Tulip

Sometimes in the byways and pathways of your life you meet a person who sincerely impresses you. Tulip is such a person for me.

Tulip is a student in my sophomore Business English class, and the first thing that makes her stand out is that she is the best and brightest student in that class. Another outstanding attribute is that she is ravishingly beautiful. But the most outstanding quality this young woman possesses is her remarkable poise and regal bearing.

Tulip carries herself in such a manner that you might believe she is royalty. This posturing and these mannerisms are no sham where she is concerned. She is truly that balanced, mature and self-possessed. It could be the result of the port-wine colored stain covering ½ of her face.

Tulip is a victim of Capillary Vascular Malformation, a condition that causes such stains. This condition is sometimes remedied through neurosurgery and more recently with laser surgery. The success rate of these surgeries is about 80%, meaning that up to 80% of the stain can be eradicated, but the stain never completely goes away. Sometimes, as the sufferer ages, the stain intensifies and develops bumps and lesions. These stains can appear anywhere on the body and are present from birth on; about 20% of sufferers bear stains on their face. One remarkable feature of facial stains is that they generally affect only one side of the face.

That makes life rough on Tulip for two reasons, the first being that she is a girl. Traditionally females are less valued in Chinese society than males and until recently female infanticide was the norm for families desiring a male heir. Enter the Spring Blossom Project, which I will talk about in just a few moments.

The second strike against Tulip is that in China, any type of handicap or disfigurement generally leads to abandonment of the child, even nowadays. Just today I read in ChinaDaily about a boy who had been abandoned because he was mentally challenged. Such practices are considered socially acceptable here. Each couple has only one chance to produce a viable heir; for that heir to be somehow defective is intolerable and a source of shame, usually for the mother. The father does not produce bad genes… one of those gender inequity situations that are so rampant here. Abandoning a ‘defective’ child gives the parents license to produce another one if they have the courage and the money to, or at least absolves them of the shame and stigma of having defective genes.

There is a new awareness dawning in China, both about the value of girls and about the psychological impact of abandoning a child. The first is indicated by the societal concern that there is now, a mere thirty years after the inception of the one-child policy, a dearth of marriageable girls, compounded by the fact that female offspring are more likely to care for elderly parents. The second is shown in studies of orphaned children and their psychological adjustment to foster care versus actual adoption.

I don’t want to get too in-depth here (although the research is fascinating – at least to me), but I do want to touch on one more improvement of Chinese society: the Spring Blossom project. Stunned by the rate of female fetus abortions and the ratio of live female births versus male births, the Chinese government started the Spring Blossom Foundation to provide parents with incentives to bear and raise females. Such incentives include financial assistance for education, and enrichment programs such as dance and music for the child, as well as psychological assistance for the parents and the families so desiring of a male heir.

It seems that the Spring Blossom project is effective: the ratio of live male to female births has evened out – more or less in China. There are now only 1.14 male births for every female birth; a substantially improved ratio over a mere 15 years ago when the male/female birth ratio was nearly 2.5 to 1.

Tulip’s life may well have been spared by a combination of her parents’ genuine love for her and the Spring Blossom project. I’ve been given to understand that the bounty afforded parents by the Spring Blossom project is fairly substantial and, Tulip’s family being rural, they would have benefited handsomely from that extra money.
I intuit her parents have a deep love for this stunning creature they’ve produced, and rightly so. In a nation of beautiful women, she truly stands out. In a society that prizes intelligence, she is endowed with a supreme ability to absorb knowledge. Tulip fairly glows when she mentions her mother and her beautiful eyes just light up when she talks about going home for the upcoming Spring Festival holiday. I don’t think there is any shortage of positive emotion for Tulip at home, as I sense there is for certain other students of mine.

I wonder: what made this young woman into the regal, poised being that she is? Was it all the taunts she surely suffered as a disfigured child? Could it be her parents did have some violent arguments about her disposal during her youth? Maybe other family members were cruel to her and she had to bear it all in silence and shame. Maybe it is just her character and her destiny to be as she is.

