This is the text of an extended email that we sent out in January.
We’ll be traveling to America during Spring Festival. Our daughter Ami is getting married, so we will spend about a week in Carson City, attending the wedding, visiting old friends, and enjoying the scenery. We won’t miss a chance to spend some winter time in Florida of course, so we’ll visit my mother in Ft. Myers and friends in Palm Beach County. We’ll try to stay available by email. We’ll be in Nevada from about Jan. 16 to Jan. 22 and in Florida from about Jan. 23 to Feb. 14.
Today feels like the first day of spring. It is warm and sunny and air feels fresh after a small shower last night. I took off all my long underwear, and I feel like a new man. Anne immediately assigned me to spring-cleaning duties, to take advantage of that “renewed” feeling.
Our university has a new look. After merging with a smaller college last year, they have embarked on an ambitious program of building and remodeling. Many old buildings have been freshened. Some have been mostly gutted, others have gotten just a facelift. The central area has been given fresh landscaping, with improved streets and sidewalks. Construction for a new library has begun; currently it’s just a huge area of exposed red clay. During the past year several new dormitories have been built. For a little extra money, students can choose to live in the new dormitory, with four students to a room instead of ten. Most of my classes last semester were in a new classroom building. It’s nice to have lights that work and windows that shut properly. The teachers have a new, sunny office.
All around China, the amount of construction is staggering. They still haven’t developed much concept of waste management, though. If anything, the problem is getting worse. Our apartment is near the central collection point for trash. The workers are diligent about sweeping up and collecting all the trash that people toss out. They load it into handcarts and dump it at the small trash building. However, the truck that hauls away the trash doesn’t come often enough to keep up with the supply. The workers have begun dumping it outside the building and burning it. A long pile of garbage is building up only about 30 yards from our building. On a windy day, paper and plastic are scattered everywhere. The smell of burning trash lingers in the air.
So much for that. Here is another “this is China” story. We were all going into town a few weeks ago on a Friday evening. We waited and waited for a bus, but none came. Finally we hailed a taxi. It took us to the outskirts of town, about to where the really bad stretch of road begins, then stopped. The driver said there was an accident and he couldn’t take us any farther. We paid a few yuan and got out. By this time, it was fully dark. We walked along the edge of the road, past a long line of stopped vehicles, mostly cargo trucks. The road surface was a mess, with uneven sections, huge potholes, and mud puddles. The shoulder was worse. We threaded our way around piles of garbage, old construction debris, nearly invisible guywires, abrupt dropoffs, uncovered ditches, and occasional barking dogs. All 4-wheel traffic was totally blocked, but motorcycles darted past us, squirting into every tiny opening between vehicles. The random flashes from their headlamps provided the only light. As I stepped in yet-another hole, I noticed that someone had caught up to us. He was a student from another college, and he seemed eager to try out his English. “Hello, where are you from?” he asked brightly. Through gritted teeth, I said “America,” adding silently to myself, “where there’s a budget for road maintenance.” The student said proudly and graciously, “Welcome to China!”
Some welcome, I thought as we finally reached the end of the traffic jam and flagged down another taxi. Still, it could be worse. I could be one of the truck drivers, or perhaps one of the poor souls injured in the accident. We had money to pay for a taxi when we felt like it, and could leave it all behind any time we chose. Strangely, though, we have not left. It would be like abandoning our post. Pampered as we are, as foreign teachers, still we like to think of this country’s problems as our own. If we’re committed to living here and serving these people, then I need to avoid giving criticism or arrogantly telling others what they should do. I need to smile more, be a trustworthy friend, give help with no expectation, and love the Chinese people. This is one of my New Years resolutions.
OK, here’s one more story. About two weeks ago we went into Xiangtan to have a nice dinner at a well-to-do restaurant. As usual, we arrived just a little later than everyone else, and the place was packed. Someone led us through the main dining room, along a hall, up some stairs, and into a secondary dining room where a clean table awaited us. As we walked, Anne spotted a beautiful plate of broccoli on a cart of food in the hallway. It is very rare for us to see broccoli, and we were a bit tired of the standard vegetables — potatoes, lotus root, etc. — so we placed an order of broccoli. When it came, Anne immediately dug in heartily. Her optimism got the best of her and she presumed that the orange coloring was a sweet-and-sour sauce. Sorry, Anne, this is Hunan. The broccoli had been totally smothered in hot red peppers. We had grown accustomed to hot peppers, of course, but this dish was hot even by Hunan standards. The peppers were so strong that she couldn’t even taste the broccoli. We enjoyed the rest of our food and, out of sheer stinginess, I managed to eat all the broccoli, leaving behind a thick layer of peppers. The room was crowded and noisy, and cigarette smoke filled the air. Just as we were finishing, a young man passed by our table. He stopped and, in moderately passable English, asked us how we had liked our meal. We replied that it was good, except that the broccoli had too many hot peppers. “Oh,” he said. “Hot peppers are good for you. In Hunan we know the best way to cook broccoli.” He said a few more words, but I didn’t really hear them. I was seeing red. With less than total self control, I replied that there was a difference between enough and too much, that we couldn’t even taste the broccoli because of the peppers, and that I had eaten broccoli in many different ways that were better than this. Anne gave me a look to calm me down, and we managed a few polite remarks and a smile as the young man moved on. So much for my New Year’s resolution!
Later she told me that she was glad I hadn’t caught the man’s other remarks. He had said that Chairman Mao had especially liked hot peppers and had said this was the best way to cook everything. Of course, I know that Chairman Mao came from Hunan and liked hot peppers. Unlike many of the people in this town, though, I don’t automatically accept that his ideas are endowed with any special authority, especially in the area of personal tastes. It’s just as well that I didn’t express that opinion in the restaurant. Despite a lifetime of effort, I still haven’t learned to act with wisdom, avoid contention, or show loving kindness at all times. My veneer of self control is dangerously thin and is easily punctured by the simplest of aggravations. In reality, I suppose all of us have the same problem, more or less, but all too often I am reminded of the magnitude of my imperfections.
OK, OK, here’s one about Anne. As I have been typing, Anne was mopping most of the floors in the apartment. The living room had dried, and Anne had confined the children there to watch a movie while she mopped the other floors. We heard the doorbell ring. Anne sprang up to intercept the interloper, but she was too late. We heard the voice of Lo-Ray, the kid from downstairs, and she saw his black footprints all across her still- wet floor, leading into the living room. He hadn’t thought to take off his shoes, nor had our kids bothered to mention it to him. Anne’s eyes bulged and she, too, saw red. “Lo-Ray!!” By the time he appeared, she had calmed down enough to speak kindly. As she came back, she laughed and said, “I can just imagine his mother calling him and this being repeated several times.” Lo-Ray’s family is from the “speak-in-high-decibels” school. They often shout at each other; 6 a.m. or midnight, it makes no difference. Whenever the parents want Lo-Ray, they simply shout at him from wherever they are. Their voices are powerful enough to penetrate several layers of brick and concrete. If they think he is upstairs visiting Taalan, whether he is or not, they shout for him. Wherever he is, indoors or out, he shouts back. We have tried to change this practice when he’s in our apartment, but with no success. Lo-Ray comes to visit, he’s called, he shouts, he leaves; in a few minutes he returns, he’s called again, he shouts, he leaves; it continues. Fortunately, he’s a pretty good kid, it’s a sunny day, and the floors will dry soon.
Wishing you well, that your broccoli is not too spicy, and that your floors dry quickly...
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