Zhuhai Autumn and a Massage Parlor

There aren’t any leaves to turn bright colors, but there are other signs that autumn has come. For one, the temperature has fallen to 60 and the humidity has slaked.

People stand in the wind at the bus stop in the morning dressed in long sleeve knits, vests and jackets, and shiver miserably. Me, of course I failed to bring any warm clothing from my closet. I have only the BRCC denim shirt gifted to me before I left. On the other hand, I have been totally unsuccessfully in my dieting efforts, so I can’t say the cold has penetrated.

The other morning I was watching ABC Nightly News. At the top of the screen TV station displays the time and the weather. I knew we were in for it when the TV weather bar read 16º 14º. Well, I don’t know either what those Celsius numbers mean, but I figured the arrow was going the wrong way!

Ladies, ladies, ladies (gents look the other way) I just paid a man $2.80 to run his fingers all over my body! He’ll start at the coccyx and won’t stop until he finds that sweet spot at the base of my skull. And he does this every week! At the end of an evening class, when I know I don’t have to work the next morning, I call and let him know I’m coming. I dump my books on the desk, race my students down the school steps out to the waiting van. In five minutes I am there. (Well, on bad days the van is broken, I get off at the wrong bus stop and wind up walking ten hurried minutes. He said he’d wait for me until 9:20, which is the time I got off the bus, looked around and realized I’m still two blocks away.) My face lights up when I reach the top of the stairs and see him waiting for me in his yellow sweatsuit.

This time I forego the foot massage. It is way too painful. He manages to find every pressure point full of toxins, and one by agonizing one he releases all that nasty stuff until I look for an unpeeled banana to clamp between my jaws. No, three times is enough. This is my night for pleasure, not pain. So we go straight to the private room with two massage tables. It’s a weeknight, so we have it all to ourselves.

First, he motions me to lie on my back. He doesn’t speak a word of English. I close my eyes, and he begins to stroke my forehead. For half an hour he works my scalp, my jaw, my ears, the back of my neck, even tries to do something about the puffy eyes! He has this thing he does, where he rubs his hands together and then brings them to me, lays them on eyes and they are burning hot! While he’s working the back of the neck I open my eyes long enough to glance at the clock and pantomime, “Hey, are we going to get to the back?” He answers me, “yi ge *** liang ge”. Whadidisay? I missed a word in between. Maybe he’s saying, one half hour the head, the second half hour the back. ‘Yi’ means one and ‘liang’ means two. But my silence prompts him to repeat it. Ah, he’s asking me if I want one hour or two!

“Yi ge, yi ge” I answer, holding up one finger, thinking, what useless pulp would be left of me if I took two hours of this!

For a tenth of a nanosecond I fret that there won’t be enough time for him to reach the soles of my feet. But why waste this soothed and smoothed head on worry?

A half hour later we were done. He had indeed managed to work my entire back, my thighs, calves, ankles and did some good prayerful whacking on the soles[1]. He cracked bones along the way, shook out tension, stiffness and discontent.

He can’t leave me there on my stomach when the hour is up, because I will fall asleep. So he finishes by sitting me up and massaging the shoulders. Finally he declares the mysterious words that end the session. Mischievously I fumble in my bag for some yuan. I’ve asked my Chinese friends about tipping, and they concur with the guidebooks. No! But deep down I’m a New Yorker, what can I say? So I slip him ¥10 or ¥15. Well, it paid off, didn’t it? I mean, he waited for me tonight even though I was late, didn’t he.

I was led to the front desk where I paid. I sat down for a few minutes before bracing to stand out in the cold night at a bus stop. (Sure I could take a taxi, but we’d have the evening tab run full up to $5 if we weren’t careful, now, wouldn’t we.) I grabbed a banana on the way to the chair, from the overflowing bowl on the counter. He brought me a bowl of my favorite sweet red bean porridge, and signaled for some tea. Now that work was done, he showed me his smile.

I know him only as badge no. 84.

Last Sunday the Chinese Olympics were ushered in with fanfare that rivaled L.A.’s best effort. Students from the Immersion Class invited a few teachers over to their dorm for a barbecue fête. The TV was on, and to my great surprise there was Guangzhou[2] on the screen, showing off her new sports arena. [Now I understand the flower display that was just set up at the major intersection near my home; I recognize the Chinese Olympic symbol now when I see it, but I had wondered what there was to celebrate.] The opening ceremonies went on and on and on. I was there to socialize, but it was hard to keep my eyes off the screen. Helpful people stood in front of it periodically so I could visit.