I have to admit I am a bit intimidated by her. It is not often that one encounters a person who is so down-to-earth and yet so ethereal, so real and yet so illusory, so lacking in artifice that their poise and centeredness is a natural to them as breathing. Tulip so embodies the female essence that sometimes I forget that she is just a girl of 20, with her whole life ahead of her and only has rudimentary experience in navigating the adult world.

But oh, my! When she discovers herself… watch out, world!

A Day at the Zoo: the Nightmare Continues

So, here we are, refreshed somewhat and ready to take in the show, right? It is a circus type act where various animals perform under the direction of their trainer. I’m being exceedingly generous when I say ‘direction’. You’ll soon see why.

As I approached the circular dome where the performance is put on, I could hear loud, pumping music emanating from within. That struck me as rather odd: wouldn’t such volume discomfit the animals? I needn’t have worried: the animals were in such a terrible state that for them to be discomfited would have been a step up.

Nearly every seat was taken and all of the patrons eyed the ring with undisguised anticipation. As yet there was nothing going on in the ring so everyone hushed as the foreigner with startling blond hair walked by. I have to confess I had a moment’s apprehension as I walked in; I imagined…

See our dancing BEARS! Behold our counting DOGS! Witness our prancing DEER! And here our ELEPHANTS will balance on a ball! Now our FOREIGNER will do tricks! At which point I parade out in a tutu holding lit sparklers in my hands and a rose between my teeth. I then start spinning on my head; somehow the lit sparklers end up between my toes. The lights are turned out for maximum effect.

Hysterical laughter threatened to burst forth… and that was the last time I felt like laughing for the rest of the day.

Out came the bears, accompanied by their trainers. The trainers wore red jumpsuits with gold piping on the sides; the bears wore choke collars. I’m not kidding: choke collars. These collars were so tight they clearly delineated where the bear’s head ends and where the body begins. When the bears were not performing, they were clawing at their necks. At least the bears got treats… but maybe that was torture in itself: imagine trying to swallow while wearing a choke collar.

I thought the bears might be the worst of it, but no! There was more yet to come. But at least the bears got treats.

Along came a collie – at least it looked healthy and clean. It was made to jump through hoops. The only sad part is that it got whipped to do so. When it tried to turn away from the hoop, the trainer whipped him. The poor animal cringed and did as it was bid to. Its partner, a small white dog was made to walk on its forelegs. When it dropped back on all fours after just a few steps on its front paws, the trainer grabbed it by its rump and yanked its back legs off the ground. The dog dropped down again and again with the yanking. Over the din of the music I heard the dog whimper. Fortunately the poor puppy only had to do one lap around the ring.

And now I see how the wolf probably broke his paw.

I’m not crying yet, but I’m pretty well disgusted: both at the way the trainers treated the animals and at the laughter from the audience. How they were not shocked into silence is a mystery to me. Aren’t they seeing the same abuse of animals that I’m witnessing?

By the time the goat came out with a small capuchin monkey on its back and was whipped into climbing a narrow ladder and made to cross a leather bridge that looked about the thickness of a razor strop, I was wishing I had PETA on speed dial. The goat was made to sit on a small raised platform mounted on the strap while the monkey positioned itself on the goat’s head. The goat now had to turn around and walk back to the midpoint of the strap and get on its head and spin with the monkey clinging on its back. Both animals were clearly terrified: they kept cringing as the whip pelted their flanks and their entire demeanor screamed ‘FEAR’ as they looked at their trainer.

I’m near tears, but it wasn’t until the cats came parading out that the dam burst. These aren’t simple tears that roll down your cheek unbidden as you think of or behold something sad either. I’m actually crying.

My friends, there is nothing sadder than a Bengal tiger who cringes before a whip. I honestly don’t remember what this cat was supposed to do, but I do remember thinking that that tiger could rip that person’s head off, IF the tiger remembered his true nature. Apparently the beast had been so mistreated that he forgot all about being a big cat and instead cowered in front of the whip. He didn’t even raise a paw in self-defense. He just saw the whip and cringed. Once the trainer backed off and lowered the whip, the tiger performed. None of the cats roared or evinced any typical jungle animal behavior; one might say they were so cowed that they have forgotten their might. How much beating does one have to do to such an animal to get it to act like that?

