Part 17 - Henan and Sichuan Provinces, China

July 25 - August 19, 2006
Pictures: http://jengill.smugmug.com/gallery/1718385

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HENAN PROVINCE

I'm sitting in the backseat of a taxi in the nondescript town of Dengfeng in the nondescript Chinese province of Henan and I'm crying.

The driver, like most men, has no idea what to do with a weeping woman. He tries to pacify me with apologizes and tells me that he will now take me to the place I had originally requested.

His discretionary detour is the catalyst of my tears but not the cause. I am crying because I have no more energy to try and communicate my needs with anyone else in a language I can barely speak.

If I were fluent, I could easily say, "Listen, Dude! I've got this Uma - Kung Fu fantasy thing going on here and I really don't think my sifu, my Pai Mei, is living in this crumbling, moldy armpit you call a building!"

But all I am capable of saying is "Me want go Shaolin Temple." I have said this numerous times today and, so far, it's not working.

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When I arrived in the capital city of Zhengzhou this morning I was fully prepared to shop around for a suitable school: one giving me a decent price and enhancing the Uma-Kicking-Ass image I've got stuck in my media-conditioned head.

Aside from this, I had no plan. Usually when I arrive in a new place, I know where I want to go: an area of town, a certain guesthouse. Today, I've got nothing.

It was hard enough getting out of Beijing, what with that train station goodbye thing omnipresent in my head, ATM card troubles, picture uploading woes, and obligatory goodbye dinners. Once on my southbound train, I realized that I was alone for the first time in 42 days. It's just me again. And it sucks! But no. This is the next chapter of the Jen adventure. Get excited. This is my life.

Outside the train station in Zhengzhou I got on a bus that I was told was going to Shaolin Si. I could go there. Get a room at the hotel. Check out the scene. There's a plan. While waiting for the bus to fill up, the bus driver shows me the brochure for another school and then calls them. What a nice bus driver. Okay. I could stop there.

So now the bus driver gets out of the drivers seat, picks up my bag and motions for me to follow. Um. Don't you have to drive that bus? When we get to the taxi stand I back step.

Do I get into a taxi with 2 men? Where are they going to take me? I have no map. The phone numbers in my guidebook are all outdated.

(I have rarely, if ever, been scared for my safety. Worried about my stuff? Yes. Pickpockets? Absolutely! Do I think these men will hurt me? No. The taxi driver is the taxi driver and the "fake bus driver" is playing the commission game.)

"Fake bus driver" pays for the taxi and the bus to Dengfeng. We are let off at the beginning of town in front of a monstrous complex. Walking across the cement courtyard the size of, oh, 3 football fields (that's American football for all you non-Yanks), the heads of at least 1000 boys in matching athletic outfits turn and watch me.

Talking to one of the school administrators, I quickly realize that there is no way I can stay here. I don't see any girls. I don't see any foreigners. The only person who speaks English, and that's stretching it, is the one who will take my money. I expect that this will be the case in every school - except Tagou.

The Shaolin Temple Kung Fu Institute at Tagou is one of the few schools that remain near the Shaolin Monastery. The Monastery is in the midst of the arduous process of removing all locals and schools from the temple grounds as well as enforcing copyright laws that would prohibit schools from using the Shaolin name. Shaolin is big business.

Tagou is also the school best equipped to take foreign students.

It's not that there aren't any foreigners at other schools. There are. But they seem to be groups of experienced kung fu enthusiasts. Not middle-aged, overweight, solo-traveling girls without one iota of kung fu experience.

If I wanted to go live in a dorm with 5000 adolescent boys (no wisecracks, please), I could go to any of the 70+ schools that make the Dengfeng area the kung fu capital of the world.

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The price I had just been quoted continues to drop as I walk out. "Fake bus driver" is following me, trying to get me to pay him back for the transport out here. Such is the gamble with the commission game. I start walking down the long road, towards what I hope is downtown.

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Out of exhaustion and confusion, I agree to let a taxi drive me to Shaolin Si. And here we are, sitting in front of the driver's friend's kung fu school. He's working his own commission angle. This is the 3rd time this morning I've succumbed to tears. I have no more words.

