Some pictures :)

I know some of you have eagerly been awaiting pictures. Here are a few from the day trip Nathan and I took to the East Lake in Wuhan. It isn't far from campus...about a twenty to thirty minute walk to get to the outskirts. But the lake itself is huge and so it took us about four or five hours just to get around one of the edges. Good thing we've got plenty of time left to explore!

This is a lotus garden we found near the lake.

 Here is the view from my apartment that I wrote about in my first blog.

 The courtyard just below.

 The computer room

The living room

 The kitchen--had to move the fridge in from the living room so it is kind of awkwardly placed, but definitely better than having to go to the living room when cooking.

 The bathroom. Note the lack of shower curtain or bath.

 Bedroom

 Balcony with plant and washing machine.

 Outside the apartment building.

 Courtyard outside the apartment.

 The wishing tree in culture street, an area on campus with restaurants and shops.

 Campus

 Steps up to a bamboo garden

 One of the cafeteria buildings

 A fountain near the building I teach in.

 The building I teach in.

A pear and plum tree orchard on campus, planted to represent the students, the pears and plums that the teachers nourish throughout the year.

 The freshmen doing their military training.

 The campus sports arena.

Food Adventures

Of course, an important and endlessly fun part of learning about any culture involves exploring its food. Aside from eating out and exploring the traditional Chinese cuisine, Nathan and I have been cooking a good deal on our own. There is a great vegetable market on campus that has a wide variety of fruits and vegetables, both known and unknown. There are more vendors lining the sides of the market selling eggs, various grains and rice, clothes, and household supplies. Though we are making slow and steady progress in our Chinese language learning (we have learned how to ask what something is, but unfortunately cannot understand the response 99% of the time, which ultimately defeats the point of asking in the first place), Nathan and I still find ourselves relying on recognition in selecting our produce. So far this method has proved to be mostly successful, with a couple of entertaining exceptions that I thought I would share with you readers, whoever you are.

-As a vegetarian, one of my primary interests has been trying to find a protein source other than meat to supplement the rampant soy products available . This search has proven to be far more difficult than I was expecting. So you can imagine my joy when, at the market one afternoon, we came across what looked like a barrel full of dry pinto beans. We bought a bag full and went on our merry way home to soak the beans for dinner. A few hours later I peeked into the bowl of soaking pinto beans. The ‘beans’ had become swollen with absorbed water, but didn’t quite look like the pinto beans I was used to at home. Thinking they were probably just a different, Eastern variety of bean, I let them soak a while longer and then started to cook them around dinnertime. After they had been in the boiling water for about 20 minutes or so, I lifted the cover of the pot and caught a distinctly strong whiff of peanut. Unwilling to simply trust my nose on this one, I spooned a ‘bean’ out of the pot and tried it. Sure enough, it was a peanut. So, we had boiled peanuts for dinner, which, after looking up online, seem to be a beloved treat in the American South—a sort of American edamame if you will. Not quite what we were hoping for, but admittedly, a tasty alternative.

-While at the market looking at fruit to buy, the vendor pointed to a crate full of limes, or at least what looked exactly like limes (and having made my fair share of guacamole over the years, I consider myself able to identify a lime). We bought one and saved it until we were ready to make a dish that would be well complimented by the sour citrus. Last night we decided a little lime would go well in our eggplant, bok choi, and bean sprout stir fry, along with some sesame oil, garlic, and ginger. We cut the ‘lime’ in half and lo and behold, it was an orange. A bit of a sour orange, but an orange nonetheless. Thwarted again.

-Besides the market, there are a few supermarkets reminiscent of Wal-Mart in the area. While at Chicony, one of the European-style supermarkets (or so they advertise, and accordingly mark up the price), I spotted some packages of dried fruit. I am a fan of dried mango and so I decided to pick up a bag, thinking it would be a good snack for in-between classes. Later that afternoon I decided to try a piece. Immediately upon opening the bag, my heart sank as the smell that reached my nostrils was a mixture of vinegar, mildew, and Sweet’N Low sugar. I reached my hand into the bag and pulled out a shriveled black ball, a little larger than a walnut. Though I had never seen dried mango that was not bright orange and in thin strips, I took a bite out of the black mass, still hopeful it would be as sweet and satisfying as I remembered. I immediately spat the ‘mango’ out into the garbage, my taste buds now coated in the same rancid smell I had been met with upon opening the package. Perhaps these mangos were dehydrated or soaked in some chemical. Whatever the case, I tossed the bag and vowed not to buy any more dried fruit that did not come in a see-through bag.