And still the show goes on. And still my tears flow.

The lion decides to not perform either, so he runs around to the back of the enclosure and tries to run to his cage backstage. Unfortunately, access to backstage is barred so the trainer immediately catches him and whips him, and then forces him back up on his aluminum podium where he is to stand on his hind legs and wave at the audience, along with the other cats.

The crowd goes wild. Applause rings through the house and the trainer takes his bows. He has done nothing to earn. I’d like to whip him like he whips those cats. I’d like to shove his whip down his throat. Still I’m crying. Let’s bring out the final act: the elephant.

Mercifully the elephant did not get whipped very much. On the other hand, with the thickness of elephant skin maybe whipping would not be effective. There’s other ways to humiliate elephants, though… like making them dance, making them balance on a ball, making them spin round and round. The elephant was the least mistreated animal of the show.

Two observations I make, after reviewing what I’ve written. The first being that I use the word ‘cringe’ a lot. Fact is, there was a lot of cringing going on, and a lot of beating. I’ve searched my brain and my thesaurus in vain for a different word to use and could find none. I apologize for the monotony, but I do urge you to be thankful that you did not witness all that cringing; you’re just reading about it.

Second observation: normally I do not care much for organizations like PETA. Their singular focus seems a bit wacky sometimes and maybe just more than a bit overboard, but in this case I can see their use. If PETA had witnessed this show there would have been outrage followed by action. I only had outrage and tears at my disposal.

The only good thing that happened at the zoo was the new friends I made: George (named after YOU, George – I christened him so because he did not have an English name.) and his lovely fiancée, YoYo.

A Day at the Zoo

There should never be any tears spilled at the zoo, unless they are the tears of a small child, overwrought by the excitement of it all and overcome by exhaustion. Such children would be comforted by his or her parents and would probably fall asleep on the way home, with cotton candy still sticking to his chubby little cheeks and most likely with a toy still clutched in his dimpled little hand. He would sleep as though cradled by angels, appearing quite angelic himself.

I cried at the zoo, and I am not a small child, nor did I have cotton candy. However, I was both overcome and overwrought. But let me start at the beginning…

So, this weekend I went to the zoo… Wait! Back up even further!

Immediately after waking I gingerly stepped into the shower and stood still as I washed because Liz told me I should never jump in the shower for fear of breaking a hip. Sound advice. Within 2 hours of waking I was outdoors. A rare feat for me; usually I take my time heading out. But I really wanted to get to the zoo in plenty of time to enjoy it.

Sometimes the online bus directory I use to help me get around is not necessarily reliable. It told me to take but 202 for 4 stops and then ride bus 203 for another 4 stops. The zoo would then appear in front of me, as if by magic. Well: I counted 4 stops and got off bus 202, but I ended up in a somewhat desolate area by the 8-lane freeway. There were no bus stop markings whatsoever, and ahead loomed a very elegant suspension bridge. It looked like I might have to cross it on foot. I asked the only other passenger that had debarked with me; she told me no other buses stop there and in fact, that location was not even a bus stop. Sigh! In for a penny, in for a pound, I figure: bring on the adventure! I started walking.

Not an auspicious beginning to a fun day out.

Luckily, I only walked a short way before a passing cab driver faked engine trouble until I walked up and he drove me the rest of the way to the zoo. Cab drivers are not allowed to pick people up just anywhere, you know. That’s why he had to fake engine trouble. I’m grateful he did; it would have been a long walk otherwise. I paid the driver and, full of anticipation I entered the zoo enclave – after buying my ticket and beating the beggars and the trinket salespeople away. I swear: being a foreigner guarantees you a cloud of hangers-on! The first glance around the park showed me a lovely lake where black swans paddled majestically. Originally, that was the picture I was going to attach to this entry.

I’m going to be really optimistic here and say that the park is undergoing renovations. Actually, the park itself is lovely, but the animal enclosures are depressing. Just as houses here are built of solid concrete, so are the animal pens. Concrete floors, walls and ceilings with bars or glass out front for easy viewing of the captive inside. Fortunately the weather was very nice and I didn’t have to see many animals penned up in their concrete prisons. Instead they were in their open-air concrete prisons: concrete floor and heavy duty bars all around.

