The statue at the Nanjing Massacre Memorial

By: Graham Woodring

Come the day of departure, my alarm didn’t so much wake me up at 5 AM as let me know that it was time to stop lying around.  As I stumbled out into the kitchen to put the kettle on, I noticed an odd sound.  Not paying it much heed, I nearly fell in to the shower and washed myself awake.  After pulling on my clothes and being slightly more awake, I couldn’t help but wonder what the heck was that incessant noise?

When I returned to the kitchen to retrieve my tea, I got my answer: there was a near-torrential downpour.  Well, that’s certainly annoying, especially since I don’t own nor want to use an umbrella.  Needless to say, in the 10 minutes it took us to walk to a taxi I got completely drenched.  That’s the price I pay for refusing to carry an umbrella.  We hopped in the cab and it sped us off to the airport.  We had no further weather-related issues and arrived just a short plane ride later in beautiful, sunny, warm Nanjing.

Have you ever tried navigating a bus route when there is no map and the stop announcements are all in a foreign language?  It’s hard.  Really hard.  On the bus ride from the airport we ended up completely missing our stop and were deposited on the exact opposite end of the city from where we wanted to be.  Andrew left us at this point to catch a cab to meet with his friend, whom he was staying with for the weekend, and we found our own cab to take us to our hostel.

Well wouldn’t you know it?  It seems that petty crime can happen to anyone anywhere.  We dropped our stuff off at the hostel and took a quick 30-minute stroll around the area to get our bearings, after which we retired to have some lunch.  By the time we were done eating I realized that my camera had been stolen.  In the first friggin’ 30 minutes of being in this new city and I already had my camera lifted.  What a pain in the ass.  Fortunately it will be covered; thank you renter’s insurance.

The first day we didn’t do much exploring.  I had to get a police report for my stolen camera and then we stuck around the Fuzi Miao area.  The place seems to be the main tourist place in Nanjing.  There are many, many restaurants and shops and hawkers.  Also, you can find a Confucius temple and a massive golden tree, which I thought was pretty cool.  On the flip side, you can also find what I think is possibly the most annoying and/or inane thing in China.  The clappers.  Lord, the clappers.  I have nightmares about these people.  Sorry, but I couldn’t bring myself to take a picture of them.  It’s just too stupid.  These people are shop employees and their only job is to stand on the street and clap.  That’s it.  They don’t yell or try to rope people into the store or anything.  They just clap.  That’s all they ever do.  Just clap, clap, clap!  My hatred for this job could only be matched by how I imagine these people feel about their dead-end job and dead-end lives.  It gets my blood pumping just thinking about them.  The hate, it’s overwhelming sometimes.

Purple Mountain, near Nanjing China

We spent one day hiking to the top of Purple Mountain.  Now, this mountain is home to both Ming dynasty tombs and Sun Yat-Sen’s mausoleum.  There is some serious sightseeing potential there.  But much to my chagrin, we did neither.  My asthma was seriously acting up that day, so by the time we finally climbed to the top, I thought my head was going to explode or I would pass out.  Fortunately, neither happened.  On the way down we took the chair lift, which I think provided better views than the top of the mountain did.  By the time we were at the bottom I was so exhausted and worn down from my respiratory issues that I didn’t have the energy to protest not going to see the tombs or the mausoleum.  I really regret that, as I am told it is one of the big things to see in Nanjing.  Who knows when I’ll come back?  The dusty trail won’t get any shorter if I am revisiting places.

Zhonghua Gate, Nanjing China

I snuck off on my own at one point to check out the Zhonghua gate.  It was actually a lot more impressive than I imagined.  There are three courtyards; each said to be able to hold 1000 men and walls are all quite high.  You don’t always have high expectations when going to see a wall or a gate (unless it’s the Great Wall, of course) so I was pleasantly surprised.  And best of all, I filled my quota for having my picture taken with some Chinese.  I think Chengdu is the only city I’ve been to that I haven’t had my picture taken.  I guess I’ll have to go back there someday and correct that.

The Nanjing Massacre Memorial was the major thing I had come to the former capital to see.  Having read The Rape of Nanking by Iris Chang, I knew much of the story already but I was not prepared for what I was presented with.  The amount of information is staggering and the level of professionalism and respect is unparalleled in China.  Given some of the other places I have been to in China, I was not expecting it to be so well done.  But in fact it was incredible.  The entire timeline of the event is given in encyclopedic detail, starting from the turn of the 20th century all the way up to present times.  The mountain of information reinforces the magnitude of the Japanese occupation of Nanjing and the atrocities they enacted on the population.  It is a moving experience, to say the least.

