China People's Republic

0 62

All Warfare is Based on Deception

When my parents set out to adopt a child, China seemed like the natural place to turn.  One-child limitations imposed on some members of the population led families to leave their infant daughters on the streets to be found to try again for a male child.  After a bit of research online, they found documents for a girl named Guao Sho-Li.  My parents remember more bureaucracy than I do during the ten-day trip to China a year later, but they never regretted a minute of it.  I would like to think we found her a good life, and that the name Victoria suits her better, but I also know that she was not the only one whose life was touched by the trip.

Two days before I met my sister for the first time, we went for a walk in a local park.  It had many of the staples of an American park, but it was substantially more scenic.  Old men still played chess and other board games, children still ran, fountains flowed, and rows of bushes were cut in labyrinthine patterns.  That, I remember distinctly twelve years later because I wanted to walk through them like a maze, but my mother told me not to.

Luckily and, in hindsight, oddly, I was allowed left to my own devices for short while.  By the time I was let alone, I had forgotten all about the maze-bushes, but shortly, I crossed paths with something much more powerful and even more impressive: a dragon.

As an eight year-old, I called it golden.  In hindsight, it was probably just a cheaper metal with a gold tint, or a stone statue given life by an excellent painter.  Unlike the stocky, winged dragon of European folklore, the Chinese dragon’s body flowed like a serpent’s in the air, bending and winding like a river.  The eyes were the same as those of most statues- a blank, godlike stare not marred by pupils.  Stepping up to its pedestal, I stood beside it proudly.  Something about the piece just resonated with me.  I could not place the feeling until it set in when an old man began to speak to me in stern Chinese.

Typically, I was a good kid.  I did what I was told, and ten years after this trip to China panned out, I was recognized as ‘the easy one’ by my parents. Still, beside that dragon, I may as well have been one myself.  Without speaking a word of Chinese, I knew exactly what he was telling me.  It hardly took a genius to figure out that he wanted me to get off the statue, but at eight years of age, I decided not to listen.  If I would ever get a chance to play Dumb-American-Kid in my life, now was the time… and if I played dumb as I channeled the heart of the dragon, I would play dumb to win.

So, I shrugged.  I held a hand over my ear as if to tell him to repeat himself.  Looking back, I was definitely overacting, but I was still young enough to think I was slick.  Either way, I was beyond eye-level from him where I stood, cutting down on the intimidation factor that an adult’s height might have had.  He dressed casually – a pair of simple pants, and a jacket over a plain white shirt.  It may not have clicked then, but I may have subconsciously assumed that he had little authority, cutting the intimidation down to something even smaller.  He spoke once more in Chinese, and for lack of desire to understand, I explained: “I don’t speak Chinese.”

He seemed to give up.  There was no heavy sigh or palm on his face, but he said no more, and walked off without another comment.

Sun Tzu, the author of The Art of War, put it best: “All warfare is basedon deception.” I would like to think I did the ancient strategist proud. I was fortunate that the consequences ended with my mother telling me that I should have listened when I bragged about the incident to her.  I regret telling her anything, because the day after that, when I wanted to suggest taking my new sister to see the dragon, I was met with a dirty look and a hasty objection.

I would like to imagine that, if I ever find myself in Guangzhou again, I would find strength in the dragon once more.  If that were to happen, though, there would probably be no touching or climbing.  I can’t afford to end up in a Chinese prison.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Gratitude Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

0 80

Feeling Ironic in China

Gratitude; a place that makes me feel strong, free, hopeful and inspired.. as I was pondering this, with my cranberry white mocha with extra cinnamon sprinkles I wandered to my retreat, a small wooden pagoda overlooking the Han River. I cast my mind back to my busy summer. A place I had felt empowered? I thought of the summer I had spent working in Italy, relaxing in the Tuscan Hills, cycling down picture perfect canals just outside of Milan, stargazing on warm nights outside the Vatican in Rome. I reminisced about Canada and my time in buzzing Toronto and how alive it had made me feel, the magnificent roar as the Bluejays scored their only homerun, how the giant buildings engulfed me but yet I still felt a sense of importance walking around this city, as my dear sister phrased it, in her bizarre mix of Yorkshire and Canadian accent, “It’s like everyone here is connected by the fact we all know that here, in this city, were all a part of something amazing!”. I pondered Scotland – its beautiful moors and mountains that made me feel free and wild. It’s juxtaposed castles and cobble streets with trashy bars offering 2 -for-1 shots, and the food that made me never want to leave.