The nonchalance of our hosts made me wonder if they had known the event would be taking place during their party. I remember opening day of the L.A. Olympics. I was invited to a party at the condo clubhouse of a co-worker. There was food and drinks laid out, but the TV was the center focus. Conversations took place, but always with the head angled towards the TV.

For relief there were occasional helicopter shots of Guangzhou. The ceremony must have gone on for two hours. The color commentary was lost on me, unfortunately, but now and again I was able to interpret the costumed synchronized gymnasts to be green fields, then mountains, then golden waves of grain. The ocean undulated. There was more, so much more, of wonderful music and talented athletes woven into it. Skaters, bicyclists, skate boarders, some gymnastic feats I haven’t a name for, and one extraordinary hoola hoop lady who turned her body into a swirling rainbow. As it wound down, the precision army in yet another costume change laid out the Great Wall across the floor.

Fortunately, the next day was my day off and for background noise I turned the TV on, only to find the complete replay. It filled the morning.

After eating entirely too much Sunday, in a feeble attempt to just sample the tiniest bit of everything, Monday was to be the day of a body cleansing diet of fruits and fresh vegetables. I started out with half a cantaloupe for breakfast. I had a green salad for lunch with a potato added and a little tuna fish. Great, I’m thinking. Then Jill came over and I made us a pot of coffee. It went downhill after that. Jill left, admonishing me not to diet too strictly. She saw how I was leaning against the wall. Then my abdomen complained bitterly, I felt weak and hot. By 4:30 I called the school office and asked if someone could come with me to the doctor. I chose the traditional doctor across the street from my apartment. It was close, and I felt weak.

The doctor listened to my pulse. I was used to this. When I lived in Dharmsala, the Dalai Lama shared his physician with the townspeople. When I came down with hepatitis he took care of me. After that, whenever I wasn’t feeling right, I went to him and he laid his four fingers, three edges each finger, to my wrist and listened. We had no language in common, but he was always able to point to the problem area. Stomach, knee, kidneys, he always knew why I was there and could pantomime my symptoms. Awesome. Here in Zhuhai I walked back to my apartment with enough medication to last me three days. Before I left his examining stool I said that after he fixed this problem up, I’d like to come back and talk with him about arthritis. My right arm has been giving me agony. He smiled and waved me off. You take this first, then see.

I’ve finished the medicine. My right arm has been pain free since Tuesday morning.

My former housemate Jill accepted a long-standing invitation to move in with a Chinese woman who is from the North. The woman’s mother is snowbirding it for the winter, so it is the three of them. In the spring the mother will return north. The school Director said I could stay in this apartment alone without paying extra rent. I must keep the second bedroom available for the next teacher who arrives. At the moment, there is no one in the wings.

Me and my Lili are enjoying the space. She is bored out of her mind, without a playmate and no toys or scratching post! What little furniture there is is caning. I can only hope it survives her! Tomorrow’s another day off, so I’ll have to search around for some post fixins.

[1] Place your hands together as for prayer, with fingers relaxed. Then bring the palm edges down on the desired spot, rapidly, rhythmically, producing a ‘thwacking’ sound.
[2] Formerly Canton

Beggars in Paradise--give or not give?

Paul recounted an experience. At the noodle shop he has become such a regular that one of the waitresses has gotten a crush on him. Her name is Jian Hui. Although she speaks no English, she calls him 'Paul' and can mimic the phrases he uses all the time.

One day as he was arriving he witnessed an altercation between Jian Hui and a 'bag lady'. He quickly surmised that the woman ate but could not pay.

Jian Hui was yelling at the woman. The woman yelled back, and Jian Hui kicked her bag scuttling across the room. Undeterred, the woman continued her wheedling arguments, but Jian Hui turned her back. The woman tried to sidle away towards the exit, but the cook grabbed her by a shoulder and pushed her back. He then went into the washroom to wash his hands. Jian Hui returned a watchful, combative eye on the woman.