The Massacre Memorial is the must see site of Nanjing.  Like many similar events that have occurred in the bloody history of our world, we must try to learn from our mistakes through reflection and examination.  Unfortunately, even today there are still places in the world that harbor the hatred and frustration that breeds these evil acts.  Hopefully someday, with memorials like this one, we can come closer to comprehending the horrible toll these acts take on the victims.  History and culture destroyed, lives lost, families scattered to the wind, women subjugated and raped.  I fear that the cycle of death and destruction will never truly end, but I believe that this memorial is a huge step towards brining awareness to such issues and helping us understand the motivations that lead entire armies to truly demonic acts.

A perfect example of the post-industrial Chinese school of architecture can be found at the Martyr’s Memorial.  Everything is huge and made of concrete.  To me it really epitomizes the Chinese desire for everything to be ostentatious and grandiose exemplified in the past 30 years or so.  The sprawling campus is home to many different things, from huge monuments and statues, to a small amusement park, to an area devoted into to stone culture, to–my personal favorite–the kiosk of loyal souls.  I mean c’mon, a kiosk?  Sure it’s probably just a poor translation into English, but that’s still a hilarious name.  Also, you can find the blueprint for pretty much any boy band album cover carved in stone.  How it made its way to China, I have no idea.

Overall, my weekend visiting Nanjing was well spent.  Yes, I did get my camera stolen.  And yes, I did encounter the profession I hate the most in this world.  But I did get to see a lot of great things.  I got the see the Massacre Memorial, which should be seen by anyone traveling in Nanjing, and I got my picture taken with some more random Chinese.  From the people, to the history, to the architecture, to the hustle and bustle of Fuzi Miao, so far on my travels Nanjing is one of my favorite cities in China.

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After graduating from the University of Pennsylvania with a master’s degree in Electrical Engineering, Graham Woodring decided to see a part of the world he’d always dreamed of: Asia. In February 2009, He moved to Xi’an, China to live and work as an English language teacher at one of the top five foreign language universities in the country. Visit Graham’s Blog:  An American in the Far East.

Teaching English in China is difficult in more ways than one. My popularity with the preteen girl crowd waxed and waned this past term, much to my chagrin. In December I wrote about feeling uncomfortable with the touchy-feely Grade 5 girls. I thought I wouldn’t teach them this term. I was wrong.

Coming early to class, crowding me in the hall, hanging on my arm: Extremely uncomfortable. If I was in Grade 5 I’d be in heaven. Alas, I’m a long, long way from the fifth grade. I’m probably closer to fifth grade in my next life than I am in this one.

The touchy-feely crowd was strangely absent for most of June. After I cracked the whip and changed their seats, six of them from the same homeroom, remarkably, became ill. The air conditioner was blamed. With the H1N1 hysteria running through the school, they were sent home.

A few came back the next week. When they discovered they had to write the test they missed their fevers suddenly returned. Adios, muchachas. Six girls from the same class - all sick with the same illness? An illness that prevents them from attending only my class? Strange, indeed. Some might say it was a conspiracy… I didn’t shed a tear, it was one less thing to worry about.

Tuesday was the last day of classes, and four of the six returned for the party. It was business as usual teaching English in China. It was only one day. I used big arm movements to create a buffer zone when they weren’t busy scarfing down chips and chocolates.

The biggest offender, let’s call her PMHKG (Prematurely Mature Hong Kong Girl), wasn’t at the party.  She saw me the next afternoon as I left the campus. PMHKG charged and I hunched over in an attempt to ward off the incoming onslaught.

“Steve!” She called.

It was like a scene from a bad Korean Soap Opera (even the good ones are pretty bad). She hung on my arm as I eased towards the school gate. She looks about three years older than she is, standing a head taller than the other girls. She tried to explain her absence as we walked. A female teacher walked past and smiled. I cringed. It must have been a sight: Me with a preteen on my arm, her head on my shoulder. Ah, the live of a man teaching abroad.

I didn’t have time, the air conditioner repairman was due at my apartment. Trying to pull my arm free I discovered her grip was stronger than a bear trap. Gnawing off my arm would have taken too long and left an unsightly mess on the white tiles of the campus. With another pull I discovered the amazing lubricating qualities of perspiration. My addled mind formed a rudimentary plan. She tightened her grip, pouting.

Rice-fed Prematurely Mature Hong Kong Girls are strong. Because I sweat like a pig (and who doesn’t when it’s 110 degrees), with a mighty tug I was able to extricate myself from the crushing crush. A disappointed groan was uttered as I laughed and dashed for the gate.

My days as a big rock star are over. In his heyday David Cassidy had nothing on me. Now he’s on Broadway and I’ll be shooting photos professionally. Life is change.

I’ll miss PMHKG and her crew of touchy-feelys. As agonizing as our time together was I will remember them fondly.

Image: musicstack.com

SPAM, Korean-Style

My life, teaching English in China: What do you do on a Saturday night when your friends abandon you?