-One of the things I like most about the food here is the spice. Asking for a spicy dish at an American restaurant often lands you with a heat level that merely taunts your taste buds, leaving them aching for more. Here, almost every meal leaves you sweating (well, mostly leaves Nathan sweating) and with a warm feeling in your chest. In our first week here I set out to stock the kitchen with the basics of Chinese cooking—vegetable oil, vinegar, sesame oil, soy sauce, etc. One night, we ate at a small dumpling restaurant, the tables at which had little bowls of soy sauce and a red chili sauce on them. Falling in love with the heat and flavor of this particular chili sauce, we searched for it in the markets and grocery stores. We found what looked exactly like the chili sauce at a convenience store down the street from campus. It had the same deep red color and through the plastic bottle we could see dried red pepper flakes. That night we had some of the sauce with a stir-fry and rice. Unlike the sauce we had at the restaurant, this sauce had a definite sweetness to it, and among the pepper flakes were cooked beans of some sort. The sauce itself wasn’t bad, but yet again, our purchase turned out to be something quite different from what we were expecting.

An eventful first day of class...

Another week in Wuhan has begun with an overcast and muggy Monday. It is almost three o’clock in the afternoon, and just as I was settling in with some ginger tea for a relaxing afternoon to rest my upset stomach, the power went out. Apparently, with all of the subway construction going on next to campus, this is a common occurrence, to be expected at least twice a month. So I figured I would capitalize on the situation next to an open window, hopeful for a breeze through the thick heat, and write another blog entry. I am also currently attempting to download QQ, the Chinese version of AIM, which, as I have been informed by my students and fellow English teachers, is the best way for me to communicate with my classes and share the class texts and materials with them. The slogan of QQ 2012 is “Pure as the South Polar Snow.” Hopefully the meaning of this will become clear when I begin using the program because as of now, I am not entirely sure what it has to do with an instant messaging system.

Anyway, last Tuesday I met with the chairs of the English department and received my assignment for teaching this semester. Contrary to the ESL classes I was expecting to teach, I have been assigned to teach four sections of a sophomore Greco-Roman Mythology reading course. In October, when the freshmen are finished with their required month-long military training, I will be picking up an additional two sections of an English speaking course. I admit I was a little taken aback by the prospect of teaching a Greco-Roman Mythology course, especially as the last mythology course I took was in the sixth grade. However, I accepted the course materials from my department chair Susan (her chosen English name) and chatted briefly with her about the structure of the class. Thankfully, as I was to begin teaching just two days from this meeting, the materials are mostly laid out and the topics set. Susan promised to send me her notes and slides and with that, we sat down for the biggest meal I have had yet.

The Chinese take a two hour lunch break—their take on a siesta, I suppose—from 12-2pm, and from what I have gathered so far, this is the time to eat plenty and promptly after, take a nap. I think I can get used to this system. For our meeting we had upwards of thirty dishes served to us, everything from fried pumpkin to tea tree mushrooms to a dish called ‘three fresh things from the earth’ (di san xian) which is fried potatoes, aubergines, and peppers served in a savory sauce. My fellow American teachers and I refused the many offers of baijiu (a very strong Chinese liquor) from the male department chairs, but accepted a glass of warm corn milk instead. Though I was put off by the idea of drinking liquid corn, it was actually rather tasty and helped to balance the spiciness of the food. Plate after plate was brought out and placed on a lazy susan the size of a small sedan, and we all grabbed a bite or two from each plate as it rotated. Finally, after about two hours of eating, we said our goodbyes and made our way off campus.

