Flag waving in Tiananmen Square during the 2006 National Day celebrations. Photo by: People's Daily Online.

China turns 60 years old on October 1.

National Day will see China the nation celebrate the founding of the People’s Republic of China. It’s a week-long holiday, the last of the year, with parades, gala television specials, and flags-a-waving.

Guóqìngjié (guo: country, qing: celebration, jie: day) or National Day turns Chinese cities and towns into a sea of red and yellow flags. Like the Spring Festival holiday (Chinese New Year) many people use the time off to travel home. My town will likely see 10 of the 12 million residents fly, bus, and train their way back to Hunan, Guangxi, Hubei, and Sichuan provinces. Like North America, businesses will offer sales ‘o plenty. Department and electronics store will offer deals like their western counterparts.

China fought a 23 year civil war, much of it while trying to repel Japanese invaders during the second world war. The Kuomintang (KMT) and Communists forces battled across the nation in a conflict that left millions dead. After the Japanese surrender, the People’s Liberation Army was able to turn the tide against the nationalists, and push the remaining KMT forces into south China.

Mao Zedong proclaimed the People’s Republic of China on October 1, 1949 in Beijing. The KMT forces retreated to Taiwan, continuing the Republic of China and claiming the entire nation, in exile. There was no clear-cut resolution; no armistice has ever been signed in the conflict. Tensions have (and still do) flare over the issue. One KMT division, based in Burma (Myanmar) continued with a guerrilla campaign that lasted into the 1960s. (The Division eventually settled in northern Thailand. There is a Thai village, full of Chinese houses. The residents speak Yunanese, a Chinese dialect.)

China’s National Day, Guóqìngjié, celebrates the re-birth of a nation.

Happy 60th Birthday China. Guóqìngjié kuai le.

Are we ever really lost?

We know roughly where we are, be it a city, region or country. We are on the earth, from that point of view we’re not lost at all. We have a place within the cosmos. I have been lost, literally and figuratively. Much of my time is now spent trying to get lost.

But you just asked if we’re ever really lost?

Who’s that? Shut up. Don’t interrupt.

As long as I know which way is north and I have a rudimentary map I can find what I’m looking for. Eventually. Knowing the compass points is key. When I first arrived at my digs in China I was confused. I had no idea where north was. It was good my faith (or total lack there of) didn’t involve facing Mecca. After discovering north, navigating my new world became easier.

New world? Are you Columbus? North? Oliver North?

Shut up.

I was lost, really lost, only once. On a cold, rainy October afternoon some friends and I went hiking. After reaching our destination, the remains of an old uranium mine, we started back. One friend decided on a short cut. His error in judgment led to hours of walking in the rain, wading through beaver ponds, and generally being miserable. It wasn’t a bad place to be lost, it was bordered on four sides by roads and the area was about 18 square kilometers. We would have been found before DNA was needed to identify our remains.

I learned lessons that day. Most involved stupidity, listening to others, and always carrying a compass. None of those have translated into my urban, Chinese, existence.

I stray from the path. A straight line between Point A and B is boring. There are too many alleys to explore along the way. I’m never really lost, I know what city I’m in and my approximate location on a map. I’ll never have to worry about resorting to cannibalism if lost in China as I would in the Canadian wilds. Many varieties of street food are widely available.

If I hadn’t had strayed from the path I never would have found Nui Xiang (translated: cow path) and the mailbox covered wall (above). Getting lost has advantages.

originally published: November 26, 2007

note: February 28 is my fourth anniversary of teaching English in China. At 8:25 am GMT +8, Feb. 28, 2005, I first walked into a Chinese classroom…

I didn’t sleep very well. I was still jet-lagged. Add to that I was in a new bed, in a new apartment, in a country I knew very little about. I went through my morning routine trying to come to grips with the strange shower configuration and attempting to shave in a nine-inch-square mirror. With bad instant coffee in my belly I waited for the knock on my door. It was February 28, 2005.

This was to be my first day of work as an oral ESL teacher at private school in Shenzhen (China). There was no training or school tour, I arrived a week later than the other new teachers. I was about to be launched, successfully or otherwise, on unsuspecting Chinese students.

Primary school students in China.

I sat at my desk with a growing sense of dread. I thought about vomiting but in the end managed to hold that bodily function in check. Forty students to teach for 40 minutes? I must have been mad. I decided that introducing myself would be the best course of action. I made some quick notes in a little notebook that became my best friend over the coming months.

I was late as I searched for grade 6, class 12 on the third and fourth floors of the north wing of building two. A teacher in the hall waved me in. After introductions she asked, “Would you like me to stay in the class?”

“Oh, no,” I replied like a seasoned pro, “I’ll be okay.”

“Are you sure?” she asked. It must have been the nervous perspiration on my brow that gave my otherwise faux-confident persona away.

“Yes.”

I took a deep breath and walked into the class. There was a podium on a raised platform and a blackboard. I set down my bag and looked at the class. Forty young, smiling Asian faces stared at me. They were silent.

“Good morning.?!” I ventured.

“Good morning, teacher,” said the class in unison.

Shiny young faces with bodies clad in identical blue and white track suits. I was in over my head. Pressing ahead, I found a piece of chalk and with a shaky hand scrawled my name on the clean blackboard.

“My name is Steve,” I told them.

“Steve!” they called back at me.

“I am from Canada,” I said.

