There are at least four (some would break it down further into eight) distinct cooking styles in China that have evolved over time.  Dishes from all styles have of course spread throughout the nation (and world) though most regions have specialized tastes and stick to their own styles.  This disinterest in non-local food likely explains the lack of western restaurants (or even ingredients) in Chongqing.  A few pizza restaurants have opened, though none have flourished (with the exception perhaps of Pizza Hut, which is peculiarly a fancy — and expensive — restaurant in most large cities in China).

Burgers are available at McDonald’s, though only at McDonald’s.  And KFC is both beloved and ubiquitous.  But that’s mostly it for foreign food here.  There’s apparently a single Indian food restaurant somewhere in town, but I never found it.  No Italian, other than some Chinese attempts at spaghetti with meat sauce.  And I tragically need to travel three hours to Chengdu to even think about ordering a burrito.  If you’re going to live in Chongqing, you better really like Chinese food. Thankfully, Chongqing food is the best in China.  Like  any Chongqinger will tell you: “Chongqing food is best in China!” Of course the Chinese, while humble at the personal level, tend to be quite boastful as a group, either when talking about their nation or even just their province.  So this forces me to be a bit skeptical when locals brag about how Chongqing is the best.  However, I started to notice a pattern traveling when I’d mention that I lived in Chongqing.  Whatever non-Chongqing person that I’d speak with would inevitably ask me about the food and upon hearing that I liked it explain: “Chongqing food is best in China!” Having now explored the country a bit, I’m inclined to agree.  Chongqing food is best in China!

It helps that I prefer spicy food, as  Sichuan food is the spiciest in China.  Chongqing was once the largest city in the Sichuan province.  So large, in fact, that it was made into its own province of 32 million people.  It still seems to be considered the best Sichuan style food, even if it’s no longer a part of the province.  Sichuan food is best characterized by its prolific use of the Sichuan pepper, a unique, mouth-numbing spice used in tandem with the standard Chinese red pepper.  I’m addicted to the stuff, and desperately worried I won’t be able to find any once I leave Chongqing. Just to give them some lip service, there are three other primary styles: Cantonese, Eastern and Northern.  Cantonese emanates from the Hong Kong region and was the first style introduced to America when Chinese immigrants migrated to California in the 1800’s.  It includes Chop Suey and Dim Sum.  Eastern food is known for a liberal use of sugar and soy sauce and introduced the painfully bland rice soup Congee to the world.  Northern is the style of Beijing and beyond, the most famous dish of which is Peking Duck (which I’ve had many times this week, as I write this from a hostel in central Beijing). It’s also nice to require one less utensil at all meals; whether you use chopsticks or a fork, you’ll never need a knife to deal with any Sichuan food; it’s all stir-fried and bite-sized to begin with. I’ve already dedicated a post to my love of Baozi.  I’m going to try to capture the rest of my Chinese food experience entirely in this one entry.  Some things will be missed (like these awesome sandwiches on this incredible, english muffin-like bread — I never got a picture of it, dammit), but hopefully I’ll cover all the bases. Food Food Food

Side Note: Chongqinghua A ‘hua’ is a language or dialect.  Mandarin is actually known as “putonghua” by the locals.  Chongqing’s dialect is so off from regular Chinese that the language spoken in town is officially called “Chongqinghua.”  This was one of the biggest barriers toward learning Chinese early on, since it made testing out new words learned in class (taught in putonghua) unnecessarily difficult.  I suppose that’s part of the reason I stopped. I mention this, though, because Chao Shuo is an excellent example of how Chongqinghua works.  It involves adding a ‘T’ sound to the beginning of many words with  no explanation, and a pirate-y “arr” sound just as randomly to the end of words.  Thus the putonghua “Chao Shuo” is actually pronounced “Tao Tserr.”  Hence my frustration! Shao Kao I’ll miss street food.  It exists around the world, sure, but not with the flavor, character and variety of Asian street food.  Most South American street food was more expensive and less tasty (except maybe the choripan, which I’ve been missing lately).  How late-night Americans would just gobble up Shao Kao — a series of meats, breads and veggies on sticks, covered in spices and then grilled — if only the health departments would let them get away with  it.  Sadly, it’s not the kind of presentation that could work in the US.

Raining Cats and Dogs I thought I could do it.  Really.  I mean, I’m ostensibly against eating pets, but when in Rome, right?  I’d been told in advance that they don’t eat dogs and cats everywhere in China, but they do in Chongqing.  It is indeed possible, though not widespread — you need to know where to look.  I found one of these places and considered it until walking past the bathroom by a crate of young dogs barking and wagging their tails fiercely at me.  Poor placement for canine eating newbs, like me.  I bailed on the attempt, both at the time and permanently. Yangshuo, a city to the southeast of Chongqing, goes as far as putting dog on the menu, slipped in between pork and chicken dishes as though it’s in the same culinary ballpark.  ”Don’t go to the market,” I’m warned while there.  Apparently dogs are strung up with all the other cuts of meat.  ”I’m still having nightmares two days later,” a girl tells me.  I’m sure my constitution would prove stronger than hers, but I don’t opt to test this theory. You Want to Kill the Fish? I don’t like cooked fish, typically.  Definitely not your red fishes, like salmon.  Fantastic when served up chilly on a chunk of rice with sushi, but utterly unappetizing when cooked.  I also don’t like fish bones.  I still remember that my mom’s friend, who was my dentist as a child, had to go to a hospital due to a fish bone getting stuck in his neck, and that haunts me with every sliver of  bone my tongue glides across when downing a freshly cooked fish. So reluctantly I let Kelly, a gentleman of an Englishman — despite younger Brits pointing over his way when I ask them what hooligans are all about — who was one of my first friends here drag me to a local fish restaurant he’d been raving about.  And sure enough, the meal is addictively good, regardless of the high bone count and fish eyes staring up at me through the whole ordeal.  Like the lamb above, it’s served in a chafing dish with vegetables and sichuan pepper oil and my mouth waters now at the remembrance of it.

“You ever kill the fish?” asks Adrian, an Irishman and fellow software instructor who’d come along to dinner with us. “Nah,” I tell him. “I’ve never been fishing.  Well, I mean, I think I went once with my Dad but we didn’t catch anything.  I’d like to!” “No, mate, here.” “Have I ever killed a fish here?  At this restaurant.  No.   No, I have not.” Smirking. “Seriously man, you can go back there and kill the fish yourself.” “You’re fucking with me.  You’re saying I can just waltz back there, grab a fish and kill it myself?” “You wanna do it?  Come on…” We step back toward the kitchen and some words are spoken in Chinese.  The people in the back either laugh or look or with curiosity but the man that is clearly in charge shrugs his shoulder and guides me over to a large fish tank with a fairly low water level.  He points in. “What, just grab it? ” I stand there, useless, pondering a fish. He mutters something under his breath and then moves in, grabbing the fish securely with both hands and offering it up to me.  I take the fish with both hands. And it immediately bursts forth from my grip, somersaulting through the air before landing improbably on the top of a keg of beer.  Rather than falling off immediately as one would predict a fish of its size to do, the terrorized beast manages to lodge itself between the tap and rim around the keg’s top, locking itself into place.  Despite tremendous effort on my part, the position of the fish  and its viscosity (or lack thereof) make dislodging it impossible at my level of fishmanship. The head cook moves in, looking less than pleased at this turn of events, though his staff at least seems more than amused.  Grabbing the fish firmly, he pulls it (with some difficulty, I’m pleased to say) from its awkward position and reluctantly offers it back toward me again.  I grip hold, lodging the tips of my fingers strongly into the fish’s fleshy sides. “Just slam it?” I ask. He lifts his arms above his head and brings them  down abruptly.  ”Sorry, fish.”  Still squirming, I lift the fish above my head and slam it with as much force as I can muster down onto the ground, where it lays, lifelessly.  One of the Chinese serving woman claps, and the cook reaches down and picks up the still fish to begin cleaning it off.  All the fun of killing and eating one’s own meal, without any of that messy gutting process.  Brilliant.

Food in Xi’an I’m not sure what official cuisine style is used in Xi’an — maybe it has its own entirely.  But there were dishes I didn’t manage to see anywhere else, so I’m posting them here.

Tibet Our tour group decided unanimously that we didn’t much care for Tibetan food.  Most dishes seemed to be copies of food found elsewhere in China, only in Tibet the flavor was far less exciting.  They served some decent curries, but nothing that compares to Indian or Thai styles.  The major meat here in Tibet is Yak, and it’s not bad, but it is a noticeable step down from its bovine brethren.  The best option tends to be the momo, which has the shape of a jiaozi, but the thicker breadiness of a baozi.  I liked them, but I think we all were tired of them after about a week.

Shanghai Surprise My friend Jaimee was traveling with me through Shanghai and specifically sought out her favorite Chinese food while here: soup dumplings.  These small meat dumplings are made by dropping a dollop of jellied broth into each dumpling before cooking.  Once ready, the dumplings are bit into, which releases a single spoonful of soup, prior to being further devoured.

Beijing / Peking Even though no one calls Beijing by its old anglicized name anymore, the famous duck dish will always be associated with “Peking”.  I’m not nearly the duck fan Jaimee is.  In fact, I think the dish would be even more incredible with almost any other meat in place of duck, mixed into pancakes and served with hoisin sauce.  We had this about four times while Jaimee was in town; I didn’t go back for more after she left, though.

Baozi (BOW-zuh): A small steamed bun, filled with meat and/or vegetables.  Ubiquitous on the streets in most Chinese cities, especially at dawn.

I’d loved these treats for some time in the States, though my time with them had been limited to occasional Dim Sum excursions.  Coming to China, I’d hoped to get more quality time with them, though I didn’t expect them to be quite as prevalent as they were.  Every city I’ve visited here (even Lhasa in Tibet) has hordes of street vendors armed with steamers (either modern ones or those of the traditional “bamboo and boiling water” variety).

The simple, pliant, white dough used to make the baozi steams well, allowing vast quantities of the snacks to sit around in hot steam for hours on end until the daily supply is depleted.  The most popular variant of baozi is “zhu rou” (”jew row” — ironically enough this means “pork”) and is often just a chunk of seasoned, ground meat inside the soft, hot bun, though sometimes small bits of vegetables (usually green onions) are mixed in as well.

Baozi Night

It’s with this love of Baozi in mind (that still hasn’t much abated after a year of the little buggers) that I had some friends over for some homemade Baozi.  We all agreed that the steamed bread idea was fantastic, but that the Chinese were simply too limited in their ingredients.  Why not an  Italian Baozi, with marinara sauce, sausage, onions and mozzarella?  Why not a peanut butter baozi?  Why not a baozi inside another baozi?  Why not, indeed.

How to Have Your Own Baozi Party

The key ingredient is the dough.  Once you’ve got that, any ingredients are possible.  If you’re trying to go traditional, recipes for the ground pork filling are everywhere online.  Otherwise, get as creative as you like.

What you’ll need:

Leshan. (luh-SHAN)

Emeishan. (UH-may-SHAN)

Shan.  ”Mountain.”  One of the easiest Chinese symbols to recognize, and a surprisingly ubiquitous character, even in non-mountainous regions.

山

You can learn a lot about the mindset of a people by understanding how their language works (and thus how their thought patterns are organized).  Place the Chinese character for “cold” in front of 山 and you’ve got “iceberg.”  Use “hot” instead to make “volcano.”  Follow shan with the character for water (shui) and you’ve got the Chinese word for “landscape.”  Don’t ask me why.  It gets more complex, though: want to describe a vast crowd?  Put the symbol for “person” on either side of “shan,” and then end it with the character for “sea.”  The fun goes on and on…

Three to six hours north of Chongqing (depending on what collection of vans, trains, buses and rickshaws one takes) is the shan double hitter of Leshan and Emeishan.  Having already covered “shan,” I’ll skip to the prefixes and simply explain that “Le” (pronounced “luh”) means “Happy” and “Emei” (UH-may) means, well, “towering eyebrow.”  Both are major attractions in the Sichuan region for their millennia-old contributions to Chinese culture: Leshan hosts one of the largest stone Buddhas in the world and Emeishan (or “Mt. Emei”) is the highest of the Four Sacred Buddhist Mountains of China, and a spiritual pilgrimage to multitudes of Asian Buddhists.

