Chengdu to Burma
Streetsign in Chengdu
Think of France and you have more cultural associations than you can wave a baguette at. The same goes for Italy; the cheek pinching Mamma, pizza, or maybe its most famous export, the Mafia. Each country has its emblems, cultural or not (just stay with me here). China is no exception. Mao’s flabby profile, dancing dragons and pandas, are probably some of the images which come to mind. For me personally, the reigning emblem of China is something far more humble. Enter the Thermos Flask. The people’s flask contains the mother’s milk of the biggest nation on earth, namely hot water.
I was sitting in a cafe in Tagong (Sichuan), watching the frenzied consumption of boiling water. There is more boiling water in any given Chinese eatery than there was in England during the witch trials. The waitress didn’t take any orders. Her job was to boil more water, pour it into the constantly empty flasks, and go round topping up the bowls, tumblers and glasses. Hot water is the main ingredient in nearly every dish. Poured over noodles, its breakfast or lunch. Thinly disguise it with chicken skin and bones, and its soup. Chuck in some stock bones and leftover gristle and you’ve just created Hot Pot, an immensely popular national dish.
In between sipping their food, the punters were knocking back copious amounts of hot water, lamely camouflaged as tea. They were quaffing it down with visible relish, clasping onto their small tumblers in a manner that is only appropriate for a good cognac.
Unfortunately I couldn’t share their pleasure, I was in the throes of a savage caffeine fit. I tore open my emergency stash; two packets of ready mixed instant “coffee” (“Nescafake” for short) and emptied the contents into my cup of hot water. Like an obstinate heretic refusing to convert, I gulped down my coffee drink, desperately pretending to enjoy it. The only fix I got was a glucose overdose; the synthetic sweetness throbbed in my teeth.
I realised it was time I returned to the flesh -and coffee- pots of civilization. My cash gauge had been flashing red for a couple of days (no ATM’s or banks in 3 weeks) and my jeans were starting to graft onto my skin after 3 weeks of non-stop wear. But of most concern was my intensifying caffeine craving and rice intolerance.
The next morning I set off to Chengdu, the provincial capital of Sichuan Province. The road hugged the river in a tortuous embrace, like two tango dancers twisting, coiling and wheeling sharply. The bus teetered on the crumbling edge, dodging fallen boulders and brushing against oncoming trucks. The road was still being constructed. Helmetless rock-peckers were clinging onto the cliff face, drilling into millenia of silence. Others were crawling around cleaning up the recent rock falls.
I’ve been told countless times that I wallow in morbid contemplation, so true to form, I mused on which type of death I would choose if confronted with the stark choice. To my left: A watery grave. The driver momentarily takes his attention from the road as he changes the karaoke VCD, or lights his 40th cigarette of the morning, plummeting the bus into the river below. To my right: crushed to oblivion. A loose boulder comes crashing down on bus. Wrong time, wrong place, right on.
After some serious consideration, I chose to go out with a bang rather than a splash. That settled, I spent the rest of the trip looking straight ahead, fixated on the elaborate headdress of the Khampa woman in front of me.
10 hours later we arrived in Chengdu and I went straight to “Sam’s Cozy Guesthouse” where I crashed for a week. The first thing I did was polish off a cheese and bacon hamburger, washed down with a glass of “Great Wall” Chinese red wine (thanks to some enterprising French missionaries), followed by a double espresso.
Chengdu has a myriad of things to see and experience, all of which I never saw or did. While the other travellers set off to pose with the pandas, marvel at the highest Buddha statue in the world, explore the holy mountains and breath-taking vistas, I was draped over a chaise longue with a book and a beer, every now and then looking up to admire the artificial water feature in the hostel’s courtyard. I desperately needed a holiday from travelling, a sanctuary to recover from the ravages of a hardcore 6 week travelling binge.
On the 3rd night I met up with the Italian couple, Giovanni and Valeria, and the English girl Michelle, my travelling companions of the week before. While we were staying with a nomad family in the Tibetan grasslands we were torturing each other with descriptions of mouth-watering food. At last the time had come to plunder an Italian restaurant and satiate our ravenous appetites. Giovanni ambushed a taxi and we charged off.
The waitress and manager glided out to welcome us. It seemed they’d been waiting for this moment all their lives.
“Many welcome! How you tonigh? You Italy? ” Oh god…an over-eager waitress, even more annoying than a sluggish one.
We waded through the sea of empty tables and were seated next to the only other customers; a Chinese couple sharing a pasta.
