Roosters bring to mind a quaint farm and picturesque sunrises – then the rooster’s morning crow – followed by coffee and flapjacks. This is the idealized Hollywood version.

Fact: Roosters crow whenever they damn well feel like it. This activity isn’t limited to dawn.

I’ve seen a lot of chickens in China. Their presence isn’t limited to farms. The rutted waste land between the road and a nearby line of industrial shops is home to a menagerie of poultry, scraping and pecking as the traffic streams by. Meat is expensive, people raise their own where they can.

You would think that roosters would be off-limits in a gated community. Not so. Somewhere, on the dark recesses of a balcony owned by a probable sadist, lives a rooster. Five windows of my domicile face said rooster. The above fact is the truth, Mr. Rooster crows any time he damn well pleases.

Quaint, I thought at first. Campy. A rooster in a gated community: What a novel way to start the day. That quickly faded. My days are now inter-spaced by the insane callings of a love-sick cock.

Rooster Radar is what I need.

As I make coffee in the morning.

Cock-a-doodle-do.

Lunchtime, trying to eat and read.

Cock-a-doodle-do.

On my cellphone, on the balcony, watching the sunset.

Cock-a-doodle-do.

If I wasn’t so lazy I’d try to locate the rooster’s roost. Some military contractor must have invented rooster radar: That would aid in my search. When I discover Mr. Noisypants’ lair I’ll liberate him and give him a new home.

In my belly.

My ears and nerves will be happy.

The people that come to teach English in China may have learned a little Mandarin before arriving in The Middle Kingdom. That usually goes out the window: The classroom and the street are vastly different environs.

Ni Hao, they will say (Hello). Or perhaps, Xie Xie (Thank you).  Other than those two key expressions, new people teaching English in China find themselves lost in a linguistic maze. The local accent, the rapid-fire delivery, lead to confusion, bewilderment, and more often than not, fright.

There is one phrase all new ESL teachers learn: Something key to their survival in the high-pressure, crazy, dog-eat-dog world of teaching English overseas:

Pijiu.

Beer. That’s right. Before many learn to say (in Chinese) “My name is Bob, I’m an English teacher,” they learn to say: Pijiu. The scholars may learn to say: Liang ping pijiu (two bottles of beer).

As they learn the magic word they also learn to forget the polite customs of their homelands. A wave at a waitress might result in a wave back, or a smile. Softly calling, “Xiao Jie,” (miss) will not get cold bottles of pijiu to your table. Chinese restaurants at meal times can be a controlled riot. You must be loud to be heard over the din of other diners, the kitchen, and the honking horns outside.

Politeness is forgotten as quickly as pijiu is assimilated into the linguistic psyche. The wave or cleared throat is replaced with the bellowed, “Pijiu,” the English teacher holding an empty bottle over their head like a trophy that is be both feared and admired. Even if the waitress doesn’t understand the pronunciation of pijiu, the dead soldier is a visual cue.

That cultural hurdle overcome, new people teaching English in China can learn more useful Chinese phrases like: How much is this?

Photo: Me and my new Strobist gear.

We all have doubts, those three-in-the-morning pangs that leave us wondering if we are doing the right thing with our lives. Should I? Shouldn’t I? Am I wasting my time? Is there something better?

I am not immune. I love my job, most of the time. Since stepping into management, my time in the classroom, those special joys and frustrations, has given way to budgets, battles, and politics. Save face, lose face, conspiratorial whispers, hard decisions, long hours, and dirty deeds done dirt cheap. Tangled in that web, it’s easy to forget why I’m here.

My students, the 500 primary school 学生 in my charge, celebrated Christmas on December 24. There was a party, with a skit performed by their international teachers, carols, a singing contest, and of course, gifts. I conceived of the concept, although a team carried it to term, and assisted with the delivery. Sometimes it takes a village to “birth a baby.”

I question my life, my career. Is there anyone that doesn’t? But not on Christmas Eve.

The last class of day: Grade 1 students left the large performance room after singing, dancing, and celebrating a holiday they know little about.  They queued before Santa (a 23-year-old, athletic American). He handed them a giant red stocking containing a pencil, a lollipop, and a class photo (most thought the stocking was a hat). I handed the gifts to Santa as he wished each student well.

“Merry Christmas.”

“Happy Holidays.”

“Seasons Greetings.”

“Happy Hanukkah.”