There are direct bus routes from Chongqing to both attractions, though they’re actually slower than taking a speed train north to Chengdu and then busing an hour or so southwestwards to Leshan.  Buses from Leshan to Emeishan leave regularly (or you can be lazy and pay the equivalent of ten bucks for a taxi there).  Since, like most foreigners I’ve spoken with, I prefer Chengdu to Chongqing, I figure a night of exploring the northern city’s flashy nightlife again would be a worthwhile usage of my time.

The decision pays off.  While staying at the Mix Hostel again, I run into an assortment of travelers with a shared interest in Leshan’s famous Buddha.  Two Chongqing expat girls are also making Chengdu their temporary home for the weekend, and even though they won’t be coming to Leshan, they’re fine company for the evening.  As an added perk, they’ve both promised to take me around their home cities when I venture out west, and as those cities are Moscow and Riga (in Latvia), they’re good people to know!

Chengdu nightlife is a marked improvement from that of Chongqing.  For one, my temporary home city lacks a cohesive center, with hilly urban sprawl expanding out in every direction around the meeting of two particularly winding rivers (the Yangtze and the Yellow).   The layout, therefore is a slave to its surroundings, as roads, buildings parks and every other urban attraction is crammed in as the available land allows.  Not so, Chengdu.  Much like Xi’an, there’s a well-defined (over a thousand years) heart of town, with roads darting out from it in  all the cardinal directions.

Combined with being a far more foreigner-friendly town, it’s a helluva lot easier finding a good time at night in Chengdu.  Our makeshift group hits up a few clubs, though we unanimously decide to retire early given the morning’s 9 AM departure to Leshan.

The van ride back and forth from Chengdu is just over ten US dollars, though it doesn’t include the price of the park’s entrance (an additional ten).  The ride itself is about two hours long and gets us to Leshan just before noon.  For an additional fee, travelers can opt to take a quick boat ride that culminates in a few upwards at the giant buddha from the river that runs right by its feet.  It’s supposedly an incredible vantage point, allowing guests to first experience the Buddha ominously jutting out from the lush greenery that surrounds it, as those that re-discovered it a century or so back might’ve seen it.  But we’re all feeling particularly cheap, and gracefully opt out of the experience.

Leshan’s Giant Buddha Park is fairly expansive and lists a good 10-20 additional attractions on all of its signage, even if the massive Buddha is the primary reason for everyone’s attendance.  The long walk upwards (a foreshadowing of my upcoming hike at Mt. Emei) passes by and through multiple pagodas, fountains,  tea rooms and other assorted Chinese artifacts before reaching the massive line down to the Buddha.  The various features are all serenely beautiful and idyllic, but the top attraction here after the Buddha is clearly the English in the men’s rest room at the entrance of the park.

Unfortunately, Leshan is a popular Chinese attraction, which means that on a weekend, the flag-waving tour groups are out in Full Effect.  Please see this article, if you haven’t already.  These groups are everywhere in Asia, and as more and more Chinese become prosperous, they’ll be coming soon to a town near you.  Remember how annoying those photo-snapping Japanese were in the 80’s when they first got the tourist bug?  Multiply that by the population of China and start getting ready for it.

The line twists and turns at the top of the mountain, before shrinking into a narrow staircase that goes down the mountain to the foot of the Buddha.  This narrow path, barely wide enough for a single person, causes a line that should’ve taken less than thirty minutes to last well over two hours.  Why?  Because the Chinese.  Cannot.  Stop.  Taking.  Pictures.

Trapped on the staircase, one’s initial awe and wonder quickly turns to boredom and listlessness before outright annoyance, as the people holding the line up take picture after picture.  Don’t get me wrong — the view’s fairly lovely.  It’s just that the view doesn’t change much from one step to the next.  But these people stop on EVERY STEP.  And they take MANY MANY pictures.  And then they turn around and take pictures of me, in all my Caucasian (and now disgruntled)  glory.  It’s a good time.

Outside the park the others board a bus back to Chengdu and I take my leave of them.  There are buses to Mt. Emei, but a taxi offers to take me directly to my hostel there for only ten bucks and I capitulate due to exhaustion, hunger and the heat.  An hour later, I’m dropped off at the Teddy Bear.

Thousands and Thousands and  Thousands of Steps

The staccato tap of my bamboo walking stick on the cement steps leading to Emei’s peak clicks as rhythmically and reliably as a metronome by the morning of my second day up one of China’s most sacred mountains.  My steady pace isn’t in any way a sign of confident mountaineering (if one can even call it that when the path is fully paved and manicured); it’s a sign of my exhaustion.  My legs are cramping and the thinning air doesn’t work well at all with my less-than-healthy physique.  No, if anything, my clockwork zombie-like stride is a function of my exhaustion, as I count off a precise hundred steps at a time now between each break.  By now I’ve lost count of how many sets  of steps I’ve counted my way through.

But that is how I know this fucking bastard of a mountain has at least twenty thousand steps.

Day one started off far less painfully.  The Teddy Bear Hotel came recommended by the Mix Hostel in Chengdu, and their advice has always steered my right before.  The woman at the front desk lacked any semblance of English speaking ability, but she was able to point me toward a wall full of information for hikers, and my Chinese was just good enough to negotiate for a room and some hot meals.

Emeishan’s path is comprised of a series of tall rounded hills, culminating in a monument-topped peak offering supposedly epic views of the surrounding countryside.  ”Supposedly,” I say, because upon eventually reaching the top, coated in two days of sweat and grime, I’m greeted by clouds so dense that not only are the vistas completely blocked off to me, but the top of its famous statue — four white elephants supporting… something — is lost in the mist.

Here would be an excellent place to state that getting to a place is half the fun, and in my experience with this mountain this is entirely correct.  But my guess is that the reaction of the millions of Chinese that make a pilgrimage to the top every year is completely different.  I say this because few Chinese people seem to actually climb the mountain.  Its base is of course clogged with an almost obscene amount of human traffic, and the top is similarly crowded.  But thanks to a bus route that leads almost to the top and a cable car that finishes the job, few locals can actually be found on the trail.

No complaints here.  I vehemently disagree with the prevailing attitude in Chinese tourism that “long lines mean an attraction is worth seeing.”  As such, it was extremely liberating to pass the cable car waiting line and immediately see the densely crowded path dwindle down to little more than four or five others per hour.  Even with public transportation doing most of the work for people, the few hundred steps required to get around prove too much for some locals, which leads to a strange rickshaw-like service where two green-vested Chinese men hoist a bamboo chair on their shoulders and cart people about for a small fee.  It’d be amusing if it weren’t for the fact that these human taxis share the same path as everyone else and have no problem barreling over humble walkers — like myself — to reach their destination.

My bamboo walking stick is too nicely cut to have originally been for free, but that’s exactly what it is from my perspective, as I find the well cut rod leaning up against one of the many trash bins that have been placed upon the path.  It’s thoughtful that they’ve been placed here, but fairly futile; despite the few hikers out on the mountain, there’s a surprising amount of food wrappers and water bottles casually tossed out onto the ground.  The walking stick is a fine addition to the trip, though.  My thigh muscles are just about shot as I come across the small monastery that will be my home for the evening.

Twenty of such monasteries and temples are spread throughout the mountain, and most of them have no problem hosting pilgrims like myself for the evening, for a fee of course.  I’d originally planned to reaching a larger building labeled “Elephant Bathing Pool” on the map to stay there for the weekend, but as the air cools and the light begins to dim, it seems less likely I’ll reach my destination this evening.  I try not to let on to this (or my intense exhaustion) as I haggle the price of a room down from a ridiculous 150 Yuan a night down to 80.

Dinner’s included in the deal, and it’s a pleasant surprise to find the room endowed with an electric blanket for warmth.  I pass out almost immediately after dinner and sleep on straight until seven in the morning.  The monks are nowhere to be seen, and I unlock the door on my own and continue upwards.  Despite the lack of hikers, there are still plenty of small kitchens arranged throughout the mountain and I stop at one for a breakfast of cold, spicy noodles.

Up over 9000 feet, the landscape starts to change.  Snow covers large patches on the ground (and trail) and deciduous trees give way to evergreens.  It’s no doubt gorgeous, but the monotony of the steps begins to get to me.  I’m almost excited when a feisty monkey attacks me at the sight of granola, simply because it breaks things up a little.  Toward the top, there are suddenly thousands of people again, but the area at the top is large enough that it doesn’t feel cramped.

Sunrise at the Golden Summit is apparently not to be missed, but my pace doesn’t get me there until well after one in the afternoon.  The cloud cover here would’ve made a view of the sun impossible anyway.  On a good day, one can apparently see the “sea of clouds” below, but the sea levels have risen to the point where one can’t even see the entirety of the Buddha statue.  At the statue, monks and pilgrims both circle around the monument, always in a clockwise direction.  I grasp the gesture, even if not its significance, and make a quick circle around it myself before heading back down.  By bus.

Chinglish

As far as ostentatious male hair coloration goes, you can generally break the world down into three groups of people:

1. Those that never think mens hair should be bleached, dyed, frosted, highlighted or batiked.
2. Those that think such behavior is perfectly normal
3. Those that are cool with it until you reach 30, at which point.. really?

Those that fall into camps 1 and 3 (a significant portion of the world, I’m sure) probably don’t back some of my fashion choices this year, and as I typically am not a “camp 2″ guy in general, I’m not sure I do either.  I can’t fully explain my rationale for the travesty that would engulf my flowing locks like a perverse halo for a good portion of the year, other than to say that much like whitewater rafting or Charlie Chaplin’s City Lights (I know it’s a classic, but I could rarely handle more than five minutes of it at a time), it’s something I never need experiment with again.

The idea for the change (the first one, at least) came about over a casual conversation with Adrian Daniel “Sully” Sullivan (who answers to all four of those names) about his dalliances with hair dye over the past four years he’s spent in China.  Upon my first meeting with the man, his hair had settled upon a subtle bleached frosting that seemed to complement him well, though he’s had blue and green periods in the past.  The primary explanation: If you’re a foreigner here in Chongqing, you already stand out more than a Phish-head at the Republican National Convention, so it’s not like any other peculiarities will cause you to stand out more.

Why not go a little blond?  Nothing drastic or crazy… just a little extra color to liven things up a bit.  And if it goes horribly awry, it’s not as though there’s an abundance of friends around to relentlessly torment you into getting a quick buzz cut.  Anything goes, right?

It would’ve been a perfect plan were it not for the fact that I speak no Chinese.  And the average Chinese hair stylist?  Not a master of the English language either.  So it is, that I ended up with this:

Yes, despite the assistance of multiple pictures of handsome men that pulled off hair dying much better than I, this rust-colored affront to nature is what the Chinese hair salon thought I was requesting.

It’s not a total failure.  Halloween is just around the corner, and Lisa and I had been racking our brains to come up with good costume ideas for the Singapore Restaurant’s holiday party.  Since nothing with this hair color could clearly have come from Earth, it provides us with a starting point for what would be award-winning alien costumes.

After a week as a ginger, I became bound and determined to make the most of my situation and return to the stylist for a more standard bleaching.  Why stop at ginger when there are so many brighter but equally unnatural colors available to me?

Problem solved?

Yes, another great success!  My students are amused and I decide to roll with it for as long as I can to get the full experience.  Sadly (or thankfully), all good things must come to an end, and with only one month to go before a fairly respectable wedding, I decided it was time to end this little reindeer game and return to dark brown normalcy.

My attempts as seeking the assistance of the local Chinese thus far proving awkwardly unsuccessful, I recruited the help of Cookie AKA Jenny from London.  A steadfast ball of energy, social grace and interestingly colored hair, Cookie likely had more experience with this sort of thing than almost anyone else I knew here and was only too glad to assist.  I told her in advance of the importance of more “formal” coloring for my upcoming wedding and she assured me that I’d be back to brown in no time.

“Auburn, eh?  That doesn’t really sound like brown…”

“No, it totally is,” she said.  ”Oh my god.  You’ll look fabulous!”

“I’m kind of trying to look less fabulous these days.”  My spider sense tingled violently as she rubbed the not-at-all-brown dye into my hair, but the girl was just too excited about her current project for me to reject her and I allowed the travesty to ensue.  Brown dye should not froth in one’s hair like rancid grape kool-aid, should it?  According to Cookie, it should!

A week before the wedding I pay a final visit to a new stylist.  It’s not that I think one Chinese stylist might be better than another; I simply can’t get the laowai discount twice.

