My Baozi Place

Food, for those of you who are in the dark on this subject, is one of the best things on earth. We have all sorts of lovely things to enjoy while we are on this planet, but I'll wager you'll be missing out on life if you don't eat. But it's not just enough to eat, you have to live food. This doesn't mean gorge yourself at every while, although that may be called for on occasion. What's really important is that you seek out good food and when you find it, you make bloody well sure you've et it.
(If you happen to be one of the foolish one's who doubts the existence of such a verb as "et" please refer yourself to Dictionary.com and pay particular attention to the first definition of "et").
And so, after a while of speaking about such boring subjects as life and buses, I think it is about time I inform the world, and yourselves of course, about the sorts of foods I've been enjoying here. This is a monumental task which would force you all to quit reading long before it is accomplished, so today I shall only touch on one of the most common forms of dietary delight in which I indulge.
This particular food happens to be baozi (包子). If you are uncertain what baozi are, please think of those tasty little dumplings called jiaozi (if you are also uncertain what jiaozi are, think dumplings and don't get caught up in definitions). Baozi are like jiaozi in that they are pieces of dough wrapped around some sort of filling, usually meat. Baozi differ however from jiaozi in that they have a thicker bread shell and are usually bigger. I really enjoy both of these sorts of things (my brother might say this is my heritage coming out, all meat and bread).
But baozi must be good--or cheap--if they are to be eaten with any regularity. Enter my special baozi place. There is a small hole-in-the wall type restaurant, not far from where I am staying, which serves up the best baozi and jiaozi I have ever been privileged to eat. I don't think this place has a name, I refer to it as the baozi place as do many other people who eat there. From the Snickers brand basketball calenders on the wall to the grungy chopsticks they offer you, my baozi place is in keeping with everything you might expect of a local Chinese restaurant. It's got fake bamboo floors which have been so covered in grease, you actually have to look hard to realize they aren't real; it's got the back-room which really is nothing more than part of the main room cordoned off by a sliding glass door where the owner's family and close friends grind out the uncooked baozi and jiaozi. He even has a once-brightly colored New Year's poster with its red and gold figures.
The owner, himself, is as unique as his baozi are delicious. He is seen everyday standing outside the entrance to the place with his propane powered stove-top, steaming away a wonderful stack of the bamboo "pans" in which he cooks his delicacies. These bamboo "pans" look like old fashioned film canisters with one of their tops off. The baozi are placed inside these "pans" which are conveniently made so as to stack, and placed on an oven. I think he puts water in the "pans" below the baozi somewhere, but I'm not sure. So you can see the owner standing over his stove-top enveloped in a huge cloud of steam, slowly rotating in whole pagodas of cooking baozi. They smell delicious, like you'd imagine a picnic basket full of meat and chives to smell.
The man's menu is not large, consisting of no more than five or six items on a good day. My personal favorites are his soup-filled baozi and his chive and pork jiaozi. The soup-filled are amazing: somehow he has contrived to make this little pouches of dough hold a good-sized mouthful of soup and a sort of mini-meatball. When you eat one (you cannot simply take a bite, with these it is an all or nothing affair--either you eat the baozi or it eats you) the soup hits you first--some sort of vegetable base--and then comes the meatball... And of course baozi should only be consumed with a healthy dousing of vinegar to give them some zest. I never realized how much I like vinegar until now, but soaked in it, baozi take on a new, more fulfilling life.
The owner never says much more than a few words, sometimes not even this much--I take him to be what somebody at school once told me was a taciturn man. It wouldn't matter if he weren't so quiet though, for his Chinese is not of the common type; I not actually sure if it is Chinese at all. He gets by though, and I have a feeling he is making more money than most. I have never sat by myself at this place, but am always added to somebody else's table--something which in America seems unthinkable, but apparently doesn't bother people here. My apologies for intruding caused more weird looks than my actually presence in between Grandma Chen and her Grandson. It seems inevitable that this sort of communal table practice results in offers to teach me Chinese if I help them with their English. I have so far avoided this, mainly on the principle that I do not have enough time.
But I have almost forgotten the best part of my baozi place: his prices. The owner charges something around 50 cents for a bamboo "pan" of eight or more baozi. As you might have guessed this makes me a regular customer.
I almost dread going back to Duke and the expensive food there which would be sniffed at disdainfully by the street dogs who run wild in Kunming. So until I work up the courage to return,
Phil.

Street People

I was tempted to call this something like "Faces of Kunming" or "Personalities of Southern Yunnan" but not only would this have disappointed everyone, it would also have sounded terribly stodgy and academic--something which I already get my fill of everyday. However, the point was not to talk about the naming process, but about what I'm seeing here.
I'm sure there are as many colorful figures back home in the places I walk by everyday, only it seems that I notice them more here. It might also be that interesting characters actually are more plentiful in China--everything else is. Even in the small area which can with a little license be called my stomping grounds there are more people who deserve paragraphs than I can count. Here are a few of the people who've stuck in my mind. In lieu of pictures (I still haven't a camera) I'll have to tell you the best I can. Besides it seems like it would be rude to take a picture of these people outright, but to record my impressions of them here seems less rude for some reason.

Honey Guy. In this alley which I often frequent, there is a very nice old man who sells honey. He might be considered an anomaly in the fact that he still possesses teeth at his age, or in the fact that he still sells honey, but neither of these are the particular reasons for my including him here. What is really special about the Honey Guy, what really knocks you over and tells you "Here is a guy worth noticing" is his English. He is a genuine Kunming-er never fear, but he does have the most interesting approach to English I have yet encountered. His English consists of one word, not-surprisingly: honey, which he pronounces through an ever-present grin. His grin is also of some special note as it is one of those grandaddies of grins which consumes the man's entire face. As you walk along the street, you may be accosted by the Honey Man who will grin as if he has never been happier to see anybody on earth and say to you "Honeeeeeey" (he draws out the last syllable for about five times the length of the word). The more intelligent people understand this to be at once a greeting, an offer, a sale's pitch, and a compliment. I've never seen the Honey Guy wear anything but blue Mao-era slacks and shirt with a Irish-type hat. He always has a large basket strapped to his back with his jars of honey. The honey itself looks delicious, only he sells it by the quart so I have not yet had reason to purchase a quart of honey. Bread here is already sweet enough, as am I.

