I don't know anything

Regina Spoor e-mailed me a link to a documentary aired on KCTS channel 9, the PBS station in Seattle. Man Zou (walk slowly in Mandarin) is about four (Seattle area? Some of them wear Sonics jerseys.) young men and their Chinese guide and interpreter who bicycle from Beijing to Shanghai in the autumn of 2008. I fought my way through clunky internet connections and watched all hour and a half. It's great. The one part that was the most memorable is a line spoken by one of the men who says, “I don't know anything; I want to know more.” That awareness and desire is such a fundamental part of so many things I think are important—education, travel, personal reflection, humility—that I had to write it down. The fact that these guys are from Seattle, riding bicycles, and in China was just icing on the cake.

There are so many times here in Shenyang that I get hit in the face with my own ignorance. I really don't know anything about China in general, Shenyang, my school, or even the woman emptying the trash baskets in my classroom in particular, and I want to know more.

On a trip to town in the van I turned to George, one of our students, and asked, “Why are the tree trunks painted white for about a meter from the ground up?” With his limited English (still light years ahead of my microscopic Chinese) George said that the paint protects the trees' heart from the cold. This answer dovetailed nicely with my observations that the painting had been taking place more since the onset of winter had progressed. I wasn't sure though.

You see I had noticed in Nicaragua that people there also painted the lower parts of trees white. There it wasn't quite as prevalent, but it occurred nonetheless. When I asked Nicaraguan friends about the tree painting I was told that the white paint helped protect the trees from insect infestation. According to them bugs that might crawl up the trunks to devour the trees' uppers were more visible, and therefore vulnerable, to predators as they crossed the no-man's land of whiteness.

All this came to a head recently as I left school and walked to my apartment. For some reason at that moment the sight of all the saplings with their spindly bodies coated part-way up with bright white paint caught my attention, imagination, and curiosity. I decided to do some research (and take some pictures and make this the topic of my blog.)

A quick on-line search turned up that I was not the first person to wonder about white paint on trees. It also turned up a solid baker's dozen reasons why, any one of which could be true and perhaps all are. The lack of consensus, though, fueled my suspicions that perhaps people painted trees out of habit and then rationalized it in different ways.

Of the strongest contenders in the why-paint-tree-trunks-white explanations several emerged as more persuasive reasons. A professor from Montana State University argued very convincingly that the climates in certain northern zones can get very cold while at the same time have days of plentiful brigh sunshine. According to her the sunlight tricks the young trees (those with less bark separating their living layer, the cambium, from the outside world) into thinking that spring has arrived and they begin to grow. When the sun sets and the frigid cold sets in, those no-longer dormant trees can't handle it and suffer damage which can include scars on the bark caused by the sap freezing and expanding. Those scars, since caused by the sunlight, are called “sun scald” and can become entry points for insect infestation (shades of Nicaragua). The white paint serves to reflect the day's sunlight, preventing it from significantly warming the thin trees.

Shenyang is certainly in the freeze-your-patootie zone on the globe. And we get plenty of bright sunlight during most days. This could be the reason why locals paint their trees. It's also true that it's mostly small trees that win a theoretically protective coating. I do wonder why one meter seems to be the magic amount of coverage that the trees need. I was even more taken by the reflection concept.

You see some other sources on the web had claimed that the trees were painted white mainly because the white paint would reflect light at night and thus serve to demarcate the line between road and off-road. It is true that painting tree trunks white is much more common along roadways than elsewhere. Also, there aren't roadside reflectors here in China to keep drivers informed of the road's edge. This claim had a certain common-sense appeal, but it didn't seem comprehensive enough.

Even less comprehensive, but more backed by linguistic evidence, was one source's explanation that the practice came from French orchards where it even had a specific name. “Lait de chaux” translates as milk of lime and that's because the paint used was whitewash which is traditionally made from lime. According to this theory, the lime serves as a natural insecticide and thus protects the trees from crawling insects that might otherwise travel from the ground up the trunks to devastate the trees' foliage. This again fit nicely with what I'd heard in Nicaragua, but had a few weevil-like holes. Why didn't the orchardists worry about flying insect damage? Why do Chinese people paint non-fruit trees white? (and why wouldn't it be used other trees in France? Wouldn't French gardeners want to protect their non-fruit trees from those same creepy-crawlies?)

One of the most pragmatic theories was that the practice came from frugal somebody some where who didn't want to simply throw away the excess paint he or she had after painting a house or building or fence. According to this theory, the surplus went on the nearby trees (and in some cases rocks, pathways, etc.) and was so eye-catching that the practice spread.

I don't know to believe. All or none of these theories could be the reason why Chinese trees carry their white badges. Since I can't speak enough Chinese to ask anyone why they paint their trees (and there's no telling that the person wielding the paintbrush will actually know the reason behind their artistry). As with so many things I'll have to be satisfied with keeping my ears and mind open to what explanations I may encounter. (Especially now that I've also seen trees with their trunks wrapped with twine.)