And still, the journey is far from over. Rocket scientist cab driver takes me to New Tagou. Why? I don't know. Because it's closer? But who knew there were Old Tagou and New Tagou. The guidebook doesn't mention it. Other travelers haven't mentioned it. This is a pretty important piece of information here folks.

In the parking lot of New Tagou a kind man with a cell phone informs the driver of his mistake, calls Old Tagou and tells them of my momentary arrival and explains the situation to me by writing it down in perfect schoolbook English. He can write English but he can't speak it.

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Someone who speaks English, thank the good lord in heaven, greets me at the gate.

"What kind of room would you like?" they warmly inquire.

"How much is the dorm? $2.50? Ok, that's great."

The dorm is on the fifth floor. There are 5 beds to a room but, curiously, no other occupants.

"Where's the bathroom?"

"Third floor."

"Where's the shower?"

"There is none."

"Um. How am I supposed to stay in this room for a day, let alone a month, if there is no shower?"

"You should take double room."

"Why didn't you tell me that before?"

This is the part when the embarrassed Chinese girl will cover her mouth and giggle. Translation: "I am incapable of thinking 5 feet in front of me."

In the office I'm inquiring about life here and they look at me like it's the first time anyone has ever asked such ridiculous questions as "Where do I eat?" and "Where does training take place?" I've been in China for over 2 months - not to mention Taiwan for 3 years. Why am I so surprised?

I choose to rest for a while in my bathroomless, showerless room and think things over. Crying bout #4. It's a record day for tears. Here are some of my thoughts:

- What am I doing here?
- There's no way I can stay here for 1 month.
- This place is depressing, cold and unfriendly.
- It's 2am in California. Couldn't call even if I wanted to.
- Maybe I should leave tomorrow.
- How stupid to come all this way just to leave.
- Give it some time. Give it a chance.
- For G-d sake, spend the $7.50 and move to a double room!

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Things have turned around quite nicely in the past 24 hours. I find a great Internet Cafe in town. Nothing like a fast connection and a front side USB port to put you in a good mood. Two groups of travelers have shown up so I will take my first lesson with them. I buy totally cute kung fu shoes for 20 yuan ($2.50 US). I have a shower.
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My Training

Training - that's what the long-termers call it, though I feel rather silly applying it to myself.

Daily Schedule:

5:30 - 6:30 am: running
7 - 8 am: breakfast
9 - 11:30 am: training
11:30 - 1 pm: lunch
3 - 5:30 pm: training
6:30 - 7:30 pm: dinner

At 5am, a loud, distorted recorded alarm sounds over public speakers. This is the wake up call for the entire school. Local students are in the courtyard by 5:30am for the first of four training sessions of the day.

Not surprisingly, I opt out of group running up to the Shaolin Monastery. I do solo, iPod-propelling walks. The cute yet thin soled and archless kung fu sneakers make running out of the question. Sciatica doesn't exist for these 18 year-olds, who have been training since age 5.

At 9am foreign students congregate in the training room: a huge, barren, moldy, concrete space that Rocky wouldn't piss in, though it smells like everyone else does.

Warm-ups consist of jogging around the cement-floored room, muscle-pulling bouncy stretches and disk-dislodging high kicks. Our coaches, hard-bodied teenagers, have obviously never taken a yoga class nor have the slightest knowledge about sports injuries.

New students start out with Wu Bu Quan - the 5 stance form. The stances alternate between standing and squatting positions. It's a series of moves which, when done correctly, is beautiful. However, new students are rarely capable of going from a one-legged squat position to a standing position in a continuous, flowing manner.

The entire 5 hours of training of the first day is spent on Wu Bu Quan. As is the second day, and the third. The long-termers, who acknowledge my existence around day 4, say the pain will go away after the first week.

But it's a good pain. I start to feel the muscles in my legs. I'm kicking. I'm punching. I'm sweating. The Mongolian dumplings that have been lodged in my intestines for the past 3 weeks are making their way out.

After a week, I can do 20 sit-ups...real sit-ups...in a row. And I do a cartwheel for the first time in 20 years, hurting totally different muscles than I thought I would hurt.