Stereotypical Old Chinese Man: I often see this fellow sitting on the sidewalk with his erhu. He is a master of the instrument. And on top of this he fits, almost to a tee, the stereotypical image of the Chinese-old-man-who-plays-an-instrument-on-top-of-a-mountain. He's got the long gray hair, the long fumanchu, the peaceful demeanor, and he even sits cross-legged. I'll often walk by and hear his music filling the alley. He is someone who the street musicians in America could learn a little from. He does not appear to be needy at all, and I have my private suspicions that he simply plays music on the street because he enjoys it, although because he is so good, his money bowl is never empty. The erhu music is incredibly smooth and liquid--I wish I could do it justice here, but I'm no musician and not much better at explaining music. If you nod your head at him, he bows back deeply, all-the-while sitting cross-legged and not missing a chord on his instrument. He always has a smile for those who pass, a man who could not epitomize more the word "content." It is surprising to me that he chooses such a crowded alley to play in, especially since with all the traffic it is often impossible to hear his music but faintly. However, it almost seems like a metaphor for the traditions of the old world fighting back against the new craze of modernization. And for those of you who will recognize it, here's a little quote: "His were the old ways." I can say nothing more to render this old gentleman for you.

Blind Singing Lady. I guess I'll keep the theme of musicians for a bit, although we are now traveling to the opposite end of the spectrum. Where the erhu musician embodied everything I've ever imagined a great musician to be, the Blind Singing Lady is what you would imagine the forever aspiring musician to be. I think she is blind, though I am not entirely sure. She sings like a man who has never been fond of singing, but does it out of necessity--she reminds me of some of the more elderly church-goers who sing because they must not because they wish to. I've still not been able to figure out which language she uses as her musical one, but I've been assuming Chinese since we are still in that locale. There is an overpass near the school I'm attending and she can be seen in the evenings, firmly planted on this overpass, bellowing out here tune. She has an expression of almost painful concentration on her face and sings like she had been told it was her official work in this world. I have a feeling she sings the same song forever, but it does not seem to have an end or a beginning. I wouldn't quite call it hollering nor quite bellowing, but somewhere in between. I admire her though, for of all the things which she might have done to try and convince the passers-by to drop a few coins in her pot, singing was the one which I would never have guessed. I'm never moved to pity her, she has far more courage than I, but I think her methods do work--she never has more nor less than a few coins in her pot. She is still savvy enough to remove the bulk of the money that is given her so people will think her more pitiable still. Wisdom and courage combined tend towards prosperity, I think.

There are many more people who I could ramble on about for quite some time, but this is enough for now. Hopefully this wasn't too boring for those of you who are more interested in action, adventure and humor--I'll be working on generating some of those stories in the near future.
Phil.

My Holy War with the Kunming Bus System

The Kunming bus system is the best bus system I have ever seen. While this is not making an extensive claim since I have not experienced too many mass transportation networks, it's still worth the words it takes to mention. Usually, using the buses I can make it to most anywhere I want within the confines of Kunming. And to tell the truth, it sounds like buses work like this throughout China, only I've been told taking a bus from Kunming to say Beijing is not a healthy activity--more than a week or two on a bus is good for no portion of your body, especially your buttocks. However if you manage to restrict your bus excursions to local places, your hind end shouldn't fall off or morph into any strange shapes.
But back to the city buses. As much as I love these, they aren't always the picture of modernization one would desire. For instance, I have had the privilege of riding the No. 1 bus. Unfortunately I made the foolish guess that the No. 1 bus would be something special because it was No. 1, afterall I'm no longer that young and "First the worst, second the best, third the nerd in the polka-dot dress" no longer applies. So No. 1 should be plenty nice. This was not the case. No. 1 bus apparently had been so named because it was the first bus the city of Kunming acquired (my guess is sometime back in the 18th century). This bus, while heavily used, did not exactly possess the power one might desire. Especially at those moments when we were attempting to go uphill, I felt that the bus's engine was something intended for use on a moped rather than a large bus. However, the bus did not break down, although it did exhale large amounts of black smoke and cough up some apparently unnecessary parts of its motor. So I guess I should not chastise it too harshly.
On the buses in Kunming they have an interesting tradition of exiting only through the back door. This may be the case with buses elsewhere, but again, I wouldn't know. The problem, as I see it though, with this exit-through-the-back system is that if the bus happens to be crowded (and it is a law of China that EVERYTHING is ALWAYS crowded) you will be hard pressed to get off at your stop before the driving decides to keep on going. I have learned though to emulate the locals in their solution to this problem; rudely push your way through the mass of bodies until somebody falls down and starts screaming, and then in the confusion, make a get-away out the front door (forbidden as that may be). This process almost always works, unless of course the driver is particularly savvy and decides to shut the door on you as you make your escape. I almost lost my backpack in this manner, but after a brutal pushing battle with the bus's doors, I emerged the victor. So courageous was this particular exploit, I believe I accrued no small amount of fame among the bus-riding culture. You may refer to me in the future as Phil Vanquisher of the Bus.
But even the Vanquisher of Buses finds there are things in this world which still can humble him. For I have recently been dealt a crushing defeat by the buses of Kunming, perhaps it was revenge, who knows? This most recent event had the elements of the mystical about it though, so I do not feel too bad about myself in my loss. I recently tried to ride a certain No. 5 bus in order to get to a climbing gym in Kunming. The directions on the gym's website said take No. 5 bus to such and such a stop and you will be in front of our doors, or something like that. The No. 5 bus however apparently only exists for very specific portions of reality. If that sounds somewhat metaphysical, it is meant to be. The thing is, the No. 5 bus is not purely real, it exists for about half the time and the rest of the time it tends to teleport, time travel and otherwise behave contrary to the laws of nature.
I discovered all this on my first attempt to ride the No. 5 bus. Generally riding a given bus is as easy as going down to the local bus stop and waiting for a bit. Sometimes this is complicated if the bus does not service that stop, but even then it's nothing more than a hop, skip and a jump to the next bus stop which it does service. Boarding the No. 5 bus takes a good deal more than this. What you must do first is make sure that you are right with your Maker. Next you have to guess at random which bus stop you shall first try. If you attempt to use any sort of logic or reasoning to figure out where the No. 5 bus might be, you will inevitably fail. Finally, you charge off like a crusading knight catch the bus at some point in mid-flight. I say this because it apparently is a part of the No. 5 bus's mystical nature that it does not actually stop at bus stops. Such a thing would be beneath the intensely magical spirit of this bus. Finally, if you are favored by fate that day, you find that the No. 5 bus will speed up and leave you in its tracks. I call this favored by fate, for it never fails that whatever bus is immediately behind the No. 5 bus will take you to exactly where you want to go.
If you don't believe me, if all of this sounds like something I made up to give you the excuse for a good story, be ashamed. Fie upon those who doubt Phil, Vanquisher of the Bus! And just to prove my own virtue, I will let you in to a little secret: I have been privileged enough to actually ride the No. 5 bus once. It took me to the opposite side of the city than that which I intended, but I felt honored simply to have boarded its sacred insides.
Till later then, see how many buses you can vanquish.
Phil.