 

I scribbled notes on all these pages, manic spider diagrams webbed across my page, these incredible places and the different ways they had made me feel, but none were right. Gratitude? Then I realised, ironically, the place I felt most free, hopeful and inspired was here, in my Pagoda, overlooking the Han river, Fushun, Liaoning province, North East China.

 

This plain sweet pagoda is located on an island between two main roads overlooking the river. I have never encountered anyone else here, and I can understand why it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. The roads enclosing the island are constant with traffic; red lights one way white the other. These roads are chocha with irate taxi drivers blaring their honking horns , tyres screeching and people yelling – yet amid this sea of anger I feel calm. The star of my show, is the dark slow river that so beautifully reflects the cityscape with its neon lights. It perfectly mirrors the arches of the bridges creating almost symmetrical circles.

 

And it is here looking at the reflections I come to reflect on my day, to recharge my soul. It’s half an hour’s peace where I can curl up in the benches embrace, surrounded by a sea of people rattling around in tin cans, each living their own soap operas, and feel alone. Away from my ever questioning, ever enthusiastic students. Away from my ever demanding, ever pushing employers. Away from lifes dramas; the illnesses, the stress, the grief. This pagoda where I can empty my mind and fill my lungs with (polluted) air. I can watch the mirrored buildings flicker and become hypnotised by the lights, I can wade through my mind and plan my next years travels.. to find next years retreat..

About the author: I’m Holly, currently living and working in China.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Gratitude Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

When I first moved to Hong Kong in 1990, there was a part of the city that was off bounds. It was an ungoverned slum called the Kowloon Walled City, with layer after layer of tenement buildings so close to one another that daylight sometimes never reached the minuscule alleyways. In the center of the slum was an ancient Chinese yamen, or government building. Although Hong Kong had been a British colony for about 140 years by then, the Kowloon Walled City was officially still a part of China. But it was largely run by organized crime.

KWCP model outside
Model of the Kowloon Walled City. Photo by Tom Kason
Model of the yamen. Photo by Tom Kason
Model of the yamen. Photo by Tom Kason

I left Hong Kong in 1991, only to return a few years later in 1994. By then, the Walled City had been demolished and a traditional Chinese park was under construction on the very space where the slum once stood. I often passed the general area of the Walled City–after it was demolished–on bus rides to and from my friend Janice’s apartment. I write a little about Janice’s place in my memoir, Good Chinese Wife: A Love Affair with China Gone Wrong, but was so involved in my own drama back then that I didn’t give the old Walled City or the new park (when it opened in 1995) much thought.

Kowloon Walled City Park sign

Years have passed since I left Hong Kong eight months after the Handover in 1997. But I’ve often thought of the Kowloon Walled City and a missed opportunity to 1) see the old tenement buildings, 2) watch the demolition, and 3) visit the new park.

So when my husband Tom and I visited Hong Kong last month, I put a visit to the Kowloon Walled City Park at the top of our list. We traveled out to the Lok Fu MTR station and took a cab to the park. On the short ride, the driver told me in Cantonese that we should have just walked to the park. It was that close. But I didn’t want to waste time looking for it and Tom wanted a break from the sweltering temperatures. Once we arrived at the park, it was difficult for me to imagine the former Walled City in its place. The park was one of the most peaceful places I’ve found in Hong Kong.

KWC old building
photo by Tom Kason
Yamen
yamen
KWCP stone formation
photo by Tom Kason

We walked around the grounds and found a garden with statues of the Chinese zodiac.

KWCP zodiac statues
photo by Tom Kason
KWCP dragon
photo by Tom Kason
photo by Tom Kason
photo by Tom Kason

There was a nice pavilion surrounded by water. A woman sat under the pavilion reading a book. I wondered if she was taking a break from work or chose to spend her day off at the park. I also noticed the modern apartment buildings in the background, many of which probably weren’t around when I first lived in Hong Kong.

KWCP pavilion

We also found remains of the old south gate and an old rickshaw, one of the few left in Hong Kong. Even the tourist ones aren’t so numerous anymore.