The woman wore drab grey trousers under a once colorful quilted silk jacket, now colorless with wear, grime and grease stains. Her hair was hidden under a felt cap pulled down over her ears, but for gray whisps that escaped. Around her ankles were layers of rumpled socks tucked in tieless boots.

The woman made repeated thrusts toward the door. Each time she was pushed back, more and more roughly by Jian Hui, who placed a palm squarely in the chest and shoved, sending the woman flying. The woman bounced against the tables. Jian Hui pushed. They reached the back wall, and held there at a stand off until the police arrived.

After questioning the woman in rough voices, they started to search her for the money she owed. One officer, then the other, took a stab at sorting through the outer layers, only to give up in disgust and go into the kitchen to scrub their hands. The police continued to menace her for long minutes, but at last it was obvious she was unable to pay. With a most severe reprimand and warning, they finally let her go. At about that time, the owner of the establishment arrived.

When the owner learned of the theft, he began to scream at Jian Hui. It seems that the Cantonese language does not allow for calm discussion, but only open throated screaming. At that point Paul called her over to his table.

"Why is he yelling at you?"

In their own sign language, they communicated. The boss put the blame squarely on Jian Hui, and wanted to hold her accountable for the lost money.

"How much?" Paul wanted to know.

"19 RMB."

Paul pulled out his wallet and pulled out a 20 yuan note.

"I'll pay for it. Tell him to leave you alone."

And in a clear voice, holding up a palm, she said, "No, Paul." And she meant it.

Paul was so proud of his brave little friend, totally impressed with her strength and fearlessness. He relished the details of the body slams delivered by his little warrior, and how she did not flinch or weaken at the plight of this pitiful woman. He carefully noted the details of the hand washing, so I might understand the filth and contempt.

Now that the weather is turning cooler up north, the south is receiving more and more of these indigents. The bus stops are a prime begging location. There seem to be two styles of begging. On the one hand, the beggars are bold, and put their begging bowl right into your face. On the other hand, I saw a man with his daughter at a bus stop when I was walking after sunset one evening. The child, about four years old, was lying on the pavement on her back, eyes closed. The father, dressed in a worn gray suit, squatted next to her body, hanging his head down over her. He had his hand in the collection can. It occurred to me that he was asleep, and stuffing his hand in the can prevented anyone from taking the pathetic few yuan that were there already.

Although I have asked, I have not learned of there being anything like the 'Gospel Mission' system that we have in the United States. The homeless and indigent have no where to go.

On my way to work Sunday morning, just 20 yards before the entrance to school, I saw the white bearded old gentlemen that I had encountered before in Wan Zai Sha, near my home. I found myself torn. I wanted to throw a few yuan into his pot. But then I reflected, how did he get this way? Where is his family? Or is he a wanderer, like some of us here, having walked a different path all his life. Has he now reached the last phase having worn out any familial feelings of obligation. Has he so alienated those who once loved him that he can no longer go back? I think of Timothy, an American here so deeply into alcoholism that he has burnt his bridges back home, and has come here to hide. His brilliance and good looks get him jobs and he seems to earn a good living, but his drinking and gambling leave him perpetually broke. How do I feel about him now? Do I want to 'lend' him more money, so he can drink and gamble some more, or do I want to speak earnestly to him and urge him to get help. And if he ignores my help, and winds up an old gray haired man wandering the streets, would I then feel obligated to put a few yuan in his cup?

Volkswagon in Paradise

I have fond memories of a 1986 VW. It is the only brand new car I ever had of my own. I put over 200,000 miles on it, a maroon job with a sunroof. Even at the end it was still giving me 39 freeway miles to the gallon. I drove it from Washington State to South Carolina. It didn’t have an air conditioner. That wasn’t a problem in the cool Pacific Northwest, but in steaming Columbia, South Carolina, a drive up to North Carolina to visit the family could bring on serious heat stroke.

That car was like my second skin. I’m sure it had at least another trouble-free 100,000 miles in it. Still on my first clutch! I was very sad to let it go. A minor fender bender, and the insurance company totaled it. Reluctantly, I took the check and looked for another car. I drove a few more cars in the years following, but I never found its equal.

Do you believe in reincarnation? Well, how about cloning? To my delight, my little maroon Volkswagen has been replicated and covers the streets of Zhuhai! All the cabs are maroon VWs of the same body style as the ’86. There are many, many private vehicles, too, of that description. It delights my heart to see my little bug running everywhere around me. Maybe one day I can find a beat up one that I can afford, and once again put on an old skin.