The Corn Cob Ice Cream Bar

Since I've been here, there are several things which I have not been able to get my hands on. A good steak, English books, breakfast foods in general, these sorts of things have apparently been declared "evil" by the Chinese government and so are not allowed within the sacred borders of the homeland. However, there are those brave souls who attempt to smuggle such contraband in, as well as the more enterprising people who attempt to badly copy these good old American values with whatever materials they have available to them here.
One of the most blatant examples of this is ice cream. The Chinese conception of ice cream is much more along the lines of what Americans call badly frozen yogurt, or more properly, total crap. However, in this dismal world where ice cream tastes bad, there still are some few points of light. Mostly these points of light consist of really cheaply made ice cream bars which one can buy from street vendors. I have no doubt that these ice cream bars are more chemical than ice cream, and the act of keeping them in a cooler is only a pretense. Such is their manufactured nature, I am convinced these ice cream bars retain their shape and temperature even after they have been consumed. And on the whole, most of these bars are pretty foul--soy seems to be a major ingredient, as well as various forms of other inedible vegetable material. For instance, one hugely popular ice cream bar is what I like to call "the Corn Bar." As you might have guessed the corn bar tastes like soy beans, but what is slightly more surprising is the corn bar's shape. It is indeed shaped like a corn cob. In America, such an ice cream bar would not make it out of the hippie food co-ops where it deserved to die anyways, but here, even children have been fooled into thinking it some form of ice cream. Sheer blasphemy!
But not all ice cream bars are bad. There are those few, those blessed few which bring back to me the wonderful taste of really fake ice cream. My personal favorite is the "Four Circle": a wonderful conception of the ice cream bar which involves no less than four layers of sugar! The Four Circles has an atmosphere, if you will, of chocolate, which is followed by a crust of vaguely coconut flavored ice cream which has been frozen into a state of paralysis. Further below there is the mantel of chocolate which finally encases the yellow custard ice cream core. In addition to all of this, some of these Four Circle bars (if you are lucky) have a chunk of chocolate floating around somewhere near the top. I say only some, for it seems that the machinery which makes the Four Circles tends to be rather spotty on its inclusion of the chocolate land mass.
Also on the list of good ice cream bars are such figures as "The Happy Guy" and "The Cake on a Stick." Both of these are good in their own ways, but cannot compare to Four Circles. But of course the real deciding factor for all of this is the price: one ice cream bar goes four something like 20 cents US. I love this country despite its corn cob ice cream bar.
Eat some real ice cream for me since I am stuck with Happy Guy and Four Circles.
Phil.

Marvelous Wonders of the Chinese People

Chinese are NOT the same as Americans. No matter what you say, I shall not believe you. First of all, in generally, I am beginning to think that Chinese are more well-balanced than Americans. This may or may not have something to do with all that crazy yin-yang stuff, but personally I think the issue goes much deeper into Chinese culture than that.
Take for instance how they ride bikes. I have seen more contortions of the human body than I ever imagined possible in an effort to fit multiple bodies on one bike. Generally there will be the one guy who is riding the bike (i.e. riding it like you would expect someone to ride a bike), in addition to this adventurous fellow there are usually two or three more people perched on the various pieces of bike which are not yet occupied. Favorite positions include: standing on the mud flap above the back tire, standing on either one of the pedals (this style can only be utilized going down hill), sitting on the handlebars between the first guy's arms, or crouching with one foot on the back end of the seat which is not covered by the first guy's posterior. Now I would be willing to wager most Americans simply incapable of this sort of action. We don't have the balance. When things really interesting though is when you see this sort of behavior on motorcycles and or cars. I am afraid that while I applaud the courage of these individuals, I also make somewhat scandalous judgments about their intelligence.
But the Chinese excellence of balance is only one of the many marvels of this people. In addition, we may also discuss that particularly intriguing aspect of the Chinese working-man's culture. If you spend much time in China at all, you should quickly notice that there are many people doing manual labor who should not be. Of course, if you spend more time in China you will quickly realize that these people actually should be doing manual labor and are only dressing like they shouldn't. Chinese manual labor fashion includes the following: for the male, he often wears a suit, usually of gray or dark blue pinstripe, most likely wool, often with two buttons and never more than three. Some of the more enterprising workers can be seen in double-breasted suits, with the occasional bow tie. For the female, working dress includes pretty much the exact same thing (afterall we must remember, China is a liberated communist county which does not acknowledge the difference between man and woman). I, who am normally a bad dresser in the relaxed environment of Washington, have been put to shame here. My flip-flops and Bellingham Park's and Rec. Department T-shirts do not stand up to the clothing of the most menial of laborers. Humbling indeed.
And finally we have one more wonderful aspect of Chinese culture: lawncare. Since the first day I arrived in Kunming, I have been startled by the greenness of certain patches of grass in the city. For the most part Kunming is a dry city, especially since right now is the waning period of the dry season and it has been quite some time since it rained. However there are still patches of grass, especially at the universities, which are greener than Ireland. I, being the naturally bright thinker I am, assumed they used water. This was somewhat of an understatement.
Traditionally, watering the lawn takes place by hooking a hose up to a sprinkler and letting it rip. China has different views on the subject. It seems that the use of a sprinkler in the mechanical sense is not balanced enough for this culture. Instead they choose to hire middle-aged men, dressed to the nines of course in suits, who squat with a fire house and personally ensure the drowning death of every square foot of greenery. While this method does indeed achieve the desired affect of conveying H2O to the roots of a plant, it goes somewhat beyond.
Considering though the long and venerable history of this nation, I would be the last one to accuse them of inefficiency.
As far as comments go, I am able once again to read my own thoughts since I figured out a way around the Great Firewall of China. So leave them in plenty you faithful few.
Phil.