What is the laowai discount?  Simple.  Offer to let them take your picture to put on their door or in ads for a rebate.  It’s usually good for at least thirty percent off.  This time around, the brown finally settles in, at least under Chongqing’s omnipresent gray skies.  The warm, bright sun in Thailand permeates through my hair in odd ways, bringing out a bit more of the purple, though it takes a bit of focus to notice and looks only slightly unnatural.

No regrets.  But probably no need for any repeats either…

As all my clothes, notes and collected belongings from close to a year in China lay stacked across my apartment, a single piece of looseleaf paper scribbled with recipes keeps filtering its way up to the surface.  I try to organize these entries in a mostly linear format, but if posting a quick food entry leaves me with one less paper cluttering up my apartment, why not just post it now?

Cooking lessons in foreign countries are widely available, at least in larger, metropolitan areas, and generally don’t cost much more than the price of the meal being cooked.  I’d been meaning to take one for some time, but didn’t actually make my way to a restaurant offering the service until reaching Hanoi, Vietnam.  Most other travelers I’ve talked to seem to share a distaste for Hanoi, believing the Vietnamese in the south to be far friendlier to tourists.  I did not have this experience at all, and felt far more comfortable in the north.  The surplus of clean friendly hostels (none seem to exist in the south) helped tremendously.

One such hostel, The Drift, posted a single advertisement for morning cooking classes at a restaurant called The Green Mango.  Eight in the morning on a Sunday is a bit early for my tastes, but the description of the class sounded ideal: Shop through an old town market for ingredients, and then create a three-course meal of your choosing from about thirty different options.  Normally, all students would have to agree on the menu and split the resources while preparing the food.  As I would be the lone student today, the class is instead a private lesson, and the kitchen is mine.

Papaya Salad

This salad, popular throughout southeast Asia, can be modified to serve as many people as necessary.  The only ratio to keep in mind is water:vinegar:sugar:chili sauce = 3:2:1:1/2.  It will seem like a lot of liquid and sugar, though once the salad is fully drenched, it should be lightly squeezed out before serving.  Aside from that, the recipe is simple: mix all ingredients and serve in a large lettuce leaf.

• green papaya(s), shredded
• carrot(s), shredded
• crushed peanuts
• crushed sesame seeds
• coriander/cilantro
• basil
• 1 lettuce leaf to serve the salad in
• 3/4 cup water
• 1/2 cup vinegar
• 1/4 cup sugar
• 1/8 cup chili sauce (to give it some bite)
• a dash or two of salt, to taste

Sweet and Sour Prawn

The shrimp they’ve got down here are ridiculous, with some being as large as a baby’s arm.  We opt for some amply sized fellas down at the market, and quickly get them battered up and fried.

Batter:

• 1 egg
• 1 cup flour
• 1/2 cup cold water
• salt

Get a good amount of oil hot and ready and then run each prawn through the batter before dumping it into the oil.  Flip once and then remove, once golden brown and lightly crispy.  Place on a bed of paper towels to let the oil drain off a bit.

Veggies:

• one red pepper, chopped
• one green pepper, chopped
• chopped pineapple
• chopped onion
• chopped tomato
• 2 cloves of garlic, chopped
• a handful of small, red chilis, sliced

Place garlic and chilis in a small amount of oil and lightly stir-fry.  After a minute or so, add the remainder of the vegetables.  Stir fry for three minutes or so and then add the sweet and sour sauce:

• 2 tablespoons sugar
• 1 tablespoon water
• 2 tablespoons vinegar
• 1 tablespoon ketchup
• dash of salt

That’s about enough for one serving.  Keeping that same ratio, you can make as much (or as little) sauce as you like.  Add the prawns for about thirty seconds and the meal is done.

Beef with lemongrass and chili

• Beef, sliced into bite-sized portions
• 1 stick lemongrass, thinly sliced
• a handful of red chilis, sliced
• 2 tablespoons chicken stock
• 2 tablespoons oyster sauce
• 1 tablespoon chili sauce
• one red pepper and one green pepper, sliced
• coriander
• salt and pepper, to taste

Big chunks of lemongrass aren’t easily chewable, so care should be taken to get it sliced as thinly as possible.  The red chilis should be about the same size.  Mix the chilis and half the lemongrass slices with the beef and put a dash or two of salt and pepper on it before setting off to the side.

Mix the chicken stock, oyster sauce, chili sauce and salt in a bowl and set aside.

Stir-fry the garlic and remaining lemongrass over high heat for about thirty seconds.  Add the green and red pepper.  Add the beef and fry everything for another minute or two.  Add sauce and cook for thirty more seconds, then serve.

It’s always interesting to peer through another culture’s looking glass onto your own and see just how perversely distorted things appear.  Without intending to be offensive, impersonations and approximations of things foreign to us rarely come off as complimentary to those being portrayed.  Think Mickey Rooney in Breakfast at Tiffany’s or Long Duk Dong in Sixteen Candles for Hollywood’s skewed take on Asians for just two small examples.  It was only a matter of time before I found a few reverse examples of China’s view of the west, and apparently no place in China captures that view more bizarrely than Chongqing’s own Foreigner Street.

The lovely Lisa from Khabarovsk, Russia (where I would one day visit) quickly became one of my favorite foreigners in Chongqing.  Despite being one of my youngest friends, she’s sharp as a tack (top of her class this year, she managed to get a much-needed scholarship to stick around next year) and speaks English better than any of the non-native English speakers in China.  She managed to procure for herself a Portuguese boyfriend very early on, but being more serious-minded, he wasn’t interested in some of the things she wanted to do, leaving me as the surrogate exploring companion.  Fair enough — it’s good to have company when checking out new and perplexing environments.  She’s remarkably self-sufficient, confident and happy, despite her stories of growing up in Russia making it sound as though she was raised in what sounds to be near abject poverty.  In short, she’s been a good and interesting friend to have here.

Early on, we’d heard tales of the notorious “Foreigner Street,” where Chongqing attempted to recreate foreign architecture and lifestyles through a severely distorted mirror.  Little information is available about the place online, save for bizarre photos of surreal buildings and landscapes.  Originally a brainchild of the Mexin door company (one of the largest makers of doors in China if not the world), the theme park opened many years ago with little success.  It’s fairly out of the way for most foreigners to just stumble across it and the Chinese apparently (and with good reason) found it tacky.  Its popularity has picked up in recent years for some reason (maybe the birth of hipster irony in China?), though almost all foreign business have closed up shop, despite some incredible incentives from the owner.

Actual foreigners willing to open a business on Foreigner Street get three years rent-free — that includes both the storefront and lodging, leaving business owners to pay solely for basic supplies.  If it sounds too good to be true, it mostly is, due to one flaw that seems to be intrinsic to Chongqing if not to all of China: The Chinese don’t seem to like any food but their own.  Pizza restaurants, burger joints, and standard culinary styles from Italy, Mexico, Japan, India and other places that are well represented nearly everywhere else in the world all seem to fail here.  (God, I’ve missed burritos this year)  Anyway, visitors to Foreigner Street will find restaurants with pictures of pizzas and pasta emblazoned all over their doorways, and quaint-looking French cafes, as well.  Don’t be fooled — they’re Chinese noodle joints now, with almost identical menus (all noticeably lacking in anything remotely “foreign”).

And so, all western restaurants and stores inevitably close within months of opening, to be quickly replaced by Chinese tea houses, Chinese noodle shops and all the other Chongqing-style restaurants that can be found on every street in the city.  As for foreign fare, only an Indian food restaurant remains, though it’s been deserted both times I’ve visited the city, despite serving some fairly excellent curry.  Now, people only come to Foreigner Street for the ever-growing spectacle.  A miniature Great Wall twists along an entire side of the park with a replica of Rio’s Christ the Redeemer statue being erected off in the background.  There are pyramids here next to churches, and densely arranged treehouses juxtaposed against a copy of San Francisco’s twisty Lombard Street.  A disembodied pair of legs sticks out from the wall of a house that, for no particular reason, is upside down.

Lisa had managed to track down the proper bus number, though our knowledge of bus station locations is still lacking.  The most exhilarating (and most dangerous method) of transportation in Chongqing is the motoche (pronounced moh-toh-CHIH) — “moto” is clearly lifted from western tongues, and “che” is the common Chinese word implying “vehicle.”  Just last week, one of the teachers had his leg busted in due to a motoche accident and we’d been dying to test one out ever since.  They’re not ideal for long rides, so we wouldn’t be taking one all the way to Foreigner Street, but he could at least take us the short distance from the university to the bus station.

Yet another thing to file under “fun and frightening thing I never need do again.”

The driver actually seemed quite competent, but as he zipped in and out of Chongqing’s notoriously dangerous traffic, I watched as my knees brushed within inches of cars, trucks, buses, railing and any number of other knee-cap busting paraphernalia.  Is he used to passengers with legs as long as mine, and is he taking all of the factors so pertinent to my health into account?  My guess is ‘No.’  But several minutes later, we arrive unscathed.  The bus journey is far less noteworthy, other than taking more than an hour to reach our destination in the far eastern end of Chongqing.

Foreigner Street is the final stop on our bus’s route and everyone gets dropped off at the faux Great Wall.  Roads wind off in different directions haphazardly over hilly land, making it difficult to fathom where you’re going (or where you’ve been) at any time.  It’s a large park, as well; Despite spending several hours there with Lisa, I’d discover entirely new regions of the park (like a miniature Venice) on future visits.  The pictures capture the essence of the place far better than I can describe them, but one chance encounter in the park does stand out.

As Lisa and I passed a film crew interviewing a Chinese man, the female interviewer looked up and spotted us and her eyes immediately went wide with excitement, likely due to our being the only actual foreigners in the park.  Walking away from her previous subject mid-sentence, she quickly brought her crew over to us and began talking.

“HELLO!” she beamed, with the unnatural enthusiasm of a character from an anime cartoon.  ”Where are you FROM?”

“Meiguo,” I say.  America, in Chinese.  ”Elusi,” says Lisa.  Russia.

“OHHH.  AHH-ME-RI-CA!  Very Nice!  You are both very beautiful.  Do you like Chongqing?”

We tell her that we do.

“And,” she adds, looking at me, “Chongqing women so beautiful, do you think?”

“Ha!  Well, you’re from Chongqing, right?”

“No!” she laughs.  So much for trying to mix my answer with a compliment…

“Oh.  Well, yes.  Chongqing girls are very pretty.”

It’s not really a lie on my part, but I don’t think it’s a resounding truth either.  Lots of locals have told me that this city is famous for having some of the most beautiful women in China.  And there are indeed a lot of cute girls.  But as a teacher with students from all across the country, I really don’t see a marked difference between Chongqing and any other region, with regard to general feminine beauty.  She talks to us for a few more minutes, then says that we’ll be on a popular travel show some time in December.  I never see or hear anything more about it, but Lisa tells me that someone that works at one of her favorite restaurants saw her on TV, so I can only assume we got decent exposure.

In the end, there’s no justifiable reason why Foreigner Street should exist.  But any visit to Chongqing probably deserves a visit there.  Besides, it’s not like there are than many other tourist-friendly options around here.

Chinglish

Large, multilingual banners and billboards are spread throughout the park with little concern for accurate translation.  Here’s a small sampling:

“So.  Do you know the Three Gorges?  I want to do a cruce and I am seeing who in the class would like to go.”

The girl inquiring is Russian, as is immediately apparent from her accent, and both remarkably beautiful and tragically too young, even for me.  Then again, almost all the foreign women here are outside of my typical age range, as the majority of them are college students.  There are plenty of Chinese women in a town of 32 million, of course, but dating the locals carries its own set of traps and snares, which deserves an entry of its own.

The “cruce” invitation isn’t specifically aimed at me, but rather at one of the other students in our Chinese class, a Portuguese man.  Still, despite her intent focus on the lone Portuguese, she carries a list of names and contact information, and did phrase the inquiry as open to the entire class so I feel no guilt in piggybacking in on the invite.  It’s early September, and since the start of the semester two weeks ago, we’ve been studying Chinese here in class together each morning for four hours, from eight to noon.

Some students take their studies more seriously than others.  The Russian girl is hoping for a scholarship next year, and for that, she needs extremely high marks (spoiler: she gets the highest marks in the class and successfully gets the scholarship).  Others are students here to study other topics, like psychology and engineering, except taught in Chinese.  For this, they receive one year of intense Chinese study followed by four years of normal education in their new language (a daunting situation, at best).