Meanwhile I'll repeat, over and over: “I don't know anything; I want to know more.”

The wheels on the bus

Jackie and I have learned a little about the Shenyang transportation systems. I say systems because there are many. Our first experiences revolved around private transportation—we were met at the airport by a van owned by Mr. Hou and used for company (and now school purposes). Most of our early trips to the city and back were done with taxis. And, although I'm not sure of the ownership category they have technically here in China, they seem like privately-operated transportation choices. (Of course which color taxis go where and when for how much and whether the three-wheeled “tri-cy-cars” or the small 6-passenter vans are taxis are all questions that are still out there to be answered.)

Lately we've been able to venture out into the world of public transportation. We'd been hearing tales told by our co-workers of trips to the city by bus. These stories started around National Day because some staff here did not travel during that week-long vacation. On top of that the Bank of China shut down its branches and ATMs. So money was very tight. Out of neccesity Seth figured out that the 177 bus goes from a block away from our school to the north train station in downtown Shenyang. The neccesity was financial and the bus cost only 2 yuan. (Chinese currency is also called renminbi or rmb and, most commonly, kwai.) This compares very favorably to the standard taxi fare of 60 yuan. With the current exchange rate of 6.5 yuan to the dollar, this was like paying 30 cents rather than nine dollars. The taxis are faster; usually taking just under an hour to get to the downtown business districts. The bus to the train station takes more than an hour and the train station is another 15 to 30 minutes by taxi or another bus from most points of interest in the city.

What I got out of Seth's description of his bus experience was the knowledge that the bus ride was doable. Also it emerged as a possible avenue to learn more about the regular life of my neighbors. Realistically though it was practical only as a one-way option. The amount of time it would take to ride the bus both in town and out would be impractical. I'd pretty much have to turn right around once I arrived at my destination in order to make it home without missing the last bus. The 177 stops running at 6:30 pm.

Later in October or early in November Andy told me that he'd also taken the bus to town and had transferred from the 177 to other routes in order to get to places like Middle Street and the underground market at Taiyuan Street. He informed me that in-town bus rides are only 1 yuan. Andy did have the advantage of being a 24-year-old American man who everyone, especially the 20-something Chinese women, loves to pieces. Nonetheless this grizzled 52-year-old was beginning to feel like he could handle the mysteries and challenges of the buses.

(Not really a Shenyang bus, but you get the picture)

My interest in the public transit opportunities was piqued in early November when I went to the U.S. consulate on election day to drop off my absentee ballot. While I was in town that day I wandered past the entrance to a subway station. There were people coming out of the station. I knew before coming to Shenyang that the subway was under construction and soon to open, if only partially. Here I was looking at evidence that maybe its inauguration had taken place. I went down into the station and saw the route map, the farecard vending machines, the electronic turnstiles, and those people again. They were doing all the things people do when they are entering and exiting subway stations. I even felt the rush of air that could only have come from trains moving through subway tunnels.

So when Andy told me he was taking the bus into the city last Sunday I decided to go along. We got to the bus stop and looked at the eight or 12 people waiting there. Andy recommending walking around the corner one stop more. He felt certain we'd be able to find a seat if we did that. Since we were looking at an hour plus bus ride, a seat seemed a good idea. Rounding the corner we saw a bus chugging toward the stop we'd targeted. After a quick jog we got there in time and climbed aboard. Andy's advice was proved sage when we got to the stop we'd passed by and found that the number of passengers boarding there exceeded the seats available. We settled in for the duration of the ride.

I was surprised how quiet it was. My bus riding experiences in the U.S. tended to expose me to loud public revelations of private concerns; even more so since cellphones have insinuated themselves next to everyone's ears. Here on the 177 it was as if the notorious gunslinger had just entered the saloon—all the chatter stopped. It was more than compensated for by the driver's ham-handed operation of the clutch and gear shift. Actually I don't think he used the clutch at all. The shift from first gear to second was the most calamitous, I expected pieces of the transmission to clatter on the road behind us every time he attempted it. If we didn't have much momentum built up, say when we were going up a hill or “accelerating” from a stop (precisely the times when shifting from first to second is most common) it was an open-ended question whether the driver would manage to force the complaining transmission into submission. Frequently he couldn't and we ended up creeping up small hills while being passed by trucks, cars, other buses, and even people on small battery-powered bicycles.

Luckily Shenyang is mostly flat. We made it to the north train station in not much over an hour and met Andy's friend Hannah who would help us transfer to the bus to Wu Ai, our destination that day. Hannah is a young Chinese woman, hence her willingness to help Andy, who graduated from medical school but decided to go to law school because anybody can be a doctor and lawyers make more money anyway. She's working at a job she doesn't like while she wends her way through the five years of legal studies. She estimates this career change will cost her 100,000 yuan a year. No wonder she takes the bus.