I spent the next day going over the Unit One materials given to me and splicing together slides from Susan with my own. For the first class I was simply to give an introduction to Greco-Roman mythology, touching on the function, history, and cultural significance of the stories on the West. I felt fairly confident and realized that it is not nearly as intimidating to think about getting in front of a group of people and speaking when you know you are not being graded or analyzed or glared at by someone clicking a stopwatch in one hand and madly scribbling notes with the other. So, on Thursday afternoon, around one o’clock, I set off for campus, wanting to get there early for my two o’clock class to print a few things and to set up the computer. [At this point in time I feel it is necessary to point out that all of the classrooms are equipped with ‘Smart’ boards and we, as teachers, are fully expected to use them. I asked Susan if I might be placed in a classroom with a chalkboard and, after looking at me a little funny, she informed me that those don’t exist and the students learn best from slides and technology. It seems I will be getting friendlier than I have ever wanted to be with PowerPoint this year].

So around one thirty, after successfully getting my materials printed—which, as I should have expected, was no easy task unto itself and to do so I had to enlist another faculty member to help me convert my slide formats and break into an office to access a printer—I went to find my classroom to set up. After a little searching I found my room. However, it was locked. Sweaty and confused I went upstairs to Susan’s office to ask her if perhaps my classroom got switched. After knocking several times she opened the door and greeted me warmly. I asked if she had a key to the classroom and if I might borrow it so I could set up. She looked at me with her head tilted and informed me that teachers do not have keys to the classrooms—it is the job of the janitors to come by 20-30 minutes before class and unlock the doors. I nodded my head and said okay but then pointed to my watch and said that it was now 15 minutes until my class started and the door was still locked. She again, looked at me with her head tilted, ran back to her desk to check her clock and then ran back to the door and said that 2:00 classes don’t start until 2:30 until October. This has something to do with the Chinese version of daylight savings time. Though I wished someone had informed me of this beforehand, I again, smiled and nodded and went out for a walk around campus.

Soon enough, 2:10 rolled around and I made my way back inside to get set up for class. But again, I arrived at the classroom only to find it locked. Not wanting to be a nuisance to Susan, I decided to wait until 2:20 before going to ask her what the problem was. At that point, I decided to check my phone and saw that another one of the department chairs, Cherrie (again, a chosen English name) had both called me and sent me a text message saying “Hey Emily its Cherrie. The correct time for class is 2pm. Susan said she told you the wrong time. Where are you now?” Flustered but not entirely surprised at this turn of events, I called Cherrie back and told her I was standing outside the classroom and that it was still locked. She told me she’d be right down to unlock it. About five minutes later I got another text message from her with the room number of my classroom, 3209. I texted her back saying, “Yes, I am standing right outside of 3209 now…” A few minutes later she called me: “I am standing inside classroom 3209, where are you?”

“Standing right outside of 3209,” I replied. “Are there multiple classrooms numbered 3209?”

“Oh, you must be on the office side of the number 3 building, I’ll be right over.”

A few minutes later Cherrie found me and took me to the classroom side of the number 3 building. Even though I was now a half an hour late, my class was still waiting for me, and clapped enthusiastically as I walked in. A little embarrassed but with my confidence largely intact, I set up my slides and began class. From there, things went smoothly. The students are quite reluctant to speak in class or answer questions, but when I got them involved in an activity acting out some of Aesop’s fables, they participated with an encouraging enthusiasm.  Cherrie came by in-between my two classes that afternoon to apologize and say that it was not my fault and that I should not feel badly about the situation. I’m hopeful that I got all of the miscommunications out of the way on that first day and that things will go smoothly from here on out. I think that the present challenge is going to be teaching Greco-Roman mythology to students still trying to get a basic grasp on the English language and who, as I discovered, have never heard of Zeus or Hercules. 