Regardless of my hardening thighs, my plan of staying for a month dissolves. In the middle of the second week, I am bored senseless. I can't improve my Wu Bu Quan without greatly increasing my muscle mass. And I can't improve my muscle mass by continually repeating Wu Bu Quan. It's a kung fu catch 22. While training is well suited for the long-termers and fun for the one-day samplers, there is no structure for anyone in between. There is no method for gradual improvement - no taking into consideration individual needs and skills. Sore knees and shooting pain down my legs replace muscle cramps. I'm too old for this shit.

I end training on Day 11, lighter, stronger and high on muscle relaxants.

My Coaches

My coaches are 18 year-old Ji Tzong and 17 year-old Jon Ka. When I first met Ji Tzong, I thought, "Wow! He's cute!" And that is a first for China. After some days of improper stretching, I have Ji Tzong do some yoga with me. In dekasana (airplane posture), I help Ji Tzong correct his posture and flush a bright red as I touch his lower back, rotating his hips to align with the ground. This boy's ass is so rock hard you could sharpen knives on it. I am well on my way to becoming a dirty old woman.

Ji Tzong's English is next to nothing. I increase my Chinese vocabulary with a couple key phrases:

One more time - tzi li yi bien
I have pain - wo yo tong

Jon Ka's English is better. He tells me that when he came to this school 6 years ago he was like me. What does that mean? Fat? Soft? In agony? He rubs my cramped thighs, which feels slightly inappropriate. I'm not sure he's ever touched a girl that isn't a family member.

Another part-time teacher doesn't like to work much at all. He does, however, entertain, by letting me hit him in his stomach or running up walls and doing flips - just like that scene in The Matrix!

While these boys mean well, they are not actual teachers. They are students and this is their summer job. They have no plan for me. And, if anything, I need a plan.

My Roommates

I am paying for one of the beds in the aforementioned double room. The International Training Services staff tells me that because of the large Russian group here on a 3 week meditation retreat, there are no free rooms, so when other students come, I will have to share. I've been living in dorms for the past 3 months. Sharing a room with only 1 other stranger is a luxury.

#1: A quiet and sweet Aussie girl who stays one night.

#2: Another bed is brought in to accommodate two Irish girls. Furniture is moved. Walking space is forsaken. But nice people.

#3: A Chinese family has moved into my hotel room. (Those damn Russians.) The 2 beds are rented to mother and grandmother. But when you rent two beds to Chinese people, you will never get two people. The 10 year-old daughter shares grandma's bed, and the 4 year-old son (the kung fu student they have come to visit) crashes with mommy.

One evening I enter the room to find grandma stark naked in the bathroom (the door is wide open) splashing water everywhere: the floor, the mirror, my toiletry bag, my towels. Older son is having a beer while mother slurps down instant noodles. Younger son is watching Japanese cartoons dubbed into Mandarin and daughter is watching me - watching me read, watching me brush my teeth. I should take it as a complement that I'm more exciting than anime.

I march into the office and announce, "There are children in my room! There's a family in my room!"

The office girls cover their mouths and giggle.

Younger son wakes up in the middle of the night crying. His mother turns on all the lights and takes him to the bathroom. She does not even attempt to remain quiet. I am a non-entity. In the morning I clean piss off the toilet seat.

I feel guilty for not having a better attitude in what could be a genuinely Chinese experience. But, really, I've seen enough. If I have to watch another old lady take a shit...Not to mention, I'm in training. This is serious business.

#4: A 20-something hipster is up to visit her brother. Her brother comes in everyday to use the bathroom and, again, leaves the countertop, floor and my possessions sodden. What is it with Chinese people and their inability to keep water in the sink? As brother leaves the bathroom, I stop him at the door, hand him a towel and motion for him to clean up his mess.

Hipster chick has ruined her hair with numerous perms. Anything to look a little different from the other billion people. Her frizzled, damaged hair is now all over the room. She likes throwing fruit pits NEXT to the garbage can. She watches bad Chinese TV (is there any other) loudly.

I am pretending not to speak a word of Chinese. If she's not selling me a ticket or taking my dinner order, there's not much we can talk about. But eventually I give in and we try to have a conversation. "Where are you from" type stuff. She is a very sweet girl and wants to be my friend. Oh goody!

