A Tianjin Journal

Off the Beaten Track

2008-02-27T12:51:00.001-08:00

Although China is now a major tourist draw, there are still places off the beaten track where a glimpse of a traditional China unspoiled by tourism is possible. Generally, these sites are outside the major east coast cities, in more remote regions of the country. I hoped that the itinerary I planned for my trip out of China would offer some. I was going to start in Beijing, then go south by train to Taiyuan then on to Pingyao and Xian. I would make my last stop in Yunnan, one of the most remote and still undeveloped regions of China.

My journey began with some pleasant surprises. For one it snowed. I got to see the Great Wall and Beijing in snow—an unusual opportunity. But I also found some remnants of China as it has long been in the heart of major tourist attractions. Who would have guessed, for example, that a Buddhist prayer wheel in Beijing’s most famous lamasery, the Yong Hegong, would need to be oiled.

Or that snow on the city walls of Xian must be cleared away with shovels and wheel barrows. (Note the wheel is centered underneath the barrow—a Chinese invention which decreases the energy needed to push or pull a heavy load.)

My first treat, however, came in Xian where I saw a shadow puppet show. Folktales told with the aid of these puppets were once a popular form of entertainment throughout China. The flat donkey skin figures are decorated with bright colors and intricate patterns cut out of the skin. Their hinged arms and legs can be manipulated by a puppeteer who stands behind a rear-lit translucent screen (often a sheet) on which scenery has been painted. The figures’ delicate shadows are then cast upon the screen before which the audience sits or stands.

When I got to Xian (where shadow puppets are thought to have originated), I mentioned my interest to my host who took me to an old house within the ancient walled city. (The 17^th century house itself was fascinating—a gift from a Ming emperor to a scholar who achieved the second highest grade on the imperial examinations at the age of 12!) For a dollar or two, we were treated to a performance of a traditional folk tale in which a young man disguised as a vendor waits outside the home of his bride-to-be. Neither he nor the girl has seen one another; the marriage had been arranged by a matchmaker. Obsessed with curiosity, he hopes to see the girl before the wedding.

The performance began with the clashing sounds of a traditional Chinese melody as the young man carrying two baskets on his shoulders entered from the left. He put down his load and lit his pipe, smoke curling from its bowl. After some time the young woman appeared from the right. They held a lengthy, teasing conversation and then separated, pleased with one another and the prospect of their coming marriage. After the performance we went behind the sheet to meet the puppeteer, a middle aged man with a broad smile.

Below Xian, in Shanxi province, another ancient town has recently been declared a World Heritage Site and will soon be developed into a major tourist attraction. Somehow the 20^th century passed Pingyao by, leaving its old city walls, well-preserved, traditional shop fronts, narrow streets and ancient bank untouched. A few modern hotels have been constructed behind the walls of traditional homes around their courtyards, but much of the city remains poor and free from tourists. I hit the Pingyao after a snowfall on a morning when teenage boys cast long shadows on the street before them as they made their reluctant way to school.

My last stop was Lijiang in Yunnan Province. One of China’s most isolated and picturesque areas, this province is home to a large number of ethnic minorities. Among them is the Naxi, a matrilineal tribal group who are now farmers.

This region was first made famous by Joseph Rock, an Austrian who settled there in the 1920s. Rock conducted ethnographic research, collected rare plant specimens for Harvard, and wrote illustrated articles for the National Geographic. His accounts of lamas and bandits, religious rites and Naxi tribal customs thrilled readers for several decades.

It was snowing my first day in Lijiang and so the day’s plan to visit a mountain meadow had to be cancelled. I mentioned my interest in Joseph Rock to my host, a young Naxi man. He suggested we change our plans and visit the small village where Joseph Rock’s house still stands, a museum of sorts. I quickly agreed and we soon found ourselves bumping over rough village streets surrounded by views of thickly wooded hills.