Perilous Passes in Winter

It was Saturday night, I was with the friend I'd driven over the mountains to visit, but this was no restful evening of dinner and a movie. We were in his nephew's van, heading back down the mountain. This day had gone terribly wrong.

I am a teacher who came into the profession late in life. I am passionate about teaching. Even so, day after day of unruly students can wear a person down. When I found this weekend getaway spot, it breathed new life into me. This semester has been a particularly busy one, having my own teaching load plus added classes to fill in for a missing teacher. I am lucky if I can free up one weekend a month to travel over the mountains.

From the Tibetan plateau east, the mountains gradually recede in a series of steppes, high mountain passes and grassy plateaus. As the crow flies, it may only be about 600 miles from the western Tibetan border at Yushu-Serxu east to Kangding, the former China-Tibet border. That translates into days of difficult driving on the Chengdu-Tibet highway 308, even when the winter hasn't closed the road off to passenger traffic.

My junior college is at the end eastern end of the road. We are at a mere 4,500 feet, with just one more 7,000 foot pass before the road descends to the Chengdu basin. My students are all from the mountains west of here, right up to the Tibetan plateau.

The school holidays include a month in the winter and six weeks in the summer, when the students return home. I am drawn like a magnet to these mountains. China is a vast country, there are many interesting sights to explore, but I cannot pull myself away. I accept invitations from my students, spending my free time eating tsamba[i], and yak noodle soup, and drinking gallons of salty buttered tea. I learn new Tibetan dances on these trips, drink barley moonshine, and record it all with my digital camera. These families are warm and welcoming. They live with hardship. Harsh weather and high altitudes. No indoor plumbing. Cooking done over wood or dung fires. Telephone service is spotty, mostly available only in the more populous centers of commerce. Farms and most villages are not connected. Cell phones are useless. When a visitor comes to their door, the family circle widens just enough to draw in one more, then closes ranks again.

These people have a reputation as fiercely independent warriors. Over the centuries they have chased out explorers, exploiters and adventurers. The nature of these mountains is more conducive to isolated fiefdoms than a confederated republic. This has left an opening for the Chinese to send banished public servants to set up residence in the towns established along the main road, declaring themselves the occupying government of China. The Tibetans, if they didn't find them too offensive, left them alone. This wasn't much of a problem, until the communists came along.

During one winter-break excursion I came across a monastery cradled in a small grassland area. There are plenty of monasteries much closer to where I live. Those are either small, or in an urban area. This monastery, 180 kilometers from my home, was large, yet away from any population center. I began to harbor dreams of meditation retreats on three-day weekends, eventually a week-long retreat. I was eager to meet the head Lama, to see if that would be possible.

As we headed down the mountain, the three Tibetan men kept up a lively conversation. I felt like a shadow, sitting quietly behind Urgyen, not understanding their Tibetan. I was along for the ride because I had created this mess that they were going to fix. It was almost six when we left the monastery, night would quickly engulf us. There were icy patches on the road. We were in the same kind of car as mine, a minivan with rear wheel drive, no chains, but the nephew, Gondun, maneuvered the icy twists and turns with a practiced hand.

I set out that morning before 8 o'clock. I would arrive at lunch time. I tried a few times to phone ahead, but got no answer. Tried both his land line and cell phone. My friend had proudly given me his cell phone number on my last visit a month earlier, but I had never been able to connect. My own cell phone doesn't work there. Perhaps his was connected to a different service, or perhaps he could use it only when traveling. The land line was connected to a phone in a back room of his residence. It usually rang unanswered, except late at night, when I knew he would be watching TV not far from the phone. I knew to let the phone ring at least twenty times before hanging up. But I didn't try to call him Friday night. I was dithering, not sure I'd make the trip on Saturday. I would have to return on Sunday, and that was a grueling trip leaving no time to recover before stepping back into the classroom Monday morning. I had promised to bring some English books and tapes, and I had a movie I wanted to share with him. I didn't want two months to pass without a visit. I missed my friend, and the restful sleep I always had when there. So I set out early, dialing his number as I left our village, before heading into the blackout area. No answer.