KWCP ruins

KWCP rickshaw

We also came across a few walls with calligraphy and this old vessel.

photo by Tom Kason
photo by Tom Kason
photo by Tom Kason
photo by Tom Kason

Tom and I were both happy we’d taken time to visit the Kowloon Walled City Park. He learned about a dark period of Hong Kong’s history and I was able to visit a place I’d thought about all these years. For first time visitors, there are docents who walk throughout the park, offering free information about the history of the buildings and artifacts in the park. We lucked out and met a lovely older Cantonese man who spoke to us in English and another group in Mandarin.

photo by Tom Kason
photo by Tom Kason

We hope you enjoyed this article from Susan Blumberg-Kason. Learn more about her adventures in her book:

Good Chinese Wife: A Love Affair with China Gone Wrong

Please enjoy this excerpt from

Good Chinese Wife: A Love Affair with China Gone Wrong

 by Susan Blumberg-Kason

Susan's inlaws' hometown in ChinaThe Chinese University of Hong Kong sits atop a mountain, north of Hong Kong Island and twenty minutes south of the mainland China border. When I arrived on campus in 1990 for a college exchange year, I had imagined Hong Kong would be a city of skyscrapers and neon. But the only lights around the campus came from the occasional barge or leisure boat in otherwise quiet Tolo Harbour. On the weekends, the campus was almost deserted. Local students returned home to their families, and the few overseas students studying abroad left for the bustling expat areas of Kowloon and Hong Kong Island.

Upon my return for graduate school years later, new residential skyscrapers had popped up across the harbor. The campus was beginning to look like what I’d first imagined. But the most significant change on campus was that the mainland Chinese population had blossomed from a handful of people to about two hundred graduate students. I was fascinated by these newcomers and their alluringly mysterious culture, so utterly different from my own.

On one of those still-­quiet Saturday nights, a month after I started graduate school, I locked myself out of my dorm room. I was on my way to call a friend, using the hall phone around the corner, and as soon as I closed my door, I knew I had left my key on my desk. My roommate, Na Wei, hailed from Harbin in northeast China, but she slept in her boyfriend’s single room most nights and only returned to our room during the day when she needed a change of clothes or a short nap. So no luck there.

Then it hit me. The guard downstairs kept spare keys. I could borrow one from him.

My stomach fell when the elevator opened on the ground floor. The lobby was empty. I inched over to the guard’s desk to read a tattered white sign perched upon it. Although I couldn’t speak the local Cantonese dialect, I had studied Mandarin, the official language in mainland China. With five years of Mandarin behind me, I could almost make out the meaning of the Chinese characters on the sign: if, need, something, and return. But one character came up as a blank. If you need something, I will return blank.

Susan pregnant in Hong Kong (photo by Annie Galpin)
Susan pregnant in Hong Kong (photo by Annie Galpin)

If only I could read the one character describing when the guard would return. I usually got around Hong Kong without having to resort to my little, red Chinese-­English dictionary. Now, the one time I needed it, it was locked away in my room, not far from my coveted key.

I decided to take a seat on a vinyl bench near the front door in case someone came by who could translate that mysterious character. Worst case, I would have to stay up all night until the daytime guard arrived.

And that would indeed be the worst case for me. Other than on long international flights, I had never pulled an all-­nighter. I was the type of college student who worked ahead to avoid cramming all night before exams or writing a paper the night before its deadline. Thinking about the daunting prospect of a lobby all-­nighter, I looked up, startled, as two men and a woman suddenly entered the building.

Cai immediately caught my attention. Like a movie star, he stood six feet tall with confident eyes and an infectious smile. His hair was cut in the popular Hong Kong men’s wedge of the early 1990s—­longish on top, tapering down to almost a crew cut a few inches above the neck. He carried himself with the self-­assurance of someone used to drawing admiring glances. He looked striking in his stylish brown corduroy pants, short-­sleeved shirt, and hunting vest, but I couldn’t place his nationality. Based on his more sophisticated appearance, I figured he was from Taiwan, or maybe an overseas Chinese from Japan or another developed country.

His friends, however, weren’t so hard to identify. The shorter man wore an olive business suit with the white label still stitched to the cuff, and the woman was dressed in a long, striped polyester skirt and a mismatched floral blouse. Definitely mainland Chinese.

On my first trip to China in 1988 with a group from high school, I had noticed this eclectic fashion trend. Up until the late 1970s, fashion in China consisted of simple “peasant pajamas” or “Mao suits.” In the years after the Chairman’s death, people started to experiment with colors and patterns, including bright stripes and flowers. So this distinct mainlander fashion was easy to recognize in stylish Hong Kong.