It took awhile to find the museum’s caretaker. I spent the time exploring the village. Although there were one or two modern homes (one an architect designed retreat for a wealthy Chinese family from Shanghai), most were traditional Naxi dwellings of stone and wood. These structures had withstood an earthquake some years back, unlike the modern Chinese buildings, prompting a renewed appreciation for traditional Naxi architecture in Lijiang. When the caretaker arrived, my Naxi guide Rock and I sat on the porch sipping tea, our feet warmed by a wood burning brazier on the floor.

The next day was clear, cold and very beautiful. We set out for Tiger Leaping Gorge where the Yangtze drives its way from the Himalayas through granite mountains on its way to central China and the sea. The gorge is threatened by plans for another mammoth, Chinese damn for generating electricity. This morning, however, 21^st century China seemed far away as we drove up in the mountains. High above the Yangtze we stopped at a small lamasery where a young monk promised to offer his prayers for whatever I desired. I decided to ask for long life, wealth and happiness—the traditional Chinese wish. This region is thought to have been the inspiration for James Hilton’s fictitious Shangri-la. It’s not hard to believe that it could inspire any fantasy and that was enough for me.

On the Beaten Track

2008-02-27T12:37:00.000-08:00

No visit to China is complete without a trip to the Summer Palace, the Great Wall, the Ming tombs, the Forbidden City and the Terracotta Warriors of Xian. (Of course, there are other famous sites, but these—with the exception of Xian—were within shooting distance of my base in Tianjin.) So donning my tourist persona I set out to visit each of these UNESCO World Heritage Sites before leaving

China

My first was the Summer Palace on the outskirts of Beijing on a lovely fall day—one of the best times of year to visit this playground of the Qing emperors. The site was first used by the Jin emperors in the 12^th century, but it was the Qing Emperor, Qianlong (of the Mountain Retreat in Chengdu fame), who really developed this park-like palace. Its centerpieces are Kunming Hu (Vast Bright Lake) enlarged with conscripted labor by Qianlong and Wan Shou shan (Longevity Mountain) which was created with the soil removed to create the lake.

Qianlong constructed a three storey octagonal Buddhist temple on the mountain side which he named the Tower of the Fragrance of Buddha. To its right on the lake’s northern shore he constructed palaces for himself (and his mother). Surrounding them are numerous small gardens and pavilions with poetic names (The Garden of Harmonious Interest, The Pavilion of Blessed Scenery, The Pavilion for Listening to Orioles), all of which seem more poetic in Chinese than in English!

The palace was heavily damaged by British and French troops in the Second Opium War in 1860. By that time, the notorious Ci Xi had risen to power. Born a member of one of the noble Manchu families, she became a concubine of the Emperor Xianfeng and bore him a son. When the emperor died, she abandoned the Mountain Retreat and rebuilt the Summer Palace (some say with funds intended for the Chinese navy). Here she reigned, a virtual empress, after locking her politically progressive son, the Emperor, in his quarters at the palace. The buildings are filled now with her effects—furniture, porcelains, clothes and calligraphy. I got the impression that today’s Chinese are impressed by her power, but ambivalent about the manner in which she acquired and exercised it.

My next excursion was the Great Wall at Badaling, about 45 miles northwest of Beijing. This is now a major tourist site, overrun with vendors of t-shirts and knickknacks. I visited on a cold and cloudy January day after a snowfall. The wall—much of it reconstructed here for tourists—is impressive as it snakes along the ridges from hill top to hill top. It’s a good workout too, if you walk it as I did, foregoing the chairlift to one of the higher hilltops.

The tour I took to Badaling also included a stop at the Ming tombs, where all but three of the 16 Ming emperors are buried. The Ming chose a scenic valley in which to bury their royalty. The emperors’ tombs were placed under large mounds of earth. Before each is a ‘spirit’ tower visible for miles around. I visited the tomb of the Yongle emperor who died in 1424. Before the tower there is a very large, traditional Chinese hall, notable for its huge cedar columns. On either side are porcelain ovens for burning paper offerings to the dead emperor. (Today’s Chinese continue this practice, burning paper money, cars, houses, washing machines and other offerings to their deceased ancestors.) The grave itself has not been excavated and will not be until the Chinese are confident they have the technology and know-how to preserve the fabrics and other fragile relics within the tomb.