And then there’s me.  As a teacher of computer programming, my courses begin just three weeks after my arrival.  For those three weeks, my Chinese studies are free and encouraged, but after that, the classes coincide with my own, which means any other learning will have to be self-taught.  It’s safe to say I don’t take things as seriously as most of the others.

I’m curious about the visiting the Gorges, especially as they’re Chongqing’s top tourist attraction (despite being four hours away by bus, or more than a day if one leaves by boat from the city).

“What’s a cruce?” I ask.

“Hmm.  Cruce.  Croo-ees.  Umm…” she pauses, considering her pronunciation.

“‘Cruise,’” someone else chimes in.

Oh.  Duh.  Of course.  A tour whose sole intent is to travel down a river would likely take place on a boat.

“Yes!” she says excitedly, her eyes wide open.  ”Cruise!  Do you want to go?” she now asks me excitedly.

Her name is Lisa (well, Elizaveta) and she’s done an extensive job of organizing this trip, prior to even asking anyone else if they’d like to go along.  Cruise ships come in all shapes and sizes, depending on how much money one is willing to spend, and Lisa isn’t willing to spend much.  Having learned to give up the need for luxury or even, at times, comfort when traveling, I applaud the ticket price she’s arranged.

For the equivalent of eighty dollars, we share a squat riverboat with 150 Chinese tourists for three days and two nights.  Meals and drinks are most certainly not included, but the ticket does handle bus journeys out of Chongqing (and back into it), entrance into the Three Gorges Dam museum, a few incidentals and one of six thin mattresses per small cabin inside the boat.  I’d passively looked into similar tours already, but besides their prices being much higher, I also would’ve been traveling alone, which wouldn’t have been fun at all.  Already I’d discovered that traveling solo in Asia wasn’t nearly as easy as doing so in South America.  Language problems are the worst, but even smaller things like reliably using hostels to meet up with other travelers can’t be counted on as much here.

On the negative side, some of my future students are in this Chinese class with me, and the idea of spending a weekend on a boat with them is a bit strange for my tastes.  As it is, I see them out at the same bars and clubs I frequent (for a town of 32 million, there are only a few foreigner hot-spots) and while there’s never anything but friendly conversation between us, I can tell it’s as weird for them as it is for me.  Often we bump into each other, chat politely and mutually seek the earliest exit possible that would allow us to go back to the irresponsible behavior that students and teachers can’t comfortably partake in in each other’s presence.

By the time Lisa’s discovered all interested parties, there are twelve of us with only one of my students among them.  Two Jamaicans, one Brit, two from Kyrgyzstan, one Kazakhstan (no Borat jokes, please), the Portuguese, an African (I forget the country), three Russians, and myself.

Three Gorges trips tend to last two days to a week, depending on how much one is willing to spend, levels of luxury and how much “gorge” you really need in your life.  Our trip leaves Chongqing on a Friday morning, getting us back into the city by Sunday night.  If that sounds like a lot of time to be on a cruise, don’t forget to subtract ten hours of total bus transport time to get to and from the starting city of Wangzhou, 200 miles east of Chongqing.  True, the Yangtze River flows directly through Chongqing, and there are some trips that leave from the city.  But getting to the interesting stuff requires that we either skip a massive chunk of river by busing past it, or give up a few more days of our lives to the river journey.

Bad, poorly-dubbed action movies play on the bus, and there’s not nearly enough space between seats for my massive laowai legs — it’s just like being back in Ecuador!  At a midway point, just as Transporter 2 is ending, we’re dropped off for a food-and-bathroom break.  Two of us desperately need the bathroom but can’t find it on our own, which leads to one of the worst games of international charades ever played.

Another foreigner and I constantly say, in different tones “tse-SU-oh NaHr Lee??” (supposedly, “where bathroom??”) and get blank stares.  Either I’m terrible at charades (which I’m not) or the two women working here have no idea what men look like when they pee standing up.  Before one of them finally groks what we’re asking for, I’ve stuck my thumb out of an open fly with a loud “pssssssssssss” sound and repeatedly mimicked a toilet paper-less ass-wiping while squatting unceremoniously at the front of the line.  The woman smiles at me with a sadly confused look, before her eyes suddenly light up and she points to a display of potato chips.  Luckily one of the patrons caught in line behind us seems to get the drift of my performance and, after a quick bit of Chinese dialogue, we’re sent back behind the store to the dimly lit restroom.

Due to a side visit by bus to some waterfalls and historic sites, we don’t actually make it to the dock until dusk.  A shortage of docking room means that only one boat can be directly attached to the boarding dock at any given time.  However, the intense demand for cruises just like this one means that there are no less than five cruise ships by each dock at any given time.

Solution:  Arrange every boat parallel to one another so all tourists simply walk through a series of other boats to get to their own.  It’s either extremely ingenious or irritatingly confusing.  Lowering my (way too tall for China) head under archway after archway of each boat in the widely laid out fleet, I never quite figured out which.

My height is a consistent problem here in China, and moreso on a multi-platform ship like this one where the designers were clearly being economical with regard to ceiling height.  The hallways clock in at just about six feet high — four inches too tall for my extended frame to walk under comfortably.  The thin-mattressed bunkbeds are equally short, and almost too narrow for me to curl into a passable fetal position, though necessity forces the issue.  Each cabin holds six and comes with a sink/toilet/shower combination that’s smaller than most standalone toilets.  There’s an open, central area complete with an overpriced shop for souvenirs, snacks and alcohol, and there’s a restaurant as well, though no menu is provided.  Native Chinese speakers appear to have no problem ordering, but even with lots of pointing at other people’s food, the process proves too tricky for most of us.

By day, we take to the main outdoor deck while the boat is in motion, basking in cottony wisps of clouds painted against a piercing blue background.  After only a month in Chongqing, with its unrelenting gray haze, I’m amazed at how much I’ve missed this kind of weather.  I was warned that Chongqing’s air would “taste bad,” and happily I didn’t necessarily find this to be the case.  But only being able to see shades of blue about one day in twenty when looking upwards into the sky affected me more than I could’ve anticipated.

“How can you stand the pollution?” I sometimes ask.

“Chongqing always been foggy…” is a fairly standard response.  Sorry, but that fog mated with something evil and unwholesome long ago, which then passed out like a fetid, drunken hobo over your city.  But enough about Chongqing; here along the Yangtze River is still beautiful as long as you don’t look at the water.

I suppose I don’t blame the Chinese people for being so prone to littering; I know littering in the States is still an issue, and was much worse when I was a small child, before there were programs and PSAs in place to force into our heads to give a hoot, Don’t Pollute! But it’s really hard to look at someone taking pictures of the gorgeous scenery with what seems to be a genuine appreciation for nature’s grandeur, only to watch the same person thoughtlessly toss a candy wrapper into the river moments later.  At times, the boat sliced through the blanket of filth, leaving a thin streak of clean water surrounded by garbage in our wake.  At times, part of me came close to saying something.  But inevitably, the rest of me would remember that I can’t speak Chinese.

A heavy itinerary is planned for us, but most of our days are still spent in transit, and we’re blessed by almost cloudless weather that would almost be too warm, were it not for a steady breeze.  Back on shore, some of us had purchased paper kites, and the wind is just strong enough to hold them aloft as the boat makes its way down the Yangtse.  Chinese people take to the decks as well, but in much smaller numbers, so that things are never cramped, with the majority of them opting to stay indoors.  More than any other people I’ve encountered, the Chinese love to gamble on games of chance, and many doors are open to intense card games with stacks of Yuan piled up on the tables.  A larger, shared room opposite the restaurant is filled with specialized Mah Johng tables that are generally well occupied.  It’s an interesting game, but the rules change from region to region and few groups take kindly to laowais looking on trying to get a grasp of the local style.

But I’m fine with just sitting outside.

What are the Three Gorges? (三峡)

The third-largest river in the world, the Yangtze starts in the far northwest region of China and works its way south and eastward, passing my temporary home city of Chongqing, before emptying into the Pacific Ocean outside of Shanghai.

“With a name like Yancy, they must really appreciate you there for being named after such a glorious source of sustenance, right?” you might ask.

Wrong.  The Chinese call it Chang Jiang (literally “The Long River”) and have no idea what I’m talking about when I try to relate myself to the waterway.  In actuality, the name Yangzi comes from a single ferry crossing of the river near Shanghai that foreigners had heard about and taken to be the river’s actual name.  The Chinese-sounding name stuck in the western world, despite the fact that no Chinese people actually seem to call it that.

While possibly an interesting journey for all 6300 kilometers from start to finish, most people skip all the fluff (Chongqing included) and head straight for the Yangtze’s money shot: The Three Gorges.

Qutang, Wu and Xiling.  Located in the Hubei province, the three combined take up barely 120 kilometers worth of space, though they’re easily the most well traveled section of the entire river.  If you haven’t heard of the gorges before, don’t feel too bad.  But if you have, there are three possible reasons:

1. Many groups (possibly all Chinese) list it as an “Eighth Wonder of the Natural World”
2. It’s such a famous part of the Chinese landscape that they added it to their 10 Yuan bill
3. The massive Three Gorges dam — the largest in the world — has evoked both awe and controversy since its inception.

The dam’s got its share of proponents and detractors, but it’s undeniable that its changed the landscape of the gorges forever, and raised the water levels there in places by over 500 feet.  Environmentalists are naturally concerned, and besides the 1.3 million people displaced by the project (with historic and ancestral homes now completely submerged), there are hidden risks like landslides and projected flooding as far west as Chongqing.  However, in a country with an intense need for power that will only continue growing as China catches up with the West, hydroelectric power is probably the cleanest and most renewable form of energy available to it.  Since coal (with its terrible effects on China’s environment) is the current source of most of the country’s energy, halting any of China’s hydroelectric projects is kind of a double-edged sword.

Looking at this map of a typical Three Gorges tour…

…one can make out a tremendous selection of possible tourist fare.  It’s quite possible we were alerted to many of these destinations as we floated on by, but as any explanations were only in Chinese, our entire group was oblivious to them.

However, we did manage to make about 1-2 significant stops each day where we’d exit the boat and get to look around.  Here’s a brief itinerary:

Day 1: Qinglong Waterfall by day, then Feng Jie, the White Emperor City, at night

Day 2: Dragonboat races and shows in the Little Three Gorges, in Wu Gorge

Day 3: A tour of Xiling Gorge by riverboat (about a quarter the size of our own boat) and a Tour of the Dam.  A long, tired bus ride home.

Day 1: Waterfalls and White Emperors

At this point it’s still more efficient to get us around by bus, as we’ve yet to even see the boat we’ll be spending the next few days upon when we arrive at Qinglong.   At over 500 feet across and 350 feet high (”like Niagara Falls in USA” says one touring website), the waterfall is clearly the main attraction here, though there are ancient style bridges and those ubiquitous pagodas.  Most impressive is the hollowed out area behind the falls, allowing those of us that don’t mind getting fairly drenched to pass behind it.

There are overpriced rafting rides and plenty of spots for photo ops…

Oh, that reminds me.  Chinese Pet Peeve #72:

I understand that you guys like taking pictures.  That’s a universal thing, and the Japanese are probably still mocked for being camera-happy more than any other culture (though maybe not for long…).  But if you’re at a scenic spot and there’s clearly a line of people huddled around you as you snap pictures of your mother/girlfriend/child/uncle/dog/etc, is it Really Necessary to take 46 different pictures?  I know you’re just trying to get the right shot, but there are twelve people around you also waiting to take just one.  Either there’s a mass epidemic of obliviousness, or people just don’t care about anyone else around them.  I’m going with the latter.  That’s all.

…but after the waterfall, most of us are ready to head back to the bus, stopping for the street food offerings of cold noodles and fried potatoes along the way.

From Qinglong, it’s still more than an hour to Fengdu where we embark, followed by another hour or more of getting settled and taking in Fengdu’s frenetic neon landscape while the boat prepares to make its move.  It’s already dark as we start to head east along the Yangtze, eventually stopping for a quick break at Fengjie to see the White Emperor Temple.  By night, it’s far more impressive from afar as the ancient temple is fully framed in powerful red neon.  Inside, each room houses an assortment of larger-than-life statues telling the sad story of Liubei, the King of Shu, and his final days.  Like most things here, it’s impressive but would be far more compelling with an English translation.

Far more interesting is the long row of cheap tourist kitsch and hot street food we pass as we make our way between the boat and the temple.  Shaozi (street BBQ) is available here, but that’s plentiful enough in Chongqing.  More unique are the fried dough and even-more-fried fish they’re hawking here.  It’s the only option for dinner, and we make the most of it.