Now I’m really worried. Even more so because spectators are beating on the bars with their hands and with keys or bottles and making strange, loud noises, trying to elicit some reaction from the animals penned up inside. Nearly all of the animals appeared asleep, or just sat there, staring and dispirited. I don’t blame them. If all I had was cold concrete floors, no simulation of my natural habitat, no food or water and no toys to stimulate any kind of activity, I think I would be dispirited and sleep all the time too.

First there were the monkeys – normally a lively bunch, but these monkeys were quiet and lackadaisical. Have you ever seen a lackadaisical monkey? It is a very sad sight. That was the first of many sad sights I beheld that day.

There was an elephant who begged us for food. Literally: he was facing us and would open his mouth, and then use his trunk to point to his gaping maw. Had I known that all of the animals were starving and those vendors outside were selling zoo-approved food pellets, I would have bought a case of them. All of the animals appeared to be starving! As it was I had just a few food pellets at my disposal and did my best to lob them into the enclosure. The poor, starving elephant snuffled each morsel up: he didn’t miss a one. Even more disturbing: the other elephant in the enclosure was rocking back and forth and anyone who watches Animal Planet knows that elephants rock when they are in distress. Was he hungry? Thirsty? In pain? Emotionally bereft? All of the above? I couldn’t tell but I’m guessing this was no day at the zoo for him.

The heartbreak continued: the wolf with the broken paw in a dank, damp, dark enclosure. He cringed when we walked up to him and slunk off to hide. I wondered how his paw could have gotten broken – I got my answer later. The Tibetan yak with his pelt matted and burdocked. His enclosure was not even swamped out and the flies buzzed around him madly. The camel with both humps flopped over, and sores on the underside of them where flies nested. We saw that because the poor camel kept dropping to his knees and then laying down with his lips skinned back as though near death. His poor, bruised knees made a horrible ‘thunking’ sound on the concrete and it appeared he was suffering from mange, if camels can actually contract the mange. Then there were giraffes that did not move at all. Their pen looked like the recreation yard in a prison: all that was missing was a basketball hoop. It seemed sadistic that there were brightly painted, smiling giraffes on the wall but the actual giraffes could have done with a dose of counseling to cure their depression.

Two of the saddest exhibits were the big cats and the pandas. The big cats had nothing in their pens: no food, no water, nothing. They lay on the concrete, asleep. King of the Jungle I just didn’t see. More like defamed, dethroned, humiliated and incarcerated king. Heartbreaking. I was full of hope for the panda exhibit though. After all, the panda is the national symbol of China; surely their enclosures would reflect that.

Not so much. Even though pandas are very social animals, they were kept in separate enclosures and couldn’t even see each other. Both pandas were dirty and listless. One was awake and peeling bamboo, the other was asleep on a wooden pallet. I just can’t imagine why…

The last straw was the circus type show. But I’ll write about that in the next post because this one is long (and depressing) enough. I really want to get graphic about this show so that you can see the true horror of it, and why it drove me to tears.

So… make a dash for the bathrooms and meet me at the concession stand. I’ll try to buy some more food pellets so we can feed these poor animals something, OK? Then we’ll go to the show together.

The Honor System

Who remembers the good ole’days, back in grade school when school lunches, library books, even paste and crayons were dispensed on the honor system? What about having a line of credit at the corner grocery, in the days before ‘Line of Credit’ became a corporate term that you get charged interest for and sometimes taxed on?

Ah, the honor system! Where each person was relied upon to do the right thing, pay their own way, take only what they need, and leave the rest for the next person or the rightful owner. What happened to the honor system?

It migrated to China. Or, maybe it has been here for centuries like so many other culturally iconic behaviors. Here a man’s word is his bond and a handshake is a deal-maker. You know, just like it used to be in the States before corporate greed and petty theft took over.

