The Foreign Experts’ Administrative Coordinator
It was a unique, unexpected and timely job offer, received between hangovers and saddle sores in Cuzco, Peru. Let us fly you to sunny (at least ten days per year!) Chongqing, China, O American Software Engineer. There, you will instruct the next generation using your vaunted coding prowess which you have surely acquired from many years of revered capitalist field work. Lodging, utilities and a massive paycheck (at least by local standards) will be provided. Vacation days out the yin-yang! (which, of course, means something completely different over there, yet still works within the context of this sentence).

An important notice (theoretically), posted inside the elevator of the foreign teachers' dormitory. From the three lines at the bottom, it's clear that most of the foreign teachers did not understand its content.
With little expectation of a response, I read a paraphrased variation of the above while slumped over at a public internet terminal in my Peruvian hostel, and blasted out an only mildly embellished resume electronically back to China, only to discover within the hour that paperwork was already being drafted for my work visa. Cut to four months later, and the soft, wispy smog clears around Huang Yang, my steadfast employer, as he greets me just outside the gates of Chongqing International Airport. There’s an innocence to his exuberant smile that would look hopeful and precious on the face of a child or puppy, but grants the grown man a look of exaggerated simplicity one could potentially mistake for feeble-mindedness.
Such is not the case, though. When necessary, Huang Yang is indeed a shrewd and serious man, and I would later witness his dissatisfaction with other teachers and be glad not to be caught up in the path of his wrath. But generally I am solely the beneficiary of those simple, blank stares and overly enthusiastic smiles. I am the lone American “foreign expert” in his employ and the supposed feather in the cap of Chongqing University’s roster of international teachers. It is not that Huang Yong is good-natured, though that he may be; that hazy smile of his is a brilliant defense mechanism to be delivered in tandem with any sort of unfortunate news, which a neophyte instructor such as myself is sure to be receiving on a regular basis.
For instance, allow me to recount a conversation from my first day in Chongqing, in the close quarters of Huang Yong’s office where he has just lit a cigarette. Judging from the brownish-yellow build-up on his teeth, it is not the first and I nervously note that the windows are sealed, trapping the both of us in close quarters as the smoke builds up to a soft smog to match the weather outdoors.
In many ways, modern China is like America in the 1950′s. They’re going through unprecedented growth in almost all sectors represented by a growing middle class, they’re fiercely patriotic and they love cigarettes. Upon a visit later in the year to Chongqing’s new hospital, I was amazed to find people smoking in the hallways, surrounded by what would otherwise be one of the nicer hospitals I’d ever visited.
Huang Yong brings something up on the computer and calls me over to examine it. ”Here is your schedule,” he tells me, excitedly. Questions arise almost immediately. Five classes, but only one involving direct lessons in computer programming?
“Software Systems Design. Systems Architecture. Advanced Object-Oriented Principles. Requirements Engineering. Ah, here — Introduction to C++. You have me listed for these five classes, but only one of them is the C++ class you told me that I would be teaching in the job description…”
“Yes, those are your classes,” he affirms, not acknowledging the heavy hint of a question I’d layered into my statement. His smile is bright and expectant, clearly beaming from what he either believes to be extremely good news or terrifyingly bad news. I smile back at him, doing my best to not let on that I perceive it as the latter.
“It’s just… I came here because the job description said you wanted someone that worked in C++ to teach C++. Software Systems Design? I don’t really even know what that means..?”
Though he doesn’t respond vocally, his eyes widen a bit, as though to say “I acknowledge that you have just spoken, but you have not provided me with enough material for a retort, so please continue speaking.” The smile is larger than before, and oddly hypnotizing, which is typically a job left to the eyes.
“Maybe… Do you have a syllabus? Or something that describes the class, so that I know what should be covered?”
At that, his eyes grow to maximum wideness in excitement as he exclaims:
“Ah, that is the good news. YOU get to write syllabus.”
“Oh. Good news. Yes. Also, most of these classes have ‘(M)’ written next to their title, see? What does this mean?”
“Those are Masters level courses. You will teach the Africans.”
