One of my English students asked me to write an article for the campus newspaper, about my impressions of day-to-day life in China. About a week later, on March 8, I recorded a "typical" day of my life.
The alarm woke me at 6:15. It was still dark outside, but not as cold as last week, when I could easily see my breath in the bedroom. Anne got up immediately and put on a pot of water in the kitchen. I staggered in a few minutes later and we had a pre- sunrise breakfast of hot instant cereal, a few dates, a banana with peanut butter spread onto it, and water -- no time to make coffee. Admittedly, it wasn't anything to write home about; what's more, it would have to suffice until sunset, which I knew would occur at precisely 6:33 p.m. We were in the middle of our 19-day fasting period. As Baha'is we don't eat or drink between sunrise and sunset at that time of year, as a symbol of detachment and purification. It's not difficult, and it helps remind us of the difference between our needs and our desires. The clock told us that the sun had risen, so we left the table, said a few prayers, woke the children, and got them safely off to school.
I put on my shoes and stepped outside to go to the market. Looking to the left of our apartment, small piles of trash were inexorably piling up in the area we had been trying to keep clean. It was a nice spot, with grass and trees, overlooking the farmland, and we had wanted to make it into a small park. Well, we've lost that battle, I thought. I looked past to the fields below -- a mixture of last year's rice paddies and beds of winter vegetables. Many beds were filled with some Chinese mustard-like green that was bursting into yellow flowers. It would be time to plant the spring rice soon.
I walked down our little lane to the "main street." Little shops lined one side of the street. At my first stop, I changed a 100-yuan note into smaller bills and bought some eggs. They are sold by weight, 2.5 yuan per jin (about 30 cents a pound, which is usually 8 or 9 good-sized eggs). Then it's only a few doors down to the bread market, a large permanently-enclosed area between two buildings. At the entrance, vendors sell many kinds of steamed or fried breads; toward the back they sell bowls of noodles. Noodles are quite popular for breakfast or lunch. I bought four kinds of bread and walked farther down to the main market.
In this village, the market is in a permanent building. Little shops face onto the street, but the interior is a large open-area market. The first floor is mainly meat -- hoofed, pawed, winged, finned, hopping, and wriggling -- and tofu. I didn't need any tofu today, so I went up the ramp to the second floor to buy vegetables. Along the walls are the more established vendors. They sell a variety of produce that they have probably purchased wholesale -- several kinds of peppers (all hot), eggplant, cauliflower, potatoes, sometimes tomatoes, garlic, ginger, several kinds of mushrooms, and a variety of unnamed greens, squashes, and cabbages. The interior is filled with farmers who have brought in some produce and laid it out on the concrete floor; it's mostly greens and cabbages at this time of year. They carry it up from their fields and up the ramp in two baskets balanced from a shoulder pole.
I didn't need much today, so I only bought some potatoes and bean sprouts. I was surprised when a lady vendor refused to accept my 10-yuan note. Several other vendors flocked around the excitement; they all agreed that the bill was a fake. This was my first experience with counterfeit money, though I've heard that it's not uncommon. Most vendors hold up the bills to the light, looking for the proper watermark, before they accept them. I paid with another note and walked down the ramp, slightly disgruntled, past spill-over farmers selling greens and eggs.
Farther down the street, by the bus stop, is the fruit market, also in its own permanent building. On the way there I passed a pig walking down the street. He plodded from side to side on his stubby legs. His master had a long, thin switch in his hand, but didn't need to use it. I'm not sure where the pig was headed, but he looked happy.
There is usually a fanfare when I come into the fruit market. The vendors shout out "Banana" or "Orange" in their accented hawker's voices. I'm teaching them the English word for pineapple. I bought 4 jin (pounds) of bananas and 3 jin of oranges for about 6 yuan, less than a dollar. There are about 8 well-established fruit vendors. At this time of the year they have abundant supplies of bananas, apples, Asian pears, oranges, and pineapples, along with a few grapes, melons, and leechee. I stopped again at the first shop and showed the lady the false money she had given me as change. I didn't understand what she said, but she seemed to be denying that she had given me that bill. Mei guanxi, no problem, I said unconvincingly, and walked back home.
At 10:00 I walked a quarter mile to the old teaching building on campus, to teach writing to a class of 30 English majors. They are good kids and I like them, but they are not very enthusiastic about writing. They are seldom willing to discuss something or even to answer simple questions. I tried to put some life into my instructions about paragraph organization and topic sentences, but many of them were whispering to each other or reading other material. I scolded them lightly, I hope I didn't seem angry.
After class, my only one of the day, I walked home and used up the leftover rice. I added eggs and green garlic shoots, cooking as always in the wok. Taalan had invited some buddies over for lunch. All of the fried rice, most of the bread, and about half of the fruit disappeared in the cause of satisfying their growing-boy appetites. The midday break lasted two hours. It was drizzling outside, so the boys played Civilization on the computer, made some Lego creations, and watched an episode of Monkey King on TV before going back to school. I cleaned up the remnants of lunch (no nibbling; you're fasting), walked up to the bus stop, and headed into town. There were no seats left, so I stood, mildly crushed, swaying to the jolting of the decrepit bus.