Day 2: A Brush with the Law, Dragon Boats, etc

It’s hard not to get impatient as the throngs of Chinese passengers slowly huddle forward in a thin line off of the boat, merging with each other with no regard for the Western concept of personal space.  Ok, I’m not being entirely fair here.  The truth is, we were probably being stupid and should’ve expected that said stupidity would be a bad idea in China.

Ivan, a Russian and my sole student on this trip, stood just ahead of me by the railing as we ambled slowly through the line to disembark.  Our boat was firmly pressed up against the dock, with only the railing separating our group from the freedom that a neverending line of Chinese tourists seems to be denying us.  So, seemingly without putting much thought into it, he hops the rail and makes his way toward our group of friends that’d already congregated on the other side.  Following his lead, the Jamaican, Keroma (who stands out on this boat even more than I do, to the point where parents constantly bring their children over to him awkwardly for photo ops, even if the children are screaming out in fear) and I make our way over as well, with seemingly little fanfare.

Unfortunately for us, an officer of some sort (what his actual role was is uncertain) managed to spot us and was less than thrilled by our flagrant disregard for disembarking policy.  Rather than simply chastise us, he sets us aside while everyone else on the boat, now smirking, makes their way off.  Some people even tap the officer on the shoulder, adding to the indignity by giving him a thumbs-up sign (and seriously, China, I’ve never had people ignore lines and cut in front of me anywhere in the world more than here, so don’t act too superior now, fuckers…) while gazing over at us.  Back on the boat, he wants our passports but we claim not to have them, which is a potentially dangerous bluff.

It ends up paying off, as he seems unsure what to do with us.  We’re likely the most exciting thing that’s happened at his job in weeks, so he’s clearly milking it, but there are times when the language barrier actually helps in China, and dealing with officials is one of them.  Unless you’ve done something significantly bad, it’s simply too exhausting trying to communicate with foreigners to spend too much time on it.  Eventually, he waves us off the bus with a warning tone and a shake of his finger.

“What are you boys doing??” probes Alecia, the Jamaican girl, when we finally catch up with them on the other side of the dock.  ”Police?  You’re not back at home.  You’re in China.  What were you thinking??”

We stare down at the floor, despite both being older than she is, quietly taking our verbal punishment.  It’s hard to argue when someone’s so obviously right.

Giant drums adorn the waterside waiting area as we put on our lifejackets and prepare to get into the narrow dragonboats.  The long row-boats, with fronts shaped like giant dragon heads, hold about 14 people comfortably with a guide.  Floating markers in the water make it seem as though we should be racing, though seeing that we’re the only boat, such a venture’s hardly compelling.  Overhead, a high wire runs over the entire gorge and a man on a bicycle slowly makes his way across.

The trip ends at a large playhouse where a traditional style show is going on.  The words are lost on us, though the meaning can mostly be garnered through the action and by seeing who yells at whom.  An old king is threatened by forces unknown.  A prince and his lover surreptitiously show their affection for one another.  Dance scenes and swordplay ensue.

Day 3: A Quiet Ride, A Massive Feat of Engineering

We awake just before dawn, exhausted.  Despite rushing to exit, we’re still the last off the boat, but the upside is having virtually no line to deal with.  We’re quickly motioned across the dock to another boat, far smaller, that lays waiting for us.  This section of the gorge is too narrow for the large boats, so the temporary boat transfer is standard.  I’m starved, but the only food option on the boat is fried whole chicks (yes, baby chickens) and I can’t quite find the stomach for such unique fare this early in the morning.   Outside, the sun is only just starting to rise and I’m colder than I’ve felt for the entire trip.

We’re seated in rows listening to an enthusiastic woman drone on in Chinese for close to half an hour.  As the rest of the crowd sits rapt, hanging on her every word, our exhaustion and incomprehension work together to put most of our group back to sleep.  At some point, people start heading outside to admire the gorge as the sun makes its presence known.  The views here are amongst my favorite from the entire trip.

At another, much smaller dock, we’re unloaded once again as each group makes its way to even smaller boats for a quick journey down the narrowest gorge yet.  Our guide is lively, bordering on cartoonish, as he excitedly tells stories with his long fur smock and straw hat.  At one point it’s clear that he wants a volunteer and I make myself available.  He dresses me in the hat and smock and then gets a quick laugh by kissing me on the cheek.  I’m visibly clueless as to what he’s saying to me, but the crowd at least seems to enjoy it.   We shake hands and he’s done with me.

Back at the main ship, we’ve got a few hours to kill before reaching the dam and I spend my time either talking to the other laowai or reading up on materials for my classes.  In many ways, I’m unqualified to be teaching the classes they’ve set up for me to teach here, so a lot of cramming has to be involved for me to fake it with any degree of confidence.

Security at the Three Gorges Dam is no joke.  Guards amble down the aisle of our bus, searching purses and bags for anything that could be considered dangerous.  For some reason, the bulk of what they collect is make-up, though it’s all returned upon leaving.  We get the impression that there will be four different spots we’ll be visiting at the dam, though as with the rest of this trip, it’s impossible to tell if one doesn’t speak Chinese.  We stick together, following the crowd unquestioningly.

The first stop to do with the dam.  There are food stands and attractive fountains and gardens, though nothing is explained, even in Chinese.  The second stop is a museum of sorts, though the museum-to-gift-shop ratio, in terms of building allocation, is around 1:4, with the massive souvenir and trinket shops fully surrounding anything of interest worth visiting.  The remaining two spots allow for great views of both sides of the world’s largest dam, though.

Three Gorges Dam Stats

1. 

   It's true.

   Year started: 1994

2. Year completed: 2008 (though full power will not be generated until 2011
3. Length: 7,500 feet (close to one and half miles)
4. Height: 600 feet
5. Thickness: 115 feet
6. Volume of water processed: 51,402,459 cubic yards (next largest in Canada with 706,000 cubic yards)
7. Power generated: 22,500 Megawatts (2nd place is Itaipu in Brazil with 14,000 Megawatts)

Opponents of the dam have genuine issues with it, as mentioned earlier.  The project displaced at least 1.5 million people and buried over 1,300 historic sites, in addition to its effects on the local environment and wildlife.  In addition to being a worrisome target for potential terrorism, the dam is built on a seismic fault, making it vulnerable to planetary dangers as well.  However, it’s easy for all of these complaints to be brushed aside simply by pointing out that it’s the largest man-made energy source currently in existence, a crucial piece of information for a country of this size moving towards full industrialization.

The dam’s an admirable tourist attraction, though nature lovers out on a quick tour of the gorges will have a hard time not wondering how the stark cliffsides would’ve looked when the water level was over 600 feet lower.

Outside the area of the dam, the women are given back their make-up products (and any other contraband) and we’re bused for close to an hour westward to where our boat waits for us.  Other than the scenic background beauty, there are no more official tourist sites to check out, so we kill time on the upper decks while waiting for the trip to end.  We’re picked up by another set of buses on the other end of the river and, after a massive Chinese-style dinner (several shared dishes on a large lazy susan), sleep our way the five hours back to Chongqing.

Just inside the city limits, I spot a massive billboard featuring a “Western Style” toilet (one you can sit down on, as opposed to a hole in the floor to squat over).  On the opposite end of the toilet in the advertisement is a small Chinese boy of around three, fully naked with a neon rainbow arching out from his penis to the toilet as though being urinated out of him.  Sadly, I fail to capture the magnificence of this ad in a picture and I’ve never seen the billboard again.  Even after being here several months, some things are just too damned bizarre for me to fully get a handle on.

Chinese Dinner. I have no idea what most of the things I ate were, but none were too frightening

Me, by the Kui Gate (the section of the gorges on the 10 Yuan note) holding a 10 Yuan note

The 10 Yuan note

Getting Out to the Pits

The options for getting out to the four open pits that hold the warriors are:

1) Pay 150 yuan to be picked up and dropped off back at the hostel in the afternoon with a group.  This includes the museum entrance fee along with a side trip to a factory where miniature (and life-sized for those with a few thousand dollars to blow) terra cotta statues are still made for the tourism industry.  Or…

2) Walk to the bus station by the northeast section of the city wall.  Attempt to track down another bus (316, I believe) and take it to its final stop, which just happens to be the museum.  The buses are cheap, and it would cost less than ten yuan in total, though the museum still costs 90 yuan to get in, so this option isn’t noteworthily more frugal than the first.  But it is a lot lonelier if one is traveling alone.  I’ve found that even better than hostels for meeting people while traveling, are these tour groups that take travelers out and about with other foreigners to strange and exotic places.  Unfortunately, as of Sunday night, no one else is interested, and the group needs to be at least five people large.

Thankfully, I am saved by Mormons.  Yes, a group of about eight of them happen to be staying at the hotel, and they’d gone to bed prior to my return from the water show.  Keeping with stereotypes, they are among the warmest, friendliest tourists I’ve met on my trip — certainly as far as Americans go (we’ve got a reputation for being fairly arrogant assholes, as far as tourists go, and it’s not entirely an invalid label).  In mere moments, I’ve gone from a lone traveler to a member of a kindly nine-person group on our way out to ol’ Qin’s mausoleum.

The journey takes just under an hour, and we make a quick detour while still in the city limits to explore what is described as “a museum that explains how the warriors were built.”  This is only partially true.  You can indeed watch a live performance of a terra-cotta warrior being assembled, but the warrior in question is sadly just ten inches tall.  Yes, more than a “museum,” we are taken to one of the more elaborate tourist traps I’ve visited in my time spent traveling.  Small women spend their days finishing off each individual unit by hand, while tourists are bussed in to observe them.  Visitors are free to leave after the short presentation, of course, but not via the way they came in.  No, instead we are guided through about five large rooms of merchandise — from collections of warriors of almost every size to large, hand-crafted furniture pieces to kitschy jewelry one might find at any souvenir stand.

In a room full of more clay warriors than we’d likely see later at the exhibit, our “tour guide” dogs my every step, clearly thinking he’s found a mark.  He might’ve been correct, too, had I not already picked up a little warrior back in the city for about one quarter of the price listed here (and nearly identical, as far as I could tell).  He stands by my side, watching me intently as I casually expect an assortment of characters I have no intention of purchasing.

As I pick up an archer, he moves in for the kill.  ”Yes,” he says, “You look very good with that one.”

“Do I?  You think it’d make a nice necklace, maybe?” I say, holding it up against my chest and looking down with a discerning eye.

“Haha.  Very good!”

I set it down and continue on to a more highly-priced table where the soldiers each stand a good four inches taller than their counterparts at the previous stand.

“I think,” he says, “that these are the ones for you.  Very big, like you.  Strong.”

“Hmm, yes.  I am quite large.”

“Yes.”

“And you would say, then, that the soldiers at that other table are… ’so small’?”

“Yes.”

“So small?”

“Haha.  Yes.  So small.”

“Nice!”  I put the larger archer down and proceed outside to the best feature about this “museum” — The cheesy photo op:

Freed from the vast gift shop, the rest of the journey goes by smoothly.  Vans are forced to park close to a kilometer away from the actual site, so we make our way over briskly, passing the few other groups that made their way out here on a Monday.  My choice of days was impeccable, as we breeze through the turnstiles without even a hint of a line and make our way into the museum grounds.

Before getting into the actual pits, one should understand what units your typical sticky-rice-filled, earthen army is comprised of:

Infantry: As expected, these are the most numerous of the figures, filling up the majority of the pits.  Infantrymen all have their hair tied in a stylish topknot, always on the right side of their heads.  They tend to be armored in either dense robes or thick-plated scale mail.

Cavalry: These men differentiate themselves from all the other action figures by each coming with their own life-sized horse.  Most of the horses came with chariots as well, though since they were built with wood, only vague outlines of their shape still exists.  Horses exist on their own, or sometimes in groups of other horses pulling larger chariots.

Archers: The archers are the only figures that are perpetually in kneeling position, on one knee, ready to strike.  If, that is, they weren’t made of clay.  Their heads are similar to infantry, only the topknot is located on the left side rather than the right.

Officers: The leader figures are rare in number, but proportional in count to an army of this size.  They stand out by having a slightly wider topknot located directly in the center of their heads.  A British website lists these figures as “Officials” and describes their role as non-military, though our tour guide regularly referenced that these were the men leading the army into battle.  I hope my guide was correct, as this was the model of miniature statue I purchased, and if she was wrong my souvenir is suddenly significantly more lame.

