individualism and conformity

Jackie and I try to take a walk after school every day. We spend an hour or so reconnecting and exchanging the news of the day. We also pick up last minute groceries for our dinner. It’s quality time.

Last week our conversation drifted onto a topic that I thought would make an excellent subject for a blog posting. It’s a bit hard to synthesize it into a single sentence, but what we mulled over was the contradiction we find between the U.S. and China and their respective attitudes and practices vis-a-vis individualism and conformity.

Most of you, my readers, (that means Mom plus an unknown quantity) are Americans and therefore very familiar with the U.S. ethos (mythos?) of rugged individualism. We remember Old Hickory and the Rail Splitter, frontiersmen who could clear the land, build a cabin, plant the crops, and raise a family all while fending off the depredations of assorted hostile Indians, bad men, and wild animals. They came back to Washington unbeholden to any man or interest group and led us through formative stages in our national development. Others followed: Teddy Roosevelt charged from San Juan Hill to the White House. Kennedy went from the PT-109 to the same place. Even Ronnie, “The Great Communicator”, tamed the wild beasts of Hollywood before embarking on his political career. After making it to the White House his favored photo op was in Stetson and jeans while roughing it at Rancho Reagan.

Americans pride themselves in can-do and pulling themselves up from their own bootstraps. No one wants a handout. The government is best that governs least. And watch out for Big Brother.

China, on the other hand, is a communist country. It’s a one-party state in which the collective good is paramount and the mantra from the powers above is “harmony”.

Here even the ancient teachings of Confucianism say that the best society is based on individuals subordinating themselves to their position in society. This is the place where numberless, nameless, faceless, interchangeable parts of the population built the Great Wall and labored through the Great Leap Forward. The modern proletariat is as much a collection of anonymous beings as the famous terra cotta warriors of Xi’an. That’s what China is famous for.

So why do Americans, the lovers of the gunslinger and the misunderstood Rambo, people who take the law into their own hands to do what must be done, value being law-abiding so much? Why do Americans wait in lines, take their turns, drive as if obeying the rules of the road is a good idea, and accept that the price posted is the price they should pay?

And why do the Chinese work so hard to find ways to skirt the law? Why in China is a thing like a queue a quaint notion, why do people here think that it’s okay to head straight to the counter of a bank or post office, a ticket window or hospital as if their needs outweighed those of anyone foolish enough to be waiting their turn, why is doing business a matter of what you can finagle, and why is driving a crazy choreography of vehicles going the right way and the wrong way, never yielding until inspired by some arbitrary notion, speeding up or slowing down (even stopping dead in the middle of traffic) based on the logic of some lunar calendar known only to themselves?

When Jackie and I walk we can turn right or left after leaving campus. So approximately 50% of the time we end up turning toward our local commercial district. This “district” includes traditional stores and restaurants. It also includes many sidewalk vendors. It’s the “sidewalk” part of the commerce that I want to describe.  The road in front of school is Junong Lu. Junong Lu has nice sidewalks along its length. Alongside the sidewalks there is stretch of land that is mostly open, dotted here and there with some small trees. The vendors set up by staking out a patch of sidewalk and covering it with their vegetables, dvds, packages of underwear and socks, the machine that cranks out the strange puffed curls of dough, etc. This means that the pedestrians, whether they are in a shopping frame of mind or not, must walk on the street. Of course the street is full of every wheeled conveyance known to man.  Some of which are pulling U-turns, entering or exiting, going with the flow or against it, or even stopping to do some shopping. All of them are making some sort of noise. That could be their normal running noise, which, coming from the three-wheeled trucks and motorized tricycles, is deafening. Other common noises include the constant honking that means “I’m here” on Chinese streets. I’m not sure if the “better watch out for me” is implied or not. The only exception to all this cacophony-causing commotion is the silence of the electric bikes and scooters. They sneak up on you unannounced and only make their presence known when you catch them in you peripheral vision just before they run into you or nearly so.

Where is the harmony in all this? Where is the deferring of one’s selfish desires to the common good? How can so much unbridled individualism be the bread and butter of the communist workers’ paradise? I guess it’s in the same place that Americans put their rugged individualism when they’re sitting waiting for their number to be called at the DMV, or when they’ve bought the biggest SUV on the lot even though it’s only going to be used on trips to the supermarket, or when they vote for neighborhood covenants so that their development will have a consistent, predictable look.

Somehow both societies exist with contradictions. Since I can’t explain them in my own culture, darned if I’m going to figure it out here in China.