The State of State Christianity

Today a more serious topic.
Disclaimer: Most of this information is taken either from my own personal experience so far or from this one conversation I've had with a member of a house church. It is by no means an accurate or complete picture of Christianity in all of China. It concentrates mostly on the province of Yunnan and my friend's personal experiences and the news which has come his way. I do not say this to cast doubt on him, but merely to let you know that it is only a tiny piece of the overall picture. Enough of that now.
I was privileged enough to have a meal with a member of a certain unofficial church here in China. We talked for quite some time both about the official churches here as well as those "house churches" which are so famous in America. Most of what he had to say concerned this province (Yunnan) and so should not be applied to the whole of China. For there most certainly is persecution here.
But my friend's point was this: there is change in the churches here. He said that religion, specifically Christianity, is becoming more and more of an issue for the government, since there is incredible growth. He said that the growth is startling. When I asked him why he thought there was so much growth, something which he said was like "revival" going on in China, he had a very eloquent answer.
In talking about the history of China, he told me that Christianity had been here for many, many years. Indeed there are some who say that it first came as early as the ninth century, but it was definitely established here in the 1500s. If you think about it, that is almost as early as it was brought to America. This alone was something that surprised me very much. However, there was more. He continued that despite the presence of missionaries and Christianity in China for so long, the number of Christians here had never been very large. He talked a little about how many of the Chinese beliefs in Confucianism and other superstitions are rooted deeply in the Chinese culture. But he said, with the arrival of the Communist Revolution all of this changed.
Now, I do not think I have ever heard a Christian speak well on behalf of the Cultural Revolution of China. For the most part I have heard this condemned in no uncertain terms, but my friend had an interesting point.
He continued saying that the Cultural Revolution not only wiped out much of what little Christianity was left in China, but it also cleaned the slate on the Confucian and superstitious side--as much as anything can successfully do this. After the Mao era and when the Opening and Reforms began (改革开放), many Chinese found in their beginnings of freedom that they could pursue wealth and religion again. Unfortunately it seems wealth has been winning out mostly. However, he told me, when you go up to a Chinese person and ask them what they believe, the most common answer is they don't know, or even "Believe? What?" He said there is a complete "emptiness" in many Chinese hearts. Many simply do not have any beliefs at all. And my friend said it is precisely because so many Chinese have nothing to believe in that they are able to receive good news willingly.
And so in a manner which is incredibly strange to us, but perhaps not so much to God, it seems that the Cultural Revolution, with all its Marxist-Leninist talk of religion being the "opiate of the masses" and with all its efforts to completely eradicate such "foolishness," has actually paved the way for the openness of many Chinese hearts today.
Now if you are someone who thinks that much of what I have said here is complete hogwash and the propagandist teachings of a mindless young Christian who is merely stating what he has been told all his life, think about this: I'm not saying the Cultural Revolution was something good and I'm not merely taking the perhaps coincidental order of events and listing them off to you so that you will be fooled into thinking with me. For the churches here are now beginning to experience a real time of relief from persecution, especially in Yunnan. It is not illegal to buy a Bible here, and a Bible which is as faithful a translation as the NIV if not better. There are also many different versions of the Bible, most of which, according to my friend, are true as any translations. Many have been translated directly from the Hebrew and Greek. I myself was able to purchase a Bible from a used book seller on the street. Despite this though, many of the major bookstores do not carry legitimate Bibles, especially the state owned stores. However you can purchase a Bible at most any church for a fair price.
My friend did say though that much of the churches here are lacking the spiritual teaching tools which would be of much help to them, and he said that some of the state churches have pastors who are really as spiritually immature as their congregation. Persecution still does exist in China, even in the lax Yunnan (I've heard as recently as 2006 several Christians were arrested here), but my friend believes there is change coming.
This man with whom I spent some time had a sense of hope which many in America have lost. He was not giving up on the official churches, indeed he said he was lucky to have been given the chance to be a Christian in China. He believes that being a Christian in China is better for your spiritual growth and health than being so in America. And I must say that I find I agree with him. We, who have always been so "privileged" with our freedoms, are suddenly finding that the freedoms have been more of a weight than we expected. Too easily can we fall into Christianity in America, too easily can we find that since so many others are, we might as well go along for the ride. Pretty soon we find that there are a whole bunch of people who are just hanging on the back hoping it ends up somewhere, but all too willing to hop off at a moments notice.

But alas, I'm no teacher. I'll try and keep you updated with all the different things I learn about the churches here--this being one of the things I am most interested in, you might expect to hear quite a bit about it. However my mind often gets in the way of my self and I welcome whatever you guys might be able to add to help me understand the things I say.
Phil.