The road was a patchwork of pavement and dirt. Man comes along and paves, using gallon drums to build fires and melt tar, and moving fallen rocks using a wire sling hanging from a pole on the shoulders of two men. Fallen boulders are broken down by men with hammer and chisel. Landslides are frequent. During rainy season I pray that enough cars have gone before me to flatten down the mud to two tire tracks. So far I've been lucky, not stumbling onto a fresh slide. When the rain dries up, the road is a mess of rutted dirt, loose stones, narrow passes. The river rages on one side, the steep mountain rises on the other. In spots, the rock wall hangs over the road, a passage carved out with dynamite.

I had passed the halfway mark in good time, the town of Danba. I filled up on gas, and tried again to call my friend. No answer.

The road was dry. I hadn't come that way before at that time of day, and the play of brilliant sun and shade as I wove through the folds of mountains was dazzling. The sun caught the river spray over a rocky drop; I had to stop and take a picture. No traffic bothered my line of shot. In fact, there seemed to be no one else on the road but me.

I noticed my windows were dirty. I tried the window washer, but it was either dry or frozen. I thought, I should stop and clean the windows with the handy wipes I carry. But I didn't. I kept pressing on. Almost there! Just thirty kilometers more, I won't quite make it by noon, but maybe there will be some lunch left over.

Climbing up into the last pass, the glare of the sun through the dirty windows blinded me, and abruptly I was in shade again as the mountain road twisted. Before my eyes could adjust, I felt the front end drifting left toward the stone retaining wall, the rear swinging out towards the river. Before I could move the wheel I bounced off the wall, the nose coming around, slowly swinging in an arc, nose to the river, then sliding into the wall. The left rear tire rested on the ditch ledge, half suspended in air, half straddling the snow covered road. Well! Now what?

I got out to survey the damage. Left edge of rear bumper against the retaining wall. Front left tire flat, rim badly dented. Fender smashed, the headlight wall-eyed. I went to lift the front hood to get the jack, but the impact had jammed it shut. No jack. I noticed liquid seeping from the damaged wheel. It was quickly freezing. Rubbing a drop between fingers, I recognized it as brake fluid.

A big blue truck came around the bend up the road, and stopped. A guy came down to survey the damage. Help had arrived quickly, I thought. He walked past the car, looking at the road. He gave a passing glance at me and the car. He waved the truck on, there was just enough road to squeeze by. Twenty minutes later, the same thing happened again. I tried to engage the men, asking for a loan of a jack. The truck drove past, the scout listened patiently, then disappeared around the bend after the truck. He didn't look back.

Sporadic traffic passed going down the mountain. Nothing moved going up the mountain. A pair of tractors stopped, looking like something out of the Dukes of Hazzard. The most talkative one, dark close-set eyes, long face, cunning gap-toothed smile, offered to help for three times the amount of money I carried in my pocket. But they were headed down to Danba, 60 kms away, and wouldn't consider taking me the last 30 kms up to my destination, for any amount of money. By tying a rope to my car nose and their tractor box, using the hydraulic lift, they raised the car enough to change the tire. But my spare was flat, so it was useless. They said there was more ice on the road ahead. So I asked them to help me put the chains on, maybe I could limp forward. They hooked the chains around the tire, inexperienced; the chains lay loose upon the rear tires. I paid them the going rate for changing a tire, and they went on their way.

I limped forward on a flat tire. Where was I going? The road nearby had no ice, but the rutted road was peppered with large rocks. If this flat tire was still to be any use, I couldn't afford to tear it up over these rocks. As I stood by my car surveying things, another truck stopped ahead of me. A guy came down to scope things out. He wanted me to back up onto the icy edge closer to the rock wall. I tried, but my rear tired slipped on the ice and wouldn't mount the edge. While they waited impatiently, I managed to creep right to a smoother section of rutted road, edging forward to a snow-covered lip on the river side, just wide enough for my car. The truck was able to pass me. I decided the car wasn't going anywhere else on its own. I pulled out my valuables, packed them in my bag. I used the remote on my key chain to lock the doors, and hand locked the rear door which isn't on the remote system. I started to walk. If nothing else, I wanted to reach a side of the mountain that was in sun. It was very cold in the shade.