Our wine was brought by both the waitress and the manager, like some prized war trophy. They ceremoniously placed it down on the table and then stared at it, smiling. I realised they had no clue how to open a bottle of wine. The waitress, prodded in the back by the manager, was the first to give it a try. By this time the mounting tension for the task at hand made coversation impossible, which meant that the poor waitress had all our attention plus the manager’s, craning over her shoulder. Visibly shaking, she started badly, plunging in the cork screw at an angle and without first removing the lead wrapping. It was downhill from there, but mercifully Giovanni grabbed the bottle and put her out of her misery, “In Italy, the men like to open the wine, it’s their duty.”
The rest of the meal passed smoothly and my heart sang as I put my first piece of steak in my mouth. It was quite thin and overdone, but frankly I would’ve devoured anything as long as it didn’t involve rice, dumplings or boiling water.
The next few days I spent trying to make up my mind about where to go next. The train to Tibet was fully booked for months and I didnt see the point of spending half my savings on a flight and permit, just to see a Tibetan city under siege by Chinese settlers.Also, I wasn’t keen to throw myself back into the cold again. I’d always been interested in Burma, and I happened to meet an English guy at the hostel who’d spent two months teaching in Yangon. Decision made. I bought my train ticket to Kunming, the city in southern China where I entered from Vietnam a few weeks before. The plan was to travel from there to the border town of Ruili and try to enter overland into Burma.
On my last day I ventured out to buy some snacks for the 22 hour train journey. The supermarket lived up to its prefix. It was super big, super noisy and super crowded. It reminded me of an amusement fair, and some of the food on display would make great exhibits in the house of horrors. At the deli section I noticed a crowd of people jostling around a table. Curious to see what it was I nudged forward. Even an extreme-food veteran like myself was quite unprepared for what stared me in the face: Chuckie the chipmunk. His severed head that is; the two front buckteeth completing the grotesque cartoon grimace. The table was groaning under a mound of chipmunk heads, ready cooked and covered with gravy.
I stumbled away, and fled to the safety of the pot noodle aisle. Just then I heard a shrill voice over a microphone, “Allo! Lady tourist!” A promo-girl with an unfortunate sense of style and a pinned on smile, beckoned me to come nearer. She was promoting a new flavour of pot noodles to the gathering housewives, who were all staring at me. I was trapped.
“You must taste my delicious pot noodles, its so cool!”,she crusaded on in her best American-flavoured accent. She shoved the microphone in my face, “Do you love pot noodles?”
“Er, I’d like to get one for my train trip”
“Oh, that’s very wonderful!”
Looking at the blank faces of the crowd I was beginning to wonder what the purpose of this little side show was, seeing that no one could understand a word we were saying. She poured some boiling water on the pot noodles and gave me a sample. I mustered a grin and slurped it down.
“Is it delicious?”
“Yeah, it’s good”, I scarcely uttered the words when she screeched something in Chinese, setting off a round of applause.
I grabbed my pot noodles and continued on my quest for something that looked vaguely appetising or snacky.
I was hoping to get some ready-to-go sandwiches but was confronted by a carousel of rotating piglets and chickens- red rose in mouth, vacuum-packed crocodile steaks, green pickled eggs, black fermented glutinous rice, bird’s nest cooldrinks. In the end I opted for Hands of Buddha sweets and exploding bean nuggets.
It might seem like stating the bleedin’ obvious to say that there are a lot of people in China, but it’s something which needs to be said and repeated. I got my first taste of China’s intimidating human force at the Chengdu train station.
The taxi’s wheels were still turning, when my door was flung open. A cupped hand shot towards me. I realise that begging at train stations is a cut-throat business, but aggressive begging has never opened the charitible strings of my purse, never mind my heart (specially when you’re drenched in sweat and its only 9am). I slammed the door shut. The hand opened it again. This time he tried a more visual approach, jutting his hand towards his gaping mouth in short, stabbing jerks.
Like a replicant in Blade Runner, I failed to feel any emotional response except mounting irritation. “Dude, if you open that door one more time I’m gonna get angry!”, I bellowed from the taxi.
He trundled off. You can growl in any language and people understand immediately.
I stepped out of the taxi and was immediately engulfed by the swelling masses, surging into the entrance like water swirling down a bathtub.
In China -and the same goes for Vietnam- politeness is pointless. It’s not beneficial to anyone, least of all yourself. At first I thought that being polite and curteous to others will somehow set the example, and I’ll be treated pleasantly in return. But the truth is the vast majority don’t comprehend or appreciate it. Letting someone go before you, holding doors open, stopping so an old lady can cross the road, breaks the natural momentum of the urban herd. “Each for Themselves” is the number one law of the Asian metropolis jungle.