Four Weeks in China, Still Can't Order Food

Today was perhaps the lowest yet in my connoisseur-ship of the local food. I had been feeling pretty good about myself since I can now recognize the character for meat. This had, until this point, made my life very much better--considering that every meal was now certain to contain some portion of a dead animal. However, I have also discovered that in China, false advertising is an art form, much like calligraphy and poetry. Indeed these arts have very much in common. For instance at lunch this afternoon, I found that although the menu listed the precious character for meat in the name of the dish I ordered , the actual dish itself only contained a metaphor for meat.
Generally for breakfast here, I do nothing extravagant. Some bread, some meat in bread, some bread in meat, these sorts of things often suffice. While this may be convenient and a blessing--I am not often good at functioning before 8 in the morning--it means that when lunch time comes trotting around with a happy meat-filled smile on its face, I am well disposed to greet him.
Today was no exception. I found myself a restaurant nearby which I had not yet frequented (my philosophy being that I must try at least one new restaurant every day). This place, while slightly on the seedy side, promised to have good food, what you might call "food which puts meat on yer bones." There were many locals of the sort who looked like they had recently come from some form or other of manual labor and were more than willing to murder a dish--and those which had eaten all looked quite content. My hopes were high.
Casting my famished eye over the menu, I hungrily looked for my favorite character. I saw the little bugger in not one or two, but more than eight places! This was somewhat like an archaeologist, who while looking for some tiny fragments of an ancient Indian jar, finds himself a whole potter's factory well preserved. At the risk of incurring a bit of criticism from those of you who think I am too cheap, I will admit to choosing the cheapest of the dishes which had meat in it. This might have been where I went wrong.
Standing next to the counter where the chef prepares your meal, I watched as he served up dish after dish which was practically a butcher's shop of various animal flesh. There was the meat stew with rice noodles, the meat baozi with meat topping, the meat with meat on the side to ensure a maximum of meat. And then there was my dish.
They gave me a large plate, I will not call them stingy when it comes to the flatware account, however the meat, at first glance seemed to have been forgotten. I couldn't be sure of this since the dish consisted of a mountain of rise in the middle, formed like an upside down bowl, and then drowned in a thick red goop. The thick red goop, I surmised must at some point have been a product related to meat. That or the menu lied. I took my dish without complaint, for let the buyer beware you know. Sitting down with it, I began to discover the intricacies of poeticism in Chinese menus.
First of all, by meat they had intended to create the sense or tone, if you will, of a what it feels like to be meat. The red goop is exactly how I picture the feelings of a cow. He wanders around in the world and the best way for him to describe it is, of course, "what a bunch of red goop" or perhaps "My goodness, isn't this world red and goopy?" Unfortunately for my taste buds the red goop lacked what you might call flavor. Except for the occasional, and exceptionally large chunk of ginger (which brought a very undesirable burst of flavor) the red goop pretty much tasted like a cow's life must feel: without event. The rice actually had a little more flavor than the red goop. Although that may only have been some residual effects of a ginger overload. Not at all what I might call a successful culinary expedition.

However things after this promised to look up. For dinner I planned to go to a Guang Dong restaurant which purported to serve a delicious duck. I am a particular lover of duck, mainly because it is meat, but also because it is especially good tasting meat. Yet again however, my ordering skills or the poetical elements of Chinese menus proved to serve me wrongly.
After some confusion in the ordering process which involved me saying the words for duck in various tones and pointing at random to the character for duck on their menu, the nice waitress nodded and hollered something in a harsh voice back to the cook. This something sounded nothing like what I thought the characters should have sounded like. But I put this down to some form of local accent (of which there are plenty in this area).
Upon the arrival of the duck, however, I was forced to rethink my more lenient approach. This seemed yet again to be a devious device of a Chinese menu or some other sort of miscommunication, deliberate or otherwise. I have always felt that when a person orders a dish with the name of a certain animal in it, that dish should mostly contain the flesh-like and edible portions of said animal. In this case however, it seems that they desired to be rid of some of the less desirable portions of the duck. I did not, as you might have thought get the thighs. I did not get the neck or the back with its plentiful bounty of meat. Nor did I even receive the feet (which parts I assure you would have had more meat on them than the portion alloted to me). Rather, the gods of the Chinese menu system, in their artfulness, gave me that portion of the duck which rhymed in taste with meat, but lacked all of its more nourishing properties. I am still uncertain as to the specific portions which I ate, but I have narrowed it down to the fat beneath the belly and all those other noodle-like things which are in that vicinity, or something which was never on the duck in the first place.
This was not a happy experience. But into each life...
Food here still is, in my mind, better than food most other places, even if you have the occasional misadventure.
Phil.

My New Bike

This is the first legitimate post here, taking the place of annoying emails with which I used to pester all of you. For those of you who actually made it this far, I congratulate you on being dedicated and incredibly flattering. I'll try and bring you a gift from China, if I survive long enough to make it back.
The reason I have my doubts as to my personal safety are not many, in fact there is only one. I recently acquired a bike. For those of you who are acquainted with the more cheap side of my personality you will no doubt be surprised. However, you should not be. My bike was free. I can here your sigh of relief--almost thought I had become one of those people who actually spends money! What a joke.
Instead, I was lucky enough to make the connection with a journalism student here by the name of Ted. (He has a blog which is interesting, although I haven't spent too much time looking at it: http://tedmeinhover.com ). He, unlike me is tall. This is no problem in normal countries, but in China every bike you purchase is mostly designed for people who are less than five feet tall. If you can imagine the six-foot plus tall Ted attempting to ride a child's bike, you may soon understand why he gave it to me for free. I find his bike fits me quite well.
You may at this point begin to understand how my life has become imperiled--traffic in China involves death, death and more accidents. But these are in my imagination merely the least of my worries. Far more important than the native traffic of Kunming, is the native state of my bike. The bike's stature was not the only aspect which prompted Ted to relinquish ownership so freely. The brakes, if indeed two such worn pads of rubber can be called by such a name, only work on the front tire. I did notice that the back tire also possessed brakes, but at some point before giving the bike to me, Ted must have found himself on a steep hill for the back brake handle has been broken off, leaving a sharp stub of metal to be grasped if one desires to utilize the back brakes.
Also, unlike many of the bikes in China, my new bike possesses many gears. There are in total, 21--I counted them. Unfortunately those which can be used are not quite so plentiful. Actually only one works--it's the 11th gear. I am not inclined to blame the gears so much as the gear changing mechanism. I found out in an unpleasant manner that it only goes down. If you wish to shift up in gears, you have to dismount and move the chain with your hands to the desired gear. This generally is not worth the trouble. So after fixing my new bike in the 11th gear, I refrain from shifting.
But enough about my new bike, I'm sure, since you are my dedicated public, you'd love to hear about my adventures on this new bike. Aside from several dozen instances of nearly being run over by vehicles of various sizes, most of my adventures consist of breathing in carbon monoxide. They are not interesting. However, I have learned many new things about the laws of the road in China. First of all, going the wrong way in a lane is acceptable as long as it is the easiest way for you to get from point A to point B. Also as far as right of way goes, those who can take right of way, generally have the right to it.
I do imagine that I cut quite a dashing figure on the streets as I am biking--my hair generally creates a weather system behind me, affecting wind currents and humidity levels--and since the options for clothing myself are not numerous, I generally find that I wear those things which might have been fashionable to bike in some forty-seven years ago. Also, I have established that biking in flip-flops, while possible, is not to be recommended.
I'll will keep you posted as to my first accident, not sparing any of the gory details when it occurs.
Phil.