I set out on another cold day to explore the imperial palaces after a recent snowfall. The Forbidden City is a huge complex at what the Chinese historically regarded as the center of the world. (They still refer to their country as Zhong Guo or ‘central country,’ although they no longer view the Forbidden City as its center.) After entering the Meridian Gate, I walked through three vast ceremonial courtyards, each dominated by a pavilion set on a marble terrace. The scale is awe inspiring—just the effect an emperor needs to impress his subjects. (The White House is an ordinary house in comparison—just the thing a ‘presider’ needs to preserve his influence in a democracy. )

After the first three ceremonial courtyards, another three containing the official residences of the emperors follow. I moved through these quickly on my way to a less famous set of buildings to the east. I wanted to find the Juxian dian (Hall for Worshiping Ancestors) which now contains a fine collection of clocks. Although the Chinese invented paper, printing, fireworks and noodles, their best clocks were either sundials or clepsydra. (That’s right clepsydra—never heard of them myself before this.) Clepsydra operate with water which drips evenly from bowl to bowl recording the passage of time. There was a magnificent example within this splendid hall. There were also many fine examples of European clocks collected by the Qing who apparently found them more decorative as well as more reliable.

My final destination was the set of palaces Qianlong constructed in 1722-26 for his retirement. Here he spent the last four years of his life, presumably free of the cares of an emperor, in the Palace of Tranquil Longevity. Most noteworthy are the gardens, a fine example of northern Chinese style. They include a ‘cup-floating stream’ where one was expected to compose a poem as a cup of wine floated by or swallow its contents—a drinking game that is unlikely to prove popular among American students. The small space also includes rockeries, galleries and small pavilions.

No visit to China, of course, would be complete without a visit to the terracotta army of Xian. While I had reservations about seeing it, I thought it best to include a stop there as I worked my way south to Thailand. What excuse could I offer when people asked why I hadn’t seen the terracotta warriors? The army was discovered by a local peasant when digging a well in 1974. (He is still alive and was autographing guide books when I visited.) Since then an additional two pits have been excavated.

The army was buried to defend the tomb of the first Qin emperor who is thought to have unified China, introduced standardized weights and measures and otherwise created a nation out of the feudal states that preceded his often ruthless rule. In addition to the warriors, each with unique facial features, a small bronze chariot thought to have been used to carry the soul of the emperor has also been excavated. The massive display is spectacular. I had to admit it’s a must see.

With Apologies to Tianjin: II

2008-01-22T11:54:00.000-08:00

In recent years, China has developed a renewed pride in its cultural heritage. Tianjin is no exception. Although the old city has been ruthlessly demolished to make way for the new, vestiges of old Tianjin remain and are being lavishly restored in recent years.

The Ancient Culture Street adjacent to the river, just east of the old city, is the most famous Tianjinese effort. The street features shops with traditional facades, a second storey tea house in which Beijing Opera is performed, and, somewhat incongruously, escalators. The complex was constructed by Mayor Li Ruihuan after the earthquake of 1976. Here tourists, and many Chinese, swarm in search of traditional crafts and toys. Ni ren, jade, musical instruments, traditional weapons, calligraphy, tea sets and delicate silk embroideries vie for the visitors’ attention, along with small plastic pouches guaranteed to generate healing warmth, snack foods, and herbal remedies.

The very old Tianhou (Heavenly Empress) temple, much of which was restored after a destructive encounter with Red Guards during the Cultural Revolution, stands within the complex. Between it and the river is another temple site where the restored Yuhuan Pavilion stands, all that remains of a temple once containing eight structures.