We got to Wu Ai that day (I'll save a decription of the market itself for another time) and then went to the IT district with Amos and Kristine. By the time we were ready to head home we were smack dab in the middle of the dreaded 4:00 to 6:00 pm Sargasso Sea of taxi “shift change”. This meant that, even though most of Shenyang's 7.5 million people all wanted a taxi to get them home in time for dinner, the taxi drivers were refusing to pick anyone up. We decided to kill some time over coffee and cakes before trying our luck at flagging a taxi.

By 7:30 or 8:00 things were moving more smoothly and we caught a taxi back to school. So ended my first trip using public transportation.

Last Saturday was round two in the public transportation preliminaries. Jackie and I had the day off and made plans to go to the Nan Er market to buy fabric for curtains. We got an early start because we were going to make the round trip by bus. As we waited at the bus stop for the 177 we saw our Chinese friend Charlie. He was running errands but thought he'd like to go into the city to have lunch with a friend. He offered to show us another way to take the bus downtown. We accepted and soon were walking west on Shenbei Lu to the route 383 bus stop. Charlie's help was essential; the bus stop for the 383 is not marked in any way. We stood on a corner and waited to flag down the bus when it passed. This route is privately-operated and can charge fares on a sliding scale depending on the distance the passenger goes. For us the trip was three yuan. We paid a man who would make change if we didn't have the exact fare. This reminded me of Nicaraguan buses and their “cobradores”. That similarity extended to the fare collector's practice of yelling out to the driver when a stop was needed and when the departing passengers had gotten off so the driver could resume.

There was more conversation on this bus. One uniformed man even asked me in English where I was from and what I did in China. Charlie told me that the uniform identified the man as a member of one branch of China's security forces. Charlie likened it to a uniformed FBI. I didn't detect anything more than friendly curiosity in the man's questions. Other passengers spoke to one and other. When I commented on this to Charlie he said that was because 80% of these passengers were farmers. The quiet passengers I had noticed on the 177 bus were students. To Charlie “farmers” are uneducated bumpkins hence their willingness to jabber on in public.

Charlie had recommended the 383 because he said it was a much faster trip. He was right. We rode the bus to the Orthopedic Hospital on Dongbei Damalu it a bit more than a half an hour and changed to a 221 city bus there to the market. The 221 was not a fast bus. It took more than another half hour to get across town to the market. The entire trip from school to city was as long as it would have been on the 177 and an in-town taxi.

An unexpected bonus from out trip on the 383 is that we met a former van driver when we changed to the 221. The man had been one of the more memorable drivers we'd known. I had recently remarked to Jackie how different he was from the current crop. This man was personable and out-going. He would try to talk to us in Chinese and teach us words and phrases. The men who drive now are essentially silent and do not encourage attempts at conversation. Charlie helped as we found out that the former driver was now driving a trash truck. He was paid more and worked shorter hours. He was very happy that he'd made the change. As is common here mention of pay triggered his inquiries into how much we got paid and whether Mr. Hou was actually sticking to his obligation to pay us. (Mr. Hou is known to fail to pay the Chinese staff.) Charlie told the man that we made about 4,000 yuan a month that was paid to us here and another amount in dollars that was paid to our U.S. Bank accounts. This wasn't exactly true (all our pay is paid to us here and the amounts were a bit off), but the gist was correct. It makes us uncomfortable to talk about our pay here even though it's very common here to ask how much someone makes. Charlie likes to rib us about being rich foreigners.

After the relative success of our bus rides into town, Jackie and I decided to continue on public transit to get home. We left the market and walked to the Taiyuan Street subway stop. I had seen on my map of Shenyang that there was a subway stop within what looked like reasonable walking distance from the Orthopedic Hospital where we could catch the 383 bus back home. Another advantage of the 383 is that its last run was at the late hour of 7:10.

As far as a plan goes this was a good one. We had help from one of the subway attendants and successfully purchased two farecards to the Pang Jiang Jie station. We had absolutely no trouble tapping our cards on the turnstile and getting on the right side of the platform for the direction we were going. We even had some local girls ask to have their pictures taken with us. We were rolling. The subway came and, although crowded, it was an easy ride six stops to Pang Jiang Jie.

On exiting we had a little trouble. The single-ride tickets we bought don't tap to activate the turnstile. They have to be fed into the card slot where they disappear depriving me of a hoped-for souvenir. We walked out of the station and were confronted by the realization that we did not know which way was north, south, east, or west. So, even though I knew where I wanted to go on the map, I didn't know which way that was in real life. I went back in the subway station and used the map to communicate my predicament to an attendant clad in military-style cap and blue wool greatcoat. The coat was adorned with a Sam Browne belt and a bright red-with-yellow-writing armband on the left arm. The attendant, speaking in very loud voice, explained in great detail what we needed to do. Unfortunately he explained it all in Chinese. We tried clarifying with pointing hands and traced out steps in the air. We clearly didn't understand. He went back into the station and announced to another attendant something then he turned and indicated that we should follow him. He walked us up one side of the street, over a pedestrian overpass, and down the other side to a bus stop. He pointed energetically (he did everything energetically) to the number on the sign—245. He also indicated some Chinese writing which I can only assume was the name of where we should get off for the Orthopedic Hospital. Finally he turned to the ten or so people waiting at the bus stop and spoke in a commanding voice. I don't know what he said, but it sure looked to me that he was telling the others that we wanted to go the Orthopedic Hospital and that they should do all in their power to help us get there. After passing on that responsibility he turned with a whirl of his greatcoat and was off back up the street, over the pedestrian overpass, and down the other side of the street to the subway station.