Just a moment to talk about greed and theft. I am by no means saying that all of the reports of corruption and embezzlement coming out of China are false. There is plenty of greed here, and lust for riches, as well as corruption and bad deeds. A lot of that happens at higher levels of society – in government circles or in business, when there is actual profit to be made.

But at the people’s level… the street vendors and the bus riders and the hole in the wall shop owners. Here is where you still see the honor system in place and functioning beautifully.

It is not uncommon that a street vendor will simply tell you to make your own change from the box of money he has openly laying on his cart while he fixes your food. He or she may well cast an eye in your direction to make sure you don’t take a single Fen (1/10th of a Yuan) more than you’re supposed to, but I’ve not experienced that any time I’ve been to a food vendor stall. From what I’ve seen, the food vendor keeps his eyes on preparing your food and the customers take only the amount of change they’re entitled to.

Same with the ticket takers on the bus. Some of the bus lines are not government run, so a bus card will not pay your fare: you must pay 2 Yuan in cash. This ticket taker has as big a stack of bills as he or she can wrap their hands around, even some 100 Yuan notes – the largest denomination of currency available to the people. I can’t speak for every single Chinese person, but it appears that nobody has ever thought to club these ticket takers over the head and grab their money and run. Even on government-run buses, when a passenger does not have the benefit of a bus card he or she will drop the full 2 Yuan fare into the collection device without fail or trying to cheat by folding up a one-Yuan bill and pretending it is actually 2 Yuan.

The hole-in-the-wall shop owners presumably don’t even deal with banks. They keep their cash right there in their establishment. By day their wad of money is kept in a type of hip pack and worn; by night… who knows? It might be buried in jars among their inventory. Again it appears that no one ever thought of simply cutting the strap off of that hip pack and running with the cash.

Just the other day, at the farmer’s market, I did not have enough small change to pay for my 9.8Yuan purchase so I had to give the merchant a 100Yuan note. Being as it was fairly early in the day and she could not make change… she just told me to give her the 7Yuan I did have in small money and bring the rest back next time. Honor System! I love you!

Living under the honor system is like a blast from the past: something I only dimly remember from my childhood, and mostly have only read about in books. I have always wanted to experience living like this. What an absolute pleasure to finally do so!

But, I’m sad to report that tide is turning. Quietly, but maliciously, like a cancer growing. I see the signs already showing: anti-theft devices at store doors and on merchandise, lockers for people to put their big bags in so they don’t carry them into stores, video surveillance cameras.

Every time I go out with some of my students they constantly remind me to keep my bag secure and keep a good hold of it. Most times people hold their cell phones in their hand while riding the bus so that it doesn’t get stolen. Nobody ever shows any money (other than their bus fare) out in public. Men’s pants fronts have odd rectangles showing in front because they carry their wallet in their front pants pocket rather than their back pocket.

Lately, reports of violence are ramping up. Sometimes I actually read about a kidnapping, hostage standoff ending badly or the occasional murder or two. Of course, the hostage taker or murderer uses a knife as private citizens are not allowed to have guns. This is the type of desperate crime the regular Joe might perpetrate when pushed to the edge of an already abysmal life. Or regular Lee, if you want to distinguish Chinese regular people from American ones.

There is a disquieting undertone lurking around here. As uncomfortable as the pollution levels as just as toxic, the seeming paranoia of being a victim of theft is infiltrating this once harmonious society. It is sad to see women hiding their good watch after stealing a quick glance at it, always making sure no one is looking directly at them. It is sad to see people finger their money while it is still in their pocket so they can try to pull out only the smallest bill needed for their transaction. It is sad to see that some street vendors actually do collect their money and make change for you, rather than just leave their box of money on their table.

But there is still a measure of the honor system left. For as long as it lingers, I intend to enjoy it. I like riding the bus and watching people pay the right fare every time. I like patronizing the street vendors who trust enough to leave their box of money right there in the open. I like not having to separate my money into specific denominations and stuffing my various pockets with a few small bills so that all the pickpockets get from me is chump change.

I want to keep living like this. Not with my head in the sand, but enjoying a throwback to the time when people believed in honor. Until I get robbed or pick-pocketed, I’m guessing I will.