A whole stack of interesting surprises piled on all at once. It seems that only some of my classes will be taught to Chinese students; the others will be to foreign students from Ethiopia, Togo, Benin, Mauritania, Madagascar and elsewhere in Africa that have come to Chongqing to seek their Masters degrees. A common source of irritation over the next year would stem from telling people I taught African students only to get the response “Uhhh, you know Africa’s a continent and not a country, right?” Yes, smartass, I know this. I just do not feel like listing off 14 countries every time I try to describe who I teach. Regardless, nothing about the job description mentioned need of a certificate of higher learning, but suddenly I’m filled with a nervous sense of guilt as I unload my shame to Huang Yong.
“I am afraid that I do not have a Masters Degree. I sent copies of my diploma to you — I thought you knew…”
“Oh, is fine,” he smiles. ”You do not need Masters. You are a foreign expert.”
My title has apparently granted me a reprieve from all other factors, despite my not having precisely earned the title in any way yet.
“I don’t need a Masters to teach Masters level courses?”
He simply smiles back at me with an almost imperceptible shrug. This is not something of importance.
“But… ‘Software Systems Design.’ Could I at least see the book I am to use for this class?”
At this, his face seems to grow simply to contain the beaming smile that emanates from it. Under its power, my head starts to grow light and fuzzy.
“Also good news!” he exclaims. ”YOU–”
“–I get to pick the books. Riiiight. Great. Are there even English books here at the school?”
For the first time since our conversation, his smile seems to dampen a little. Perhaps it’s dropped down to an eight, on the standard scale of one to ten.
“Not very many English books here. But you can pick book online and I will get them for you. You give me the names of the books. Is no problem.” The closing expression is one that I would hear many times over the course of the year
“So I get to write the syllabus and pick the books. Even though I have never taken or heard of these classes, you want me to fully design them?”
The smile is back in full force. Is this not fantastic news?
“Yes! You will do very well.”

A high-tech screen sits affixed to the main administration building at Chongqing University, where my office sits upon the 10th floor. When it works, the screen displays interesting videos and images related to Chongqing University's rising global prominence. When it doesn't work, it basically just displays a crash notice like this one all day. I always wondered why no one turned the screen off on these occasions, but no one seemed to mind...
I’m doubtful, but put on a confident face. I’m doing this for America. After several hours of intense research of different tomes that seems as though they might apply to the classes that I am teaching for which I still have nothing more than names. He writes back immediately to give me a thumbs-up — I will be alerted immediately as soon as the books arrive. Flash forward to a week before my class is scheduled to begin:
“Hello Huang! I really need those books to prepare my syllabus and lesson plans. I am getting pretty nervous.”
“No need to be nervous. You will be fine!”
His smile is dizzyingly strong. Maybe all will be well…
“You have the books, though, right?”
“No. No, I have no books. Soon!”
The day before class:
“Huang Yong, I am sorry to come by again, but I’m kind of freaking out. You have the books, right?”
“Ah. They still are not here. No. No…”
His smile is still cheerful, but as I am now an expert of sorts, I can sense that something is off.
“It is for my students also. I cannot assign them to read without books.”
“Yes,” he nods, more as an acknowledgement that I have spoken more than as an acknowledgement about anything I have said.

A small saucepan and cutting board purchased from the local Trust-Mart (a miniature Chinese version of Wal-Mart). They are flimsy, but cheap enough that this doesn't bother me. What DOES bother me are the stickers that are affixed to the sides so strongly that they are impossible to remove, despite scrubbing, soaking and scraping.
“So, what should I do?”
He seems confused by the fact that I am having difficulty with this, but bears with me out of apparent politeness.
“Tomorrow is introduction. No need for books. Say hello. Talk about class!” he smiles.
The combined efforts of google, wikipedia and youporn have given me less than a page’s worth of riveting information to impart upon these foreign scholars, and tomorrow I will be lecturing them for two hours. Yet I get through it, somehow. It’s uncertain whether my students appreciate being spoon-fed two hours of bullshit in lieu of actual erudition, but they seem to accept it silently; most of them have to accept it silently, as they speak almost no English. But more on that later. A week passes like this, and then another.