Once Cai’s friends turned toward the elevator, I knew I had to act quickly before he left the lobby and I had to face my all-­nighter again.  “Excuse me, can you read this sign?” I hurried after Cai, speaking in English. No answer. Oh God, what if he only knows Cantonese? I thought. But I was determined not to sit on that bench all night, so I repeated my question in Mandarin as I felt a pearl of sweat trickle down my neck.

Cai glanced at the sign and said nonchalantly in Mandarin, “Tā jiù mashàng huílái.” He will be back soon. His Mandarin was clear and articulate, without the slurring of the northern Chinese accents.

“Oh, thank goodness! I locked myself out and need a key,” I explained to this attractive, well-­spoken stranger, stumbling in choppy Mandarin. The relief I felt, knowing that I wouldn’t have to camp out in the dorm lobby all night, seemed insignificant compared with my sudden desire to know everything about him. I needed to find a way to prolong our conversation.

Méi wèntí.” Don’t worry. He nodded slightly, as if locking oneself out happened all the time.  “Actually, I need to buy a phone card from the guard.” He went to sit on the bench I had just occupied. I couldn’t believe my luck.

We hope you enjoyed this excerpt from

Good Chinese Wife: A Love Affair with China Gone Wrong

 by Susan Blumberg-Kason

coffee1

The coffee is from the Taiwanese bubble tea stall. Served in a super size plastic cup, pushed forwards by the smiliest server before he retreats back into the throng of waving receipts. Twenty-four Hong Kong dollars- almost the same price as my shrimp noodle lunch. Half luxury, half necessity- I am too tired to indulge caffeine guilt. In this city, marching to this pace and cramming onto these trams and trains and towers, I take my coffee strong and iced.

The paper Hello Kitty cup announces that it is a Happy 2009! I notice as I sup the thimbleful of Nestle instant, the tiny folded handle giving me a paper-cut. It is, in fact, Easter 2012 and rainy season in Yangshuo, China. My rented bicycle stands lonely underneath its tarpaulin tent, the handlebars dripping rainwater like a runny nose. Even the noodles taste like rain, sopping in dirty puddles of soy sauce and chilli flakes and soaking through the polystyrene plate. Mist clings to Moon Hill and my heart strings crack with remembering English Novembers, minus the Mandarin.

Hannah Thompson yates india“Didi, didi, where you go?” Bimala pulls at my elbow, looping her tiny arm through the crook and trying to swing. She has spotted me leaving. In three to five seconds the others will emerge from the bedroom, the same melting chocolate eyes blinking in confusion. It is week three and I still have no idea what to say. How do I explain that I am going for a walk and a coffee instead of playing with thirteen attention hungry children? I can just about cope with unhooking her clammy fingers, firing my other arm out of reach so she can’t reattach. I squint out at the Nepali sun, then back into the dimming corridor of the orphanage. There is nowhere for them to go.

‘Chai, chai, coffee, coffee, chai, chai, coffee, coffee…’ The boy sings out on the Chennai train, his voice carrying through the steamy carriages and stirring the dozing men. Heads wobble that Indian wobble. Most mean no, some, somehow, indicate yes. Soon the samosa, samosi boy will come and the newspaper triangles will be handed out, hot in the hands of hungry travellers. Green chillies and ginger and cinammon and masala and all the smells and savours of wonderful, wonderful India and its ever tightening grip on the senses. I barely even remember the coffee here. Just the lemon infused hours of Kerala evenings and coconut breakfasts and street side Agra dhosas. Camels and tuktuks and motorbikes and Khan and Afsal and dolphins and mosquitos and the rose terracotta of Jaipiur’s sunset; a rolling reel of moments that were cut too short and too soon.

Hannah Thompson Yates IndiaWe like to joke that we are turning into teachers already, brewing our coffee mugs in the staffroom before 9am and clipping back up the stairs for briefing. Gone are the bikini strings and elephant pants, though braids are still pulling hair back from shiny faces and a few bamboo tattoos peek out from underneath waistbands and flip flop straps. Everyone tries to understand the future perfect tense and how to teach idioms, filing away game ideas and making mental notes to never, ever plan a lesson about religion or attempt to pat a Thai student’s head. Then a mosquito lands on an arm and you become distracted, thinking about a Koh Phi Phi weekend or a pad thai special. Coffee is the answer to rum bucket hangovers and sunburn sting.