Guests to the “pits” — the unofficial title of the four distinct sites that have been discovered thus far — are warned in advance to start at the second pit, advance to the third and then conclude things in the massive first pit.  The fourth is the newest and is only visible via a glass ceiling that looks in over the excavation.  Even then, “visible” is a loose term, as nothing about the view is more exciting than looking in on barren earth and occasional hand tools anywhere else on earth.

Our guide sticks to the advice we’ve been given, with regard to pit order, and the reasoning on everyone’s part is sound.  The massive Pit One is simply too impressive to be followed up by its significantly less exciting sister pits.  In terms of size, Pit Two is still quite sizable and gives a good impression for the scope of the ancient project, with long, parallel hallways of warriors stretched out across a vast expanse.  However, work has only just begun on re-assembling its inhabitants, and broken body parts — both human and equine — lay scattered in heaps of rubble throughout the room.  Pit Two also has re-assembled samples of each of the units behind glass cases, for those seeking a more intimate view.  The unearthed archer on display even still shows some sign of coloring along his back, which is a rarity despite the fact that all the warriors were once covered in paint.

Pit Three is the smallest, and the belief is that this was the ancient war chamber, given the higher percentage of officers.  Though if the British newspaper is to be believed, this room was once filled with Officials instead, making it a far less exciting place for clay people to visit.  Each pit contains a variety of ways to separate the tourist from his money (gift shops, photo ops, etc), though Pit Three is the most creative.  Using cameras and on the spot photoshop skills, visitors can have their face “clay”-ified and placed onto a photo of the warrior type of their choosing.

As its a Monday, the line into Pit One is blissfully short, though one can easily understand why that might not be the case.  Upon building this massive showcase of the largest, most ineffectual army of all time, China took a gamble that it would drastically increase tourism to the area, and looking out onto the massive formation of soldiers, it’s clear that their bet paid off.

In a room larger than the size of an airplane hanger, twelve long rows of the soldiers stretch out from one side the building to the other, with each row 4-5 men wide.  Infantrymen make up the bulk of the army, though from hairstyles alone it’s easy to spot the occasional officer mixed in.  Horses are interspersed at times with the soldiers as well, sometimes with an empty space behind them where a chariot — long deteriorated due to being made of wood — once stood behind them.  It’s equal parts awe-inspiring and a testament to the epic pointlessness ancient rulers were once capable of.

In the gift shop, we meet the aforementioned Yang Zhifa, busily signing autographs of books he had no part in the writing or producing of.  For an old man, his hands still dart across the page as he signs each book, though if he’s in hell it doesn’t show on his implacable face.  The line is long and there’s no reason to believe that it ever lets up while the shop is open.  Poor bastard.

The tour closes with one of the more bizarrely filmed reenactments of all the important events leading up to the creation and discovery of the warriors.  In a large round room, twelve screens wrap around the audience in a circle, presenting a 360 degree story that’s more disorienting than awe-inspiring.  The panoramic style is an effect that I’m sure I’ve seen before (Epcot Center, perhaps), though one thats popularity both skyrocketed and plummeted all in a short period of time in the 80’s everywhere else in the world.  Too many distinct events take place on a single screen, despite the myriad of choices, causing all audience members to watch the narrative in a constant whirling dervish if they want to keep up with the loose narrative.  Couple that with the low quality, damaged film and eery reverb-heavy background music, and the whole thing comes across like a presentation from the Dharma Initiative.

Back in Xi’an, I part ways with the Mormons who, even after six hours of touring around the area, seem to be as chipper and friendly as they were when we first met.  They’re teaching in a smaller city 20 hours east of Xi’an by train and desperately need to make a supply pilgrimage to Xi’an’s Wal-mart, a store that definitely isn’t present in most Chinese cities.

For my part, I’ve been planning all day on doing the bike trip around Xi’an’s city wall, but a significant hitch in my plan comes in in the form of pouring rain and significant drop in the temperature.  My only regret in Xi’an is not at least climbing to the top of the massive wall that the city is famous for; it’s a nice town, but it’s very unlikely I’ll ever be back here.

Han Tang is one of the better run hostels I’ve been to in Asia, and comparable or better to any of my favorites from South America.  They booked my 8 pm train ticket for me in advance, and at 7, after vegging out in the common room watching the final Pirates of the Caribbean movie (turns out I didn’t miss much skipping it in theaters) they offer me a free ride up to the train station.

My stomach turns at first as I spot the line leading into the station, though in the name of staying positive, I’m thankful that it actually is someone line-shaped — that’s never something that can be guaranteed here in China.  It’s one of the least English-friendly travel experiences I’ve encountered so far.  The digital signs are all in China, and as scores of cities flash by, I focus intently, looking for the symbol that signifies Chongqing.  There it is: Gate 18.

Gate 18 is a madhouse of a waiting room, as the seats are all taken and entire families huddle together in the aisles between, clutching massive bags that may or may not comprise the entirety of their belongings.  It’s like a scene stolen from old stories of arrivals to Ellis Island in New York, excepting of course that everyone here is Chinese and that this is just a normal train ride to any of them.

Riding a train in China offers four separate options:

1. 

   Hard beds. The one on bottom was mine.

   Hard Seats: This is the cheapest way to travel and, as the name implies, the least comfortable.  Seats are tightly cramped together and from what I’ve heard, riders aren’t even guaranteed a spot on one.  It’s not unheard of for riders to remain standing in the aisles for the duration of a 13-hour, all-nighter.  In other words, passengers in this section are on a particularly tight budget.

2. Soft Seats: A step in the right direction, as far as comfort goes.  Apparently there are still people standing in the aisles in this section, though it’s unclear whether or not they’re spillovers from the Hard Seat section.  For the extra ~2 dollars these seats cost, one would at least hope each ticket guarantees an actual sitting position of some sort.
3. Hard Beds: My choice for this adventure.  These beds aren’t as hard as they sound, as the mattresses are about three inches thick.  These beds are stacked like bunk beds, three high, and each open compartment houses six beds.  A thin pillow is provided, as is a large white blanket.  It’s uncertain how much any of these sleeping accessories are cleaned, but for what it’s worth there wasn’t any discernible smell to my bed.
4. Soft Beds: The distinguishing feature to these tickets isn’t the comfort of the bed (though they are a bit nicer) but the quality of the room.  Rather than sleeping six people to a dark, open compartment, the Soft Beds are arranged four to a private room.  I only caught a glimpse into one of the rooms, but it was a clear step up in terms of looks and class to where I was sleeping.

Despite all the differences, the difference in price on this trip from the lowest quality all the way up to the Soft Sleepers was less than 15 US dollars.  But I guess when you’re counting every penny, these differences really count.  As I can afford to be a little less frugal with my cash, I pay the hostel twenty extra kuai (about three dollars) to book the ticket for me.  The price seems a bit high to me, but getting anything in China is far more difficult than in South America if you don’t speak the local language.

After the fact, it was explained to me that in the Hard Sleeper section, the lowest bed serves as a bench of sorts for everyone to sit on while it’s still light out.  Only when the lights go out and people are all ready to sleep does the bed’s occupant take over the spot and use it for its primary purpose.  Sadly (for the rest of the people in my compartment) I was absolutely exhausted, leaving one of the “benches” completely occupied almost immediately upon departure.  Some words were spoken to me in Chinese, but sadly (or gladly, in this case, as I surely wouldn’t have wanted to sit up and wait for two hours to actually use my bed) I could only mutter my classic catchphrase of “Ting Bu Dong” (”I hear you, and yet I do not understand you!”) and dismiss each pleading attempt at conversation.

Right on schedule, we arrive in Chongqing just before nine in the morning.

Ahh, Chongqing.

“Home.”

Terra Cotta: Italian for “baked earth”; a clay-based, unglazed ceramic.

A near consensus amongst Chongqing ex-pats seems to be that the famed Terra Cotta Warriors of Xi’an are hyped well beyond their actual levels of entertainment, education and historical value.  The average response gathered from my local cohorts can inexplicably be boiled down to:

“Eh.  They were ok.”

This is a surprising reaction to what some call the eighth wonder of the ancient world (a description that loses a bit of gravitas when one considers how many other ancient ruins across the globe make the same claim).

“You can’t even get that close to them,” tends to be the primary gripe.

Without building up to some low grade surprise, I’ll state from the beginning that, having now experienced the army in all their earthy glory, I do not agree with these opinions and, in fact, found the warriors to be the most fascinating thing I’ve seen thus far in China.  Don’t get me wrong: Pagodas all have a majestic Eastern beauty and serenity to them that commands respect, especially from laowai like me that aren’t used to such a distinctive architectural style.

But sadly, it only takes about four or five experiences of this awe before the standard reaction is replaced with an insouciant “Yup.  Another pagoda.  Sweet.” attitude that greatly lessens their impact.  Regardless of your feelings for pottery, it’s pretty unlikely one will come across over eight thousand individually carved and decorated, life-sized clay warriors from 210 BC and casually think “meh.  this shit again…”

A Brief History of the Warriors for Anyone Too Lazy to use Wikipedia on Their Own

China is always proud to bring up that, while Anglo-Saxons were hobbling about Europe and still rolling about in their own filth, organized Chinese civilization can be traced back over five thousand years.  In fact, the very first settlements in China are believed to be where the Yellow and Yangtze Rivers meet, which just happens to be the location of Chongqing (my current home).  Don’t let this connection fool you into thinking Chongqing has any sort of leg up on global culture due to its advanced age; if there’s evidence to support this theory, I haven’t found it in this city.  But more on Chongqing’s eccentricities later…

Ancient China had several dynasties of note throughout its massive region, but it was the Qin dynasty (221-206 BC) to finally unite all the kingdoms into a single empire.  It would be broken up, tossed around and rebuilt countless times over the next couple of millennia (and indeed, the first dynasty, for all its epic feats and accomplishments only lasted 15 years), but Qin Shi Huang, for all intents and purposes, started it all.

Born Ying Zheng (”Qin Shi Huang” technically just means “first emperor of Qin”, which would not yet have been a true statement in his early years), the young prince took the throne at the age of 13 upon his father’s death.  At this point, he was only the King of Qin, which was only a small region of what would eventually be the Chinese Kingdom, and his people were perpetually at war with their neighbors.  Still a young child, his mother handled most of the duties of leadership early on, though Ying Zheng grew into his job quickly, and luckily managed to notice when his mother sided with an opponent named Lao Ai.  This rebellion didn’t last long; Lao Ai’s followers were summarily caught and beheaded, Lao Ai’s family was executed to the third generation back (sorry, grandkids!) and Lao Ai himself was yanked into five pieces by carriages pulled in opposing directions.  In short, the ancient Chinese did not fuck around.

From 230 to 221 BC, the fiery Ying Zheng bloodied his way across China, taking over each of the independent kingdoms that had been warring relentlessly for several centuries.  The Han were the first to fall, followed by the powerful Zhao, who were at a disadvantage due to a massive earthquake that the Qin were quick to make use of.  Like dominos, the Yan, Wei and Chu fell, leaving only the Qi in the east to be taken.  The king of the Qi, in a drastic final move, sent an army of 300,000 to defend his borders, but like all the other regions, they were quick to fall and for the first time, China was united.

Accurately now calling himself the emperor, “Qin Shi Huang” used his time and power to enact changes that still affect China to this day.  He began work on the Great Wall, standardized all units of measurement, set a single currency, created a national system of roads and canals (including one of the biggest canals of the ancient world) and, most importantly, finally unified the massive Chinese script into a single character set.  Despite this, things weren’t all wine and roses for the first emperor, as there were constant attempts on his life, most notably by Jet Li in 2002’s Hero.

But let’s cut to the chase: If you’re the first emperor of China, and you’ve finally quelled every major rebellion and united one of the largest nations of that era, what’s the most sensible way to celebrate your achievements?   By drinking the elixir of life, of course, which magically enables whomever imbibes it to live forever!  Sadly, the magic elixir in this case was mercury, and rather than grant immortality, it’s believed to have driven the emperor slowly insane until eventually killing him.