Old things are New

I have put all my emails to family and friends which this blog should replace below, so if you were one of the privileged few who actually received my emails, only read the stuff below if you feel an intense need to re-read some the things you have already squandered your time on.
Hopefully though I'll be able to put up some new stuff and not clutter people's inboxes anymore. Phil.

St. Paddy's Day

Yesterday, as you may all be aware was St. Paddy's day here in China. It was not however in America, this I feel is your loss. In honor of the day, I donned my cloverleaf underthings and tried to speak to everyone with an Irish accent. Not only am I very bad at Irish accents, but in Chinese this accent sounds particularly out of place. I don't know if I did it correctly.

I believed the best way to celebrate the day was to go to a Chinese market and then look at some big rocks--I don't think either of these things are particularly Irish, but they are the things which I did, so will have to suffice.
The market was in a small town about 70 miles east of Kunming, dominated by the Sani minority people. I found that these people were incredibly friendly and much nicer than the city dwellers of Kunming. I don't know if this is because the Sani people wore bright colors or if they were genuinely nice. It has always been my rule of thumb in life to like those things which were brightly colored--my ice cream choosing methods, my book and movie choices are often decided by that which is most brightly colored. The Sani people dress very brightly. The woman mostly wear a sort of bright aqua blue head cloth or sometimes the more ornately colored headdress of their people which looks like a nun's wimple if the nun's clothing designer were to be from Las Vegas. Many of the women also wore their traditional clothing: brightly colored pants and shirt with all kinds of sashes and fringes. The men didn't dress near so flashily, but almost all of them wore floppy straw hats like you might expect a middle aged American woman to wear on her gardening day.
A man I had met the a few days earlier told me that the people in this are of Yunnan were "innocent." I think the gist of what he meant got mixed up somewhere between his mandarin and my english, but I found out yesterday. Sani people were incredibly nice, almost always smiling broadly--not in the manner many chinese smile which tends to be a little more a smile of the teeth. The Sani smiled with their eyes (I don't like using such a sappy expression, but like most cliches there is truth to it). They often pointed at us and laughed but I would like to believe this was what people tell me is "laughing with you" rather than "at you."
The best aspect of these people though were their children. China seems to be full of far more children than America, despite the one child policy. This may be because in China their kids are far cooler than kids in America. Here, I often see little children (no more than three or four) playing in the streets with others or by themselves, and it doesn't seem that their parents are anywhere in sight. Either the kids are a commodity people can afford to lose, or one which they are not terribly worried about. Of course, these kids also often have toys which, in my own humble opinion, make anything you might see at Toys R Us look like child's play. The kids here get to play with matches, fire, large knives, and all manner of bugs and or other small rodents. Any self-respecting American parent would not allow his or her child to even learn that such things exist, and so we are a national of little wimps. Chinese children on the other hand...
But still, despite all their incredible play-things, the children here are capable of being caught off their guards. Which brings me back to the Sani children who were especially so. We were walking along a sidewalk when this little guy, maybe three years old, came running out from an alley. He caught one glance of us and it seemed like he was blown backwards--he almost fell over. He made this wooshing sound which I took to be the Chinese equivalent of WOW! He stood there, paralyzed with shock, for several minutes, before finally turning tail and running away. Apparently he had never seen the White Devil before, much less one with such a horrible haircut. I realize by now I have said almost nothing about the market, so I'll try and make it quick so as not to abuse your patience much more nor make this letter worthy of being a two-parter.
The market was your typical Chinese non-tourist market: which means they sold mostly food and some products which were meant for living, not for tourist consumption. I found out that you could buy any one of the numerous cow-heads for something less than $15, and the half dog carcass was going for even less, but I think this was because it was the back half and not the front. The vegetables looked much the same as those which you might find in the states, with the exception of the lotus root and some of the other more exotic type deals (although I assure you, their names are the only exotic part about them). There were parts of the market which sold less common things (at least to my ignorant self) such as pig tails and some other like-looking thing which I will not hazard to name. I almost tried these foodstuffs, but thought better of it. Everybody else seemed to be partaking with gusto though.
Nobody in the market was wearing anything green (blue seemed to be the dominant color) so I thought about laying to with the pinches, but judging from how well they could butcher a cow's carcass I thought it better to leave the status quo than introduce a new custom. The Sani have plenty of customs, I do not believe my pinching will add much to their culture anyhow.
As for the night life: I went to a bar to partake of an Irish coffee or something which would bring a tear to me Irish eye. Most of the late-night places were overrun with foreigners who were making merry and spilling their drinks (at one point I believe the first floor experienced a distinct sensation that it was raining beer, mainly because some people from Denmark decided to see how well the second floor planking could strain their beers. Apparently a holiday centered around alcohol is something which every culture can adopt.
I wish all of you a happy St. Paddy's day, and hope that you do not attempt to strain any sort of drink through the floors of buildings.
Phil.