Chinese Politics

Jackie and I went to Shanghai with Annie and Steve and had a spectacularly good time. The weather, sightseeing, dining, and company were all top notch. For some reason though, the topic for this blog that jumped into my head is politics. Let me explain.

Shanghai is the center of a lot of Chinese political history, especially modern political history. The biggest thing in modern Chinese politics is the Communist Party and it had its first congress in Shanghai in 1921. Jackie and I went to the building in Xintiandi where the congress was begun. (The French didn’t like it and chased the founders of the Chinese Communist Party out of Shanghai. The congress concluded on a boat in South Lake.)

Even before the communists Shanghai had been a center of political history in China. It’s where the foreign devils established their toeholds in China as the dynastic leadership was weakening and Western influence was strengthening. The British started things off in 1842 after the First Opium War. They built a trading port where a sleepy little village was. The French and Japanese followed. Other nations (including the U.S. and Italy) had a hand in creating what was called the International Settlement. Their influence in Chinese development can easily be seen in the top tourist spots of the Bund and the French Concession. This was a city that was essentially an international reserve taken by force by foreign governments for their merchants. The Chinese were second-class citizens in their own land here.

The famous "no dogs or Chinese" sign from Huangpu Park

This was the area where nationalist champions found their country’s inability to maintain sovereignty in the face of foreign interference most glaring, maybe because of that, home-grown heroes popped up here and squared off. Jackie and I had dinner in a restaurant that had been the home of the Soong family. In that family they said, “One married for money, one married for China, and one married for power.” The oldest sister married the richest man in China. The second sister married Dr. Sun Yat Sen. The youngest sister married Generalissimo Chiang Kai Shek.

I’ve already mentioned the CPC was founded in Shanghai. Chiang led the resistance to the communists and actually allied himself with the foreign powers and Chinese business interests in Shanghai as he and the KMT fought the civil war against the CPC. World War II interfered and the Japanese came back to control Shanghai. After the war the CPC liberated the city from the KMT and began their rule of Shanghai and China.

Shanghai’s development and history as a mercantile center in China had left it with an advertising industry that lingers on the original and replica posters and cards of the Shanghai girls. These are the images of coy and demure Asian lovelies used to sell everything from medicines and cigarettes to machinery including, yes, bicycles.

This same industry was put to a more explicitly political use after the communist victory in 1949. We used Steve’s Fodor guidebook to get close to the Propaganda Poster Art Centre, but we needed the help of some friendly and attentive gate guards at the entrance to an apartment complex to actually find the center. They saw us wandering and counting down house numbers and waved us over. At the entrance they handed us a card that had a small map and a red dotted line showing the way to the place. As we got in the elevator and headed down to the basement Steve and Jackie wondered what sort of adventure we were getting ourselves into.

It turned out to be a well-arranged collection of posters that some local had held on to and were now on display. They had nice chronological explanations of the times and events that influenced the posters. The text on the posters was translated and I assume they are good translations. They did a good business in reproductions and I’m sure that is what keeps the center afloat. I almost bought a copy of a Korean War vintage poster. Ultimately I decided it would be more offensive than interesting to my Korean War vet. Dad and passed. I did buy the exhibition catalog and the pictures here come from it.

Under communist rule Shanghai has continued to be a beacon of modernity for China to show to the world (and to the Chinese; there are a ton of Chinese tourists in Shanghai. We found ourselves cheek to jowl with them in the old town during the Qingming festival. There were also plenty of Chinese tourists on the Bund, called Waitan in Chinese, taking the obligatory pose with the Oriental Pearl tower in the background.)

Politically it seems to be a bit more wide open than what I’ve seen in Shenyang. We went to the Moganshan art district and found extensive arrays of graffiti art on the walls and buildings and numerous galleries that displayed works that were openly critical of, or at least irreverent toward, the Chinese government. We later took a bike ride and one of our guides complained loudly about the Chinese government and announced his intention to emigrate to Australia as soon as he had enough money and English-speaking proficiency.

I wonder if Shanghai provides enough of an outlet for a manageable amount of dissent as well as a receptacle for a significant amount of income to make it a worth the government’s while to make some allowances for the fact that it’s a place where politics bubbles and boils blatantly.

Celebrating Saint Patrick’s Day with Russians in China

This is about as far from a China-centric topic as you can get.

As March 17^th approached it seemed like a necessary time for a celebration. After some discussion (and the refusal of our boss to agree to start school late on Friday) we decided to look into a Friday, March 18^th belated St. Patrick’s Day Pub Crawl downtown. This was in recollection of a similar event held on Halloween. That had been widely seen as a huge success and an introduction for many into the nightlife of Shenyang.