While Qin was not able to gain physical immortality, he did gain an immortality of sorts by having one of the largest tombs of its kind ever built.  Starting in 246 BC when the Qin was only 13 years old, as many as 300,000 workers were said to have worked on it until his death in 210 BC.  The mausoleum and surrounding pits have only recently begun to be excavated, though historians claim that within lie replicas of entire cities, wondrous tools and statues and, continuing with an ironic theme, “rivers of mercury.”  To this date, it’s impossible to gauge the tomb’s actual size, as so much of the land around it has yet to be explored.  This, of course, explains why no one was aware of the existence of a massive army of life-sized clay men just a few kilometers from the main mausoleum until they were discovered in 1974.

Information on the tomb, its history and inhabitants (and it’s not unlikely Qin brought a fairly large assortment of servants, concubines and other assorted characters down with him) were well documented by historians of Qin’s time.  So it’s surprising that there was almost no mention of an army of over 8000 hand-crafted units dwelling just outside.  Only four pits have been found thus far, though it’s believed that many more may yet be found before full excavation is completed.  The warriors have been referenced in various ancient legends and folklore, stating that they were placed outside the tomb to serve the king in the afterlife,  with some tales claiming that they were once real men that had been turned to clay.  The fact that the insides of the clay statues are actually comprised of sticky rice does not lend credence to this belief.

Whatever the original intent of creating 8000+ life-sized terra cotta warriors, each with unique facial features was, it’s clear that post-Qin invaders didn’t look kindly on their existence.  At some point, estimated to be less than 100 years from their creation, the pits that held the warriors were broken into and nearly all of the figures were pillaged and destroyed.  Considering that a few weapons were later found and that each soldier was crafted with what is likely the first instance of a “kung-fu grip,” it’s likely that the warriors were plundered in part to pilfer their finely crafted bronze weaponry.

And let’s be honest: if you’re an ancient Chinese mob with no issues about pilfering a creepy clay fellow’s scimitar, and you’re likely of a superstitious sort as well, why not bash his head in as well, just for good measure?  It seems tragically wrong from our historical standpoint, but at the time it was likely about as destructive to the raiders as doing doughnuts on a neighbor’s lawn and playing a quick round of mailbox baseball.

Despite all the king’s horses and all the king’s men being infamously terrible at putting things back together again, the task of rebuilding them isn’t nearly so difficult.  For the past thirty plus years, some of China’s best puzzle-solvers have steadily rebuilt each and every warrior, filling the gaps as needed.  Only the faces are truly unique, meaning that filling in gaps here and there with modern clay on the bodies doesn’t take much away from each statue’s intrinsic historical value.

All of this preamble leaves only the question of how the warriors were found in the first place.  For that, you can thank this guy:

Yes, Yang Zhifa, along with six other workers on one of China’s many collective farms that were all the rage in the 60’s and 70’s, was digging a well on an open scratch of land back in March, 1974.  Close to 30 feet down, Yang discovered not water, but a rather an implacable clay face (that of one of the archer’s in this case) staring blankly back at him.  Thinking the head to be a mysterious Buddhist totem of some sort, he did the naturally reverential thing and chiseled it off to carry to his supervisor.  For discovering one of the most precious archeological finds in Chinese history, Yang and his fellow farmers were justly rewarded with ten credit points each (about the equivalent of a US dime, at the time), and the land was reclaimed by the government so that excavation could begin, displacing most of Yang’s village.

Things clearly didn’t turn out too poorly for Yang, considering he still gets taken care of for signing books at the gift shop every day (alternately, you could say things turned out quite poorly, depending on what your own definition of “private hell” is).  Granted, the 1000 RMB he earns per month is less than 1/8 of my salary, but it’s not bad for a 72 year old ex-farmer.  According to an interview with Shanghai Daily, Yang loves his job:

“I’m tired of signing and the noisy tourists, and I hate those tabloid reporters,” says Yang.

On the positive side, he got to meet the Clintons in 1998, and a picture of the meeting is strategically placed behind him in the gift shop.  Three of the initial seven farmers have died already, and none gained any particular fame or riches from the discovery, though they have made some complaints about local officials having grown excessively rich despite the farmers’ financial condition remaining pitifully unchanged.  According to an article in a British paper, the men are nationalistic enough that they’re proud of what their discovery has done for China.  However, attempts at getting the government to official recognize them as the finders (thus increasing both personal prestige and the ability to charge tourists for photo ops and signatures) have thus far only been met with silence.

In and Out of Xi’an

Literally “Western Peace,” Xi’an (originally Chang’an — “Perpetual Peace”) is one of the oldest cities in China, and served as its capital several times throughout the many dynasties that ran this country.  It also served as the eastern end of the Silk Road.  Besides its proximity to Qin’s Tomb and the Terra Cotta Warriors, Xi’an’s inner city is still fortified by a massive wall, over twenty feet wide, that encircles it and remains far more intact than all other similar battlements of its time.  Bikes are rented atop the section of wall directly over the south gate to anyone feeling up to the 14 kilometer trip from end to end.  Xi’an also has a large Islamic population and the Muslim portion of the inner city hosts the largest mosque in China and a unique assortment of foods and crafts sprouted from centuries of Sino-Islamic intermingling.

The Han Tang Hostel (which my mind has a constant tendency of turning into “Hang Ten” surfer-speak) came highly recommended on both the main hostel searching websites, and I made my reservation with them as soon as I’d booked my flight.  Flights in China are relatively inexpensive (one-way from Chongqing to Xi’an is around $70), and I was in a hurry to make it into the city so it was a smart choice.  At this point in the semester, I’m teaching only two days a week (yes, a five day weekend); it won’t last, and the second half of the semester will be killer, but I mean to make the most of the open schedule while I can.

Weekends are ideal here for traveling and tourism for all the same reasons they would be anywhere else in the world.  Sadly, that cloying drawback where everyone else happens to be hitting the choice spots as the same time is greatly exacerbated in China.  Why?  The math is simple: 1.5 billion people, and a newfound prosperity have created a nation of tourists, both in and around their own country.  It’s impossible to hit any key travel sites in Asia now without being surrounded by throngs of Chinese tour groups (great article behind that link, btw) with a single flag-bearing leader (often employing a megaphone as well), their members marked by identical, brightly colored hats.

These groups seem to tour relentlessly, seven days a week, though weekends bring an almost unacceptable level of obnoxious saturation.  It’s with this in mind that I specifically arrange the trip out of Chongqing on a Sunday, getting me into the warriors’ museum on a Monday, when crowds are likely to be a bit less harrowing.  The train out of the city to Chongqing then leaves on Monday night at 8 pm, arriving back “home” the next morning by nine.  Taking the overnight railway is just under half the cost of the flight and takes six times as long, but it’s all about the experience.

Few people fill out the common room of the hostel, and those that do are either on laptops or lost in reading.  In other words, there’s no one to wander around town with.  No matter.  It’s 2 pm and I need to take in as much of the city as I can since it’s unlikely Xi’an will be getting a second visit further down the road.  The nearest attractions are two ancient structures — Bell Tower and Drum Tower — within sight of one another, located in the heart of the Old City.  They’re moderately interesting and I pay the equivalent of ten dollars to enter Bell Tower (though I opt out of paying the extra 25 to bang on its massive, eponymous bell) and wander through the museum-like interior.  The primary upper room is filled with a variety of ancient bells, used three times a day for a public performance, though my timing is off and I figure it’s not worth waiting another hour to watch some potentially entertaining bell-work.

The view from Bell Tower is probably the most interesting selling point for me, as its located directly in the center of old town, with an enormous traffic circle wrapping around it and major streets branching out in the four cardinal directions.  The city is perfectly laid out on a grid of precise norths, souths, easts and wests — a godsend for a gadget nerd with a compass built into his watch.  Drum Tower is, as advertised, visible from here, with a large outdoor drum (likely also requiring a large donation to use) in a prominent position.  It’s an attractive building from afar, but I don’t really see the point in hitting up another tower that’s nearly identical to one I’ve already felt as though I’d spent too much time in.

Located, logically enough, near the center of the Muslim quarter is the Great Mosque of Xi’an.  It’s equal parts museum and temple these days, as there’s an entry fee to actually go in and walk the grounds (one would assume that actual attendees of services have their own entrance).  Built in the eighth century AD, the renowned mosque is entirely Chinese in its architectural design, and lacks the typical minarets one would normally expect to find present.  Other than occasional decorations and smatterings of Arabic writing, it’s hard to tell the place is a mosque, though the occasional parishioners with their long beards and funky, cylindrical white hats do stand out a bit here in China.

The mosque grounds are quite large, and there are a series of pagodas functioning as gateways that visitors must past through to arrive at the actual mosque.  But the terse, broken “Chinglish” descriptions of each structure don’t provide much detail and a pretty full tour can be covered in under ten minutes.  The prayer hall itself, lined with an extensive grid of small bamboo mats, is closed off to guests, though visible from outside.

Like anywhere else I’ve been in China, a vast array of strange food choices lines the street, much of which I’m still too timid to try.  Sure, in the right mood I’m not above eating the occasional insect or indescribable “is it a plant or an animal?” chunk of queerly shaped goo, but it typically involves a good deal of psyching myself up in advance.  Here in Xi’an, I skip what appears to be a basket of roasted deer hooves entirely, focusing instead on the more approachable delectables.

Large machines dry roast walnuts, and they seem to be more in abundance than any other specialized street food, though hot pepper peanuts are also popular (it’s the latter I’d bring back home upon visiting the States in April for a wedding) and far more addictive.  Several places also specialize in thin, squat orange patties that are deep-fried and served hot.  Apparently made from persimmon, the filling on the inside is a mix of other dark fruits and nuts that pour out of the patty at a tongue-searingly hot temperature, making these particularly difficult to eat.  Local restaurants serve soup dumplings here as well, and while I’m not sure if these are endemic to Xi’an, it is the first time I’ve seen them so far in China (however, the ones in Chinatown in New York City are far better than those I try here).

Down the smaller alleyways (though never too small that locals on motorcycles don’t dangerously push past the tightly packed crowds of shopping tourists) are the shops and stands catering specifically to travelers looking for that special (though not unique — as usual, every stand has the same mass-produced kitsch, no matter how dusty and authentic it looks) thing to bring home.  Prices can always be cut down by at least a third, if not by two thirds — I pick up a soft, silk pashmina scarf for my mother for four dollars and, like the tourist I am, a miniature clay warrior.  Whatever.  The stoic little bastard is a fine addition to any bookshelf.

By 5 PM, there are about two hours of sunlight left and I’m torn between biking across the Xi’an city wall or making the long trek out of the old city to the Giant Wild Goose Pagoda.  The bike ride seems like a better option for tomorrow (I’ve already researched and found out that trips out to the warriors are typically back by 2-3 in the afternoon) and make my way southward to where the city wall demarcates the border between “old” and “new” Xi’an.  By the south gate stands another tourist market, this one seemingly specializing in either fine calligraphy brushes or bronze work.  My new little clay friend is more than enough to deal with carrying around for now, so I barely stop, despite the warm, welcoming gestures of the shop-keepers.

Were my map of the city to scale, I would be just about halfway to the pagoda upon exiting the old city.  Sadly, I discover quickly that it is not.  As the sun goes down, a cold Xi’an night descends unexpectedly, and I huddle up into my hoodie for maximum warmth while walking for another hour and a half down clean by generally uninteresting Chinese city streets.  Signs pointing in the direction of the pagoda are numerous enough that I never feel lost, but the length of the walk and the cold night air make me question how necessary this pagoda visit actually is.

By this point in China, I’ve seen enough pagodas so as to not find their existence in any given city a major draw.  And if my final destination only housed a single pagoda, no matter how ancient, it’s unlikely to have been enough of a draw to bring me this far out of the old city.  However, Giant Wild Goose Pagoda hosts, directly to its north, the largest fountain in Asia.  Every night after sunset, crowds gather around to watch and cheer uniquely choreographed blend of water, light, colors and sounds.  The fountain itself is a series of long, rectangular sections, each just slightly smaller than a football field and dotted with a grid of waterspouts, like whale blow-holes, that lay dormant for 23 hours of every day.

The remaining hour, however, is a relentless explosion of hundreds of tall jets of water, each projected to various heights in coordination with whatever music is being played.  Powerful beams of lights of every shade illuminate the streams of water, adding to the effect.  The Chinese, ever diligent on any way to make a buck (or a yuan) stand ready with waterproof photography equipment, hustling through the crowds relentlessly as they show pictoral examples of previous visitors actually standing within the fountain as jets of colorful light explode around them.