Indoctrination by Underwear

At last, I believe I have succeeded in striking a blow for capitalism in Red China! This morning I was doing my laundry--a process here which is somewhat less appealing than I had hoped--and hit upon a plan for single handedly breaking communist rule in China. As far as laundry goes, I do it in the bathtub. Before you accuse me of being a tightwad and unwilling to sped a trifling sum on laundry service, please take note of this: first of all, the laundry service which I found here does not do underwear and socks (the main things which need washing), second of all, it costs money. I found I can get detergent at the local store for less than 25 cents while the laundry service costs more than 2 dollars, this savings, when converted to Chinese currency is massive.
So I do my laundry in the bathtub. Afterwards I hang it up out the window. Now it just happens that I live on the third floor of a building on a major street, so I was proudly displaying my hula girl underwear to the entire population of Kunming. If this does not make them convert to Capitalism, perhaps my clover leaf boxers will do the trick, and if (God forbid) even they fail, I can still pull out my ace on them--my male chauvinist pig underwear! I think you all may safely depend on the fall of the Chinese communist regime within a week or two at the most.
In other news, I am beginning to acclimate quite well to life here in China. Today I was even able to attend to a church service downtown. I can say without doubt it was not what I expected. This was the only licensed foreigner church in Kunming. There is an interesting (annoying, bad?) law in China which says that Chinese citizens cannot attend a foreign service, nor have any sort of support from foreign organizations when it comes to religion. Because of this, they had guards stationed at the doors to this service which checked your ID to make sure you were not a citizen.
The service itself was like any other nondenominational service you might go to in the States, but the entire time I found myself unable to get over the idea that Chinese were not allowed in. If in America citizens are intended to be the privileged, in it seems that the foreigners are those who are privileged. Not only are foreigners given far more free reign than citizens, but those foreigners who are unfortunate enough to be mistaken for citizens can some times find themselves in dire straits. I have heard some stories of Chinese Americans here getting beat up.
I'm hoping next week to go to another Chinese service (foreigners are free to attend local services, only they cannot support or help out in any way), but since my language skills still are on the preschool level, I don't expect to understand a whole lot. It's safe to say though, that while there is far more religious freedom than I expected to find in China, there are also ways in which they curtail freedom which I would never have thought of.
Enjoy yourselves and your freedoms,
Phil.

The Faculty Outing

China has kept up its end of the bargain and has been nothing but excitement. Today for instance, we were invited by the faculty to go on their annual outing, which consists of them trucking up to some mountain and testing their might against Nature's. An interesting prospect. Kunming, despite its tropical advertisements is much more like Beijing--very dry and often dusty. They tell me that the rainy season comes in June, so perhaps by then I shall have other weather news to report. But thus far, dry and warm. So when we set out, i was clothed in my traditional shorts and short sleeved shirt. The teachers however were dressed a bit nicer than myself: most of them were wearing dress slacks and some sort of nice shirt, some even had suits. The hike up the mountain proved to be more formidable than I had imagined, but for reasons other than you might suppose. At first we did fine, following a beaten dirt trail up a moderately steep hill. I should perhaps tell you that the faculty consisted of some forty or fifty persons varying in age from late twenties to early seventies. About half way up the mountain, the trail decided that the whole business was a little tiresome and up and quit on us. This led to some confusion, with the few aspiring souls deciding to forge their way on through the underbrush. When I say underbrush, I of course mean incredibly dry and dusty brambles and small trees about head high. The brush had the density of western Washington and the character of eastern Washington.
If you can, picture these respectable teachers in their respectable clothing slowly clawing their way up the hill (it got much steeper at this point), sometimes even hanging from the underbrush lest they fall off the mountain. These variety of brush they have here in Kunming is not broad--most of it consists of branches with thorns, although sometimes this is varied by your traditional version of wild grass. There were also quite a few stunted pine trees with sharp needles. These were incredibly good at blocking your view.
Most of the faculty were turned back by this formidable wall of brush, but a few intrepid souls and myself forged on, beating a path through the wilderness. We did at last reach the top of the mountain, only to realize that everything was socked in by a dense brown haze. I could be poetic and call it fog, I could lie and call it clouds, but being the lover of truth I am: it was smog.
On the way back into the city we made a slight detour to the new campus under construction. In the only finished building of this campus it chanced that they were having a large presentation about the soon to be wonders of the coming construction. After listing to this and smiling at their computer generated images of how beautiful their new campus would be, I began to suspect that the invitation to climb the mountain might have merely been a crude trick to get us students to give them a chance to brag about their school. I smiled and nodded a lot.
At the risk of trying your patience, I think I should also tell you about our history teacher here. He is supposedly quite a famous fellow who has been coming or living in Kunming now for twenty years. They say he was one of the first white people to live here. Unfortunately he is also more senile than not. He is never seen without his jungle exploration hat (the one like Gilligan wears) and even wears it under his bicycle helmet--a sight to behold, let me tell you! The fellow speaks Chinese in a booming voice and by the winces of the locals, with quite an accent. Of course I--who inspire laughter wherever i speak--am no one to speak.
What is interesting though is that this teacher of ours, though you would never suspect it from how he looks, is an avid biker. He took three of my fellow students for a ride up a mountain the first weekend and they (my classmates) came back white of face, exhausted, and one with a broken toe. Apparently, our teacher has a love of danger.
There is much more to say about this guy, but I won't waste more of your time. Enjoy whatever time of day it happens to be where you are,
Phil.

Lantern Festival

As some of you who aspire to more culture than can ever attain may know, this last Sunday was the Lantern Festival here in China, being the last day of the new year. I myself was unaware of this information myself, however my roommate and I became aware of its existence some time on Sunday evening. We both had been succumbing to vicious cases of homework and so were staring at the dorm room wall with glazed over eyes, expecting the night to bring only misery and memorization. We began to suspect something big was up however when the street outside our window blew up.
You may dismiss this as an exaggeration or figure of speech, but when Chinese kids get their hands on the massive quantities of gunpowder they did, mere streets are to be considered common collateral damages. The natives worry about their cities in general, lest they too should be engulfed in the general state of incineration.
Anyhow, after our hearing returned and our windows stopped vibrating, we--my roommate and I--decided that whatever was going on outside was more interesting than what was going on inside. This proved to be true since our conversation took place in what you might call a lull. Acting on an idea from my roommate (who is far more savvy than myself) and using the internet we established that the day was indeed the famous, though little known, Chinese Lantern Festival. For us it was the work of half a moment to abandon all hopes at doing homework and run out into the city to find the supposed lanterns of the Lantern festival.
I say supposed lanterns because after several hours of charging up one alley and down another, into one square and along a canal, we finally established that there were approximately three lanterns in the whole of Kunming, only two of which were actually lit. While this was somewhat of a disappointment, our sadness was assuaged by the spectacle of young Chinese children playing the arson's role. If in America they publish warnings on fireworks and are saddened when a child burns his hand on the fourth of July, i have heard that in Beijing on the new year, more than a hundred and fifty people engulfed themselves accidentally with their perhaps overzealous firework displays. In Kunming, it is mainly the young who partake in this dangerous affair--all those old enough to be called not young, having never liked the fireworks anyways (which explains their lengthy lifespans).
I established at a later date that Kunming is one of the cities which, though it does celebrate the lantern festival, abstains from including anything so cliche as lanterns in their festivities.
Sad, yes...but a learning experience, no?
My roommate and I however, have heard that their is another festival coming soon. Supposedly this "water-splashing festival" is supposed to surpass even the lantern festival in rabid enjoyment of the festivities by all involved. I am planning on purchasing a large super-soaker to partake myself. I teach these pyromaniac little children who rules the world of water-fights!
I unfortunately do not have more exciting experiences and news to relate from China, so will not continue to abuse your time.
Hopefully you are all well and enjoying the sanitary conditions of your bathrooms. Do not take this for granted.
Phil.