So, I shoved and elbowed my way through the human tide, using my backpack as both bumper and bulwark. Bruised, battered and toe-crushed I somehow managed to keep my head above the human tsunami and finally got washed up on the train, collapsing on my sleeper bed.
My cramped surroundings were a lot more pleasant than I expected. No spitting, sniffing, smoking slimebuckets. A little girl, on the opposite bed, entertained herself for hours by scrutinising me. I offered her one of my sweets (a much savoured toffee), but she shook her head. A while later she bought something from the wailing vendor and held the packet out towards me. I couldn’t see what was inside, but always curious to try out new things, I stuck my hand in. I didn’t expect the wet, rubbery texture. What I held up in my hand looked as obscene as it felt: a wrinkly chicken foot. My whole body grimaced and I dropped the gruesome limb back into the packet. This time it was my turn to stare. She popped the whole foot into her mouth, sucking and chewing the skin and cartilage. Little bits of claw or a particularly sinewy piece ended up on the floor. It must take a certain breed of kid to say no to a toffee and instead gobble up a packet of chicken feet. I slunk back behind my book.
Unfortunately my book didn’t offer much of a shield against the sweeping eye of one of the most dreaded predators found in these parts: the Young English Learner. This species use the English language as their weapon to slowly bore you to death; a long, drawn-out, utterly excruciating experience. As she spotted me, she swooped in and pinned me down with the usual snare:
“My name is Yang Chi Ru I learn Englees I want to speak with you what is your name.” I laid down my book in defeat and prayed she would be mercifully quick.
The first time I fell prey to a Young English Learner was in Hanoi, a few days after I’d arrived. I was pounced on at traffic lights and dragged off to “The English Club”. Being completely clueless, I asked her what/where it was, she answered vaguely that it was a “good place to meet a lot of interesting people”. Thinking it was the name of a bar/cafe I agreed to go. It was a Saturday evening, I had been teaching the whole day and was looking forward to a drink while hopefully striking up a friendship with a local Vietnamese. When we arrived, I didn’t see anything resembling a bar or cafe. Just a ramshackle concrete building with the ambiance of an empty carpark. “This is the English club” she motioned to a gaping door on the second floor. Still fazed, I stumbled off her bike and got ushered into a classroom, the den of the Young English Learner. It was packed to the broken fan with unnervingly eager Vietnamese teens. They set upon me like piranha on a bleeding cow. For the next hour they baited me with a barrage of questions and my voice was starting to crack from shouting over the din. The “leader” came over and asked me to stand up at the front of the class and give them some ideas about how they should improve their club. Oh, I have lots of ideas. How about a DJ, decks and a chill out lounge? Didn’t have the heart to tell him that the only type of “club” I’m familiar with is of the nocturnal variety where the lingua franca is hedonism. My little bit of goodwill depleted, I rasped an excuse and left.
Stuck in a carriage, you don’t have the option of escape. Yang Chi ru was on a roll faster than the train. “I’ve been to many places in China I take many photos I show you now.”
As I expected, the photos were not of the places she visited but of her. Eternally stuck in the same pose; a lobotomised smile and both hands ending in the ubiquitous bunny ears / V-sign. Beautiful landscapes or places of interest merely exist to serve as a backdrop to the person in the photo. That’s why the Chinese don’t see any problem in constructing fake deer, kitch archways or gaudy pagodas in the middle of hitherto pristine forests, because for them it enhances the setting of the photo. In the end, the photo becomes more real than the place visited (which stops existing once you leave it). This idea of the photo as proof of our existence is not only prevalent in China, but the world over. In the past, we named things to order them, to make them real. If things didn’t have names they didn’t exist. It reminds me of the supposition voiced in Umberto Eco’s “The Name of the Rose”, translated from the Latin quote: “Yesterday’s rose endures only in its name, we hold empty names.” Replace “name(s)” with photo(s) and you have the updated version. The place or experience only exists and endures through its photo, and the same goes for our own existence. Every year we produce countless images of ourselves, hoping to achieve some virtual immortality. Wherever we go we fervently document every minutiae of our lives, on our cameras, camera phones and videocams and then distribute them to the world, via email, facebook or internet galleries. (Or we blog about every minutiae of our dysfunctional lives!) This mass prolification of the photo (and the self ) is not merely a pursuit for immortality but has become a method of global communication, where images have replaced words. Photos have become the new language of our time.