“Huang Yong. I am sorry to complain to you, but this is terrible. I have no books. Students have no books. Please tell me you have them now!”
“Ah, no. The books–” he says, pausing as if to give his next point a bit more moxie, “–They are not here! I checked, and we cannot get the books.”
I stare back with a slight grin, using all the energy and willpower within me to maintain composure while my eyes shoot beams of rage and madness at that unflappable yellow-toothed grin of his. At once I sense that, like me, he is caught up in a large and generally inefficient machine that typically means well but disappoints more often than not.
“But..” I stammer, breaking down before him. ”I need.. the students need books. We all need them. Books. I mean, how can I teach Software Design Analysis–”
“You mean ‘Software Systems Design?’”
“Yes. That. Right. How can I teach without books?”
His smile takes on a Buddha-like calmness as he delivers what is, in his mind at least, a perfect solution, and one that I will surely be pleased to hear: “Just use Internet.”
Not acknowledging this statement in any way, he adds an addendum just to make sure I truly understand the majesty of this explanation: “All information is on Internet.”
And with that, he forms an impossibly optimistic grin that is positively beaming at me. How can there be doubt in my heart in the presence of such a smile? All information really is on the Internet. Classes resume the next day, not with books, experience or traditional knowledge, but with all the material google can provide me. Sometimes, a question is asked to which I do not know the answer, but this is not a problem. Sometimes, the answer to the hardest questions in life can be answered with a smile.
University-Appointed Tourguides to this Strange New World
Wei, the first of several female graduation assistants assigned to my service is already waiting outside the door of Huang Yong’s office for our meeting to conclude. I’m not certain if Wei is her first or last name or if it matters or if my intonation is correct or if it is what anyone else in the world calls her.

Wei and I, under the protective shade of the ubiquitous all-purpose Chinese umbrella. Note festive pirates in background.
“Wei?” I ask. ”Is that right? I call you Wei?”
“Is Ok,” she responds quietly, looking down. I’ve determined that the term “OK” might be the most universally used English phrase in the world. In this case, I take it to mean “No, but it’s probably as close as you’re going to get, so let’s just go with it, laowai.” Laowai is the Chinese equivalent of “gringo,” though outside of the worst tourist spots, it isn’t typically spoken with a derogatory tone. Over the course of the year, I will hear this word many times.
As to why my well educated, short-term servants are always female, I quickly dismiss any ideas that I am being set up with potential lovers as all of them appear too intimidated by me (bordering at times on mortal fear) to succumb to any of my flirtations. But Chinese is a strange and unfathomable language, and these shy, frail local women all speak it fluently, so my life is quite literally in their hands.
For the first month or two, they help me shop, buy a phone, set up my cable and internet, figure out mass transit, give me tips on etiquette and local customs and generally ease my way into the weird and wonderful world that is China. Wei is mine for the afternoon, and I’m told we are to go on a brief tour of the city as well as stock up my home with basic needs I would otherwise be too overwhelmed to purchase on my own. Wei is overly polite and has a difficult time making eye contact with me, despite my generally pleasant demeanor and some almost needy attempts on my part at making banter.
The outside air is sweltering, with a palpable, damp mass to it that feels uncomfortably grippable at times. The sky is a uniform, grey-ish blue with no hints of “normal” bulbous clouds or even general atmospheric health, and I feel for all the children of Chongqing that never got to look up and create shapes from the billows above. As one of China’s hottest cities, Chongqing’s ancient accolade of being a member of China’s “Three Furnaces” (the other two hotspots being Wuhan and Nanjing) is well deserved.
Easing them from the intensity of this heat, Chongqing men roll their shirts up from the bottoms, exposing much of their clammy waists and stomachs. How much gut is exposed seems to be directly proportional to their stomach size; fat men amble down the streets with bulging, sweaty bellies protruding for all to see like hard earned trophies. At a cafe once, one of these stomachs came into contact with the side of my bare arm, and I fought hard to keep the contents of my own stomach in place as our stale sweat briefly mingled.