(Not the actual attendant, but you get the picture.)

 

We were stunned and a little sheepish. A man in the group pointed to the sign and held up three fingers. I figured that meant go three stops. When the first 245 bus came it was very full and we hung back. About half the people waiting fit on. The rest of us continued to wait. Soon two more 245s came. We got on the first easily. After the second stop I craned my neck to look for the Orthopedic Hospital. As expected it rolled into view on the right hand side. A young woman passenger indicated to Jackie that this was our stop. We got out and ambled over to where we'd transfer to the 383 bound for home.

Charlie was already there. He became our guide for the rest of the trip which was mostly uneventful. Most of the ride passed in three-way conversation with the woman who was sitting next to Charlie. She was eating a sort of burrito-y, stuffed crepe-like thing that is a common street food here. Charlie found out what was in it (eggs, sausage, and potato) and why she was eating it now, at 6:30 on the bus. (She was on her way to a nutrition class. She hoped to learn enough to go into business selling nutritional supplements.) Charlie complimented her on her good looks for a 45-year-old woman. In turn she told Charlie he should watch his diet. He had too much oil on his face and that indicated a dietary imbalance. Before we left the woman gave us her card. Thank God she didn't go to work analyzing our diet as evidenced by our skin, hair, pores, nails, and whatever else a wannabe Chinese nutritionist thinks is relevant and fair game on a public bus on a cold and dark Saturday evening in November in Shenyang.

Sunday Walk

Back on Bainbridge Jackie and I had a tradition of taking Sunday walks. The Murden Cove to Rolling Bay trip was a favorite because we could always drop in at the Rolling Bay Cafe and get something to eat and drink while we sat and enjoyed a brief rest in the Bay Hay gardens.

Here in China it's not the same, but we do try to get out for walks when we can. There's no coffee shop or gardens, but the Shenbei New District has some charms to offer. Yesterday I decided to chronicle our walk in photos so I could share it on my blog. My guess is that in two years the same journey will mean something completely different as I learn more about China each passing week (and as local development changes the face of this community). For now though my commentary will be based on my huge ignorance and the assumptions I make.

Picture 1: It's officially autumn here. Our friend Jessica, the Canadian, told us that the trees by Qipanshan Reservoir were changing so that became the general direction (NE) of our walk. As we left campus we saw this little maple in its subdued shift from green to red. On campus we have gingkos which went yellow and shed their leaves a couple weeks ago. We also have a lot of locust-like trees, many that have suffered from some kind of rot and are in bad shape. They still have their little green leaves. The trees that were brought in to replace some of the ones that died came with no leaves. I'll find out what they are in the spring.

Picture 2: The first area we pass as we go east from school is our little downtown. There are two blocks of shops a hundred yards from the school's entrance. There we find mini-WalMarts, mini-Best, mini-McDonalds, cash machines, a post office, KTV, and assorted restaurants (the Red Pillar, the Muslim place, the Mongolian BBQ,...). The Keyigou store pictured here is one of the mini-WalMarts because it has an upstairs and sells groceries as well as housewares.

Picture 3: As we walked east we passed by the gold-foil wrapped tree trunks of one of the most luxurious new developments. At least it looks luxurious. We haven't been in to see the buildings. When we tried the guard started talking to us and pointing somewhere. We mimed that we just wanted to walk (“Let your fingers to the walking”), but he shook his head no. Others told us later that we'd have to go to the sales office if we wanted to visit. The gold foil is definitely classier than the typical whitewash that normally goes on tree trunks. Charlie told us both are designed to prevent infestation from caterpillars.

 Picture 4; It is now peak cabbage season. As you'll see in several of the following photos, cabbage is a staple here. I first noticed it when I saw random rows of cabbages laid out in the sun. Charlie told me it is being dried for longer keeping. Also the cabbage will be preserved (Cooked with water and salt.) so that it will last all winter. Here you see the cabbage being unloaded off some farmer or merchant's truck. You don't want to be accused of falling off the cabbage cart around here.

Picture 5: The next step in the life of a cabbage is to be stacked on the sidewalk to wait for a buyer.

Picture 6: Near this street market is the apartment block where the Canadians live. Could you have guessed? Funny thing, I was looking for the old maple leaf the first time I went over to Colin and Jessica's apartment. I was there the whole time with no hint of Oh Canada to be seen. It really put my preconceived notions about Canadians abroad to the test. Just before I left, Jessica took me on a tour of their whole place. They actually have two apartments. The second is across the landing. There they have space for laundry, study, extra kitchen space, and, ta da, a flag in the window.