To the west of the Ancient Culture Street, across the Dongma lu (east horse road) where the old city wall once stood, are a few surviving structures of the old city. Here a Confucian Temple built in 1436 still stands, but it was under construction and closed whenever I attempted to visit. Near the center of the old city (the monumental drum tower there now is clearly shiny and new) is a fine example of a Chinese guild hall complete with courtyards. Built in 1903 by the Cantonese merchants of Tianjin, it houses a stage where Beijing Opera is now performed. It is the only surviving guildhall where the city’s prosperous out–of-town merchants once gathered to exploit their hometown ties in mutually advantageous business partnerships.

Across the river stands the Buddhist Dabai yuan or Temple of Great Compassion founded in the 1670s. Some of it appears quite old, but it is now undergoing reconstruction (in preparation for Olympic tourists?) and it may soon be difficult to tell what is old from what has been completely rebuilt with new materials and paint. This part of the city also contains a fine Muslim mosque founded in 1703.

Tianjin’s community of architects, however, has devoted most of its attention to the city’s 19^th and 20^th century architecture. As a major treaty port, Tianjin is rich in westernized structures reflecting styles popular half way around the world. There are Romanesque and Gothic churches, Italianate, Spanish Revival and Arts & Crafts dwellings, classical banks and even a deco sports center where the Italian community once indulged in gambling. These buildings are carefully marked with shiny plaques which declare them to be under ‘state protection.’

A recent, important and very successful example of restoration efforts is the Jing Yuan (Garden of Serenity), Pu Yi’s last home in Tianjin. It was here that this last Qing emperor agreed to the Japanese proposal to make him the puppet ruler of Manchukuo or Manchuria. The dwelling has been carefully restored and boasts a good orientation video with English subtitles.

Pu Yi’s Spanish revival villa is located in the old Japanese concession area of Tianjin—one of the city’s poorest neighborhoods. Before its restoration, the house had been split into 10 or so official apartments, each of which had been illegally subdivided into another three or four dwellings—30 to 40 families were living where only one had originally dwelt. Comparable crowding is still visible in the nearby streets. (The Japanese presence in China has been deeply resented; in Tianjin, it was the Japanese who demolished the Qing imperial palace beside the Hai He river.)

The city’s cultural life has also been recently strengthened with several fine museums. The Tianjin Museum is housed in a recent, stunning building intended to resemble a swan. It contains a fine exhibit of the city’s history from prehistoric to contemporary times—with only a few jabs at the foreigners who

occupied the concessions. There is also a sophisticated museum memorializing Zhou en lai who attended a Tianjin high school and later Nankai University, just down the road from Tianjin Normal’s Balitai campus. Zhou is well respected, here as elsewhere, for his formidable diplomatic skills which helped to promote the interests and security of the fledgling People’s Republic of China in the world community.

The city hosts numerous concerts in its several major concert halls. I saw a strange Japanese/Chinese performance featuring an entire orchestra of traditional 2 stringed Chinese ‘violins’ in the People’s Gymnasium, as well as performances of western classics by the London Mozart Philharmonia Society, the Athens Symphony Orchestra, and the Chinese National Symphony Orchestra . I attended, by accident, the opening of a rather sophisticated photography show in a small gallery on Machang Dao, as well as an outdoor concert of traditional Chinese choral music, again by accident. (Getting news of these events was not easy—posters appear only at the last moment—and I suspect, as in other matters, much is informally communicated through networks of acquaintances. )

There is ‘low brow’ culture too. A sports lottery does very well; major soccer, badminton, and tennis tournaments are held in the city’s brand new stadiums. Karoke bars (KTV) are very popular. Here young people get together and rent a small room equipped with electronic equipment and a TV monitor.

There’s a new affluence in this city which is enhancing its cultural life, a process that is likely to be replicated by more Chinese cities as they develop. I saw little of Tianjin’s politics, but many commentators now believe the restrictions on the press are generally more relaxed. Some are optimistic too that efforts to establish a more independent legal system and judiciary will succeed. No one, however, seems to believe a multi-party polity is imminent. Some believe popular pressure to establish more representative forms of government has been diverted by the new pleasures of shopping and the enormous rise in standards of living most Chinese now enjoy.