Land of the Cheap

If America is the "land of the free," China is certainly the "land of the cheap." I actually found the major market of Kunming yesterday--twice. And in the process i learned i am not the wiz with directions i once fancied myself. The Bird and Flower, as this market is called, is badly named. Before any of you caution me about the dangers of bird flu, i should tell you that there are no flowers and fewer birds in this market. Apparently the is poetic or something.
They did have, however, everything else you could possibly think of. They had dried grubs, dried lizards on a stick, animal furs, they even had the carcasses of these animals which i guess you are supposed to stew or something.
But what was really neat about this market was that i was the only white person within ten miles. I'm sure there were other whities, but the market covered ten or twelve city blocks and all the alley ways in between so the chance for seeing another foreigner was rare. For a moment i almost felt like i didn't stick out like a sore thumb, but unfortunately i turned around and realized that at least several thousand people were staring at me. It's enough to make you think something's wrong with you. I went to church today and when i was walking back from communion, i do not lie when i say that every person in church was looking at me.
But back to the market. I have not had much chance to bargain yet, perhaps because i am too cheap to buy anything, but also because the few things i have purchased have had such a low price, i simply did not have the heart to argue about cents. The market reminded me though of a combination of the home and garden show (there were people demonstrating the quality of mops everywhere) and a thrift store which had been moved into the street and the proprietorship divvied up between a thousand or so vendors. Strangely enough though, for all the many many millions of little booths, most of them sold the same stuff. Everybody had their own selection of lighters, flashlights, and fake jade bracelets--all of which were exactly the same as the booth next door. There were a few odd booths which stuck out as unique, particularly the military gear and the animal horn booths--few vendors could match them.
i am thinking i should take some pictures of the stuff they sell and create a catalog. I know i would have plenty of buyers back in the states.
Hopefully all of you are in the pink,
Phil.

Chinese Recycling

It seems there is always a new discovery for me to make here in China. For instance this last evening, my roommate and i were talking about the cheapness of bottled water in China (liter and a half for 10 cents) and we noticed there was something a little suspicious about the bottles. Normally, bottled water bottles tend to be clear and unscathed so as to make the water appear all the more clean, yet many Chinese bottles look like they have been getting quite a wearing in their travels from bottling plant to store. We began to connect this information with the all-to-common sight of poor people pillaging garbage cans for bottles...
it seems that in China, the water bottles (and probably ever other bottle) is recycled. I do not mean this in the simple American term which implies melting down and reforming, but more like "reused." Of course my roommate and i assume that the bottles are cleaned at some point--or at least rinsed. Apparently they already have nation-wide free recycling in China.
I've also been experiencing a little of the foreigner culture here in Kunming. There is a good sized district in Kunming where the foreigners, often styling themselves as ex-patriots, congregate. Yesterday for instance, i ate dinner at a spanish restaurant and overheard an American speaking Japanese. While i do like a lot of this sort of culture, i can't help but notice it's a leaves an odd taste in the mouth. In their zeal for being multicultural many of the foreigners tend to embrace a kingly lifestyle (something which China makes incredibly easy). Often i see these foreigners demanding immediate service because they can pay for it. I'm not so much criticizing these foreigners, because well, i am one of them, but there seems to be as big a disparity between their supposed outlooks on life and reality as there is between their's and the Chinese's lifestyles.
As far as living like a king goes though, let me tell you, it is easy. I would say i spend about $5 American per day and this usually buys me some bread for breakfast, a nice coffee with some cookies, a solid lunch of Chinese food, and a large dinner with drink. All of these, except perhaps lunch, come from what are considered expensive restaurants and come with waiters who fill your tea up every time they pass. And since i often eat with a group of people, we usually have five or six dishes to choose from.
I will not waste any more of your time today,
Phil.

Despite Communist Government’s Best Efforts…

I have made it to Kunming.

And now that i am here, i am doing my best to stick it back to them by eating all the food i can get my hands on. I think i should be able to put most of the country into a state of famine by later this week.

Despite what i had hoped, i do in fact have classes to attend while i am here, which consist of three straight hours of chinese, followed by another 22 (we are not allowed to speak english at all). Of course we could, as a group of troubled american students, choose to ignore this idea, but the Chinese have outsmarted me this once and enlisted only vile scum who refuse to speak english as my compatriots in the program. And they speak about chinese human rights violations without mentioning this one!

Anyhow, to date the best thing i have to report would be the weather...not really, i actually found the food here to be the best food on earth. For instance they do this coconut milk desert called Grass Milk (having nothing to do with marijuana) which is incredibly rich. I cannot describe how creamy it was, and at the bottom were jello cubes made of herbs of some sort, which gave a wonderful flavor. For breakfast i have also been having baozi which are small dumplings filled with any number of mystery meats. And for lunch today i got a huge bowl of beef noodles with spices for less than 70 cents american.

I think i could go on and on about the food for hours, so i won't. My digs are somewhat less than as amazing as the food. In fact i would describe my room which i share with another guy in the program as a dilapidated version of a poor motel six which was built in the 70s and featured prominently in any number of the drug movies of that era.

other than these boring details, i have little to report. I have met several other foreigners but have yet to make my first genuine Chinese friend. An australian i met has informed me that if i travel to Cambodia i can shoot a rocket launcher at a cow for under 300 dollars, this is opposed to the higher Burmese price although there are rumors that the burmese give you a bigger cow. i doubted the australian's state of sobriety, but have since met other travelers who say the same thing. I do not think, however, that i shall be making a trip to Cambodia in the near future for this purpose.

Having thus exhausted your patience i shall bid you a good day.

Phil.