An example of beautiful Chongqing weather from a bridge over the Yellow River. In all fairness, this was a particularly bad day. However, there were worse days as well -- On one occasion, I crossed this river and couldn't see buildings on either shore from the middle of the bridge. Yechh.
Hordes of women clog the sidewalks with cheap umbrellas blocking out the sun, and the umbrellas blend together as one, forming a single canopy that hovers approximately six feet above the ground — just above the heads of 99% of the population here in Chongqing and directly at eye level with me. The umbrellas are ubiquitous in Chongqing year-round. They are used on sunny days to protect the fair-skinned girls, for whom a light complexion is so important that skin-bleaching products, regardless of health hazards, are still all the rage here. And on rainy days (read: “every other day”), they are used for their more traditional purpose. On either day, I am barraged with a never-ending assault of umbrella tines at or near my eye level. Sunglasses are necessary protection here, though more from the threat of umbrella assault than from the muted, hazy sun.
“There’s lots of pollution in Chongqing,” I state, with just a hint of a question, staring up at the unwelcoming, gloomy sky above.
“Is fog. Chongqing always foggy.”
This is not entirely inaccurate. In World War II, Chongqing (then known as “Chungking”) became the capital of China after most of the country’s eastern territory was gobbled up by the Japanese. Hidden within a valley, Chongqing was seen as the perfect spot for a base of operations, since its location kept it regularly cloaked in a bed of clouds. But the overcast haze that hangs over the city now doesn’t match the color or character of any natural clouds I’ve known to have existed before.
Wei’s phone rings a familiar song and after she engages in a short, terse conversation in Chinese with the person on the other end, I joke with her about the ironic choice of ringtones.
“You know this song on your phone? It is called ‘Winter Wonderland’. This song is about winter and cold and snow. Isn’t this funny?”
“I do not know.”
“No, I mean. The song says it is so cold out, but here now in Chongqing, it is hot, right? Very hot. That’s funny!”
“Yes. This is… very funny I think.”

The Jiefangbei clock tower for which this region of town is named. It's in the center of the cultural hub of Chongqing and was erected in 1950 to commemorate the communist takeover of China. Originally the largest structure in the area, fifty years later it's dwarfed by every building surrounding it.
Wei is not the last person I will meet here who acknowledges what I believe to be humor without even a hint of smile. On the phone was a friend that wants to meet us for tea near the city’s cultural center, Jiefangbei (pronounced, by me at least, “JAY-fong-BAY”), where the Yangtze River, so similar in name to my own, meets the Yellow River. From the start, I’m disheartened by the fact that the Yangtze goes by a different name in China: Chang Jiang, meaning, appropriately enough, “Long River.” It is the longest river in China, after all. Apparently, “Yangtze” was the name of a local structure or port outside of Shanghai that some white foreigner was mistaken for pointing at whilst attempting to discern what the locals called the river. The misnomer stuck.
Nearly a fleet of permanently docked riverboats perch along the banks where the two rivers meet, offering dining and entertainment at varying levels of quality. The lower decks are loud with the combined sounds from a kitchen that seems too busy for the otherwise empty vessel and an engine room that seems unnecessary for a permanently docked riverboat. The smell of seafood and brine is palpable, but the muggy air at least smells fresher on the top deck where we’re seated, and we’re given a pristine view of the convergence of water bodies below us.
The Yellow River, which is actually more of a dark green color, slowly churns its way into the fast-moving, milky brown waters of the Yangtze until it is dissolved and the two become one. Even with the river breeze, the air is thick and oppressive here, but with the dearth of other customers on the boat, each of us is granted our own industrial strength fan to stave off the heat. The electrical fans are old and loud, and they make the already choppy conversation between us even more strained, but the broiling alternative is far worse.
Tea is brought to us with a wide assortment of strange grasses and flowers hovering in a clump at the bottom of the glass like fallen leaves caught in a pool filter. Mine has been picked specifically by Wei and looks to be the most exotic (is that a dandelion?), though tastes no different to my simple pallet than generic packet teas I’ve sampled in the past. While we drink, they share their favorite music with me via cell phone speakers; the upbeat, nasal Sino-Pop is painful at times for me to listen to, but probably no more so than lots of modern Western teeny-bopper music offerings would be.