With Apologies to Tianjin: I

2008-01-22T10:53:00.000-08:00

Tianjin is not included on the major must-see sites of China. The city is big and sprawling, suffers from dust and air pollution, and lacks major historical, cultural or scenic sites. Yet, it provides a window into the future development of China that is perhaps larger than those available elsewhere. It was one of China’s first cities to industrialize—telegraphs, trolleys and telephones all came to Tianjin early. Despite this, it retains a strong, unmistakable Chinese character to its street life. Its affluence and long exposure to other nations promote a rich and cosmopolitan cultural life. In many of these respects, it compares favorably with Beijing and Shanghai, although it lacks the excitement and vibrancy of those cities.

In my first blog, I wrote that Tianjin could be translated as ‘heavenly spit.’ That was unfair. While Chinese characters are always subject to multiple interpretations, the city’s name is generally traced to a legendary ferry (or jin) crossing made by the Ming Emperor, Cheng zu, or Son of Heaven (Tian) in 1403. It was no more than a village then when the Emperor recognized its strategic importance as sea port and a terminal on the Grand Canal. (The Canal brought grain to the north from southern China.) Designated a garrison town after the Emperor’s crossing, Tianjin grew rapidly in the middle of the river delta where the Grand Canal joins the Hai He river. Even today, Tianjin is notable for its many ponds and canals and the silting dust swirling in from the north.

I was struck when I arrived by the obsessive cleaning the staff gave the floors in the apartment building, their spaghetti mops swishing from side to side down the long corridors every morning. I soon began to notice down every street the mops left to dry, hanging over walls or out of windows. Equally remarkable was the frequency with which the streets and sidewalks themselves were swept.

In less than a week, I noticed a fine layer of dust covering the floors of my suite. No sooner did I sweep or mop it up than it reappeared, even when I kept the drafty windows closed. When winter arrived, the fine dirt was joined by a thin layer of coal dust, a product of the city’s many coal-burning stoves. (Coal is pressed into cylindrical cakes which fit neatly within the stoves; vendors pushing wagon-loads down the city’s streets are a familiar sight.)

Tianjin is making a conscientious effort to reduce its energy consumption, especially from carbon fuels, and improve its air quality. When I first arrived, the Balitai campus was limiting the hot water from its coal burning boiler to several hours in the morning and evening. (After the boiler was converted to electricity, we were allowed lukewarm water 24/7—what luxury.) Central heating is not turned on here (or anywhere in China) until November 15^th. Several years ago, gasoline burning motorcycles were banned in Tianjin and now hapless pedestrians must be even more alert as the electric powered vehicles approach them silently from behind. What’s more, energy efficient fluorescent bulbs are used everywhere.

At the same time, windows and doors in heated buildings are left ajar on even the coldest days to bring in fresh air—many Chinese still believe that fresh air prevents winter colds. City buses in need of a tune-up belch exhaust fumes. And cars—many with but one occupant—are crowding out the bicycles in Tianjin. (Last fall, Tianjin participated in ‘no car day,’ but only a handful of streets were closed to automobiles.)

As elsewhere in China, the streets are notable for their abundant life and activity. Girls offer free samples of tea and soft drinks from sidewalk stands, food vendors are found at every bus stop, Muslim men push carts laden with mounds of dried fruits down the streets, illegal markets (in bicycles and who knows what) are found near major intersections (under the watchful eye of the city’s police), bicycle repair men sit at every corner with a bowl of water for testing leaking tires and a greasy box of tools and parts, and men and women peddle their carts through the neighborhoods crying out for used wood, paper, plastic bottles and other recyclables. There are cricket vendors with large clusters of straw cages, sellers of gold fish sit among bowls of their wares, and puppies wait in small cages for someone to give them a home. You can even get a street-side pedicure.