Back in Kunming I went straight to the Burmese (Myanmar) consulate. The address I had was for room 201 in the Camelia Hotel. As I walked down the corridor with stop-sign red carpets and smudges crawling on the walls, I felt like I was going to some sleazy rendezvous instead of organising a visa. I wondered whether it was part of the government’s policy of isolation that its representatives have to hole up in a dumpy hotel room like some down and out, alcoholic sales rep. I knocked on the door and was greeted by a cloud of cigarette smoke. I expected to see a bottle of cheap whiskey lying empty on the stained carpet. A little man with a droopy handshake informed me that the Myanmar consulate moved to new premises, but that I should come see him afterwards if I wanted to organise an overland passage into Burma. “You pay me Y1300 ($150) I take you to Myanmar”. If I didn’t want to fly, this was the only way to get in. Travelling from China into Burma is very restricted and the only way is to be escorted with a government-approved guide and a driver who takes you through several police check-points and drops you off at the nearest town from the border, about a 4-5 hour drive (depending on the mood of the cops).
The new consulate premises looked slightly more upmarket than the hotel, in an office block with a sleeping guard. I was given a pile of forms to fill in, which not only asked for my job, but also that of both my parents’. The only other person applying for a visa was a young American student who also wanted to travel overland. Zack was studying Chinese language and culture at the University of New York and was on a research trip following in the footsteps of a 7th century Chinese monk/scholar who travelled throughout China and South East Asia. We decided to cross into Burma together to see if we could get a discount on the hefty fee.
Back in the agent’s hotel room/office he gave us a meagre Y50 ($7) discount for travelling together. He knew he had us by the curlies, because he was the only one who organised the border crossings into Burma. Flying would probably cost the same if not cheaper, but if at all possible, I like to step into a country as opposed to fly into it. Call me obstinate, but I have a penchant for taking the difficult route. So we paid our money and in return he gave us the guide’s telephone number to call once we get to the Chinese border town of Ruili. The only guarantee we had was his limp and clammy handshake.
Sleeper bus going to Ruili
Two days later we fetched our visas and got on a sleeper bus to Ruili. Have you ever left your wet clothes in the washing machine for a few days? Yeah. Well add to that old sweat and cigarette smoke, and you might have some idea of how the bus smelt like. Breathing in that air was like the olfactory equivalent of eating a shit,but with breathing you don’t have the choice to stop. There were 3 rows of bunkbeds, going down all the way to the back of the bus. I got the bottom one in the middle row. Like the name suggests, the sleeper bus is made for one thing only, sleeping. And ofcourse the other life necessity, watching karaoke videos. Which is fine for a night journey, except that we had a 13 hour day trip to look forward to. The backrest is fixed at a 30 degree angle and not adjustable. If you tried to slide down a little, your legs were jammed up against the backrest of the next bed. You couldn’t sit up either as your head would hit the bed above. So in this lie-sit position I tried to read but only got a stiff neck after a few minutes. The only thing left to do was batter my already enfeebled eardrums with my mp3 player at full blast in a vain attempt to drown out the ghastly karaoke songs.
We arrived in Ruili later that evening and found a beautiful guesthouse called “Mandalay Gardens”. It wasn’t actually a guesthouse, but 4 huts set amidst a towering bamboo forest (and some well-tended weeds…). I could easily have stayed there for a couple of days, soaking up the laid back vibe. It already felt like another country. Being the only westerners in town, we were definitely off the tourist map, bordering a country which is basically wiped off the world map.
Ruili is a typical border town with shop signs in both Chinese and Burmese. The next day we exchanged our dollars into Burmese Kyat. The only place to change your money was on the black market, in the street. I was expecting some furtive, clandestine dealings with a loitering dealer, but was motioned to 2 smiling, buxom mammas, squatting on stools under a tree with 2 bulging tog bags in front of them. They quoted an excellent exchange rate and we sat down. The only problem was that the biggest denomination is 1000 Kyat, which is about 70 US cents. I wanted to exchange $350. The wads of cash started coming out of the tog bags and she stacked them onto my lap. She then insisted I count every single note. I do not think I knew the full meaning of the word “surreal” until that day. Like a drug lord with a lap of money piled up to my chin I counted it all in the middle of the pavement, in broad daylight, stuffing the bundles into my backpack. Deal done, I sauntered off, trying to look as non-descript as one can with a backpack full of money in one of the largest opium producing areas in the world (outside Afghanistan).
My last night in China I had that Xmas morning type anticipation. The next day we’d be crossing into north-eastern Burma on the notorious “Burma Road”, a major smuggling route for opium and heroin, interspersed with checkpoints manned by one of the most repressive military regimes in the world, our bags chock-full of cash maaahney.