The little girl looked the same as her classmates: An energetic three feet topped with dark hair and eyes, body enclosed in a blue-and-white school uniform.  Her excitement was evident as she neared the front of the line. Santa needed a moment to prepare the little girl’s gift. The stockings were stuck together and took a minute to separate.

She watched, eyes open wide, and danced from foot to foot with anticipation. The longer he took the higher her steps became. Her enthusiasm was palpable. Santa, finally, handed her the folded stocking.  Her face lit up in a supernova smile.

I smiled.

She was happy, that youthful innocent Christmas happiness from the days when Santa is real and the world is still a mystery. She rejoined her friends, laughing.

I have doubts from time to time. Christmas Eve  reconfirmed that I am in the right line of work. My concept, my plan, carried out by a team of amazing people, made one little girl utterly happy.

That’s worth the headaches and sleepless nights.

What’s up in the Middle Kingdom, news-wise? It’s never a dull news day when surfing for Chinese news. My faves this week:

HARBIN: China’s freezing northern city of Harbin is building what organizers say is the world’s largest Santa Claus ice sculpture.

The giant Father Christmas, 160 meters (525 ft) long and 24 meters high, centers on an enormous face of Father Christmas, complete with flowing beard and hat.

…Harbin, the capital of Heilongjiang province on the edge of Siberia, is one of China’s coldest places. Winter temperatures can drop to below minus 35 degrees Celsius (- 31 F).

Every year the city plays host to a world-renowned ice festival. But the effects of global warming are taking a toll as the snow and ice now melt more rapidly than in the past.

Source: Reuters

I think the people of Harbin have erected a temple dedicated to global warming. Minus 35? No thanks. There are schools in Harbin that are always advertising for English teachers. No wonder the turn-over is so high.

BEIJING: A wolf has been captured by forestry workers near a part of China’s Great Wall close to Beijing which is popular with tourists, state media said on Thursday.

The wolf is being kept at a nature park and will be released in uninhabited mountains far from the Wall, Xinhua news agency said.

It was captured close to the Badaling section, it said, a restored part of the Wall many tour groups visit.

Sightings of the wolf prior to its capture had caused “widespread fear,” the report said.

Source: Reuters

I think the tourists fear the hawkers and ruthless Great Wall of China merchants (that follow you on your trek along the architectural masterpiece) more than any wolf. If they could relocate them to a distant wilderness area the wall would be a safer place.

My school held an early New Year’s Party, Monday night. All the faculties presented a song and dance for the institution’s 600 assorted staff. Not the biggest crowd I’ve performed for. No, it wasn’t televised. After numerous TV appearances last year, it appears my star is waining. Go figure, just as I’m starting to look damn good.

There were gala costumes.

There were (almost) professionally choreographed dance numbers.

And, there were 8 English teachers from around the world, doing the Village People’s infamous classic, YMCA. Their costumes consisted of blue jeans, white T-Shirts, and sunglasses. (We received kudos from all and sundry on the “coolness” of the sunglasses.)

Sometimes it’s best not to take things too seriously.

Photos: The Stevo and S. Jiang

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The Stevo has several young girls following him around. This wasn’t the case when he was the same age as the girls. Back then, during the early 80s, having leprosy wouldn’t have made him any less popular.

Devlishly handsome, in a shirt straight from Queer as Folk.

Now, as I (yes, I’ll switch to first person) creep towards an age that when divided by four equals 10, I am an object of infatuation.  The class of Grade 5 was mine for more than two months. They are loud boisterous students, but I managed to channel that energy into something positive.  After a colleague was asked to “leave” the school, I had to shuffle the schedule, and the class with the affectionate girls was assigned to a new teacher. He’ll find his footing and I will be forgotten (he’s tall, muscular, and kind: I can’t compete).

That doesn’t help at the moment. Each night I walk past the classroom when the girls, always early, are lining up. I, for lack of a better world, am swarmed.

“Stevo!” they call, and climb on my back. “Steve!” they call, and drag me towards their classroom, their arms around me. It’s enough to make a man blush and cringe, while being full of a certain pathetic pride. It’s uncomfortable. Having 6-year-old hug you with gusto is one thing, a 10 year-old-girl is something else. I’ve come a long way towards being “touchy” but not that far.

There are only a few days left this term. After the month long break I’m sure my moment in the sun will have passed. Until then I will have to bear the fruits of my skill and charm, augmented by Grade 5 crushes. Why couldn’t this have happened when I was in Grade 5?

I’ll leave you with The Police, live, with a song that addresses this topic perfectly.
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