#5: I love this woman. Her child does not share her bed. She doesn't watch TV. She reads the paper and goes to sleep early. We smile at each other cordially.

#6: This woman has her 13 year-old son in bed with her. I can't even change my clothes. I sleep in a bra. She falls asleep every night with the TV on. I wait until I hear her snoring and click it off.

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The Students

It is the norm that students come sleep in the school hotel with their family members because of the squalid living conditions these children inure for most of the year.

Dorms are damp and dirty and sleep 20 to a room. There is space for bunk beds and wooden shelves where baskets of toiletries are stored. The boys wash their clothes (rotating between 2 sets), teeth and faces in the courtyard with water collected in large plastic bowls from the common well. Bathrooms are across the courtyard. There are showers somewhere, but students must pay for the privilege.

I ask someone, "Why would a child choose to spend money on a shower instead of candy?"

"They have house mothers who make them take showers."

"What if they use all the money on their electronic money cards before taking a shower?"

"There is a limit to how much they can spend on their cards at the kiosks and cafeterias."

I amuse myself with thoughts of a western parent putting their child in a place like this: the stink, the rot, the lack of attention to safety. Regardless, these happy and well-behaved kids are determined and focused in their training. And similar to an American parent sending their child to private school, a promise of a better life comes with graduating from kung fu school. At best, a select few will find their way onto the big screen. Most will work as policemen and bodyguards. Others will become kung fu teachers themselves. They will not, however, work in kiosks, rice fields or noodle shops.

Student Coaches don't have it much easier. They share small, plumbingless, cement rooms. They throw buckets of used water out the door into the brick courtyard that, as part of their chores, the kids must shovel away. Because of uneven bricklaying, this shoveling of water must also be done after it rains.

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This is the one place in all of China where we stare at them as much as they stare at us. Foreigner free time and rest days are spent watching these little machines do what we dream of doing.

The Chinese students don't have the luxury of a workout room. They train in the brick courtyards of the school and the dirt fields that surround it. Thousands of students stand in army formation where drills are repeated for hours. In rows, similar to how American school children set up for a relay race, they take turns kicking a straight leg above their heads and slapping the tops of the foot with their palms, emitting a loud smack I have yet to produce. They do 360s on one crouched leg with the other horizontally extented. On matresses carried on shoulders out to the fields, they spot each other doing flips and aerials (hand free cartwheels). It is ballet, gymnastics, track and field, flamenco and break-dancing.

Respect for their coaches in ingrained in the training. They end each training session with the "wu hu se hai" hand gesture - fisted right hand with left palm flat against the right knuckles.

I am in complete awe. Despite all the problems and disillusionment of training and living here, it is a rare and fortuitous opportunity to witness and participate in this wholly disparate lifestyle, rather than taking pictures of it.


Mealtime

While there is a restaurant for visitors, students eat for a fraction of the cost at one of the many kitchens that circle the courtyard. It's like boot camp and an orphanage wrapped up in my high school colors - little black and red soldiers shoving their way to the front of the crowd (I was going to use the word "line" but that word connotes order, a system, urbanity, not to mention an actual line.) to get what crumbs are available. The little ones squeeze through bodies and under legs to slap their electronic money card on the sensor and order something that tastes exactly the same as everything else. I feel like a complete idiot fighting with small children over food, but you gotta get yours. After a few days of degradement, I realize that going at the beginning or end of mealtime saves time and self-respect. My favorite meal is steamed rice, spicy green beans and a chicken leg cooked in a wok of oil. All this for around $.40.

There is no place for these children to eat. (The only place to sit is on their beds.) No cafeteria. No tables in common areas. They squat in hallways, the courtyard, and the steps of the buildings and slurp, chomp, chomp, slurp their way through 3 pounds of carbs.

After dinner it is not unusual to see a 4th grader buying cigarettes from the hotel shop. The shop owner grabs the requested pack, slides it across the counter, deducts the 5 yuan from the money card and counts his profits.

Long Term Foreigners

This is a cliquey group - one that I have no desire to break into. Really! Do I need to hang out with a bunch of young men who are REALLY INTO KUNG FU! But every now and then we exchange a few words while sitting on the hotel steps, eating some noodles with our MSG. They range in age from 12 to 26.