Home. Home. Hoooome. My favourite mug, warm inside tanned hands with silver rings and unkept nails. Hot against chapped lips and steaming in the over-freckled face of one just returned.

Hannah Thompson-Yates

China MountainsRacing the green light, a massive group of cyclists rode by on a busy China street. I stopped and listened to the people; time became slow as I tried to take a mental picture. Blink. The light turned green as my father, sister, I, and twenty or more people hurried across the street. That is what the trip to China was for me, the amazing food, the beautiful culture, and the colorful people. Then the two weeks seemed to vanish in thin air as we boarded the airplane home.

I am adopted from a Chinese orphanage and in the June of 2010, I learned that my family would be traveling to China for a heritage tour. This huge opportunity would allow me to not only see the world, but to discover what I had missed for 17 years. We toured several fantastic Chinese cities together: Beijing, Guilin, Chongqing, and many others. I was so eager that I was always the first to try new foods, wander off to take a photo, or to get a lesson from women leading a fan dance class in the park.

One of the things that truly defined China was the various types of food. Heaps of dumplings, soups, and noodles made my mouth water as I tried every food they offered. The most memorable food I had was my first meal in Beijing at our hotel; I had a simple noodle soup, and maybe it was the jet lag, but that was most astounding soup I had ever tasted. Everything in the cities was within walking distance, and the sun beat down on us throughout our tour; occasionally the tour guide would stop for all the kids in my heritage group to buy peach ice cream. Each time made me smile as I took a bite knowing that it would be a long time again before I would eat traditional Chinese food again.

Vendors, travelers, tour guides, and the general population brought a personality to China as a whole. The people we met in restaurants or in the towns were always polite and inviting. We had several tour guides but our favorite was Xi Xi; she was funny, informative, and knew the best restaurants everywhere we went. The vendors were the most amusing people to talk to and one of the highlights of my trip was watching my determined little sister, Isabelle, bargain with the vendors on the price of a purse. Other people within our heritage group also had stories to tell of their choices of adoption; it was heartwarming to hear someone else’s discovery that adopting a child was one of the greatest decisions ever made.

Everyone wants to see the Great Wall of China as one of their activities, but I think the Temple of Heaven in Beijing had so much more to offer. While the view from the top is gorgeous and the history is intriguing, I found less appeal when we walked on it. In the Temple of Heaven there was a large group of people doing Tai Chi, there was a man on the sidewalk practicing his calligraphy, and so many other people interacting that it would have been a wonderful place to relax and watch the world go by. Other activities included on the trip were holding an adorable baby panda, playing hacky-sack in Tiananmen Square, shopping in the Pearl market, but I think the Temple of Heaven showed the personal side of China.

I stood looking over the Li River as the mountains of Guilin passed by in fog, and I came to the realization that I would never be tired of exploring my home country. I will always be searching and trying to immerse myself in the culture that seems foreign to me now. I would try to reconnect myself with the world I left behind as a baby with the hope that maybe one day I could return once again.

About the Author: I am currently a high school senior and anticipate to major in International Studies. I love reading and learning about other cultures. This summer I am planning to travel to France and Spain with my school.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter our next Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

jumboNights In? Not in Hong Kong!

I have never been a massive fan of the ‘nice night in’. Like many things, I think the idea of an evening on the sofa with the TV on is a lot nicer than the actual reality of it. Sure, when you’re exhausted or stressed or fed up of the rubbish weather, a Friday night snuggled up in your onesie might sound appealing. I get that. But by the time it gets to 9pm you’ve remembered just how bad TV really is, you’re stuffed from all the comfort food you’ve treated yourself to and you’re probably perving on all the fun things everyone else on Facebook is doing. I would much rather power through, celebrate the end of the working week and start the weekend with a bit of fire in my belly (or a few too many gins).

The problem is I am not a massive fan of extortionate taxi fares either. Or of the three buses I have to catch to my best friend’s flat. I hate the ‘to drink or drive’ debate. Neither am I particularly fond of almost everyone I know being half of a romantic couple and wanting ‘quality time’ together instead of great craic with everyone, single people included, in the pub. And then, without me even realising it at the time, moving to Hong Kong in 2011 was the answer to all of these problems.

coffeeSuddenly, the notion of ‘staying in’ was taken clean off the table. Just like that, answering the obligatory ‘what are you up to this weekend?’ question became a case of sifting through options, trying to piece all the choices together without missing something, or someone, important out. Hong Kong’s energy, like its fried rice, is addictive. People live and breathe the ‘work hard, play hard’ mantra and, regardless of how tired you are or how busy your week has been, your down time is always exciting. Picking which rooftop bar to visit on a Saturday night, which happy hour to make the most of, which beach to recover on the next day … these become the burning dilemmas of the weekend. And, best of all, getting anywhere and everywhere is simple, fast and all part of the HK experience.

