A freak.
Still. It feels better here than at home.
And still a freak.
I admit I'm one of those people who has never really fit in anywhere. One of those restless misfits, destined [doomed?] to wander the planet, anxiously seeking 'the' one place I belong. Searching, perhaps, for somewhere I don't stand out.
But if China has taught me nothing else, it's that my freak status is the highlight of their day.
Sat in the park with my journal last week; portrait of the aspirational writer, full of literary intent and intellectualism.
For four seconds.
Heads turn. Elbows nudge; excited murmur breaks out.
Fellow park dwellers suddenly torn from blissful observation of spring blooms to observe the stranger, the creature, the utter freak that has wandered into their midst.
I, harmless and unsuspecting, am beset on all sides by throngs of jabbering schoolkids and toothless elderly men and mothers with toddlers. Thirty or so delighted Chinese bodies pushing and jostling to get a closer look at me, at my journal, at my sandalled feet, at my oh-so-strange nose.
Have flashback to when I used to catch spiders butterflies and seal them in a glass jar.
Nervous giggling and pointing all round. Whispered phrases in broken English; suspense builds until one bold individual [a kid of about nine] dares to shriek, "Ha-lo!!"
Explosion of raucous laughter. Sea of thrilled faces above me closing in; kids in red tracksuits tripping over one another to get a closer look. Dribbling toddler shoved at my side by grinning mother. Camera flashes.
Am running out of oxygen.
Not, unfortunately, my first experience of celebrity treatment. Have learned that this is a lose-lose situation; responding elicits more laughter, silence produces near-hysteria.
Some days, it's almost amusing.
Some days, I'm hungover and it's not. This is one of those days.
Whistle blows. Kids scatter like fish. Some genius tosses a "Bye-BYE!" in my direction. Hysterical laughter fades with pounding feet.
Am left with damp toddler and a transfixed mother. Camera flashes again.
Leave park in haste with warm cheeks and unopened journal.
Three months here and I still can't quite comprehend magnitude of cultural barrier in such situations.
Can only conclude that - in Hohhot at least - an individual who doesn't look like everyone else also doesn't think like everyone else. They are, instead, an object of utter fascination.
An alien. An exotic bug in a jar. The Elephant Man. Utterly thrilling and exciting and untouchable all at the same time.
And, ultimately, inhumane.
A freak.
Still. It feels better here than at home.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
gone and done it.
I've said it before. I don't do sightseeing.
I don't do cities; hustle and bustle and bright lights and nightclubs and billboards.
I grew up in rural New Zealand amongst cows and bamboo. Part of me is still wild-haired and barefooted, chasing rabbits and throwing cowpats at my brother. I still vie with death every time I step off the footpath in Hohhot; a city of a mere 2.5 million people.
Three days in China's capital and I was a hermit crab without its shell. Holiday it may have been; relaxed it was not.
Arrive Beijing West Railway station Tuesday morning. Enthusiasm already at a low ebb having spent eleven sleepless hours in cattle class wedged between postage-stamp sized table and Ali’s armpit. Still shuddering at memory of watching fellow passenger mow through breakfast of chocolate biscuits and raw chicken’s foot.
Celebrate novelty of new surroundings with own wholesome Beijing breakfast [Subway] before making sudden transition from novel waigouren to Tourist. Tiananmen Square [tick], Mao's portrait [tick], Forbidden City [tick], temple temple temple.
FOOD. Donghuamen night market. Turn down skewered scorpion [still writhing] and fried dog to dine on stinky tofu, sizzling unidentifiable shellfish and sugared pineapple. Momentarily abandon vegetarian morals to sample battered snake. Do not go back for seconds.
Sleep debt now around 36 hours. Tend to waning energy with Chinese beer [and Red Bull and vodka and tequila and gin and tonic]. Wake next morning in hotel bed still fully dressed and surrounded by ketchup-flavoured potato chips.
And somehow climb Great Wall of China. Have photos to prove it.
Spend final day [and funds] on taxi fares between guidebook-recommended Must-Sees. Smirk at American tourists laying sandalwood incense before Buddhist statues. Duly marvel at incomprehensible design of Olympic Stadium Bird’s Nest, though am more fascinated by ingenuity of foam-filled squat toilet [port-a-loo style] in Olympic Park.