All the ingredients for a barrel of laughs….
Oh shit, where did I put my backpack??
Tags: Burma, Chengdu, China, China and South East Asia, Ruili
vynckemichelle
Hi Michelle,
Loved reading about your adventures. love the style in which you write. i will read on later…
Love and huggs
Fascinating! This was no glimpse, but an immersion from the hot water to the taxi ride, the chicken feet and the wet clothes’ olfactory equivalent. The English Club was priceless. I was completely engaged.
The only disappointment was, we didn’t get to Juntaville. With Myanmar in the news, you should peddle this — and the rest of the story — to a serious magazine! It’s far more than a travelogue. It’s a photoessay. (By the way, your photos didn’t show up on my browser, but your writing being photographic, I saw everything.)
You have a brave, knife-edged style that’s a pleasure to read.
Cheers,
Tom
Any updates?
I thought Americans were arrogant! If you knew anything about Chinese people you would understand that they keep their real feeling inside in order to save face. So when they are handed you your stupid European wine while ordering Italian food, the waitress was know doubt saying in her mind, “Who does this fake red hair pompous foreign broad think she is? Instead of experiencing the culture and life of my city she’s
here eating crappy Italian food ” I would say the waitress is correct, because I haven’t even met you and I think you are a “fake red hair pompous foreign broad”. You want the best Italian food, go to New York or Italy. Want the best Chinese food go to Chengdu.
And I quote:
“Many welcome! How you tonigh? You Italy? ” Oh god…an over-eager waitress, even more annoying than a sluggish one.”
You are an absolute piece of work princess! At least she is attempting English, and getting paid for it!!! SHE’S A CHINESE WOMAN IN CHINA!!!!!! YOU DIPWAD!!!!!!! DOING HER JOB!!!!! YOU DIPWAD!!!!!! Out of the billions that live in China I am sure less than one percent even care about Italian food and wine, let alone your measly foreigner existence. She was just trying to be nice and you have to say that. Go to hell.
The plain truth is I spent a year in China, with Chengdu as my main residence. Is a year a long time? By no stretch. I do know that Chengdu is China’s city of leisure, has the best “Chinese” food, and the best foreign book store. So instead of cowering in your room, you could have visited the Bookworm (www.chengdubookworm.com), picked from a huge range of books, and had a real cup of coffee. The people I met are friends for life. I can’t believe how they bent over backwards to show me a good time. Btw, you make friends at college campuses.
Whoever goes to another civilization, searching for the attributes of their own culture, only to become disappointed when they don’t reach the desired expectation, is not only arrogant, but globally inept. It is people like you who give me the burden of explaining that exceptionally rude behavior from Westerner’s, Euro’s and Aussies is an unfortunate nuance. The Chinese were eating with sticks, while your ancestors were eating with their hand, and there no paper to wipe with because the Chinese invented that too.
Do the world a favor and stay where it is you call home, FOREVER!!!!
Cities visited: 14 Provinces visited: 13.
Jame,
Sorry for the tardy reply, busy travelling round India, looking for the perfect hamburger 😉
Thanks so much for your comment about my blog. Of all the millions of blogs/websites out there, you chose to read mine (which demands some time and attention) and not only that, you made the effort to give a lengthy comment, in fact, the longest comment I’ve received thus far. You’re a valued reader Jame, and therefore I think it only polite to reply back to you.
In a world defiled by irony, sarcasm, cultural subversion, faux intentions (and hair colour!) and the general malaise of insouciance, it is most refreshing to find that people like you still exist. Someone who can still get completely worked up and enraged by the sardonic observations of a complete stranger (or in your own very spicy lingo, “dipwad”). Please don’t lose this very endearing (but sadly dying) attribute.
Just to add to your comment:
Together with the adjective of “arrogant” and “pompous” used to describe my writing, I think you should add the following: culturally insensitive, religiously disrespectful, and culinary biased. I’m sure you can think of more. Mea culpa…but unfortunately I have no shame. Yes, my observations can be crass, rude and obnoxious, but if you like your travel writing to be fluffy, cuddly and sweet, where the locals are always “nice”, friendly” and “polite” then you dont have to look far. They’re more profuse than the Chinese nation and more mediocre than a communist party propaganda speech.
Having lived in Vietnam for nearly two years I’ve experienced the local delicacies of dog meat, beating cobra heart, snake bile, barbequed sparrows and juicy frogs legs. Besides the dog meat, I’ve enjoyed all of those. But I have to admit that I cannot suppress some boorish “western” tastes. While living in the East, I do relish a glass of good wine or a cup of coffee, and ofcourse some foul-smelling cheese. Unlike you, I have no country/home to go back to after sampling another culture for a year.