In the parks, people dance at night, boys roller blade, middle aged men gamble in noisy clusters, and old men fly the kites for which Tianjin is famous. In summer, there’s ping pong and Tai ji quan. There’s fishing in every canal and river, and ice skating and a peculiar form of ‘ice chairing’ in winter. Boards of

Chinese chess are set up wherever there’s a flat surface and two places to sit. And older men can be found in many neighborhoods with their birds, some of which are trained to retrieve seed flung high

into the air above them. Men practice calligraphy with large brushes on the sidewalks. And groups of young people play a kind of badminton in which a brightly feathered shuttle is kept aloft with skillful kicks. Even mourning is a public affair; white suited family can be viewed sitting outside the home of the departed dwarfed by enormous floral displays.

The sidewalks are crowded, not only with pedestrians, but with parked bicycles, motorcycles and automobiles—only a few stores have parking lots or garages as yet. These areas are marked with string

and carefully guarded by the woman or man whose concession—and livelihood—they are. And everywhere there are signs of construction, some of it still labor intensive.

It is a restless city and one which is changing rapidly. I suspect much of the street life will disappear within the next decade or so. Already the Tianjanese report that the food vendors are disappearing, going the way of the ni ren makers and other street craftsmen who are largely a memory now. As more air conditioned, generously sized apartments are constructed, the need to escape into the streets will diminish and privacy—historically suspect in China—will become affordable and normal. A generation raised on television, DVDs and the internet, moreover, are likely to forego public, social recreation as they grow older.

The Back Lake of Beijing

2008-01-15T11:20:00.000-08:00

When I asked Hong Miao of the Marywood Library to recommend places to visit in Beijing, she suggested a day at Hou hai lake. (Miao, who helped arrange my sabbatical here, grew up in Tianjin where she attended Tianjin Normal.) So I decided to make my first trip to Beijing a visit to the ‘back’ lake.

Many Tianjinese commute to work in Beijing, exploiting the capital’s higher pay and Tianjin’s lower cost of living. The trip by train, I thought, must be quick and easy. No such luck. First, I had to catch a bus to get to the temporary train station on the opposite side of Tianjin. This takes nearly an hour. To be certain of a ticket on the D536, I had to get to the station at least 30 minutes before departure. Then the train ride itself was another hour. All told, it would take almost 3 hours. I got up early.

The bus to the station was crowded—they always are. This Saturday morning it was filled with college students on their way to a qualifying examination for jobs as immigration officers. These jobs pay well and their job security is high—my students regard them as highly desirable, ‘solid’ jobs. The station was also crowded. But I had no problem getting tickets and I was soon seated on the sleek, new express train linking the two cities. I looked around before boarding hoping to see one of the steam locomotives I had known when I was in China in 1984. Some of the green passenger cars with cream trim were still in evidence, but the coal burning steam locomotives I loved have all been retired.

The Beijing station was even more crowded. China has a large migrant labor force who stream in from the countryside in search of better paying, unskilled jobs—some estimate there are as many as 130 million of them. They were much in evidence this morning, shouldering the potato sacks they use for luggage. Despite discrimination by urban dwellers and exploitation by employers, they continue to flock to China’s cities where they are often housed in temporary metal shelters on or near construction sites.

I had as my guide a student from another university with the improbable English name of Putin. (Students get English names when they begin studying the language in grade school. Some are rough translations of the names their parents gave them, some are intended to resemble the sound of their Chinese name, some I suspect are a teacher’s revenge, and many were probably selected on a whim by the student. The result is an amazing mélange; I taught Clover, Eleven, Shadow, Orange, Apple, Winter, Season, Rainforest, Mercury, Smile, a boy named Rose, and a girl named Bob, as well as many, many more with conventional names such as Mary, Kevin, Wendy, Tracy, and so on.) However Putin acquired his name, he determined that I should see one of Beijing’s major shopping streets, Wangfujing. We set off on foot from the railway station down sunny boulevards, arriving 45 minutes later. Putin was clearly disappointed when I turned down his suggestion that we shop in its major department store.

