yin and yang

(This is copied from my account of the trip that I wrote on any scraps of paper I could scrounge up on the train ride home from my 2-day adventure organized by the CET exchange program into the countryside of China, along with: my family; about 15 American students part of CET; their 15 Chinese roommates; Jeremy—the head of CET in Shanghai, the lone organizer of the whole trip, and all around wonder-man, in my opinion; Lijia--a Chinese friend of my dad’s, and one of the guests at the next of my dad’s “conversations”; and her two half-British half-Chinese daughters aged 13 and 11.)

I have never had so many thoughts of death race through my head in a 48-hour period. Then again, I have also never swum in a pool at the bottom of a waterfall half-way up a Chinese mountain, then hiked to the peak of a different, 1400 m mountain, then spent the night at a Taoist monastery perched at the top of said mountain, and had an all-around once-in-a-lifetime experience. So, all in all, it was a yin and yang sort of trip, one fitting of China and therefore one that pleases me greatly—all of it in retrospect, though some of it was not so pleasing at the time.

The adventure began at 6:30 on Tuesday, with a so-called “bullet” train to Wenzhou. I say “so-called” because, quite frankly, the majority of the time it traveled significantly slower than a bullet and much the same speed as any normal train. Rather a disappointment. But misnaming aside, I have decided that I thoroughly enjoy train travel, and it is quite unfortunate that the US so lacks in this area of transportation; indeed, the only trains I have ridden have been in China and in France (the luggage compartment of the French train, I might add… but that’s a story for a different blog).

Riding a train is a much more social event than either a car or an airplane, because you can get out of your seat, mill about in the corridor, and interact with complete strangers. These interactions may include quick chatting, longer discussions…or reading over the stranger’s shoulders and petting his arms, which was how one little Chinese girl interacted with my dad. At one point during the (4 and a half hour) ride, my mom nudged me and I looked up from my book to see my dad sitting in his seat reading, while a Chinese girl of about 11 hovered behind him. She seemed absolutely enthralled with either the book or my dad; after about an hour my dad put away his book and it became clear that it was my dad, not the book, that captivated her attention (it turns out she couldn’t read English, anyway). She continued to stand there, staring at him, occasionally talking to him, and even at one point petting his arms—because his strange arms had hair.

This whole interaction was quite striking to me, because though I had felt the more than occasional unabashed stare on the subway, I had never quite seen a Chinese person viewing a foreigner like some exotic creature. My mom tells me that, back when my parents lived in China before in the ‘80s, this was how everyone treated them, and that when they had walked through the streets of Nanjing, people had crowded around them, vying with each other to touch them, because they were—quite literally and figuratively—a foreign sight.

The rest of the train ride was fairly uneventful—though the distribution of food was fairly entertaining too. Jeremy had informed us earlier that he would provide a dinner on the train of peanut butter and jelly and cheese and crackers, which caused me to wonder how exactly he was going to manage that for 38 people. But sure enough, once the train started rolling, out came three loaves of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a jar of jam, and he proceeded to make sandwiches. This in itself was funny enough, but even funnier was watching one of the roommates, a Chinese boy, who slipped into my dad’s seat (next to Jeremy’s) when my dad foolishly got out of his seat for a second. There the boy stayed through the remainder of the food-making and distributing, taking plenty more than his fair share of the food, and leaving my dad standing without a seat.

This being my mom’s first trip back to China in 23 years, she has many interesting observations about what has completely changed and what has stayed virtually unchanged. To the former of those, she commented on how much less polite and respectful to elders Chinese boys seem to be now. Lijia offered her personal explanation for this change when she said at one point, in a disparaging tone and shaking her head: “tsk…only children.” And true, in a society where families are close-knit and extensive—four grandparents, two parents, aunts and uncles all living closely—but where families are limited by law to having one child, that only child is rather doted upon.

But I digress. After the train we took a bus to Wenzhou, and it being 11:30 by this point, I collapsed onto my bed, closed my eyes and eagerly waited to drift off into much-needed sleep...only to have my ear assaulted by the crashing and beeping and general cacophony of construction. Apparently midnight is the perfect time to use a jackhammer to break up concrete. Right outside of our window. We seem to have some kind of curse when it comes to bedroom locations: in Shanghai there is drilling outside of our apartment; when we arrived in Beijing and settled into our hotel room, we found that they were renovating the room next to us; and now this! Luckily for me, I could just sleep on my good ear (deafness for the win!)