It appears that you havent had the displeasure of reading my blog entries about my travels prior to Chengdu. Before reaching the culinary oasis of Chengdu, I was travelling for 6 weeks in the outbacks of Sichuan, exploring the Tibetan plateau. The Tibetan people not being as affluent as your Chinese friends in Chengdu, they have to subsist on tsampa, or barley flour. Eaten on its own, or mixed with water to form a porridge, this is their staple diet, together with yak curd. (It seems that the Han Chinese have not yet been able to introduce the Tibetans to their superior cuisine. They’re obviously too busy dealing with the war-mongering Dalai Lama.)
Staying with some Tibetan nomads, this was also my staple diet for a while. No trendy bookshop cafe’s, glistening supermarkets, or tasty street barbeques; all the things found in your beloved Chengdu. (I went to the Bookworm, by the way…in such an authentic Chengdu neighbourhood, complete with expats, and other one year exchange students like yourself). So, by the time I had reached Chengdu, I couldnt ignore the culturally insensitive demands of my tastebuds anymore…. I succumbed to some steak and chips, washed down with red wine. It was sooooo good….unfortunately no amount of noodles or rice could have the same effect. And no amount of self-flagelation could rid me of my uncontrolable carnivorous and bacchanalian apetites.
Maybe you should patrol the Chinese joints in your hometown, I’m sure you’ll be appaled by the number of homesick Chinese slurping away a tasty noodle soup, instead of sticking to the local cuisine. Shame on them!
Oh, just one little critique….
“The Chinese were eating with sticks, while your ancestors were eating with their hand, and there no paper to wipe with because the Chinese invented that too.”
You should be careful about implying that people who eat with their hands are in some way uncivilised or backward. I’m sure you dont think that of Indian, Middle Eastern, or African people. And I definitely wouldn’t uphold the paper wipe as a great invention. If only the Chinese had stuck to water or wiping on grass, maybe our environment wouldnt be in such a bad condition.
Anyway, to end off with, just a little favour I have to ask you…
If you are in any way hippy-inclined, in either music, taste or hairstyle, or have friends who are (or even if you’re not) please read my blog entry: “Dali: Ancient city of dreadlocks and pancakes”. In it I indulge in some vicious hippy-bashing. No holds barred. I’m sure it will rekindle your fires of indignation, and hopefully I’ll get another comment. I need more comments like yours, Jame. The other comments, although very appreciated and needed, have been far too nice and flattering.
Give it to me,
Michelle
Your illustrious, or so they seem, movements throughout Asia, and for the prolonged period of time in which they have occurred, is not where my frustration with you, Michelle, succumbs. Wow. All that frustration. Jame, would you like a hug? Or a cookie? Or would that offend your oh-so-politically correct palate? (seeing that I’m in India and they don’t eat cookies here).
Firstly, I can see that you tried really hard with your first paragraph, using big words like ‘illustrious’ and ‘succumbs’. At least you’re trying to use better language than in your first comment. Just a word of advice, lovie. You should make sure you know how to use the words in the right way before you try again. Or let me put it in another way: The equipment is there, now just learn how to use it effectively. I’m sure you’re a fast learner! You should perhaps think of doing a quick course to perk up those grammar skills. Oh, ignore me, with your penchant for name slinging, you don’t need grammar.
‘Succumbs’ means surrender, yield or submit. You cannot say that “Your……movements throughout China…..is not where my frustration with you surrenders” You see Jame, it doesn’t make sense. So, to correct it, you should replace ‘succumbs’ with ‘ends’, or if you want a smarter sounding word, then use ‘ceases’. Ex: “….is not where my frustration with you ends/ceases. Geddit? It is quite clear from my initial communication that I never accused you of being adventurous. I think you mean ‘unadventurous’. ‘adventurous’ is like, a good thing Jame. You can’t really accuse people of having good qualities…like you can’t accuse someone of being intelligent or funny.In addition, I never insinuated that my experience in Asia was any kind of an accomplishment.I never accused you of insinuating that your experience was an accomplishment…that would be a difficult thing to do. Basically, in the quaint “dipwad” terminology you disdain, your attitude sucks more than a man who has the first name Dick.Shew..how long did it take you to think of that gem of a comparitive? Your mind is full of mockery that is dictated in your writ\ting.(sp). ‘dictated’ is the wrong word, you mean ‘evident’, ‘displayed’ or ‘demonstrated through’ You can try to use sarcasm to hide it, but out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.You’ve used anger to hide your, uhm, lack of intelligence, which never works, it merely highlights it.