I lived six stops and less than twenty minutes away from Central Hong Kong on the MTR. The station was approximately four minutes from my apartment and the journey cost me next to nothing. Even better, the trains were fully air conditioned and clean- my hair would stay looking straight at least until I got to the first bar. That’s one option. Another would be to just hail a very cheap taxi from right outside my front door. Squeezed against the thighs of my friends, laughing and singing to the Canto pop on the radio, pre-empting the drama of the night to come; we would curve past stunning Victoria Harbour and rip-roar into the centre, coming head on into the throng of Chinese, English, Irish, American, expats, locals, all of them. Our friends would be among them somewhere, clinking glasses in one of the bars on Lang Kwai Fong.

We’d worked all week, taught lesson after lesson, caught train after train, ran to make spinning classes and gym sessions and yoga clubs. We’d skyped far away family and emailed long lost friends. Now it was Saturday, the week was behind us and our Sunday stretched ahead like miles and miles of untouched beach, waiting to be dug up in our weekend footprints. The price we all paid, of course, was having only one full day off a week. Yet, somehow, this one blissful day seemed to last forever. Rather than vegging out on the sofa, hungover and dreading going back to work the next day as I would do at home, Sundays were spent hiking in the country parks, cycling in Sha Tin, catching a ferry to one of the outlying islands or simply sleeping on a sunny beach. Hong Kong’s transport system means all of these are quick, easy, cheap and hassle-free options. Spending your precious Sunday in your shoe-box sized flat, however many cocktails you’ve sunk the night before, is out of the question.

Now, I don’t want this to be an alcohol friendly argument. It is quite possible to live in Hong Kong without indulging in its crazy nightlife and free-drinks-for-girls ethos. In fact, I have a friend who became completely tea-total and still wouldn’t live anywhere else. My point is, in Hong Kong, there is always something amazing to do. And, rather than have to plan it for months in advance and struggle to afford the expensive train-tickets, people actually do it. Every day. Long hours at work are sandwiched between junk boat parties, going out for dim sum, having coffees on the Avenue of Stars and getting the tram to the Peak when you want some fresher air. Even my yoga classes were exhilarating. There is nothing like being in the downward dog position and seeing that incredible skyline to make you feel alive!

When you do succumb to that ‘nice night in’ it is because you genuinely miss your sofa. You look forward to cooking in your kitchen for once, and you enjoy every second of doing nothing after having such a packed schedule. It is not because you can’t brave the miserable weather or summon up the energy to meet your friends on the other side of town. Hong Kongers live life in the fast lane…full throttle and with an incredible view.

HK

 