When the music begins, it is with a slow-paced Chinese instrumental that doesn’t do much to highlight the connection between the water and the sounds.  Maybe if I recognized the tune it wouldn’t feel as joltingly arrhythmic as it does to me, but when the instruments involved don’t even seem to be playing synchronously, it’s hard to gauge any connection that the random spurts of water might have to the supposed rhythm.  Thankfully, they play a nice mix of Eastern and Western, as Mozart’s Ein Klein Nachtmusik follows, which provides a far better musical canvas on which to arrange the tremendous liquified crescendos and diminuendos.

I feel someone push in next to me, followed by a quick tap on the shoulder.  Two Chinese couples, likely college-aged (I’ll freely admit I have a harder time guessing age with Asians) stare at me, slightly wide-eyed in anticipation.

“Hello!” one girl says.

“Hello!”

“We are very glad that you are here!”

“Thank you.  Xie xie [Chinese for "thank you"]”

“You speak..  Chinese?”

“A little.  ee-dee-ahhrrr.  Wait.  ee-dee-ahn, I mean.”

Therein lies part of my difficulty learning Chinese.  Chongqing has such a unique dialect that studying real Mandarin is almost useless, since the actual words people in my city say sound so different.  For instance, the “ahhrr” sound.  It’s added onto many syllables, seemingly (to me) at random, though most often on the “ahn” sound.  My years as a Captain Morgan representative prepared me well for regularly giving out good, hearty “ahhrr”s, but outside of Chongqing this skill only confuses people.

“Oh,” she says, visibly lost in thought as she attempts to come up with something else to say.  She stares at me expectantly the whole time, and I stare back smiling, beginning to wonder which of us is waiting for the other.  Finally: “Goodbye!” she says, and the others echo it.

“Ok.  Goodbye!”

They’re still standing there staring at me.  It’s kind of weird, but I decide that after four songs I’ve likely seen about as much as this fountain has to offer, and I accept their accidental dismissal as as good a reason as any to make my exit.  The restaurants and stores that line the sides of the fountain are built using ancient Chinese styles, but it’s relatively easy to see how new they are, especially seeing that one of them is a KFC.

A quick sidenote about KFC: There is no doubt in my mind that this is the most popular fast food in the world.  Sure, McDonald’s are everywhere, but KFCs throughout South America were far more plentiful and more popular, and it seems that the same can be said here in Asia.  Indeed, the only American fast food restaurant in Hanoi is KFC.  Though that could have to do with the strange similarity between the images of The Colonel and Ho Chi Minh.  More on that later…

It’s cold and there’s no way I’m walking back.  Cabs are in short supply, but a tuk-tuk (three-wheeled, motorcycle driven carriage) is willing to take me back for a fairly unreasonable price, especially considering how cold it’s become outside.  Back at the hostel, the owner insists that all travelers in the common room come up to a microphone and say they’re name, where they’re from and the funniest story about traveling in China that they have.  People are reluctant and nervous, but no one refuses and it actually brings the room together nicely.  I socialize for a bit, but no one else in the room is headed out to the warriors tomorrow and I’m too exhausted to hang out for long, especially with a seven AM departure by bus the next morning.

Finishing my beer, I take my leave of the group and collapse into one of the more comfortable hostel bunk beds I’ve come across.

11th Floor, Apartment 3.  Building?  Unknown.

I’ve been here 7 months now and still don’t have a goddamn clue what my address is.  I’ve tried to figure it out from analyzing the writing on the building and from asking other tenants, staff and University employees, meeting nothing but failure with every attempt.  Near as I can tell, no one here gets mail delivered directly to them.  Considering mail is typically a source of junk, bills, ads and other assorted detritus, I don’t find myself missing it that much, but with parents threatening to send massive care packages laden with all the non-perishable delectables I’m deprived of here in China (Cap’n Crunch, or any other breakfast cereal, for that matter — who ever heard of a country without breakfast cereal??), having an actual destination address for them would be nice.   In lieu of that, however, all packages are sent instead to the university where they somehow end up in my boss’s office.  He doesn’t seem to mind.

The Building

It’s no Trump Tower, but more than serviceable for my needs.  As friends from the University began to spread out from school-assigned dorms into private apartments around town, I did feel pangs of jealousy for their 25+ story views, but not for the elevator-waiting that this usually came bundled with.  My building is, I’m told, the “Foreign Teachers’ Building,” which is accurate in that it houses most of the foreign teachers, but inaccurate in that we’re only located on two of the floors.  The lower ten floors supposedly house graduate students, though sparsely at best, given how few other people — foreign or otherwise — I ever run into in the lobby.

Balconies on the lower levels are all barred up, and there is a guard room in the front housing three fairly bored (but friendly) looking individuals that monitor who passes through and lock the doors each night.  Doors are locked promptly at midnight, and while we aren’t given keys to the main entrance, the guards are almost always there and in varying states of consciousness to let us in.  The locked main gate is doubly problematic in that we must be buzzed out to escape should any terrible calamity befall the building.  It’d certainly be a bad time for the guard to be on a coffee break…

Once, coming back from jeifangbei, the cultural and business heart of the city, I had the misfortune of experiencing one of said breaks around 4 in the morning.  Horribly drunk (a sensation I experienced too much in the first semester of the year, leading me to wonder if perhaps something was more potent and/or more toxic about the alcohol here), I walked through campus in the rain as I returned to my building, cursing the city, myself and the particularly strong depression that had settled over me early on after my arrival and had yet to let up.

My experiences here had thus far been a great deal less successful than those in South America — very few people spoke English, and those that did were almost entirely college students, leaving me feeling aged and disconnected from any real social scene to speak of.  As I wandered the city aimlessly, each failure to make any sort of worthwhile connection only further fed an inebriation that had ceased to function as a social lubricant hours ago.  Eventually accepting my utter failure, I begrudgingly returned home with my head down and my spirits at their lowest, seeking the respite that only one’s “home” can provide when I had the misfortune of finding my building completely sealed off to me and unattended.

Screaming in rage, I slammed into the main doors with brute (yet ultimately, ineffectual) force, then gave a similar performance on the door to the guardroom like some nightmarish foreign loon, with just as little success.   The last bit of fight drained from me as the door’s handle came off in my hands, and I collapsed onto the wet ground, resting my head against the hard metal of the entryway as the rain mixed with my exasperated tears.  Five minutes go by — maybe ten — and I look up to see the guard smiling at me apologetically.  He seems to be telling me where he’d been, but I don’t understand and I don’t care.  When the door finally opens, I walk in without a word and petulantly head up to my room.

On a positive note, it’s gotten slightly better since then.

The Living Room

Down a dim hallway with sound-activated lighting, 11-3 is the last room on the left.  Through the dark brown door, the meager kitchen is immediately to the right, while the “foyer” opens up into the living room.  Spacial limitations force me to store the refrigerator out here, next to the sofa.  It’s not always convenient when I’m cooking, though it does make snacks and drinks more accessible when guests are over.

The apartment came with a “sofa” of sorts — a long wooden bench whose uncomfortable slats etch themselves into the ass cheeks of anyone unfortunate enough to sit on them for longer than five minutes.  It is probably the poorest designed piece of furniture I’ve ever sat on in terms of comfort.  Within weeks of living here, I’d tracked down a furniture store and purchased a small futon for just under a hundred dollars.

Nearly everything else in here is provided by the university, save any wall decorations and the large red rug that covers the floor (”it really ties the room together…”).  The glass table is nice, though exemplifies another minor gripe I have Chinese style: The Chinese seem to like tables that have a smaller shelf directly below the main table.  I’m not sure what this is for (spices? newspapers?) but this lower rack is present on almost every Chinese dining table I’ve come across.  I don’t mind extra storage space at all, but why does it have to be located exactly where my knees want to go?  It effectively forces me to sit further out from the table while eating, which doesn’t really work for me.

The large appliance between the television and the balcony is the air-conditioning/heating unit.  I don’t think I could survive without it.  Chongqing gets pretty chilly in the winter, but the hot summers are especially brutal.

The Kitchen

The kitchen’s woefully inadequate for my cooking style, but I make due.  As I mentioned before, there’s little room for a fridge in here, and part of the problem is the washing machine.  In a kitchen the size of most large closets in the States, giving up space for a washing machine stings a bit, but it’s the only place where I’ve got a water hookup.

Chinese people aren’t very oven-centric people, which is surprising to me as there are many bakeries around and they seem quite popular.  But baking in one’s own home clearly hasn’t caught on yet, since most apartments I’ve seen only come with gas ranges.  For Thanksgiving, I splurged and bought myself an oven for a hundred bucks.  It’s basically a glorified toaster oven (it’s electric), yet it’s still powerful enough to bake pies, cakes, pizzas and (most importantly for Thanksgiving) a 17 pound turkey.

Most Chinese food is stir-fried using extremely high temperature flames, meaning my range is close to twice as powerful at its high setting than any I’ve used in the States.  You can’t really leave food frying on its own for too long without constant love and attention or the risk of quickly burning your dinner (or your apartment down, in a worst case scenario) is quite high.  But on the upside, dinners can be fried up lightning fast, with flavors nicely seared in to all vegetables and meats in ways slow, low-temperature frying wouldn’t allow.  The other negative to this cooking style is that “low” setting is roughly equivalent to what would be “medium high” in America, which makes any recipe that requires “simmering” next to impossible.

Three cabinets don’t give me nearly the space I need, so I’ve picked up at least three additional shelving units out of sheer necessity.  The largest of them takes up enough space that even two people working simultaneously in the kitchen feels uncomfortably cramped, but in addition to storage, it also provides me with much-needed counter space.  And it’s not like I often have teams of people cooking things up in my apartment.

The Bedroom

Since most apartments aren’t built with closets in mind, the room conveniently comes with two large clothing cabinets that manage to efficiently contain the sparse wardrobe I have over her.  The bed is large and was brand new when I first arrived here, and the desk and end tables might not be brimming with character, but they serve their purpose well.

My room effectively doubles as my office, since each two-hour class that I teach generally requires 4-6 hours of preparation time.  All the English teachers that I know here are jealous of my work schedule, since they tend to get around four hours more of class per week.  But I’m equally jealous of the fact that they basically just show up to class and start talking, while each class I give feels like a mini-presentation requiring hours of advance cramming out of me.  I think it all balances out.

With all the time I spend at the computer, though, I picked up the black office chair early on to replace the desk chair that came with the place — Much like the living room “sofa” they provided, comfort wasn’t high on the list when the landlords here were picking out furniture.  I keep the clothes rack in here as well, since the bedroom tends to be the warmest when I’m at home.  Clothes driers are definitely not standard fare in Chongqing.  The guitar, also, was a personal addition and not something that came with the place…

The Spare Room

I typically keep this door shut at all times, so I don’t bother with tidiness in here.  Should any guests ever stay with me here in Chongqing, I’d have a place for them, but no one’s swung by just yet.  I basically use this room solely for storage.

The Bathroom

Probably the best and nicest surprise I got upon moving in was a showerhead that was actually installed at a height taller than me.  Chinese people (excepting Yao Ming) aren’t known for being extremely tall, and I was certain I’d be spending the year slouched over uncomfortably in the shower, but this was happily not to be the case.  I’m also lucky enough to have a “western style” sit-down toilet; the standard for apartments in Chongqing is a simple porcelain plate on the ground with a large hole in it.

The only real problem here is the “window”.  It’s basically a small rectangular opening without any means of being sealed.  On cold winter mornings, the frigid air rushed right over me as I showered, fully negating the warmth of the water.  As it was also an unwelcome entry point for insects, I took the matter into my own hands, sealing it with cardboard and duct tape.

The View

It’s not spectacular, but just having a balcony is a pretty decent perk here.  Each of the bedrooms has a large window alcove as well, though the alcove doesn’t seem to be load-bearing which limits its usefulness a bit.

The Chinese tend to be very stingy when it comes to using electricity, which is generally a good thing, though it can be taken to absurd levels.  Case in point: motorcycles often drive around at night with no lights, only shifting the lights on when absolutely necessary.  Can this possibly lower fuel consumption in even the slightest way?

What this means in apartments is that locals are extremely diligent about turning any electrical units off when not in use, and keeping heat/air conditioning at the lowest possible settings.  I might not be as diligent as they are, but I still respect the behavior (especially in a country with such a dense population and known energy consumption issues).  What I don’t understand is how people can be so energy-minded and then have the thinnest possible glass in the windows (not to mention the aforementioned shower window).  On cold nights, it’s possible to stand by my fully-closed windows and just feel the breeze flowing unhindered through the glass and over me.