The deal was made and about 25 of us booked our spots.

My plan was to go into town with some colleagues and check in to a hotel. Jackie didn’t want to go on the pub crawl, but she did want to do some things downtown. As it turned out we dropped her off at Cool Cuts hair salon on our way to the hotel. She got her hair cut while a few of us unwound in the lobby bar of the Sheraton. We didn’t stay at the Sheraton, but our hotel is right behind it so this was a nice place to wait. Three young women played soothing classical music as we baptized ourselves with the first of the night’s libations.

It started to rain while we relaxed. Jackie called to say that the rain had made catching a cab much more difficult and she’d meet us at the restaurant for dinner. ‘Nuff said. We ambled over and settled into a booth. Jackie arrived soon after and we fueled up. She said she’d stay in the hotel and maybe go next door for a massage at the traditional medicine center.

Three of us went back to the Sheraton thinking that we’d have our best luck catching a cab there. We were wrong. After three or four taxis told us they wouldn’t take us to the pub crawl’s starting place, we crossed the street and hoped for better luck on the north-bound side. We quickly got the attention of a cabbie who, when he learned that Lenore’s was near the U.S. Consulate, agreed to take us. We were there by 8:30.

Lenore’s was a small place full of more Anglos than I had ever seen in one place in Shenyang. Most did a good job in the wearin’ ‘o the green and I thought things looked very authentic, especially when I spied the cases of Guinness piled up by the door. We paid 100rmb to Casey, the event organizer, and he gave us coupons for free drinks. Lenore’s was pouring free vodka drinks tonight. I got myself a vodka and tonic and then joined others from school in an awkward clump in the press of bodies. We made small talk and compared green outfits. There were drawings for door prizes, one of which someone from our group won.

By the time the buses were ready to take us on the next leg of the crawl, we had figured out that there were basically three groups involved. In addition to the folks from our school there were about 20 young English men and women and about another 20 young Russians. Yes, as I discovered when I complimented the most thoroughly Kelly green bedecked of the lasses in Lenore’s on the authenticity of her outfit (up to the oversized leprechaun hat perched on her head), nearly a third of our fellow celebrants were about as Irish as Vladimir Putin, literally. They were Russians from who knows where in a place as far removed from the Emerald Isle as you can get. They liked to drink and sing and dance though and that served them well. Even if the only song of theirs that any of us recognized was the Russian version of the theme music to Chip and Dale: Rescue Rangers. Bizarre.

I was in the bus shared with the English youths. They sang too; over and over and over. Their song was the same thing sung over and over and over. It went like this, “Casey, Casey, Casey is our captain. A ship needs and anchor and Casey is a wanker.” (Then substitute in someone else’s name for the second through umpteenth verses.) Apparently the person named is supposed to chug a beer while the group is serenading them. When the bottle of Jose Cuervo started around the singers took a break. The next thing we knew we were unloading on “Bar Street”. Bar Street has that name because it is a street of, you guessed it, bars. Our official destination was Giggles, but if we wanted to drop in at The Shamrock or The Buddha Bar or any of the couple other places, we could. I had already planned a trip to The Shamrock for a rendezvous with Arthur.

We hung out at Giggles a respectable amount of time, mostly because it took Casey that long to distribute the free drink tickets. While there we mingled and followed the encouragement of the Russian girls to visit the upstairs where they were singing and dancing.

But a real pint waited next door, so most of the SPA crew relocated to The Shamrock where we met Kevin the proprietor and passed some time in pleasant conversation.

Too soon the call went out for us to return to the bus and head off for our last stop. The departure from The Shamrock was assuaged by the knowledge that pizza awaited at The Green Mile. The pizza wasn’t waiting for us when we arrived, but free drinks were so no one complained. Once the pizza appeared it was hot and gooey and plentiful. Each new pie was placed somewhere (on the bar, on a table,…) and created a momentary migration of patrons from their private corners to the feeding ground where they’d snatch up hot slices and juggle them between hands as they made their way back to their tables. Some generous souls would grab two or three slices and bring the extra to their waiting fellows. This frequently resulted in the production of long strings of molten cheese dangling from pizza slices as their bearers raced to get the pizza back to their table before the droopy stalactites reached the floor.

Eventually some people decided that they had to stop the revelry and find a taxi and begin the long ride home. A group of us who booked in-town hotel rooms to avoid that chore agreed to close the night out with a KTV adventure.