Eat SPAM. That’s right. Go the Korean grocery store, buy a can of imported Korean SPAM Luncheon Meat, then return home, make some toast, and grab the mustard.

What? You don’t like SPAM? There seems to be bias in North America regarding canned meat products. For me, SPAM falls into the NCF category: Not Chinese Food. I live in China, and the majority of my diet is Chinese food, but sometimes you need a taste of something different. Comfort food, perhaps.

That’s not to say there isn’t SPAM in Chinese food. There’s SPAM in fried rice, SPAM hot dogs, and SPAM fried noodles. I’m being broad in my interpretation of SPAM. In Chinese food it’s not real SPAM, but a Chinese SPAM-like tinned meat. Sometimes said meat isn’t in a can and doesn’t require refrigeration. I find that both amazing and frightening.

Did the Hormel Food Corporation think in 1937, the year they released SPAM, it would one day graces the tables of China, being incorporated in staple Chinese dishes? Probably not. Could they have envisioned the joy of a Canadian expatriate in China, eating a can of Shoulder of Pork and Ham manufactured in Korea? Probably not. If I had a time machine I’d travel back to shake the hands of those wonderful, SPAM-creating men.

Ya Baby, It's Super Light.

To accompany the SPAM sandwich(es) I ate while watch Clint Eastwood as Dirty Harry in Magnum Force, I drank a can cans of Kingway Super Light Beer. How could you not drink something called Super Light? Is it so light as to be good for you? Is it the Chinese beer equivalent of ambrosia?

Kingway is a Shenzhen, China, Brewery, and is fighting for market share with the Chinese beer dragon, Tsing Tao, the national brand.  Heineken International owns a 21% stake in Kingway. The company also produces a beer called Kingway Super Fresh. (aside: that would be a great hip-hop name: MC Super Fresh).

Sorry: Is it the Chinese beer equivalent of ambrosia?

In a word: No. But I am trying to eat healthy. Drinking regular non-super-light beer while eating sandwiches made with tinned meat containing dangerous levels of saturated fat and sodium would not have been especially healthy.

I’m giving serious consideration to translating Monty Python’s Spamalot into Chinese and starting a small theatre company to perform the show. I adapt the script to incorporate Kingway Super Light.

Note: Given my experience of yesterday this post has special significance. See more below.

Laundry is ever-present, like death and taxes. You cannot escape it. As soon as you are finished one load, more needs to be done. It’s a vicious, evil cycle.

When I lived in North America I was a great customer of various laundromats. I could do all my washing, drink a beer and watch television after work or on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Where I current reside, China, there are no laundromats. I am luckier than some. I have a small washing machine on my balcony. The Chinese staff that live in the dorms have no such conveniences. The bathrooms of their quarters are filled an array of buckets, used to hand-wash all and sundry.

My machine is a little odd compared to its North America brothers and sisters. It is small, and there is no agitator-type, spiny-thing in the middle of a tub. You dump in the clothes and the tub rotates clockwise then counter-clockwise to create an ever-changing vortex. I have found this leads to a bizarre tangling of clothes. I am sure my neighbors can attest to the curses heard from my balcony as I try to separate the legs of several pairs of pants that have become tied/fused together.

As far as I have seen there are no dryers in China, other than Mother Nature. I guess in an environment where a dip below 20 degrees C is considered chilly there’s no real need for a giant, energy sucking device. I do occasionally wish for a dryer when it has rained for a solid three or four days, and my unmentionables are only half-dry when I put them on in the morning.

The weather seemed to change over night this spring past. One day it was cold and wet, each day the same, the sky full of rolling gray clouds. As if by magic that disappeared, and the sun, and too-warm temperatures, appeared. I had gotten accustom to not hanging my laundry up as soon as it was done. The cold weather had made me lazy.

During the May national holiday I was still lazy. A teacher without classes does very little. I did a load from the voluminous mountain of dirty clothes and promptly forgot about it. As I pulled the garments from the machine I thought they smelled a tad funky. The sun, I wrongly thought, and fresh air would cure that.

The next day I traveled into the downtown area of Xi Xiang to do some shopping. It was hot and I had worn a Toronto Raptors’ NBA jersey. There was a long list of chores to do, things to buy, places to visit. My first stop was the computer market. I walked among the stalls and looked at bits and pieces.

Then I noticed the smell. China, to a visitor, is a cavalcade of bizarre and noxious aromas. I didn’t think anything of it, other than someone was dining upon a rather odoriferous meal.

But the smell got worse. I couldn’t escape it.

While paying for a purchase it dawned on me that I was the source of the smell. I held the jersey to my nose and took a brave sniff.

I winced. It was me, or my jersey, that was emitting that toxic stench. In a flash I realized that that load of laundry had been in the machine two days, fermenting in the 100 degree F heat, before I hung it on the line. I shook my head and beat a hasty retreat for the door.