Around us, the clustered buildings of this little known mega-city rise up and out and beyond from the riverbanks like a petri dish experiment gone wild. Depending on where one draws its boundaries, Chongqing contains between ten and 32 million bustling people, and the metropolitan expanse explodes outward in every direction, dwarfing nearly every city I’ve ever visited thus far. Immune to western views on tackiness, the skyline shimmers each night with flashing lights and colors on the buildings that create a spectacle similar to a city-sized 80′s video arcade decked out in Christmas lights. The daytime view, while still somewhat daunting, is a bit more serene, though I point out to the girls how prolifically each building seems to be covered in compact Chinese characters.

Barges going down the Yangtze. The funky looking building on the right on the opposite bank is the fairly modern Chongqing Opera House
“Can you actually read that? Those letters there–”
I point at four characters erected at the top of a particularly boxy skyscraper far in the distance that, to me, look like blurry white smudges.
“Of course. It is Chinese. And we are Chinese. We learn these letters when we are very small. It is no problem.”
“No, but I mean… They’re so far away, but each character has so many lines and boxes and squiggles. It’s… Let me explain a different way. In English, letters like ‘D’ and ‘O,’ or ‘N’ and ‘H’ are similar. So from far away, sometimes it is hard to tell these letters apart, even though they are simple. I would think Chinese characters can also be mixed up from far away.”
“No, this does not happen. I think that Chinese is a very good language and this is another reason why.” She stares at me and it’s clear that this is as precise as her explanation will be.
“Oh. Ok, then.”
Over the course of a long afternoon, the pair take me through a “tourist” market (I am the only non-Chinese visitor), a grocery store (where I pick up basic home supplies, like my very own wok) and a traditional style luncheonette. The kitchen at the restaurant is only separated from the diminutive dining area by a small ceramic barrier, and the massive stove top only adds to the already stifling heat inside. The walls, floors, tables and staff could all equally be described as dingy, but the flames licking nearly a foot up the sides of the large wok at least leads me to believe that no contaminant in any of the ingredients could possibly survive the cooking process.
Chinese food is typically flash-cooked over intense heat, with most meat dishes being fully prepared in under two minutes. The quick method of wok frying is much to my liking and I’m pleased to see that the gas stove in my apartment kicks out similarly large flames unlike any I’ve ever cooked with before, which is useful, if a bit dangerous. The downside to this is that the “low” setting on the stove is actually the western equivalent of “medium high,” making simmering all but impossible without manually holding the saucepan several inches above the fire. Like most Chinese kitchens, mine also lacks an oven, as baking (without steam, at least) has only just caught on in China recently.
When asked by the girls whether I like spicy food or not, I answer in favor of it but the girls still warn me that my dish may be too fierce to manage. The lamb that was ordered for me comes out in a small, rectangular metal dish with a small fire below it to maintain the heat. The tingling of the fresh Sichuan peppers is a new sensation for my mouth, but it is not unpleasant, and I’ve had far spicier offerings in the past. Like most Chinese food, the meat and vegetables have already been cut into bite-sized pieces; Chinese silverware is a simple set of chopsticks, and finely chopped food eliminates any need for knives to be kept along the standard place settings.

Wei's attractive (though similarly shy) friend, me and Wei, at the tourist market. I bought a lot of strange food here, though I only ended up eating a small fraction of it. None of it was particularly bad, though only a few things could've really been described as "good".
Another question I’ve always had about using chopsticks: How does one eat the tiny, elusive grains of rice, so omnipresent here in China, with those thin wooden sticks? The answer, though seemingly unrefined, is fairly obvious: the bowl of rice is held aloft near one’s mouth, as the sticks work in unison, shoveling large clusters of rice inwards to compliment the meal. Spoons seem to be available when needed, but it seems they are rarely used. Hard food in soup is eaten with chopsticks; the rest is quaffed from the bowl like a fine, savory tea.