I’ve written about KTV before so I won’t bore you with a repetition. One novelty was the participation of our newest colleague and her boyfriend. Ms. Wang is SPA’s Chinese teacher, although judging from her singing ability and interest she could just as easily be a music teacher.

Now that I’ve given you all that information I can ask you a question inspired by the old riddle—Buses, Pizzas, Russians in Green Hats: How many celebrated St. Pat’s?

Fireworks

If you were with me on Thursday night Feb. 17 you would have no doubts why this blog has the topic it has. On that night, starting at 6:00 and lasting a thunderous 10 minutes the potholed surface of SPA's incomplete sports field was the setting for our owner's pyrotechnic salute to the Lantern Festival. The air boomed and the night sky was illuminated by what would be thousands of dollars worth of fireworks in the U.S. I tried to insert a sample in a video at the end of the blog, but could only link to it. As a palliative here's a still shot showing the front our our comprehensive building with fireworks over the "field" behind.

This was the most up close and personal Jackie and I have been to Chinese fireworks. We were literally right under their glittering canopy. In case you might worry that this was a dangerous perspective I want to assure you that extensive safety precautions were in effect. Several orange traffic cones were lined up at the top of the steps leading to the field, an expansive 20 yards away from the nearest boxes of fireworks waiting for ignition. This line demarcated the closest point that the young children attending our third Winter Camp could approach. They were minors after all, and we were in loco parentis. And just like a couple of loco parents we crossed the traffic cone line to get a better view. Before you jump to the conclusion that we were being irresponsible, you should know that the full battery of our firefighting materiel was within easy reach of our location—we stood next to the three fire extinguishers that had been carried out to the field. Also, the school's employees who were prepared and equipped to deal with any explosive emergency—four of the maintenance guys with shovels at the ready—were just a few feet away. How could we be any safer?

So, as the Chinese men took turns puffing on a cigarette and dashing to press it against the fuses sticking out of the fireworks boxes, we watched and “ohhhed” and “ahhhed”. I must be getting old because the grand finale's percussion of thousands of firecrackers going off in rapid fire caused me to cover my ears with my hands. And then it was over, for us. The rest of the neighborhood stayed at it for hours. There were even fireworks the next day, but none of them approached the intensity of that night.

Apparently fireworks usher the New Year celebration in and out. The party began on Feb. 2^nd when there was the new moon that inaugurated the festival (also called Spring Festival). Thursday's wrap-up was marked by the first full moon of the new year. There are regulations on where and when fireworks can be set off, but as far as I can tell the regulations aren't much enforced. Certainly during the New Year time fireworks are everywhere. A Chinese staffer at school said that technically they're illegal at other times of the year, but people set them off for weddings, birthdays, to mark the opening of a new business, and for other significant events. We've been hearing fireworks regularly since we arrived in Shenyang. One night we watched and marveled at a great show launched to the north of us and visible from our apartment window. I took some pictures of that one.

Jackie and I compared the Chinese love of fireworks with the Nicaraguans frequent use of “bombas” and “cohetes”. We've decided that the Chinese win out in terms of caliber and quality of their fireworks. The Nicaraguans hold an edge in the category of home-grown incendiaries as this photo from one of my trips to Ometepe indicates.

(Picture to come. I have to dig up up off of my external hard drive.)

In China the fireworks are factory made. (Not having been to a Chinese fireworks factory, I can't comment on the nature of them, but the packaging of the fireworks suggests that the factories are apparently mainstream businesses.) Then the goods get sold at roadside stands much like the ones I'm familiar with from the Suquamish Indian reservation near Bainbridge. The stands went up a week or ten days before New Year's Eve. They got steady business from people driving, walking, and bicycling up. Once the stands opened there was a noticeable increase in extemporaneous fireworks shows. I guess people had to sample their wares in order to decide which items were most suited to their tastes.

(note the white painted tree)

Jackie and I were not here for the actual New Year's display. We left for the U.S. Before that. We did hear from Annie Nord though that the fireworks in Shenyang caused the destruction of a hotel. This news was confirmed by many sources and the photos below are from that event. Some of our colleagues here at SPA were in town on the 2^nd and couldn't see the burning hotel because the smoke from the constant and continual discharge of fireworks around them obscured everything beyond the immediate foreground. News reports from other Chinese cities from this year and past indicate that loss of property and life is regular result of New Year's conflagrations.

Our school's fireworks display went off safely. No harm was done to any person or thing that I could discern. We all walked away happy and spent the rest of the night serenaded by the rhythms of gunpowder celebrations. As we drifted off to sleep our apartment's dark was intermittently lifted by the dim flares and flashes of explosions bursting over the roof tops and on the horizon.