In the morning we divided into three vans (the 15-seater kind that I’m pretty sure have been banned in the US for their high tendency to roll over). We drove for about two hours through the gorgeous countryside—through rolling hills and beautifully lush and green farmland. We reached Nine Pools (which is the equivalent to a regional/national park in China) and began our ascent up the trail. An ascent that involved many, many, many stairs. Wet, mossy, slick stairs. 45 minutes of stair-climbing later, we reached the 8^th pool, which was well worth the hike. Absolutely stunning: a waterfall, a crystal-clear pool, a huge rock for the brave of heart to jump from—all tucked into the side of the mountain. As the students eagerly jumped in, the sight was perfected as the pool became studded with the neon orange of PFDs (life vests)—worn by all but one or two of the Chinese students, this being their first time swimming. Ever. I can’t imagine being twenty and never having been swimming, not to mention having my first swimming experience being on a mountain in a natural pool?! It was funny to watch their various reactions: there was a cluster of girls who refused to don their life vests or to even wade into the pool; there were a few half-giggling, half-hysterical more adventurous girls; and then there were the boys who clearly felt the pressure to be macho and one who even—to onlookers’ horrors—jumped off the high rock, which, let me tell you, is not a good idea when wearing a PFD. He came frighteningly close to hitting a rock as he splashed into the water.

It soon began to rain and I became increasingly colder in the water (which was gorgeously clear but far from being a hot spring), so my parents and I climbed down to one of the lower pools and took shelter in a little pagoda-temple that overlooked another stunning waterfall, and ate our lunch. It being my family and all, we dined on Carr’s crackers, Emmenthaler and Gouda, salami, pickles, tuna, and an apple—a proper picnic that would’ve been at home in France, and tasted even better in China.

After lunch we hiked the rest of the way down—or rather, inched our way down, since the slippery descent proved even more treacherous than the ascent. Losing your balance is an awful sensation, one that I experienced many times, though thankfully I never completely fell. My dad was not as lucky, and took one fall that may have broken his finger (!) but he marched on heroically. He was only concerned that it may hinder his typing and chopstick use.

Up until this point—besides the fear of slipping—my mind had generally been at ease. But then we piled into the vans (the vans that, let me remind you, are banned in the US) and began the drive to the monastery. The drive up a mountain. On mountainous roads. I will do my best to describe them so that you can get an accurate sense of the cause for my fear. We wended our way up the mountain, and each turn brought a narrower and less well-paved road. I’m talking about a road barely the width of two cars, sided by a sheer cliff face on one side, and a sheer drop on the other. With no guardrail to speak of--or any other distinction, for that matter, between side-of-road and drop-of-death. Add to this the fact that the road was roughly paved, and at some stretches not even that. And the road was built as a series of hairpin turns. And the driver—who, mind you, is a complete stranger and had my life in his hands—didn’t feel the need to drive at a particularly cautious speed either. At every turn, I was convinced that this one would be my last; that we would either tip over the edge or crash headlong into an oncoming car—and I am still convinced that, had we come across a car going in the opposite direction, we truly would have been screwed because there was physically not enough space for two cars to pass each other. Luckily my theory was never put to a test because thankfully no one else seemed to have any desire to use this road. Which in retrospect I would take as a bad sign, but proved lucky for us at the time.

All in all it made for a terrifying drive, and many morbid thoughts and images flashed through my mind. I pictured the van tumbling off the road from the mountain; I tried to calculate what handle I should hold or position I should take for the best chance of survival and ultimately concluded that I’d be dead no matter what; I wondered if news of my death would reach the US, and if everyone I knew would ever learn of my demise...you get the picture.

But as I mentioned at the beginning of this entry: yin and yang. So I must also add that the view was jaw-droppingly gorgeous and breathtakingly beautiful. Fear and awe both took my breath away on the drive.