From the end of the bus line in town, I walked about 10 minutes to the "blind massage" place. I had been having some more back problems and a student had recommended Chinese massage as practiced by specially-trained blind people. The massage master said it would take about 10 sessions to cure the problem, so I had been coming every two days. This was my fourth session. The master was a barrel- chested man with a strong laugh and stronger fingers. In the earlier sessions he had been extremely forceful as he pounded, pressed, and rubbed unmercifully on the offending areas. He knew every pressure point and pressed each with the full strength of his thumb, holding for 20 or 30 seconds. At the first session, he told my student- friend Peter that he would like to go to America and become a successful massage master there. I replied that very few people in America would submit themselves to even half as much pain as he was giving me. I'm not sure how Peter translated that to him. The second and third sessions had been, if anything, worse because, although the muscles had become quite sore from the pounding, he didn't alter his massage style. I asked Anne to examine my back for bruises, but she said there were none. I remarked that if he could make me that sore without leaving any bruises, he must truly be a master. Today, however, to my delight I found that the master was not available, and was passed on to a lady massager, also blind. She gave me a similar vigorous, forceful treatment, but it was several orders of magnitude less painful than the man's. I almost fell asleep on the table. I paid gratefully and walked back to the bus stop in the light rain.
On the way I noticed a crowd gathered on the sidewalk. Two men dressed in ethnic garb had some goods spread on a blanket. I went closer and saw that they were selling the horns of wild animals. There are strict laws against poaching in China. I have seen documentaries on TV showing poachers on the Tibetan Plateau being tracked down as criminals. I don't know if these particular animals were on the protection list. Nevertheless, I was thoroughly disgusted and walked quickly on.
I rode back home on the bus, sitting this time. I graded some students' papers, checked email, and began to cook supper. Tonight we had green beans, cauliflower, steamed rice, and stir-fried smoky tofu mixed with bean sprouts, garlic, and ginger. I timed my cooking to be done around sunset, and we broke our fast.
As soon as we finished eating, Taalan and I headed into town for his ping-pong lesson. On the way to the bus stop we walked past a torn-up section of the street. A dozen or so men with slegehammers and breaker bars had been breaking up and removing the heavy concrete pavement for the last several days. They had done about 30 meters during that time. It was too late for the bus, so we took a taxi. I dropped off Taalan at his lesson and continued on to the teahouse/bakery. It was less than a year old, clean, and well-furnished with sturdy wooden tables and chairs. They sold breads, pastries, and delicious cakes, and had a large "dining" area with an upstairs loft. People sat around talking, laughing, and mostly drinking tea. Many were smoking; there is really no escape from cigarette smoke in China, much as in the USA 40 years ago. I ordered some green tea, pulled some paper out of my daypack, and began to write. Every five minutes a waitress came and filled my tea glass again. At 9:00 I packed up and walked the brisk and drizzly mile to the ping-pong training ground.
Ping pong is truly ubiquitous in China. Children bring their paddles to school and play between classes on outdoor concrete tables. Tournaments are held regularly, and players are ranked within the city and schools. For about five months Taalan had been taking two lessons a week in Xiangtan. Our friend Frank had arranged an interview with a coach and had gone with me to a special sports store to pick out a paddle for Taalan. I picked up a popular paddle that I had seen elsewhere; the lady said there was no purpose in coming to her store to buy such a common paddle. We chose a tournament-quality "729"-brand paddle, used by the world women's champion. It was bare wood. We chose the surface to put on it (smooth on both sides, no dimples), and watched as the lady glued it to the paddle with rubber cement. Frank said the surface could be replaced at any time, and that the wood part of his own paddle had lasted him 20 years.
Anyway, the lessons were held in a building reserved for ping pong. The building apparently belongs to a factory that makes tanks (as in army tanks), though I have never seen any. In any case, almost every night of the week the "training ground" is filled with players of all ages. It's humbling to realize that some of the 8-year-olds could easily defeat me in a game. Taalan's coach was very patient as he endlessly volleyed with about five pupils. I see the same faces every time I visit the training ground; these people literally play every night. There is no harm in that; it's a good clean sport and is certainly healthier and more wholesome than watching TV or standing around on the street corner.
I collected Taalan and we caught a late taxi home. He chatted happily with the driver in rapid, fluent Chinese. As we stepped out, we saw a big machine breaking up the street pavement and loading the debris into waiting trucks. It looked like a large scorpion as it stabbed into the concrete. It had broken up more than 50 meters in about 2 hours. Apparently they had decided that sledgehammers and chisels would be too slow. It was one of the few times, in our part of China, that I had seen human labor replaced by machines. This is a sign of progress, I suppose. It was later than 9:30, and still they worked on into the night. I really don't know what kind of life the workers have, other than work. Work goes on every day of the week; it begins early and ends late.
Tariqa was long since asleep, and we bugged Taalan to get to bed as he dawdled. Anne and I did a little reading, said some prayers, and soon followed Taalan to sleep. After all, sunrise would come quickly.
When I went out for bread in the morning, the entire street had been broken up and hauled away. Before, it had been cracked and uneven, and the rain had always settled into large, muddy puddles. Now, for awhile, it would be totally disrupted and inconvenient, but this wouldn't stop the Chinese people from walking, peddling, and driving over it, avoiding the rough spots, and wearing paths of least resistance into the exposed red earth that was mixed with the broken, cobbled fragments of the previous order. Soon it would be covered over with new, smooth concrete. Would the job be done by hand, by the simple labor of the masses, or would they bring in another new machine? In a country continually giving birth to itself, there was no way to know.
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