Picture 7: Continuing east from the Canadians' place and the market street, Jackie and I passed a construction site. New apartments are being built all over the area.

Picture 8: It's common for the workers to live on-site. Here you see the garage bays haphazardly enclosed by scrap lumber. Judging from the laundry hanging out, some of the workers have families living with them. Given that our temperatures have been below freezing at night for the last week or so, the comfort level of these accommodations must be nonexistent. There are crudely strung power lines so electricity is available. There must be some water available even though no plumbing fixtures are in yet. The bathroom is around the corner, outside, on the ground.

Picture 9: The adjoining apartment block is finished. It's occupied by the regular tenants. They use the common space fully. This patch of ground has been put to use as a garden plot by someone. I think this may be more of the ubiquitous cabbage that hasn't yet fallen to the reaper's blade.

Picture 10: Another use of common space at apartment buildings is for storage of tenant goods. This courtyard is sprinkled with mounds of, yep, cabbage. Since it was a cold, damp day, the cabbage earned a covering to protect it from the rain.

Picture 11: My mom asked if the local Catholic church is the official Catholic church or if it's the government approved Catholic church. I don't know. One of my colleagues has gone and said that they had a sort of Bible study service rather than a Mass. I am basing my assessment of its Catholic-ness n the presence of this statue of Mary. This is one of two full-blown churches close to school. There's a third house of worship that is a storefront meeting place in the retail part of the neighborhood.

Picture 12: More cabbage. The stuff just pops up everywhere.

 Picture 13: A colleague coined the term “trice-i-car” for these little jalopies. They cruise around very slowly because they can't go any faster. They drive at night with no lights maybe because the drivers are economizing or maybe because they can't power both the lights and the engine at the same time. Jackie and I aren't sure whether this place is just a repair shop or if it's the home base for a fleet of trice-i-car taxis. Whichever it is, there are always a bunch being worked on here.

Picture 14: The last development on our trek is called Tahiti. This is usually said with a tone of reverence. When we first came to Shenyang the expectation was that we'd be housed off campus. That didn't happen because, we were told, there wasn't any suitable housing in the community. Some of the teachers went to see for themselves and came back with reports of vacancies right and left. Tahiti took the cake though. It has landscaped grounds, a small lake with paths and benches, a mix of housing size and style though all adhering to a sort of Mediterranean theme, a rolling terrain with hills and views, and it has statues of elephants. I've put some pictures of the elephants in my Facebook photo albums. On this walk we went past some others so I've included those pachyderms in Picture 17.

Picture 15: This picture shows the worker housing. Unlike other construction sites, Tahiti is big enough to provide these prefab dorm units for its workers. There are also small canteens and shops for the workers. Isn't doesn't seem as if there is sanitation though. We see workers using the bushes as their bathroom even outside Tahiti.

Picture 16: The outflow of Tahiti's water feature. The “stones” are actually man-made.

Picture 17: The previously-mentioned elephants.

Picture 18: Even in the early winter cold young couples flock to distinctive locations so I wasn't so surprised to see this young woman and her attendants. The overcoat drapery, though essential, was surprising.

Picture 19: I pretended to be taking a picture of Jackie when my real target was this streetsweeper. There are armies of these men and women out cleaning up the leaves and debris on the thoroughfares. Some also mow and trim the roadside ornamental plantings. I assume they are employed through some enormous make-work program, but it's nice to ride a bicycle along a stretch of road that they've been over. And it's easy to tell the places where they've been absent.

Picture 20 (a series of photos with notes): The rest of our walk was out along a major road to a small turn-off that I wanted to investigate. Along the way we noticed many things that prompted us to talk about different aspects of China as we see it:

engineering (Why put the concrete lattice if it's just going to crumble off?)

construction (Why make this nicely paved road if you're going to let huge machines tear it up when a new development goes in?)

justice and legality (To what extent can people own private property and how is land use and public access handled? And why are rams—first on the left—prohibited here?)

agriculture: (It seems as though very little of the farming we see is mechanized or are those people parked on the side of the road and heading into the cornfields just going to help themselves?)

control: (Does banning something, like the porn here, just make it a forbidden fruit that encourages to want it more. This one tied in with our ideas and opinions on the legalization referendum in California. I was mildly surprised that Jackie was leaning in favor of legalization. She indicated that her support hinges on whether the activity or substance produces victims or not.)

religion: (Why are there Tibetan prayer flags lining the drive to this strange hillside compound? What is this strange hillside compound? Do Chinese Buddhists chant in Tibetan?) Jackie picked up one of these flags in order to do more research.

waste: (That's a perfectly good dildo.)

more waste: (Why do these shabby chairs, there were two of them, get better treatment than the dildo?)

Picture 21: And then we were at our destination. It turns out the road we were on forked and both forks petered out. One went to the site of a former building now demolished. The other went up to a small reservoir. Here's the entrance to the demolished building.

Picture 22: Here's the other fork.

Picture 23: Here's the reservoir (with Jackie gazing contemplatively).