My Word but She’s Blonde!

It was bound to happen sooner or later.

Anyone who has known me for any length of time knows that I color my hair. Those who know me really well know that I’ve been doing so since I started going gray at the tender age of 24 – I suppose that is the price of single parenthood, combined with genetics. Some of you may even know that I’ve had my share of dyeing disasters too: like the time I went too red and it looked like my head was on fire. Or the time that the dyes had a chemical reaction with the lead in the pipes in that old house I was living in and turned my hair a frightful black.

I do not look good with dark black hair, nor do I enjoy my salt-and-pepper look. OK, never mind! It is just sheer vanity that keeps me coloring my hair. I’ll admit it.

Matter of fact, I never realized how deep this streak of vanity ran until I was contemplating moving to China. Oh, I knew there were hair salons here, but the question was: could they dye and perm my hair properly after being used to only working on Chinese hair? There is a difference in the texture and resilience, you know.

I had thought that maybe, if I bought a wig before I left the States… you know, just in case? For anyone who has ever had to outlive a bad cut, a perm gone wrong or a frightful dye job, you know what I mean. Your head is the first thing people see and (supposedly) what most people focus on; in my case even more so because I’m so tall. Wearing a bad cut or color just does things to you: makes you want to wear a pillowcase over your head, for instance, and claim you just can’t get rid of that Halloween feeling. Or maybe wear a hat, if your hair can all be tucked under it and you look good nearly bald.

I just couldn’t get my nerve up to try dyeing my hair myself (as I had done for years) because of the water quality here, and the dye job I had done just before leaving the States was growing out to the point of being noticeable. I had decided against buying the wig – didn’t want to give into that level of vanity. So now I have to go have my hair done.

First obstacle: language barrier. I do not have the language skills needed to correctly say what I want done to my hair. Solution: bring along a friend/student who also wanted to get her hair done. Lucky for her: she’s Chinese and there is no dilemma about how to do her hair. Even more lucky: she backed out at the last minute on having her hair done… but she still went to the salon with me.

Next obstacle: the stylist working on non-Chinese hair. Nothing I could do about that, and I was rather comforted when he admitted that he had to find the proper mix of chemicals for my hair because he had never worked on ‘ethnic’ hair before. How I wish I could have told him that my hair takes color very quickly!

Third obstacle: becoming the star of the circus. Not much I could do about that as many people stopped by to watch the foreigner get her hair done.

All in all, it was not a bad experience and I certainly cannot fault the hair technician or the stylist for the way things turned out. After all, I’ve suffered through enough bad haircuts and dye jobs at the hands of well-meaning technicians to have learned to do the job myself, even while in the States. I don’t know what made me think things would be different here…

The dye only activated for about 20 minutes; maybe a tad bit longer. In any case, that is about 10 minutes too long for my baby-fine hair. I had a feeling, you know…

Strangely enough, there are not very many mirrors up in Chinese salons. On the other hand, the rinsing chairs are decidedly comfortable. It is actually not a chair per se so much as a table; one lays their full body down and your head is propped on a board. You only have to raise your head when the back of it is being washed or rinsed, and then the stylist supports your head for you. Strangely enough, I fit better on these rinsing tables than I did in the American salon chairs. I was always too long for those. I’d have figured that here, where everything from mop handles to couches is diminutive to my massive frame, I would have to contort myself to get my hair washed in a salon.

As the diligent color technician washed, rinsed, conditioned and rinsed my hair out I intuited by his hesitant manner that maybe the color was more than even he had bargained for. Nevertheless he was very diligent: washing, conditioning, massaging my scalp, maybe trying to erase some of the color…

For those of you who do not dabble in hair color, let me tell you: there’s color, and then there’s neon color. Color is complementary: it goes with your complexion, looks more or less natural and does not scream “I just escaped from a bottle and threw up all over her head!”

Neon color does exactly the opposite of coloring: it contrasts deeply with your complexion, looks more or less fake and does in fact scream “I just escaped from a bottle and threw up all over her head!” It adds the embarrassing taunt: “And I’m permanent: I’m going to stick around for months and months until your hair grows out so that EVERYONE can have a good look and laugh at you!”