After what felt like hours and certainly aged me by years, we reached the highest part of the road and got out to complete the rest of the journey by foot. Which meant many, many, many more stairs. Not as slippery this time, though just as tiring, and by the time we reached the peak (again, it took a good 45 minutes of straight climbing) my legs were shaking. But it was certainly worth the climb: an even more stunning view, with clouds poring over the tops of the mountains like a waterfall and the sun’s golden rays shining down through the clouds, and the fantastic, invigorating feeling of being on top of the world. Just a few minutes beyond on the trail was the monastery, where we were greeted by the handful of Taoist monks who reside there. They cooked us a bountiful meal—very simple but very good, taste helped I’m sure by our ravenous hunger. Scallion bread, tofu, mushrooms sautéed cashews, radish and carrot stewed together, bamboo shoots, and little golden potatoes. More than we could come close to eating, which was intentional (it could then become breakfast the next morning). It was very interesting to see what the monastery did and didn’t have: no running water, an outhouse for toilets, wood-fired stoves; and yet a washing machine, electricity, and a television.

After such a packed day, I ate dinner and then headed up to “bed”—a term used loosely, because while it did have a frame and a nice hard wood board to lay on, there was no mattress or padding to speak of. I readily embraced this (it’s part of the experience, after all) but it made for a sore awakening. I barely slept because the college students stayed up late into the night playing some game that sounded like they were dropping loud rocks right outside our window and then cheering, and this combined with discomfort made for a long sleepless night. And at 5:30, the monks began their morning chanting.

We left the monastery around 9:30, hiked down the mountain again and split up for the day. The original plan was to return to Nine Pools if the weather was nice, and go to a pedestrian mall in Wenzhou if not. The weather was nice, but the college students all felt that they had had more physical exertion than they had bargained for, and would rather shop. It was very clear that Jeremy wanted very much to return to Nine Pools, so despite the fact that only one out of the 30 students wanted to go, he dedicated one of the three vans to Nine Pools, and my family, Lijia, and her daughters accompanied him. I was hoping to settle by one of the lower pools early along the trail of the many, many, many steps (which were somehow even more slippery today). It was my mom’s turn to slip and fall, and now has a nice cut near her elbow and a couple of bruises. We ended up only going to the 6^th pool, because it had a rock “slide” which the two younger girls—and Jeremy most of all—were excited by.

When we first set out on the hike, I had made up my mind that I was too tired to deal with being wet and changing in and out of my bathing suit, but once I had reached the pool—hot and sweaty—the water began to tempt me. After five minutes of internal debate, I decided I was going to go in. As I took a step to wade across the shallower part of the pool to reach my backpack and bathing suit, I found that my five minutes of debate had been wasted, and that I really didn’t have a choice in the matter; I lost my footing and splashed into the water fully-clothed. If I hadn’t had fresh, dry clothes waiting in the van I would have been upset, but as it was I found the whole thing hilarious.

I still didn’t go down the rockslide, but watching the others was just as fun. Certainly the image of Lijia, adorned in her garish Chinese swimsuit complete with bright pink flowers and skirt (because she had left her “swimming costume”—as they say in British English—at home and had been forced to buy one on the streets), shrieking in enjoyment as she slid down and then shrieking in horror as the current swept her perilously close to a waterfall, and was luckily pulled back just in time by Jeremy; certainly that image will remain forever emblazoned in my memory. Lijia took it in stride, as was her way, and laughed uproariously at her brief flirtation with death. I still think it’s a miracle we all came out alive—and only minorly injured.

The return to Wenzhou proved more stressful than I had foreseen. I figured that, after the mountain roads, city roads would be relatively safe and I could just sit back and relax. Perhaps I worry too much, but personally when I’m in a van that is a few inches from the side of a truck and moving closer, I get a little freaked out. I will never get used to Chinese driving—so many honking horns, so much unorthodoxy and disregard for lanes; everything you learn in Drivers’ training can just be tossed right out the car window. In heavy traffic, weaving between lanes and practically colliding with pedestrians and bikers—in which case I fear for their lives—or large trucks—in which case I fear for mine.

If Jeremy didn’t seem to emanate calm from his very being (and he truly is the epitome of unflappability) I would have been even more concerned, but seeing Jeremy, perfectly relaxed in the front seat as he watched us nearly collide with a bus, was extremely reassuring and soothing to my frazzled nerves.

I think that if Adam Smith could have witnessed China in the past century, he would take particular delight in the irony that in China, the Communist powerhouse, there is such an apt justification of his capitalistic “invisible hand” theory (that, given two intersecting roads without stop signs, no one will crash because each will act in his/her best interest. Which is exactly how Chinese driving operates, and I have only seen one fender-bender in the three weeks I’ve been here.)

A yin and yang experience all around.