Picture 24: While we were up at the reservoir a man on a bicycle went to the demolished building. I don't know if he was a security man or just a curious local. Here's his bike.

Picture 25: After exhausting all the interesting aspects of this destination, we turned around and headed back home. We caught some light snow flurries which hastened our pace. The round trip had taken about 3 hours.

Travels with Charley

I know what you're asking yourself; is this the start of some sort of Steinbeckian exercise? The answer is no. I haven't been out in a camper with a French poodle of any name much less Charley. But, coincidentally, I have been traveling and I have been with a Charlie.

Normally my Charlie traveling companion of choice is my brother Charlie. He and I have had some good journeys together, from backpacking on the Appalachian Trail to bicycling across the U.S.A. (Yes, it's official, he made it.) to wandering around Costa Rica and Nicaragua to celebrating his 50^th with a road trip to Phoenix, AZ.

This time however the Charlie in question was a retired Chinese jack of all trades named Charlie. He has worked in industry here in China. He has connections and experience with the local political powers. He knows a much-in-demand massage therapist and has arranged for her to give massages to many of the teachers here at school. He applied for a job at SPA (our school). He lived and worked, mostly as a restauranteur, in various places in the U.S. That latter experience left him with good English skills and those were the skills I relied on when we went traveling.

The trip arose somewhat suddenly. A bit less than a week before our one-day mid-autumn holiday the school director let us know that the one day was going to be five days. Apparently he had just learned that students would miss three days of school. Those three days plus the following weekend added up to a five-day weekend. Given this opportunity we started looking around for out-of-town travel options. Jackie and I linked up with fellow teachers Amos and Kristine and got out the Lonely Planet guidebook to plan. Amos and Kristine have become good friends with Charlie so they consulted him as well. Previously he had offered to help find drivers who could take us on extended forays in the region.

Initially our interest was in a town called Anshan. There, we read, we could find a national park called Qianshan (Thousand Mountains), the world's largest Buddha carved from a single block of jade, and hot springs. Amos and Kristine had enjoyed many pleasurable moments in Taiwanese hot springs and raved about how much fun this could be. Amos in particular really had his heart set on the Anshan hot springs. The fact that one of the Qing emperors used to soak in these exact springs with his favorite concubine added a touch of elegance that appealed to me. (Cue Mick Jagger cooing about Chinese girls and their “silky sleeves”.)

But Charlie had other ideas. I would find that Charlie often has other ideas and it is usually futile to resist them. Like the CATS, all our base were belong to him.

So plan B became a multi-day trip to Benxi where we would find, yes, mountains and yes, hot springs. There was no known giant jade Buddha in Benxi, but there were water caves—grottoes hollowed out by a river and accessible by boat. Charlie knew a man with a 12-passenger van who would drive us and our gear there and back. If we wanted we could even invite some more people. Best of all, Charlie himself was curious about Benxi and he decided to join us. He would serve as guide and interpreter. WooHoo.

We did ask around, but found no others who were interested in joining us. Good thing. As it turned out we pretty much packed the 12-passenger van with the six of us plus our bags, plus our folding bicycles, plus some fresh fruit, a case of water, and a case of beer. The first bit of wisdom Charlie imparted on us was that prices in Benxi would be much higher so we should shop for some essentials (i.e. beer) locally. This attention to detail when it came to price and finding the best deal would become somewhat of a theme.

The trip began on Wednesday morning, September 22. This was the actual mid-autumn festival day. We had moon cakes and fruit as gifts from our boss. The whole country was on holiday and we loaded into the van and headed south toward Benxi. The first thing we noticed was that the road to Benxi goes right by the airport. It was a super modern tollroad and the traffic was light. We made mental notes to make sure that the next time we came or went to the airport we'd request our taxi drivers to use the tollroad. We gladly pay the toll to get such a smooth ride.

Next we noticed that our driver was not the normal Oh-my-God-I've-got-to-drive-as-crazily-as-possible kind of driver so we were not the normal Oh-my-God-I'm-going-to-die kinds of Western passengers. Our driver was even so laid back that he went so far as to kill the van's engine on long descents, thus saving gas and making us possibly the slowest vehicle on the road as we coasted gently down hill and dale.

All this attention to driving details must have been fatiguing because after a couple of hours we pulled over. Charlie informed us that the driver was tired and was going to take a break. We got out and wandered a bit near where it turned out was the entrance to the water caves. We didn't go in just then. That experience we saved for the trip back home.

Reinvigorated our driver continued on. The countryside had gotten hillier, but it was mostly uphill so we didn't get much more coasting. We did stop in one more small town. While there I noticed that most of the local transportation was in pedal cabs. Here's a photo of one of the drivers.

At one point we noticed some rocks piled up on a distant hillside. They spelled out something in Chinese characters. Kristine made a joke about Chairman Mao and Charlie told us that yes, they said “Long Live Chairman Mao.” They must have been holdovers from the Cultural Revolution. Amos noticed that they were pretty well maintained for 50-year-old holdovers.