Hannah Thompson-Yates

Spring_Festival_Travel 338She walked in everyone was looking at her, by herself, she thought it could be paranoia. Feeling a bit uneasy by the idea of staying in a Resort by herself, no family, or friends, just her by herself. She thought, “who does that?” Then, she said to herself, ” I do!”. She began to peruse the room with her brown eyes, she noticed the families, babies, foreigners, and of course Chinese. If only she could speak Chinese, what would she say, “Hi, can I join you ?” Or, maybe “How long are you here for?” The cafeteria was buzzing with the clink and clang of dishes, little children running around, and the quietness inside her mind. She noticed women doting on their husbands and getting food, she thought Chinese women were in a way very subservient to their men in a fashion that in America, women are not quite so subservient. She couldn’t ignore the feeling of being misplaced, alone – yet, strong and courageous and she asks herself, “Is it too bold? Do people do this?” Am I the only one? Sitting at her garden table wearing a tight black tank top and skinny tight blue jeans, she realized she felt a bit out of place because she tends to forget people might be looking at her because she is black. Every time she passed a mirror she sees her curvaceous body that she feels, in this part of the world is starting to resemble Kim Kardashian. In a way, that made her a little skeptical, as she remembers the cab ride from the airport to the hotel and the driver was being a bit strange. He kept saying, “Ni Ho” with a certain look then tried to rub her leg. She quickly gave him the money and said, “Tajian” GOODBYE!! She thinks, I hope that doesn’t happen again. As she is sipping her coffee and enjoying the smell of the ocean coming through the open windows, she remembers her massage from the same city, where the masseuse tried to feel her up in the name of a massage. That massage ended very quickly, but she couldn’t stop to think how maybe this is how the Chinese are. She wondered why the masseuse was not a women. Then, maybe she thought the women were busy giving “happy endings” to the men, she chuckles to herself “China”. She brings herself back to the resort cafeteria and thinks, ” well no one will notice me here.” She tends to down play her looks. Her beautiful almond shaped eyes, her lashes, her silky brown skin, bold pink lips,and long kinky curly hair that she usually pulls back. She is not aware of her attraction or beauty. As she sits, she thinks why does being black play into a traveler? Or, how people see her? She realized she is always called African or people think she is from South Africa. This bothered her, why couldn’t she be a Black American? Why was that not what came to thought first? She knew there was something to this thought and would revisit it for it says a lot about how people see her in the world or Black Americans. Something about it she thought was strange. As she looks up from her table a women smiles, she smiles back. She starts to get a warm feeling, she thinks all she has right now to comfort her is her writing. She was about to break down in tears. Then, she thought no this is why she is writing, because, she is feeling things – sad, happy, lonely, alive, adventurous, and beautiful. The emotions overwhelm her she thinks back to the United States and she realizes all the things she left behind and the new things she will begin. She brings her mind back to current and present. She misses home and misses the familiar.

The Smell of Childhood Memories

Sitting by the pool, laying on the lounge chair, there was a familiar smell of mill dew from the cushion. Oddly, it reminded her of how she grew up, the smell resembled the orange life preservers she wore every summer on her family boat. She saw the water glistening in the sunlight and flashed to the day she was on the boat and she caught a “Sea Robin”. What is it called? She asked her brother. He said, “It’s a Sea Robin” throw it back in her father says. She said, “why? ” He let her know that they are poisonous and can’t be eaten. At that point, her brother took it off the hook and threw it back in. Wearing her little orange life preserver on her thin brown frame, she was so excited to have caught something, since it was a struggle for her to bring the fish in the boat. They pulled the anchor and continued up the channel. Her brother informed everyone they were heading to the beach. She thought this was her favorite part of the trip, but it was already a great day! Her brother shouts, “Dad can I drive the boat?” She remembers the wind, the fast speed of the boat, and the smell of the mill dew on her life preserver. She isn’t a little girl anymore, she gets up from the lounge chair and dives in the pool. She thinks to herself China is a long way from the Atlantic Ocean.

About the Author:  My name Robin Glassberg I am from the United States currently I live in China. I am an educator and have been teaching and writing for over ten years.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter our next Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

HakkaThe sun-gold, silk dragon careens across the low, gray sky and like the circular Hakka home, time loops upon itself. Old drummers sit on stools no higher than our shins and bang their canvass drum heads while ash dangles from their cigarettes. The dance isn’t spectacular – in our high-tech world we’ve seen explosions and colors and sound bombard our senses – yes, we are a desensitized group. Even here in an ancient village, the iPhones light up palms and children ignore the songs while their fingers shoot another digital animal through another virtual reality. No – the dance isn’t spectacular, but for a moment the cadence of the drums and the whirling of the dragon take control, and as if in a trance, the world me around disappears.

The Hakka Homes are timeless; the soot-colored roofs and moss-lined rock pathways open up the body and announce their antiquity. It’s hard to walk on slick rock roads and the damp, dark tiles. Everything is backlit against the sky leaving an impression of light when your eyes move to focus. The hundreds of rooms are dizzying and I imagine ancient children playing hide-and-seek in the thousands of alcoves. Empty coffins line the highest storage spaces on the highest level of the village home and the musk from the abandoned rooms fills me with fear for a moment. A mother draws water from the well, the well reflects the sky – an endless beam of light. I watch her lower the wooden bucket into the stone cylinder and am surprised when I hear before I see the bucket hit the glass-sky-water.

Time stops and time loops in the Hakka village home. The well breaks my concentration and I’m brought back into this space, I circle the building. All of the history: the beauty of the things that have existed before me and the things that will continue after me whirr and bleed into sounds of text messages and television sets muffled behind closed rooms. I’m haunted in this cold, hollow edifice – the etched characters on the wall indicate a time when the well water may have been the only thing entering the body. The slogans are long-since painted over, but a careful eye can spot a hint at things unmentionable. And as that moment begins to bleed into this moment a little girl in a reflective, puffy, pink coat screeches in excitement as her father lights a stream of firecrackers.