Welcome to China

Looking out the window of the office in my apartment, I am struck by the scale of what I see. I can count 26 stories in the apartment building kitty corner to mine, and there are 12 more complexes like it in the immediate vicinity. The building directly across from mine stands 13 stories, the top two of which have balconies colored bright with lines of clothes hanging from the railings to dry. A woman on the seventh floor is leaning far out of her open window, sipping on a cup of tea. I’ve seen her there each morning I’ve been here. The rest of the landscape is covered in smaller apartment buildings—maybe only 6 or 7 stories tall, the roofs and windows of many built with a bright, ocean blue plastic. More clothes and air conditioners dangle from the windows, motionless in the stagnant air. If I look a little further south I see a round billboard written in Chinese standing tall next to a slowly rotating, massive yellow crane, the men below it working steadily on a new subway. Just below my window is a small courtyard—a pleasant reminder we are in fact on a university campus. Tree stumps are arranged in circles for reading or conversations. A man is sitting out there now smoking a cigarette and rifling through a newspaper. The sky is veiled in the same smog that it has been every day—not nearly as thick as that which we saw in Beijing, but enough to block the sun, even at 9:30 in the morning. Streaks of blue peak through at several points, but mostly we are enveloped in gray.

We have been in Wuhan 4 days now, and more than I have ever felt in my travels, I am constantly aware I am a foreigner. It is not merely the color of my skin, my height, or my funny American clothes, but overwhelmingly, it is the language that makes us stand apart. Never having studied Chinese, I knew the transition would be a challenge but, perhaps naïvely, I assumed I would encounter more people who spoke at least a little English. I had not even considered that all of the menus at restaurants would be written solely in Chinese characters, making it impossible to even guess at what you are ordering. I have been lucky enough to have several other Americans in my apartment who speak some Chinese, and so we have been able to receive the shock of being utterly unable to communicate with a little more ease.

Two nights ago, four of us ventured out for dinner on our own, without the safety net of our fellow Chinese speakers. We chose a restaurant on Culture Street, one of the main drags close to the college campus. The area encompasses about two blocks, lined with restaurant after restaurant, with the occasional clothing or shoe storefront jammed in between. The restaurant we chose looked promising because it had a large poster on one of the windows showing different dishes, with what we assumed was the name of the meal underneath in Chinese. At least with a picture menu we could examine the contents of the dish and point to whichever we wanted. The waiter sat us down in a separate room with a large round table, better suited to a party of ten than our party of four. He then passed us a menu which upon opening proved to have no pictures but rather line after line of characters. We tried to point at the posters on the wall in an attempt to ask if they had any picture menus, but the man simply thought we wanted pijiu (Chinese for beer) since there was a large bottle of beer on one of the posters we pointed at. We shook our heads and continued to struggle with the menu for a few more minutes, one of our group members trying to look up some of the characters on her phone. We finally gave up and started to make our way out, defeated by the characters and feeling like ignorant Americans. 

But as we waved goodbye to the waiter, he frantically motioned us over into the main room which was full of groups of Chinese eating dinner. An older man and two college age girls were sitting at a small back table. One of the girls, with big hipster framed glasses and a white graphic t-shirt, came over to us saying “I speak English—we speak English—we can help you.” Relieved and grateful we made our way over to the table where the old man bowed and asked us to “please please take our seats…we have just finished our meal and can help you order yours.” Humbled by his perfect English and kindness, we sat down as the waiter cleared the table of their meal. We told him where we were from and that I am a vegetarian, and he spouted out a few dishes in Chinese to the waiter. “Four dishes and a soup, is that alright? They will be vegetable dishes, do you like cabbage? Bok choi? How spicy do you want them?” We answered his questions and tried to piece together the Chinese words for the dishes, scrambling around in our bags for our notebooks to write down the names of the food for the next time we went out. As we did so, the girl with the hipster glasses stood to the side, snapping pictures of us with her camera. “I am from Malaysia,” the man said. “I hope that the food is good. I know that we will meet again, and I look forward to it. Goodbye for now.” As we thanked him he bowed again and left the restaurant, the two girls giddily waving goodbye to us as they followed him out. 

We ate most of our meal in silence, reflecting on what had just happened. I realized then the immediate necessity of learning Chinese—at least as much as I am able in the year I am here. The experience was embarrassing even though I know we are not the first foreigners to come to China without knowing Mandarin. However, it was also purposeful in showing us that it is now up to us to make the transformation from mere tourists to active and learning participants in Chinese culture.