I soon realized that, although a native of Beijing, Putin was uncertain how to get around. He had overshot Wangfujing by five or more blocks, seemed unfamiliar with Beijing’s subway system, and uncertain of its bus routes. In this he appears to be fairly typical of his generation of Chinese college students. They know a limited number of routes to sites they visit regularly. Beyond that they are often more helpless than a Weiguoren with a map. After walking for almost another hour we grabbed a cab and were soon at the southern end of Hou hai, one of a chain of four lakes northeast of the Forbidden City.

All four lakes lie within the area once enclosed by the city walls. Beijing’s drum and bell towers still stand to the east of them. Once an important feature of all Chinese cities (and of Buddhist temples too), the drum in its tower would mark the passage of time (in two hour units) and the bell the closing of the city’s gates at night. (Beijing’s city walls, sadly, were torn down in the 1950s.)

The lakes have been a favorite residential area for the city’s elite for over 200 years. The last emperor, Pu Yi, is said to have been born in a mansion near Hou Hai. Sun Yat Sun’s widow, Song Quingling, an early supporter of the Chinese Communist Party, later built her home on the site of that mansion. Prince Gong’s nearby home is thought to have been the model for the mansion made famous in The Dream of the Red Chamber, the 18^th century classic Chinese novel. (Just to the south lies Bei Hai where many of the Party’s leaders now reside.) The view from the lake shore was indeed lovely; I could see why the area had been popular for so long.

Putin and I set off along the shore to one of Beijing’s old hutong neighborhoods. There was no mistaking the area; as we approached, we were beset by pedicab drivers clammering to take us on a hutong tour. These traditional city neighborhoods are laid out in grids. The doorways of the enclosed courtyards typically face south, as feng shui requires to protect the homes from the evil forces emanating from the north. As a result, one can easily orient oneself—although Putin still seemed somewhat uncertain of his whereabouts. (Beijing natives say when very happy, ‘I was so full of joy, I didn’t know which way was north!’) These often modest homes are being torn down at a rapid rate, now accelerated in preparation for the 2008 Olympics. Perhaps for this reason, they have become fashionable with foreigners and the city’s emerging middle class, despite their often primitive facilities. The ones we saw were among the poorest. Public restroom lined the alleys—evidently there were no bathrooms—and the courtyards we glimpsed through the doors were small and shabby.

Emerging from the hutongs, we walked down a crooked street of shops. On a corner I spotted a ‘sugar man’ surrounded by onlookers, shaping caramelized sugar into animals on sticks. This street art, known as tanghua or sugar painting, is fast disappearing. There are only a handful of sugar men left in Tianjin and not many more in Beijing. At the beginning of the last century Chinese streets were full of such craftsmen. (Tianjin was especially known for its makers of ni ren or mud men, craftsmen who would fashion from clay in a bucket at their feet whatever human figure buyers requested.)

By the time we returned to the lake it was already dusk. Strings of lights outlined the roofs of the restaurants and shops along the shore. Candles shone of the tables beside the lake. The entire scene was reflected in the water. People were strolling along the streets, stopping for snacks in the comfortable sofas arranged outside the restaurants.

Mindful of the time it would take to return to Tianjin, we got to the station 30 minutes before the train’s departure. There was a large crowd waiting for the doors to the platform to open. As soon as they did, my well-mannered fellow passengers began to crowd toward the single open door. I was soon crushed, wondering what could be the rush when the seats were already reserved—arriving early in one’s car would confer no advantage. I was reminded again that, when in motion, the good manners and deference of the Chinese are abandoned with a vengenance.

China—Through a Classroom Window

2008-01-10T14:37:00.000-08:00

One of the nice things about teaching abroad is the opportunities it provides to explore a country more fully than any tourist can. While I have had very little contact with my Chinese colleagues—one of the disappointments of this trip—I have gotten to know my students as a group fairly well and some of them as individuals much better.