As we approached out first stop—Guan Men Shan (Yellow Stone Mountain)--Charlie points out what he calls farm hotels. They looked nice so we told Charlie that we'd love to stay in one of them. He heard us but we continued on to the park entrance where Charlie told the gate guard we should be let in because we were foreigners. It must have worked because we got waved in.

What followed was our first real experience with Charlie's knack for negotiation. This would become a repeated motif during the next three days and at times it seemed that negotiation became a goal in its own right. Today though the negotiations were mild. We went to three different hotels, got three different prices, alternately laid low in the van so that prices wouldn't be inflated because we were foreigners or made ourselves visible inspecting rooms to make sure that the quality was suitable for us. At one place we promised to eat dinner at the hotel restaurant in exchange for a good room rate. The owner of the third hotel somehow was politically connected. He managed to bring down the price of the first hotel, so we went back there and accepted the new, lower rate.

After unpacking it was back in the van and off to hotel number three, again. This time we had lunch in the hotel's restaurant. I never found out if that played a part in our negotiations for accommodations. The lunch was good though. Best of all, our waitress was a sassy 17-year-old who took no guff from Charlie or our driver. I think even Charlie took a shine to her although he pointed out that she was a high school dropout with few prospects for the future other than early marriage and motherhood.

So Day One ended with us managing to squeeze in a few hours of hiking on the Guan Men Shan trails. It was a beautiful day and the place was not crowded at all. The deciduous forest promised to provide beautiful foliage displays in a couple of weeks. We were here a bit too early for that. Instead we satisfied ourselves with some knee-punishing climbs and descents.

The next day we moved on to a small town where there was something Charlie called the “Forest Park.” Here we planned to stay two nights and maybe because of that Charlie put his all into hotel negotiations. We checked out so many places that we began to refer to them as place 1 or place 4. We looked at rooms and bathrooms and, since this is the place with hot springs, the bathing facilities. We looked at places only to be told that they couldn't accept foreign guests. We got escorted by the proprietors of one place to a family member's or in-law's place just a short bushwhack away. We considered the benefits of western beds compared to some of the smaller places' heated brick beds. We selected one place only to be told that the rooms were now no longer available. Finally we ended up in a small, family-run place on the river, but not on a very scenic stretch of said river. As a matter of fact the view from the front of the hotel was of a decaying bigger hotel and its weed-choked back lot.

We were in though and now Forest Park beckoned. We spent the rest of the afternoon on our bikes going steadily up a dirt road into the park's hills. We felt somewhat like rock stars because every group of Chinese people we passed, and we passed a lot, gaped at us in wonderment. Here were four, count 'em, four, foreigners on bicycles no less. “Hallos” echoed out. At some point the dirt road gave way to rocky foot path. We walked out bikes up the trail to the first river crossing. There we locked the bikes to a tree and continued hiking. The trail eventually disappeared but we kept going. Why? Because Charlie had told us that we'd come to Yellow Stone Valley or some such. We don't know we never made it. After 30 minutes of ducking under branches and scrambling over rocks we stopped and turned back.

The ride down the mountain was fast and exhilarating. We had to dodge rocks and debris as well as other people who were hiking. The only thing to besmirch the trip was the fresh oil that was laid on the last 2 kilometers. We all ended up with sticky, oily spots on our bikes and up our backs. The hotel proprietor washed the clothes in a solvent (Jackie thought it was acetone because it smelled like nail polish remover), but wouldn't accept payment because she didn't get it all out.

Amos got some cleaning supplies and we tried washing our bikes in the river. That didn't work either. While he was gone getting the cleansers, Kristine and Jackie got roped into a big drink-fest some local firefighters had going on next to the hotel. I was with them originally, but after one gambay with that nasty Commie booze and a look at the garlic clove floating in Kristine's glass of wine, I decided to make myself scarce and trust that the women could hold their own. Later I found out that the firefighters were so interested because they had never met a foreigner before. I also learned that one of them got sloppily close enough to Kristine that Charlie had to threaten to report him to the mayor.

That evening we got to soak in scalding hot spring water piped into a huge private tub. Jackie and I used one and Amos and Kristine used another.

On Day Three we decide to just head out on our bikes into the countryside. We packed a picnic lunch and rode for a couple of hours. Then we found a streamside spot where we could eat and relax before turning back and pedaling the return trip. It was a fine day. The traffic was light and the scenery was pleasant.

We decided to try the municipal, hot-spring-fed pool that afternoon which sparked the most extreme of Charlie's negotiations. He wanted us to take the van the one block to the pool because we'd need it, not to get to the pool, but to drive around to find the best price on beer. Since we thought we'd have a beer at the pool, Charlie was sure the prices there would be exorbitant. We finally said no to the negotiation mania and walked to the pool where we paid the full five rmb (80 cent) price for beer.

Our last day found us packing up and driving toward home with a planned stop at the water caves. All went as smoothly as the outward trip. Since we had the stop at the water cave, the driver didn't get too exhausted. We added an extra stop in the city of Benxi where we ate a nice meal in a local place. Charlie couldn't help but point out the the food we were eating in Benxi would've cost much more if we'd stopped to eat at one of the roadside places near the water caves.