Biting into a piece of lamb, I quickly discover the morsel is primarily made of bone and gristle. It’s an unpleasant surprise, and I try to disguise my shock and extricate the gritty artifact from my mouth without either of the girls noticing, spitting it suavely into my small paper napkin. If they notice, neither girl says a word, but I quickly find that the next bite, while meatier, still contains a fair bit of un-digestible mass. Giving up on propriety entirely, I spit the sticky brown clump into my hand and mash it casually against the edge of my plate.
“Sorry,” I say sheepishly, “there was bone. You don’t eat that here, do you?”
“No, it is ok. Most meat have the bone in it. You do not eat this.”
“Yes, but I do not know where to put this–” I say, pointing at the lump of almost-food perched along the side of my plate.
“Oh, you can put this on the floor.” As if to demonstrate, she removes a small piece of sinewy mass from her mouth that I hadn’t even realized was there, and drops it softly onto the floor at her feet. ”They will clean. Also you can put on the table. It’s ok. No problem,” she smiles.
“Wait a minute,” I say, removing a chunk that my teeth had just recently stripped bare. ”You’re saying it’s ok for me to do this?” I place the chewed-up mess between my fingers and hold it aloft dramatically, before insouciantly dropping the moist chunk onto the dirty floor below.
“Yes, this is fine.”
“Wait,” I say, quickly chewing on another piece of the meat which is, by the way, succulent and filled with flavor. Once I ascertain that there’s little benefit to keeping the used morsel in my mouth any longer, I spit it into my hand in preparation. ”What about this?” As though the used meat fills me with shame and disgust, I fling it low against the wall near me, where it silently bounces off and settles onto the ground.”

Barge restaurants and tour boats, lined up by Chaotianmen dock near where the Yangtze and Yellow Rivers meet
“That is fine also,” I am told. “You should not throw at other person though,” warns the second girl. “Yes, that is not a good thing to do.”
“Oh. Damn.” I stare down with a look of exaggerated dissatisfaction upon hearing this news. I’ve gotten no laughter from these girls all day, so clearly this faux disappointment will be similarly confusing to them, but I can’t help myself. It’s probably a terrible decision, as these girls already seemed intimidated enough by me before discovering that I apparently have a sick fetish for flinging used meat at people.
“Sorry,” says the first one, quite genuinely, meeting my eyes briefly with a confused sympathy.
There was a distinct language barrier when dealing with people throughout South America. But at least there was always a sense that what we collectively found to be funny stemmed from the same presumably European root.
Here in China, people don’t simply laugh at things differently; they think differently. Sarcasm (which oddly enough is quite popular with the Russians, who fully border the Chinese from east to west) seems to be a strange, alien concept here. Around me, people laugh and smile and joke, but the language of their humor is as different as the language they speak with. There is some foundation to western thought that leads to basic similarities in most Western art, philosophies, and basic conceptions of the world around us. Whatever that intangible bit of Western-ness is, it is not present here in China. And that’s going to take some getting used to.
“Did you like the food?” asks Wei.
“I did! It was amazing. Spicy and so much flavor. I did not like the bone, but I do like throwing the bone on the floor, so that is good. Thank you very much.”
“You are in the right city for food in China. In all of China it is said that Chongqing has the best food and the most beautiful women.”
“Interesting,” I say. ”Where are you from, Wei?”
“I am from Chongqing.”
“Oh,” I respond quietly.

I can't remember the name of this building, nor can I find references to it online, though it was a very popular tourist market built into an older Chinese structure. I love how well they've maintained the traditional look throughout all 14 stories of the building, only to place a Subway Sandwiches on the top floor.





























































































































































