There were no more errands that day. I jumped in a taxi and headed home. After a shower I rewashed all the clothes that had been hanging on the line.

A lesson learned.

Note: No, not a lesson learned. As I arrived at school yesterday I realized the shirt I had donned was “funky.” I usually have an extra shirt in my bag of gym things. Not so yesterday. My class of Grade 6s was wincing as I walked around the classroom. My dinner break saw me taking a shower and changing. Live and learn? I think not.

I haven’t had much to say lately. Things have been busy. Finishing one phase of your life, and planning for another, is not an easy task, especially when government bureaucracy is involved. Such is life in China.

Random Conversation

As I sat on the 777 from Beijing to Shenzhen, a small boy, maybe six-years-old, climbed into the aisle from the bank of seats to my front.  The lad’s eyes opened wide when he spotted me. There was a brief consultation between the boy and his father before he walked over to me.

“Good morning,” he said.

It was 6 pm.

“Good morning,” I replied, my young-learners happy face prominent.

He stared at me, concentrating.

Finally, he said, clearly and loudly, “Snake.”

“Yes,” I parroted, “Snake.”

“Snake,” he said again.

I nodded. “Snake.”

Then he ran back to his father and I returned to Michael Palin’s Himalaya on my iPod. I am willing to bet that good morning and snake are the only English words he knows. I wonder about the curriculum of his kindergarten.

The Stevo eats Beijing Roast Duck. Yes, it is tasty.

Random Thoughts

Beijing Roast Dusk is as tasty as you have heard. Consuming it with 26 bottles of beer makes it more so. I wonder if Madame Donna can make it?

Don’t be in Tiananmen Square while experiencing distress in your lower GI tract. The square is 40 acres, and it is a long hike to the facilities.

Real men eat chili peppers, even if it leads to abdominal distress (see above).

The woman on a street corner that offers you a massage at 1:30 am is not really offering you a massage.

Don’t ever take a Hong Kong MTR train at 6:00 pm on a Friday afternoon. If you must, lube up first to increase your chances of  getting in and out of the train and station.

Half-asleep dreams, where your wife is so close you can touch her are sweet, but few and far between.

Watching three dogs try to mate is funnier after consuming too many beers than it would be sober.

Yogurt can be an almost adequate substitute for mayo when making tuna salad.

I once had a wonderful neck tie: yellow silk, covered in Chinese dragons. It was a Christmas gift from a Chinese colleague. Any gift you receive in China, a country that doesn’t celebrate Christmas, is special. I loved said tie, both its attractiveness and the sentiment behind it.  When I had a suit tailored last year I was convinced the suit would look “killer” when worn with the yellow dragon tie.

On the first afternoon of my school’s Parents’ Days I donned my new charcoal-gray suit. I looked good – It had been $125 USD well spent. A hanger in the wardrobe held my small collection of seldom worn neck ties. I searched the mythical silk  covered in yellow dragons. It was nowhere to be found.

I started to panic. Where could it be? The laundry hamper? Nay. Under the bed? Nay? In the pocket of my overcoat? Nay.

It was gone: Almost as if I had made the dragons angry and they had fled back to dragon mountain to pout. In the dim recesses of my mind I had a recollection of wearing the tie during a drunken trip to a seedy bar. As I imagined the bartender of the establishment wearing my purloined garment and I shook my head with disgust. My own stupidity had been the cause of the loss. No good comes from drinking.

I wore a different tie during the Parents’ Days.  I didn’t look nearly as sharp or as spiffy as I would have with yellow, dragons-emblazoned silk hanging down the front of my shirt.

Fast forward: Two days ago.

I took my wrinkled and seldom-worn suit to the dry cleaners. A trip to Beijing required some smart duds. As the shop owner wrote up the chit I scanned the racks of clothes. On a hanger, near the front of the store, was a collection of truly ugly ties, save one. The dragons, my yellow dragons, winked at me from the silk.

My mouth agape, I looked at the wonderful garment. How did it get here? Had I misremember my drunken loss of the tie? I cleared my throat, ready to claim my prize, but stopped. My knowledge of Mandarin would allow me to voice my claim but explain little else. I needed someone smarter, someone that spoke both English and Chinese. I retired that night with dreams of dragons and silky yellow clouds.

The next afternoon as I walked to work I spotted said needed smart person: A colleague returning to campus after lunch. She accompanied me to the dry cleaners. After a half-assed explanation about why the shop had my tie it was folded neatly and placed in my bag.

When I hit Beijing on Thursday, my body covered in handsome, tailored garments, the lost tie will be the jewel in my fashion crown. Serendipity? Perhaps. Dumb luck? More likely. I have resolved to no longer drink while wearing said tie.

Here endeth the case.