I reached the monastery at 5 p.m. As I passed the temple back door, on the way to my friend's compound, I heard his voice. He was coming down the stairs. Had someone run ahead and told him I was coming? It sounded like everyone else was still inside chanting, in the midst of evening prayers. He asked why I was on foot; I told him my story. He instructed me to sit down and rest, and that after prayers were finished we'd go after the car. As he turned away he pulled his cell phone from his breast fold of his robe. I settled myself in his compound, but I saw no signs of dinner. It was unusual to find not even a thermos of buttered tea. Must have been a long day of temple prayers, where buttered tea is served lavishly.

Forty-five minutes later, his nephew had arrived and we were headed down the mountain.

I hadn't met his nephew before. Gondun was about 5'9", built solidly. His hair was smoothed back, ending in a neat braid down his back. He had already driven to my van, after his uncle called, but without the key he couldn't do more than change the tire. And lock the doors. He no sooner laid eyes on me than began berating me for not locking the car. My language skills deserted me, I had neither vocabulary nor energy to defend myself against this charge. If I simply said, "I did lock it," he would think me daft or an artless liar.

It was dark when we parked my car in Urgyen's compound. His sister and niece arrived, and put together a dinner of noodles. While we waited, I brought out the store of things I had brought for him. A bottle of hand lotion from the States, to combat the very dry winter climate. How often had I seen him use butter on his hands. A few copies of an English text book, and its tapes. His monastery hosts a school for village children, and he has included English in the curriculum. And finally, the videos. I brought a couple of movies that were made with a Tibetan cast, speaking Tibetan. Before dinner arrived, he animatedly berated me for causing such anxiety to his nephew, by having left my car doors unlocked. What shame it would bring him if his guest's car was found the next day by the side of the road stripped. Again I wished to defend myself, but couldn't find the mental or physical energy to do a dictionary-search conversation.

To change the subject, I suggested we watch a video. We fumbled around with the wiring, we old folk don't have the agility of the youth for sorting out all the reds, whites, yellows. After some false starts we finally got the picture and sound on the screen. But the dialogue was coming out in Cantonese! I asked him for the remote control, so we could use the menu to select the Tibetan track. He produced three remotes, none of which worked on the DVD player. I knew the video by heart, so periodically I updated him on what was going on, feeling so disappointed that he wasn't getting the full effect of this delightful movie. He said maybe in the morning he'd be able to find the remote. The warm meal had made me sleepy. I filled my hot water bottle, grabbed my chamber pot, and found the bed that Urgyen had set up for me. I don't know what time his kin left, but my bed was on the other side of the wall, so I know he stayed up late watching his satellite-feed TV.

As is my habit, I rose early. I wrapped myself in the sheepskin coat and went across the courtyard to the kitchen, hoping to find a lit fire. Urgyen's sister soon arrived, finding me huddled in the wool quietly building up body heat. She fired up some coals and carried them up to the house. I savored the quiet hour, communing with the peace and spirituality of the place.

Breakfast of tsamba laced with his wry humor brought me out of the cold gray dawn into a day of brilliant blue sky with the late sun hinting its presence behind the mountains. We talked a bit about the icy roads, and both agreed my life would be safer if I left the car parked in his compound until late February, when the ice begins to melt. He probably doesn't mean to yell, but I've noticed that when he speaks with others his voice is soft, but when he tries to communicate with me, he employs the 'louder is better' method of communicating with someone who doesn't speak your language.

He launched yet again into a rant about my leaving my car unlocked. I opened my mouth but the words wouldn't come. The shock I had just experienced, on top of all the pent-up frustrations of this term, the exhausting schedule that choked off normal activity--academic research, language study, writing, sustaining friendships, leisure activities--broke through fortified denial and poured out in tears cascading silently.

He looked on mutely, a man accustomed to managing a staff, directing and instructing monks of all ages from the most tender years, but not accustomed to dealing with weeping women. After a silence he gently asked again, "When will you come back with a week to spend?"

After breakfast I packed my bag and headed out the door, to begin the long journey by public transport back to college. He told me not to worry about the car, someone would take care of repairs, it would be safely parked until the spring thaws.



[i] Roasted barley added to Tibetan (salted, buttered) tea, along with two to three tablespoons of butter and some sugar. Worked with the hands to form a ball of dough. Pieces pinched off and eaten, with sips of buttered tea.