Boys decide to end holiday on a high note with final helping of quality local cuisine - Big Mac combos. I have a McFlurry. After all, it is Beijing.
Depart Liuliquiao bus station mid-evening Thursday having forked out extra for comfort of bus with air-conditioning, leather upholstery and irresistibly brief travel time of six hours. Delight in bad Jackie Chan movies showing on overhead projector. Settle back to enjoy journey home.
Reach Hohhot dishevelled and disillusioned some thirteen [sleepless] hours later.
Turns out Chinese highways experience rush hour at 11pm. And 1am. And 2am.
At 4am, rush hour stops. Traffic stops. Lights go out, engines switch off. Drivers curl around steering wheels and fall asleep.
Thus, memory of Beijing is forever marred by being inexplicably stranded on lonely stretch of highway in over-heated bus, surrounded by twenty snoring, farting, fingernail-clipping, sunflower-seed-chomping [but otherwise complacent] Chinese men.
With Jackie Chan kung-fu fighting overhead.
Since ditched guidebook. Have managed to somewhat placate self with knowledge that what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.
And that I don't do sightseeing.
Beijing. Tick.
I don't do cities; hustle and bustle and bright lights and nightclubs and billboards.
I grew up in rural New Zealand amongst cows and bamboo. Part of me is still wild-haired and barefooted, chasing rabbits and throwing cowpats at my brother. I still vie with death every time I step off the footpath in Hohhot; a city of a mere 2.5 million people.
Three days in China's capital and I was a hermit crab without its shell. Holiday it may have been; relaxed it was not.
Arrive Beijing West Railway station Tuesday morning. Enthusiasm already at a low ebb having spent eleven sleepless hours in cattle class wedged between postage-stamp sized table and Ali’s armpit. Still shuddering at memory of watching fellow passenger mow through breakfast of chocolate biscuits and raw chicken’s foot.
Celebrate novelty of new surroundings with own wholesome Beijing breakfast [Subway] before making sudden transition from novel waigouren to Tourist. Tiananmen Square [tick], Mao's portrait [tick], Forbidden City [tick], temple temple temple.
FOOD. Donghuamen night market. Turn down skewered scorpion [still writhing] and fried dog to dine on stinky tofu, sizzling unidentifiable shellfish and sugared pineapple. Momentarily abandon vegetarian morals to sample battered snake. Do not go back for seconds.
Sleep debt now around 36 hours. Tend to waning energy with Chinese beer [and Red Bull and vodka and tequila and gin and tonic]. Wake next morning in hotel bed still fully dressed and surrounded by ketchup-flavoured potato chips.
And somehow climb Great Wall of China. Have photos to prove it.
Spend final day [and funds] on taxi fares between guidebook-recommended Must-Sees. Smirk at American tourists laying sandalwood incense before Buddhist statues. Duly marvel at incomprehensible design of Olympic Stadium Bird’s Nest, though am more fascinated by ingenuity of foam-filled squat toilet [port-a-loo style] in Olympic Park.
Boys decide to end holiday on a high note with final helping of quality local cuisine - Big Mac combos. I have a McFlurry. After all, it is Beijing.
Depart Liuliquiao bus station mid-evening Thursday having forked out extra for comfort of bus with air-conditioning, leather upholstery and irresistibly brief travel time of six hours. Delight in bad Jackie Chan movies showing on overhead projector. Settle back to enjoy journey home.
Reach Hohhot dishevelled and disillusioned some thirteen [sleepless] hours later.
Turns out Chinese highways experience rush hour at 11pm. And 1am. And 2am.
At 4am, rush hour stops. Traffic stops. Lights go out, engines switch off. Drivers curl around steering wheels and fall asleep.
Thus, memory of Beijing is forever marred by being inexplicably stranded on lonely stretch of highway in over-heated bus, surrounded by twenty snoring, farting, fingernail-clipping, sunflower-seed-chomping [but otherwise complacent] Chinese men.
With Jackie Chan kung-fu fighting overhead.
Since ditched guidebook. Have managed to somewhat placate self with knowledge that what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.
And that I don't do sightseeing.
Beijing. Tick.
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