I hate it when my head taunts me like that.

After the very comfortable wash and rinse session we were back in front of the mirror at the technician’s stall. I… uh…. Was… hmmmm.. shall we say I am exceedingly blond? Maybe the type that, if that color were natural I would have no visible eyebrows?

The poor stylist! He was concerned that he had done something wrong, had done a bad job, had gone overboard, was going to lose his job, was going to have his license to dye revoked indefinitely, was going to be decapitated. The poor guy just looked mortified! So, screaming in shock was not an option: I did not want the poor little guy to feel worse than he already did. I simply mildly commented that he did a very thorough job on my hair and it looks like the color will last for a very long time. THAT is an understatement.

OK, so the long and the short of it is: I’m now much more blond than I ever wanted to be, it is permanent color so it will stick around for a while, and I am now looking around for a satisfactory wig or maybe a hat. In the meantime I wear my hair with pride because after all, there’s not much I can do about it other than cut eyes out of a pillowcase and wear it.

But I can see it in the inscrutable Chinese faces: “My word but she’s blonde!”

Retraction!

A lot of the first impressions I had of Wuhan were not very favorable, I’ll admit. By graphically relaying what I saw to you, you might have gotten a bad impression of this city, so now I will set the record straight.

Let me be clear: many of the things I had previously reported still stand and are in fact reinforced by my wanderings about town. Other impressions I have conveyed surely deserve correction, if only because of the people I malign by having made the statements I made.

I have repeatedly told you that Wuhan is a very dirty city. That fact still stands. However, in making that statement I may have inadvertently conveyed to you that no one cares whether it is dirty or not. That is not the case at all. Everywhere you go you will see people sweeping the streets and sidewalks, picking up litter and cigarette butts. There seems to be a whole troop of sweepers and no matter what time of the day or night (that I’ve been out), or whether it is raining or sunny, these ardent sweepers are busily at it. They use oddly effective twig brooms and what appears to be homemade dust pans.

Unfortunately, their sweeping leads to the dust getting scattered around more than getting swept up, but I have to hand it to them: their immediate vicinity is neatly swept.

There are people who scrub the dirt from the walls. When mud splashes or when it rains and the inevitable mud makes its appearance, there is a legion of cleaners who busily wipe the mud and muck from wherever they are assigned to clean. They even wipe down the temporary walls that denote construction areas. The other day I saw no less than 7 construction workers scrubbing down a series of such panels that had mud all over them. These poor guys! As they got done with one panel our bus went splashing by and muddied it up again.

There are also people who wipe down dividers that separate bike lanes from regular traffic lanes. These are rather delicate wrought iron constructions, maybe ½ inch thick and a meter tall, painted white. They go on forever, too. I’ve seen a team of 3 or 4 women at a time tackle such markings during broad daylight while cars whiz by, kicking up dust. They use a small bucket of sudsy water, some rags and a brush. It seems one brushes the dust loose, one wipes the bars down and the other dries them. Theirs is also a never-ending chore.

Wait a minute: bike lane dividers? Where did those come from? Didn’t I previously report that there did not seem to be any lane markings? Ah, something else I must retract.

When I first got here I did not get out much. My limited view of Wuhan consisted of the area immediately around campus and for that area, I did accurately report that there are no lane markings and sidewalks are treated as just more road space. However, once you get out of this area and into the nicer parts of town…

There are in fact marked lanes, highway dividers (of the wrought iron kind mentioned above), bus lanes and bike lanes. There are also sidewalks with exceedingly high curbs to discourage automobile drivers from using the sidewalk as another traffic lane.

Which reminds me: I’ve talked badly about the drivers here, too.

While it is true that Wuhan drivers have atrocious skills and it is true that they cut each other off and try to gain whatever advantage they can over all the other drivers, in the more civilized areas of the city, most people actually do obey the stop lights. Mainly because there is either a uniformed policeman on hand to monitor traffic and issue immediate citations, or because the intersections are monitored by camera. It is apparently very expensive to settle a driving ticket in China, so many drivers play on the safe side and do not risk the penalty that burning a red light would bring.