“Canada,” they replied en masse.

I learned next that sending the Chinese-English teacher out of the room had been a bad idea. Not only could she add some semblance of order to the proceedings, she could also translate if I ran into problems. After some explanation I had the students stand one by one and say, “My name is…, I am ____ years old.”

“How old am I?” I asked them.

I received a course of replies, most eight to 10 years younger than my actual age. I felt very young for a moment. A couple of jokers added their thoughts: My age was guessed by one student at 100 and by another at 1000.

Next was the phrase, “I like…”

“What do I like?” I asked the students. They were silent and stared at me. I looked around the room. No one moved a muscle, although every eye was fixated on me.

“I like,” I said, “Basketball.” I did my best charades impression of basketball and wrote it on the board.

“What else do I like?” I tried. A hesitant hand went up.

“Computer?” hesitantly asked a female student.

“Yes,” I said enthusiastically. “Computers.” I stressed the S.

“What else do I like?”

I took a couple of minutes to get the ball rolling, but in the end I had a din of voices shouting out all the sundry activities they new in English.

“Do you know what I like?” I asked again, “I like food.”

One boy in the front row said in a loud voice, “That is because you are fat.”

I tried not to laugh. He was right, of course. Again, they called out a list of foods that they thought I liked.

To wrap things up I had them each stand again and say, “I like…,” followed by a food, activity, etc.

Then the bell, which was not a bell at all, but a little musical ditty, sounded. It was over, I had survived 40 minutes relatively unscathed.

That class became my favourite. Of the 25 homerooms I visited each week, that class was the best and most receptive. The other varied from lukewarm to downright nasty. I didn’t have many rules. I drew the line when my worst class started playing volleyball with a rolled-up raincoat.

And so began a new life and career, in a nation that has only been really opened to outsiders for 25 year. There is a learning curve, but I think I have managed to make it over the first hurdle.

My well-used passport.

I applied for a new passport as my current one is full of visas and stamps. Of course, the holiday season has delayed the process. I leave for England on January 16. I’m getting a tad anxious. Anxious about the passport, and about British weather. Britain in winter is not the most ideal of Island Getaways.

I will have to travel with two passports (there isn’t a enough time to transfer my China resident permit into the new document). While colleagues have done this with no problem, I’m a little worried about being able to get back into China, using a permit in an canceled passport.

Of course, that is, if I have a passport at all and am able to leave the country at all.

From the customer service representative at the Canadian Consulate:

I’m sorry, we have no way of knowing when your passport will arrive.

The reply from the Canadian government Passport Status Request web form:

We would like to inform you that any questions concerning your passeport (sic) application should be directed to the Canadian Government Offices located in China. We hope we were able to assist you.

No, you weren’t able to assist me. Given my past experiences with the offices of the Canadian government in China, I shouldn’t have expected anything more. Please, dear friends, cross your fingers, and toes, for me.

Where is Mrs. Stevo?

Mrs. Stevo zai nar?

Ou est Mrs. Stevo?

Can you answer the question? I can, but Mrs. Stevo is my wife, I have a tad more insight.

Remember the contest I had, the one I meant to continue but never did? There was a secret and no one could guess what it was.

The secret — was/is — is that I am now a bachelor. Mrs. Stevo has left me, for the time being. No, this isn’t a separation that can be resolved by counseling.

My delightful lao po is working somewhere in jolly ole England, and has been for two months. She will return to China eight months from now. Her task: Teaching Chinese to British high school students (I’ve met the students, her resolve will be tested).

So, here I sit. Alone.

I thought I would enjoy the freedom for a week or two before the loneliness set in, after she left in September. That enjoyment last about seven hours. I woke up a few hours after retiring, rolling over, stretching my arm toward the warm, soft body that wasn’t here.

Mrs. Stevo in London. You gotta love the hair flip.

She was gone.

Really gone.

I was alone.

I’ve come to grips with the loneliness. Luckily, my job keeps me hopping (running to stand still is a better description) and I don’t have a lot of time for personal feelings. That’s probably for the best. My thoughts wander to her during the quiet moments, the down-time, and I again feel like a silly teenage boy that writes flowery sonnets to his absent beloved.

Yuck. Been there, done that. I’m a man! Show no emotion. Brave the world, like a stoic.

Ummm, okay.

Here’s to you, Mrs. Stevo. I raise a glass to your adventure, and one to myself to numb the occasional pain of our separation. The weekend is almost here, dear friends. Send a quiet toast to the small Asian fireball on English soil. Or to me, the middle-aged 16 year old trying to figure out iambic pentameter.

I haven’t posted a self-portrait in a week or two. My vanity must be on the wane. No, that’s not true. You’re not vain when you know you’re the coolest man in China. A snarky blogger recently called The Stevo “tasty vittles.” I’ll take that as the ultimate compliment.

If you view this image large you may notice my ensemble. A purple plaid shirt and camouflage shorts is Stevo’s China Wear at its finest. My rationale is simple: I’m going to be stared at any way, I might as well be entertaining to look at. If you saw some of the clothes in Mrs. Stevo’s closet my above look would seem tame.

Clothes shopping, actually all shopping in China, is cheap. Instead of buying used clothing (as I did in Canada) I can now afford the ugliest of un-preowned shirts. I’ll take you shopping in China, if you visit, I know some place with reasonably attractive garments, and a great tailor.

Captured: July 23, 2008.