After the Dragon Dance we pile into one of the freezing sections of the village home. The mothers and daughters steady themselves along the rock countertops and I watch the dark-haired women dance among their timeless duty. Someone lights the fire beneath the bathtub-sized wok, someone else slams a cleaver into the freshly killed, goldenrod-skinned chicken; someone else heats the water for tea (from an improvised electric tea kettle) and I stand in the boundary between kitchen and parlor where the men smoke, pour tea, and spit seeds. My position as guest renders me helpless and although I’m agile in the kitchen I’m shooed into the room with the men. The men find my presence uncomfortable and lower their voices in respect. My presence is a break in the rhythm, in the dance, in the endless loop of culture. Every room in the Hakka house is filled with an identical scene – the same smells of range smoke and cigarettes waft between the water-rot wooden corridors. The same hands smooth the skin of the chicken checking for feathers or blemishes. The same jokes are told by the same shy men. And here I stand on the threshold between their infinity, and my own.

About the Author: Rachelle Linda Escamilla is a poet/writer from California. Her work has been published internationally and she is a finalist for the Willow Books Literature Award. She currently writes for In The Red Magazine in Guangzhou, China where she also teaches and co-manages The Center for Creative Writing at Sun Yat-sen University.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter our next Travel Writing competition and tell your story.

pic 1China. The spontaneous decision that changed my life for the better.
As Confucius so rightly said, “Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated.” This couldn’t be truer, with the past year of my life spent living and working in a rural Chinese village.

Who would I be now, if I hadn’t spent hours trying to relate the Chinese characters to my English written map, lost in the Chinese underground? Or my days negotiating bargains at the overly crowded bustling marketplaces? What would I be doing now, if making a speech to 8000 staff and students at my school didn’t encourage me to be more confident, and to carry on educating others and travelling the world? Who would I be now if I hadn’t forced myself to try weird and wonderful foods, even when I knew I would feel guilty when I saw a donkey next?
It just so happens that the next donkey I saw was at the Great Wall of China. Appearing through the haze and the moist fog, I will never forget seeing miles upon miles of the historical wall before me, and conquering one of my life’s ambitions.

China is a diverse and almost indescribable country with every single province offering something amazing. I was lucky enough to experience the vast differences between the majority of them.
Xi’an, typically famous for the Terracotta Warriors, yet also home to a mixture of religions and architecture like I had never witnessed before. With the city walls separating the traditional from the modern; its curled rooftops and blankets of red and gold at one glance, and ultra modern vast high rises at another. My mind was blown by the warmth emanating from the locals here, and their sheer delight at taking a photo with me, the ‘foreigner’.
Shanxi province, I discovered, is home to booming fireworks filling the air at all times of the day and for any celebration you can think of! In Guangxi Province, I floated down stream with steep, green mountains surrounding me on the Yangzi River; I even tried spear fishing on a bamboo raft which for me was a difficult task due to my phobia of fish! Finally, I headed north to Beijing- the city with more smog than you can ever imagine.
Yet with all of the time I spent in China, I did not waste a single second. Whether it was riding through the rice fields in rural villages, to hand making noodles in a local’s home- I learnt so much from every single day, that I will truly treasure forever.

I can only put into words my experience of a year in China, but China inspired me into seeing that you can live as minimal as possible and still be the happiest and most grateful person you can ever hope to be. You can enjoy a wealthier, more lavish lifestyle in larger cities or become ‘famous’ by getting lost in traditional village farming areas.

China inspired me to appreciate the world for what it is, with rain or shine, come rich or poor, and that every single person truly can learn from one another. It inspired my confidence, my integration with all kinds of cultures and backgrounds, and also introduced me to my soul mate- something which I could never have expected upon my landing in this fascinating and historically astounding country.

Love appears when you least expect it- and mine appeared in more ways than one. No regrets can ever be had when I think about China- the country which changed my life in incredible ways.

About the author: My name is Billie Jago and I have been working as a TEFL Teacher around the world for the past 3 years, most recently in China. I have a passion for travelling, and teaching others about my amazing experiences.

Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter our next Travel Writing competition and tell your story.