(Sorry, I know I promised video of our fireworks. I couldn't get a copy to imbed here. Instead I've included a link to our school's website where you can see the video.)

http://www.sypac.org/

I'll close with a couple of scenes from the day after. As with any party, this one left the typical aftermath for time and the clean-up crew to deal with.

One vacation in Bangkok,

and the world's my oyster.

That's the pitch--whatever you want, it's in Bangkok. For a boy from the Dongbei region of China, that's a mighty powerful enticement. Up here we settle for heat that works and a big bottle of Snow beer.

Bangkok held out promises of all-night parties, sky-high shopping malls, state-of-the-art SkyTrains, suits made to order, dining fit for a king, a real king and his palace, and heat, plentiful, tropical heat.

I'm here to report that Bangkok delivers on its promises.

Jackie and I found all the things people said we'd find in quantities and concentrations that were just right for us. The all-night parties for example. We accidentally stumbled upon Patpong during the day and were able to figure out that with all its “Topless Pool”, “Topless Beer”, and “Top less Top less Top less” it was not going to be a good match for us once the tops started lessing later at night.

The same was true with the Nana area of Sukhumvit. We didn't need to descend to the sois to find confirmation of its reputation as a center devoted to the pleasures of the flesh. All we needed was the siren's voice on the SkyTrain's recording announcing in its bedroom whisper, “Next stop, NaaaaNaaaa. Next stop NaaaaNaaaa.” I kept a firm grip on the handrail every time the doors opened there. I was not going to find myself wrecked on the rocks of Mekong and Coke.

No, our all-night party was a dinner cruise in a converted rice boat. Beautiful wood, twinkling lights, river breezes kept us company as we ate and drank our way up and down the Chao Praya.

The Siam Paragon shopping mall had huge Kinokuniya bookstore and we browsed to our hearts' content before finally settling on a copy of the Lonely Planet's guide to India (our next destination).

I've already mentioned the SkyTrain and dining. Those two would be part of our trip without us having to go out of our way to find them. When it came to clothes shopping, I wanted to check it out, but I didn't want to make it a focus of our trip. If it happened; it happened. Well, as it happened, Mr. Ron's tailor shop was housed in our hotel. He said he could make a seersucker suit for me in the time we were in Bangkok. He offered an attractive enough price for my suit, a shirt, and tie plus a jacket, pants, and skirt for Jackie (10,000 THB, about $330) that we agreed to the deal.

We got to see the palace, but not the king (at least not live. His image, in many cases quite a bit larger than life, is all over the place). As we were leaving the palace our way was blocked. We, and everyone else, had to stand by and wait while a motorcade made its way out of the palace and down the avenue. Someone said it was the queen. The Thais who lined the street stood respectfully at attention when her car passed.

In addition to those expected attractions we found some less highly-touted spots and activities that added to our Bangkok experience. The Jim Thompson house and nearby neighborhood was a fascinating glimpse into the Bangkok of the 50s. The silk company is still a big business, but the quiet and beauty of the house and gardens was a surprisingly pleasant respite from the hustle and bustle of the city. The restaurant there is also a great place to relax and sample some delicious Thai food. The amulet market north of the Grand Palace was an amazing warren of stalls displaying Buddhist charms and relics. It was fascinating to see orange-robed monks rubbing elbows with lay collectors, both examining possible purchases with jewelers loupes.

We also took a six-hour bike tour from Sukhumvit to Phra Pradaeng, on the other side of the river. The view of neighborhood alleys, markets, and temples from the level of a bike seat was up close and personal.

After not enough time in Bangkok we went south to Koh Samui to put in some serious beach time. I'll save those details for another time save for one anecdote. We were in a pickup converted to minibus on our way back to Lamai from the Chaweng beach viewpoint. The driver stopped to pick up two young men who looked right off of muscle beach. With their tank tops showing off their buffed out shoulders and arms they climbed in and let out huge sighs. It turns out they were two Aussies who had arrived on the island the day before and had gone out partying. At some point in their evening/night/morning they ran out of money and wanted to go back to their hotel. The only problem was they didn't know where it was (and apparently weren't operating at their problem-solving best). As one of them put it, “The best time in my life turned into the worst time in my life in about 30 minutes.” Here it was 2:00 or so in the afternoon of the following day and they still hadn't made it home. They had called friends in Sydney and through them figured out that they needed to get to the Easy Time Hotel (no lie), but they were still struggling to find someone who knew where that was and who could take them there. I assume they made it back.

As the song says, “Not much between despair and ectasy.”

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.