There are the 2 American Chinese kids who have come for the summer. They have brought their PlayStation.

There's the long (not tall) 19 year-old German who doesn't wash his clothes often enough.

There's the 20 year-old Brit. I know absolutely nothing about him.

There's a 26 year-old French guy who, along with the 25 year-old Brit, are the best foreign students. They do sit-ups together by intertwining their legs and on the "up" passing back and forth a 20lb. bench press weight. Josh, the Brit, grunts, "This is the best exercise ever!"

There's a Danish computer programmer here for a couple months. I think he's gay. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) Or perhaps I am unfamiliar with the Danish neon-sporty look.

Enter a 4-person British group on package holiday, ages 15, 19, 25 and 29.

The 15 year-old, a British Chinese, has been sent her by his parents because he's fat and lazy. I shit you not. They informed him of his summer trip 2 days before departure.

The 19 year-old is a wanna-be-gangsta and does not say one word to me in the 2 weeks I am around him.

The British Indian is 25. He never talks and he is the stinkiest person I've ever breathed. I gather that he doesn't shower, use deoterant or wash his clothes.

Now for the girl. A 29 year-old girl has purchased a kung fu package tour with strangers. Her best friend is now a 15 year-old chubby Chinese kid, who is by far, the coolest of the group. And she seems to be enjoying her time. What with her sparkly pink Nikes and 24/7 make-up, I gather she simply prefers male attention no matter the deliver system.

These are the people that beset me. I read a lot.

Short Term Foreigners

The short-term students come for a day or two of training. These are the travelers and, therefore, friendly. At night they sit on the hotel steps drinking beer and smoking. Long termers rarely talk to them. Hummff!

The Town

Today while sitting on the bus waiting to go to town, the bus attendant was calling out "Dengfeng, Dengfeng". All I hear is "dumb fuck, dumb fuck."

These days, anytime I say anything in Chinese, "these people" just smile and laugh. The internet cafe, the convenience store. Everywhere except the train station ticket window. I say something and they laugh. "Oh, isn't it so funny. The white person trying to communicate with us because we don't know a word of English. Ha ha ha."

Extra Reading About Shaolin

The history of the Shaolin Monastery dates back to 540 A.D. However, the origins of Shaolin Kung Fu continue to be fraught with myth. Here are some interesting reads about the Indian Buddhist who allegedly started Shaolin Kung Fu, the repeated destruction of the temple, the movies that have made Shaolin a worldwide, household name, and the blatant commercialization that shrouds the Shaolin name and monastery in controversy.

http://www.shaolin.com/shaolin_history.aspx

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bodhidharma#Bodhidharma_and_martial_arts.3F

http://www.wesleyan.edu/aaai/2005_summer_papers/aweber.htt

http://www.chinadaily.com.cn/english/doc/2004-11/22/content_393567.htm

http://www.chinadaily.com.cn/english/doc/2004-09/28/content_378376.htm


ZHENGZHOU

I'm here for 2 nights waiting for my 24 hour train ride to Chengdu, Sichuan Province.

City of peasants. The only white faces these people have ever seen are in movies, where the voices have been poorly dubbed over into Mandarin and where all the background sounds - traffic, other people dining, music at the club, explosions - have been omitted. It's just one squeaky sounding girl and one dorky sounding man.

I'm sitting at the town square. A woman walks over, sits next to me and starts speaking in Chinese about how I'm writing with my left hand. I start talking in English mocking her assumption that I'm fluent in Chinese. "Yes, there are people in the world that are left-handed. We live in 'free societies'." It's the only fun I get to have when I'm being stared at all day.

And the stare isn't even a smile. It's just this blank look, like staring at the ceiling when you're at the dentist. The women look you up and down. Could they possibly be judging MY shoes? The men usually get they're friend's attention and then they both check out my tits.

I'm pretty sure that there hasn't been a place in all of China where I've had more people start looking over my shoulder to see what I was doing: writing email, editing photos online, looking at pictures on my camera, writing in my notebook. Yes, I know they have different standards of privacy (none), but why would they think it's okay to start reading someone's email. Okay again. They can't read my email. They don't speak English. But to walk across the room at sit down in the chair next to me and peer at the computer screen. It's making me crazy.