But hey, on the up side, I definitely think you should work for the Chinese government, when you hopefully finish your studies.You have all the right attributes for the job: 1) absolutely no sense of humour 2) an astounding talent for taking yourself seriously (even all the members of the communist party put together don’t come close to you), 3) a hysterical intolerance to anyone who dares to express different views/experiences/tastes other than your own, and lastly 4) boring and incorrect use of English (and if English is your mother tongue you don’t have any excuse…)
Look Michelle, just the fact that you have a hotmail account and can communicate with me, wherever, tells me you don’t have it half bad. You stayed in a hotel in Chengdu, could afford a bottle of wine, had a bunk on a train, and you’re taking pictures so I imagine you also have a camera. You have a backpack, purse, and at least one change of clothes. How could you forget my matching lingerie set! All of your necessities? Um, let me see, no…I need a new laptop and another camera, and definitely another ipod, and another coloured phone, and…Things the average Asian, no, average human, will never have for quite awhile. You have a visa so you have a credit card, and cash. Your qualms are pathetic. After making the effort of deducing all the things I might have in my greedy little paws, I still don’t know what your point is Jame. Again, I don’t want to sound like I’m nagging, but I have to repeat, read my previous blog entries, and you’ll see I go on ad nauseum about how lucky I am in relation to the rest of the world. How happy I am. How many choices I have. How shit other people have it. Satisfied? I’ve been on the rails in China too. I was on a 40 hour pig with a bunk, at the same time realizing there were people cars down the stretch sitting and standing the entire ride with smells, sickness, and crying. This is a bit confusing to say the least…So, let me work it out…Wait a minute, WERE YOU ON A PIG FOR 40 HOURS?? Geez Jame, I’m still reeling at this one….Kudos for the stamina, man, but I really feel sorry for the pig! Listen dude, you’ve now convinced me that you’re a real little adventurer, but please buddy…Boots ‘n All is a family friendly traveller’s forum, I’m sure some people out there, no matter how open-minded, will not appreciate your tales of marathon sessions with a pig. And you did this 40 hour stunt “at the same time realising there were people”? I’m blushing….On top of it, you’re an exhibitionist with no shame! I can very well believe there must’ve been some smells emanating from your bunk… And all those poor people with nowhere to flee, no wonder they were sick and crying! You’re lucky they didn’t lock you up for animal cruelty.
So, Jame, another career opportunity there. You can always try the adult entertainment industry back home, specialising in farm animals. I’m sure that’s a niche market. Shouldn’t let that talent go to waste. Chuckles aside, let this be another little lesson (you’ll thank me for this one day).Prepositions are your friends.Use them.Order is important word – you see how important correct word order is! And lastly, dont give up on punctuation. I saw the picture of you in your dainty bunk. yeah, OK mate, just dont get too excited while looking at it.So don’t come up into my inbox and accuse me drinking coffee in the city I loved for a year. Hypocrite. Well, maybe your heartache for Chengdu has blurred the memory a bit. You were the one who started all this by rapping me on the knuckles for wanting western food and drinks while in Chengdu. Now you come out with your dirty little secret. You also indulged in a cup of the strong stuff!
And now you’re in India!!! Yeah, I think you should add another exclamation mark, it’s that great!!!!!.Did you ever inquire of the average Chinese citizen to see if they have ever been out of their town or city, let alone their own country. I did and it’s all a dream to them, and reality for you and me. Just because you know how the Tibet people live doesn’t disqualify, (I think you mean ‘qualify’) nor give you the right to take a dump on my city experiences. I’ve been to the Mongolian frontier and those people east roughly the same thing smart ass.so if I’m a smart ass, then that would make you a…..no prizes for guessing!
Eating with your hands, even if one is reserved for wiping, may be noble to a culture, but it’s still unsanitary. Believe it or not hygiene saves lives. Ask the millions that died (from) the Black Death.(Plague is better, to die a death sounds a bit silly..) Then ask Typhoid Mary and her victims. Why is China unsanitary? Pre-industrialization duress. (nice euphanism, but a lot of it is just good ol’ littering). The Chinese culture is changing rapidly for the good and bad. The Chinese say they have a revolution every century or so. Centuries ago, what are now minorities ruled, and now is the time of the Han through Communism. The next revolution will tell what comes next. The Chinese like it that way so leave them alone.Gee, thanks for the history lesson Jame, or is it a hygiene lesson? What were you trying to tell me there? Uhm, besides the fact that History or Safety&Hygiene is obviously not one of your majors. Instead of giving me your candy-floss insights, why don’t you just stick to reading the backs of cereal packets. Next time you eat your Fruit Loops, you might just learn a few things, for example that the Black Plague started in China and slowly spread to Central Asia and then to Europe by means of the Silk Route. It was carried by fleas living on infected rats. Hygiene could do little, if anything to stop its spread.