KTV

In Oracle Bones, Peter Hessler’s second book about living and working in modern China, one of the author’s best students writes to him and asks several questions. The first is “What does KTV stand for?”

It’s a good question, but I think the student is really the teacher on this one. I think any Chinese person knows more about KTV than most Americans. An American can say is what the letters stand for in English, but simply saying Karaoke Television is not enough to explain what KTV really is. To begin with KTV is no one thing that is the same wherever you go in China. But KTV is wherever you go in China, at least in the Shenyang region. Some KTV is on an imperial scale, bombastic with glittering chandeliers, plush carpets, and mirror-encrusted stairways.

Other KTV joints are dank, sticky-floored places that have rooms up dirty flights of stairs that under normal circumstances would so fill you with forebodings of unhealthy and criminal behavior that you wouldn’t climb them unless you were on a mission to save some innocent from their misguided fall into drug-induced human trafficking. They’re that bad.

The area around school has three KTVs that I know of. I’ve been to two of them. They are closer to the latter extreme than the former, but even these two have some differences.

Place 1: Several SPA teachers have musical skills and interests. When they found out about KTV they immediately planned an outing. One of our Chinese staff members helped us with the “how-does-this-all-work” details and we were off and running. The way it worked was like this, for 200 rmb (about $30) we got two hours in a room big enough for 10 people, with 6 big bottles of beer, non-alcoholic wine, and snacks. The room had a console for choosing songs, a big screen for projecting the videos and lyrics, and an assortment of lights that filled the room with patterns and designs disco-style. The microphones were wireless and at some point one of the proprietors came in and gave one of teachers some flowers. After two hours of son et lumiere we couldn’t call it quits. Additional half hours were 50 rmb, drinks and food were pay as you go. We stayed another hour. John did The Gambler for the first time in China. Kelly did a powerful Alannis Morrisette song. Maggie did anything she wanted to and did it well. Jackie tackled Respect and I led a rousing rendition of Ramblin’ Man.

A week or so later we went back.

This time Place 1 was full. We decided to investigate Place 2.

Place 2: From the outside there was little to distinguish Place 2 from Place 1. They both had the standard LED-lit façade that is the hallmark of KTV. Both had the open door, the front counter, and the hall leading back to the karaoke rooms. Place 2 had a cluster of young people at the counter and they turned and offered us the traditional “hello.” As we stammered through our opening “how much?” and “how long?” questions, a chubby gal detached herself from the others and, with energetic smiles, waves, and other universal signs of taking charge, led us down the hall and up two flights of stairs. Yes, these were the kind of stairs described above; the kind of stairs that exist in the nighttowns of every city. Even though we all felt a collective shudder as we followed our hostess, our number and our refusal to back down filled us with a jokey bravado--“Would this be a ‘special’ karaoke?” “Did you see something in that last room we just passed?” At last we arrived at a stuffy room on the third floor. For the same price as Place 1 we got a room with no lighting effects, a floor that hadn’t felt the touch of a mop in many a month, microphones on cords, no food or drink included, and a fraction of the song selection found at Place 1. Nonetheless we managed have a blast. Jackie reprised Respect. John tackled The Gambler again. Kelly and Maggie sang the lights out of any song they chose. We had employees of the establishment peering in the door window at us as we tore our way through another three hours of songs and beers. On the way home we joked about how the Mongolian Grill could be our spot for post-party food, the Shenyang equivalent of an IHOP.

About a week later I was walking back from a shopping errand when I heard a “Hello” from a doorway. One of the young men from KTV Place 1 was greeting me. I decided to follow up. With drawing and acting I managed to convey that we’d like to return to his establishment that Friday. I think he understood and was even promising to hold a room for us. I got his business card and asked one of the Chinese staff at school to confirm our arrangement the next day. Jessie No Guo called and spoke to Place 1’s owner. They would reserve a room for us for 9:00 pm, but it would be wise to confirm the reservation Friday afternoon. It is not normal practice here for people to reserve KTV rooms.

Come Friday all worked out well. We even had some newbies join us. Naima easily handled everything from Michael Jackson to the Eagles. John repeated his dominance of The Gambler. It’s getting so that no KTV outing is complete without that Kenny Rogers gem. I did an homage to John Slattery by performing King of the Road. The best performance however, was Amos’ umbrella assisted dance to accompany Abba’s Dancing Queen.

I never appreciated those Swedish popsters so much. Meanwhile Tescha discovered that the non-alcoholic wine made a passable mixer for the commie booze that could be bought next door. I didn’t try it but those that did said its faint pineapple flavor was reminiscent of some SpongeBob Squarepants concoction. Poor Andy overdid it a bit and regretted it the next day when the van’s bumping and weaving on the trip into town forced him to spend a good part of the ride with his head out the window.

Now how can you fully answer the question, “What does KTV mean in English?”