I've just walked into the bathroom at the Internet Cafe. I woman of maybe 50 is naked and washing herself in front of the sink. Am I missing something here? Does she live at the Internet Cafe? Is there a hotel down one of these hallways? This is one of those times where I wish my Chinses was better. Make me understand! Make me understand!

A man is standing in front of the a/c unit to my right. He's staring at me. Still staring. Still staring. It is unnerving.

I'm really trying to find something I like about this town. It's hard.

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NO STOPPING IN SHAANXI PROVINCE

It's dinner time on the train. I peer from my top bunk down the corridor. Every flip-down seat is occupied and every occupant is slurping and lip-smaking their way through a cardboard bowl of instant noodles. At 1.5 yuan per bowl ($.20) it's more ecconomical and, unfortunately, far tastier than train food, which usually goes for 10 yuan a box.

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I have just passed through Xian, sight of the Terracotta Warriors. I am rebelling against the tacit tourist contract. I will not pay another outrageous entrance fee in an overpriced town only to be annoyed by loud, local tour groups.

I have been talking to many travelers about this decision. For those who have been, half say I've made the right decision. The scoop: the entrance fee is modest at around 60 yuan ($7.50), but if you want to get to the lower level and see the army up close, it's another 100 yuan - the Chinese version of the bait and switch. The entire visit takes, say, 10 minutes.

The other half vehemently adhere to the tourist contract and have reported me to the tourist police. If they catch me, I will be forced to visit Xian by private taxi instead of local bus, wearing an "I Climbed The Great Wall" t-shirt, hire a guide who's English is indecipherable, and pay the entrance fee, the lower level fee, the camera fee and the video camera fee while rivers of Chinese tour groups block my view.

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CHENGDU, SICHUAN PROVINCE

I am strangely happy today. I am in a town with a Starbucks (Shin Ba Ke) and all that accompanies it: more western influence means a better standard of living means a higher degree of sophistication means less goggley eyes and no unwarrented pestering.

Starbucks is the yuppy equivalent to McDonalds. No matter the country, you know exactly what you will get. To redeem myself, I don't go to Starbucks in the states. In Asia, it is a slice of home.

I am staying at the ultra-hip Mix Hostel: free movies, English speaking staff, real lattes.

So what is up with all the weridoes? The prize goes to Eva, a German hippy.

We start talking about Tibet and places to stay. She is telling me about her trip to California and the old Japanese concentration camp in the Mojave Desert. "What a terrible place this was." And all I'm thinking is, a German is telling me about the horrible American concentration camp. I tell her I'm Jewish, a card I never play with Germans, who are lovely people and great travelers. But it shuts her up. "I hardly think that the Japanese Camps in America were the worst things going on in WWII."

She has given me her email address because she wants to go temple viewing with me in Lhasa. I haven't told her how I feel about temples. I tell her that her email address (schlong....) is slang for "penis" in English.

Later when she emails me from Lhasa, she signs her name Rajah. I reply with the normal question. "Who's Rajah?"

Her answer: "Rajah is my very private nickname I gave to myselft when I was about 12 to 14 years old."

Then why the fuck are you telling me? I'm getting the sense that this woman is a tad bit needy.

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Getting A Massage

At home when you go for a massage, it is an event. For at least $60, you are placed in a private room (incense optional). Whale sounds or Enya is softly playing on the sound system. It is a slow, relaxing experience that is supposed to leave you slow and relaxed, at which point they provide you with a nice cup of herbal tea.

With a Chinese massage you get a communal room, cartoons on the TV, screaming children, crying babies, abusive mothers, smoking fathers, farting and spitting. The massage is fast and frantic and it leaves you edgy and eager to get out of there. All this for $2. Life is a trade-off.

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I have done next to nothing in Chengdu. It's a busy 4 days, what with a moring visit to the Panda Center and a great meal at Peter's Tex-Mex Grill. Travel lull. I am so ready to leave China. Next stop. Tibet - which is NOT China.