Of course, some drivers have gotten clever and have masked their license plate with mud or a plastic bag so that they can burn red lights with impunity: the camera will only capture the image of a plastic bag or mud. That works very well until the driver is caught, and then the fines are doubled, so I’m told.

However, as previously reported, lane markings and pedestrian crossings are not necessarily observed. That statement still stands.

I have to confess: I still do not care too much for this city. While there seems to be a wealth of shopping opportunities, there is still not much in the way of culture or history here. I often wake up on my non-teaching days and wonder what I should go do or see. I’ve even checked on the Internet and found that there are only 11 noteworthy places for a tourist to visit; I’ve been to 9 of them. They were not spectacular.

Maybe I’ll go to the zoo tomorrow. The weather is supposed to be very nice and it will do me good to get out.

Made in China

Who has never read the label on something just bought, or has not turned over that trinket just given them and seen ‘Made in China’ discreetly placed somewhere on that item? Surely you’re aware that China is known as The World’s Factory; indeed China ranks first in the world for exported goods. There are lots of factories and lots of hole in the wall shops that produce goods. From Lenovo computers to the Apple I-Phone, all are made in China.

What of industrial waste and the environmental concerns, amidst all of this production? In this respect, China lags far behind. Its waterways are polluted and the air is actually considered toxic in some areas of the country. Many suffer from chronic lung distress and several communities develop virulent cancers at an alarming rate. There is a dawning awareness of these conditions and the connection between sickness and industry. The Chinese government is trying to clean things up and regulate pollution emitters as we speak.

I was aware of this when I decided to live here. One of the reasons I wanted to be here is because I had partaken of Environmental Safety and Health education when it was made available to me. I want to help clean things up here. Dredging rivers, picking up litter, educating the young… it is all part of my plan.

Of course, such a lifestyle starts at home. I make it a point to separate my recyclables and organic waste from regular trash. The campus makes no such distinction: trash disposal is done by depositing your combined waste into these nifty little huts. Every other day or so, someone comes by with a wheeled container with boxed sides and a shovel and shovels everything into the box. It is then taken to an area just off campus where it is spread over the ground. Recyclable materials are culled out and everything else is burned.

Recycling is the one thing that the Chinese are on board with. It is such a profitable venture that, at any trash collection area you will find people picking through the trash to fish out any plastic they can find. Usually these people are elderly and desperately poor; I think they actually make their living picking through the trash. It breaks my heart.

When I see someone (usually a woman) picking through our little trash hut just outside the dorm I always give her my recyclables. It is kind of a ballet: as I walk by the poor woman is startled out of the trash area by the noise. When she sees me she averts her eyes, but nods when I tell her to wait for me. I rush to my apartment where the recyclables are neatly stacked up and bagged by the front door. I then go and hand them to her. Only then will she meet my eyes, while clasping her hands together and pressing them to her forehead (a sign of respect in China). She thanks me profusely.

What is she thanking me for? My recyclables? The fact that I hand them to her rather than make her dig through the trash for them? The fact that I speak with her, smile at her, thank her for her efforts, treat her with respect?

I’ll tell you the truth: it hurts my heart to see the elderly dig through the trash. It hurts me to know that their life consists of digging through other people’s refuse. It hurts me to see them ignored or mocked by the younger generation who do not seem to realize that it could be their mother or father hoping for a nice, clean haul out of the trash pile. It hurts me to know that, although this country is doing its best to mend its polluting ways, the indigent elderly are the ones in the trenches, picking up every little thing.

The other day, while out walking I saw an old woman hold out her hand to a young man for the empty water bottle he was getting ready to throw away. He laughed at her and threw it on the ground. She looked after him, her expression inscrutable. I can only imagine the humiliation and impotent rage she must have felt. I was shocked beyond words at his callousness – not that I have that many Chinese words at my disposal to begin with.

But if I did… what could I have said to him? I wanted to shame him like he shamed her. But then I figured: he couldn’t have a sense of shame to begin with. If he did, he would not have treated that poor woman like that.