Although the typhoid outbreak had a nice name like Mary, I can’t actually ask a disease a question, Jame. Nor the dead victims. You understand that. Or maybe you believe we can talk to ghosts and all that. But talking to diseases? Call me ignorant, but never heard of that one. Well, seeing that we’re on this subject, why don’t you ask Mr/Ms Aids why he/she still kills people even though they eat with shiny clean utensils, wash their hands, and keep everything nice and sanitary? Yeah, you’d find that if you had to talk to a disease it would probably be a lot more intelligent than you.
Well, the next revolution will obviously not be a Tibetan one, the Chinese government has made sure of that. And even if there is one, they’ll make sure ‘The Revolution will not be televised’ to quote a great song. Hopefully the next revolution will be a recycling one.
Here’s a question for you activists. (wow, thanks for the compliment, Jame!). Why does the Dali L. get a palace, while Tibet children have to mob strangers for food? Aint nirvana grand . . . He’s no worse than the Red government. Well, maybe you should ask that question to the Indian government, they are the ones who gave that ‘palace’ to him. Yeah, maybe if the Chinese government didn’t throw all those pesky Chinese street kids in jail, you’d also be mobbed by them. But, everything has to look spic ‘n span for the Olympics now, remember Jame?
If this doesn’t remain posted, the truth is told.What truth?? Maybe you should come here to India and become a guru. There’s a lot of kids here looking for ‘THE TRUTH’.
After all this to and fro, I realise that I committed the ultimate crime in not being nice enough about your darling Chengdu. I can’t remember saying anything bad about it, because I confessed outright that I was too knackered to get to know the city. In fact I listed all the lovely places I was too lazy to check out. Slap my knuckles.
I have to say that your obsessive love of Chengdu is starting to sound a bit, uhm, unnatural Jame…Maybe it’s time for a girlfriend, don’t you think?
So, happy days Jame. Good luck with the studies (I think you’ll need it), and try and cultivate a sense of humour (chicks like it) And buddy, breathe. Or do yoga. You’ll give your self an ulcer, sweetie.
Michelle
Hey, just adding my 2 cents. I’ve been living in Vietnam for a year, I’ve been offered a job in Chengdu, do i take it, is Chengdu better than Ho Chi Minh???
Anyway, I find Vietnam racist. There are some good people here, mostly women, but i would say i’ve had trouble one way or another 364 out of 365 days. I can Speak quite good Vietnamese with my viet friends, yet if i walk into a new restaurant or whatever and start speaking viet, they just look slightly away from free and say “khong hieu” (don’t understand). my friends have told me these people are so stupid they won’t even try to listen to what you’re saying, even if i right it down in perfect vietnamese, they won’t look at it. They figure white face = too hard. I’m so sick of being charged more than locals for stuff, when i tell them i’m not a tourist, i live here (in viet) they just look at me and say “no, everyone same price”. so my friend goes in for me 5 minutes later and get’s a 50% discount, hhmmmm………
Now you rich, middle class folk are probably thinking, so we are rich compared to them. Well don’t waste your mint scented breath on me, i grew up on the streets, i don’t take shit from anyone, especially dodgy H dealers who have watched too many kung fu movies and think they can charge me 4 times the local amount for a lift on their moto.
I love watching my students faces when i explain that women don’t have to look after the house for a man, cook, clean or any other shit. (oh i’m a dude, by the way). My boss always says, Teach them about western culture, then gets angry when i tell them anything.
try being vegetarian here, it sucks. I mostly just cook at home (“but teacher, that’s a woman’s task”). i also never smoke. if you tell any male over 25 in vietnam that you are vegetarian and don’t smoke, they ask one question, “are you gay”? to which i reply, maybe i am, maybe i want to fuck you in the arse little man. Anyway Vietnam is lame, brains don’t function properly here, my grade 11 and 12s are by far the smartest people in this country, i’ve spent countless hours teaching them all sorts of things, alot of them have opened up to me and told me how much they hate Vietnam, scary!
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hello I’m a big cognac drinker especially Remy Martin, excellent blog post, thanks
Thank you for the nice comment Loris! Much appreciation. Happy cognac drinking!
Cheers,
Michelle
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