Initially, I compared my Chinese students with American students. I soon noticed the many similarities. They are worried about paying for their college education and about getting a job after graduation. Many are shy and reluctant to speak in class—at least at first. And many complete an assignment in the quickest and easiest way possible. (I saw little evidence of the ‘super’ student for which the Chinese are so famous.) Clothes are important, especially among the women. Hair styles change too (making it even more difficult for me to link Chinese names to the corresponding faces). Campus food is universally disliked and the internet widely appreciated (especially for help getting assignments completed quickly). There is also a strong interest in popular culture—Chinese and American (‘Jingle Bells’ in Chinese is a trip).

There were important differences too. When listening to fellow students they easily become bored. Nothing very different about that, except that they then begin conversations with their classmates. A boring presentation is soon drowned out by the drone of low voices around the room. (I have developed real admiration for the presence with which unfortunate presenters soldier on when faced with such disregard.) Toward me they are respectful and solicitous—much more so than American students. More than anything else, however, I am impressed by their consistent cheerfulness and their willingness to look on the bright side of any problem, no matter how much it may trouble them personally.

As I got to know some of them better, I began to catch glimpses of modern Chinese history and social problems. Several of the ten or so I got to know well are the children of parents who had been unable to attend college because they were sent to the countryside to work alongside the peasants during the Cultural Revolution. Many had brothers and sisters, although they were born in the late 1980s well after the one family one child policy was in place. (This is perhaps more often true of those from the more remote provinces than those from Tianjin.) One is the son of a peasant farmer who gladly left his impoverished Heilongjiang village to work in the great oil fields of Daqing. Another lost two aunts as children in the 1950s when the famines during the ‘Great Leap Forward’ began. And another told me of a grandfather whose life was disrupted by the Japanese occupation of Hebei province (just above Tianjin) during the 1930s and ‘40s. All of these family stories were recounted as matters of fact—seemingly without anger or bitterness or even wonder.

Discussions of how they came to attend Tianjin Normal University, however, were frequently edged with regret or disappointment. High school students in China work very hard (unlike American students, need I say). Many described days in which they rose at 6:00 am, attended classes for eight hours during the school day and then went to review sessions in the late afternoon. Evenings were spent on the books until around midnight, when they tumbled into bed, presumably bleary eyed. Work continued into the weekend, when examinations were often held.

The finale came in June when the two day college entrance exam or Gaokao is held. Last year almost 10 million high school students sat for these exams to compete for 5½ million college places. My students, needless to say, were part of the fortunate half who got into one of China’s 1,400 universities. (By way of contrast, there are about 2,300 American bachelor degree-granting institutions which accept far more than half of those who wish to attend college.) The pressures are intense, and depression and suicide are predictable side effects.

My students were not troubled by the exam, but rather by the process which assigns them to a university afterward. The higher one’s score, the better the university one can attend. So far, so good. However, there are different minimal scores in different provinces. So a student in Tianjin (where the minimum is low) can attend a university which at the same time denies admission to a student with a higher score from Hunan (where the minimum is high). Moreover, students must list their first, second and third choice of universities before they know their results. If their scores are too low to attend any of the institutions they named, they can either return to high school for another year or be assigned to another university which has not yet filled its freshman class. Once accepted, they may or may not be allowed to major in the program they want. Frequent complaints that one would rather be in a more famous university and/or in a different major is the predictable outcome. (When I introduced UCLA data on American student satisfaction with their college and major, my TJNU students were shocked and envious.)

My students clearly spend more time studying in college than American students. I got the impression, however, they don’t have many alternatives. Extracurricular life in Chinese universities is improving, but it is still remarkably undeveloped. I saw little evidence of team sports; most students were instead involved in campus clubs related to their major.

The clubs typically hold competitions in their subject matter. I was interviewed on camera by the Radio & TV club, attended singing competitions offered by music majors, and judged several speech competitions offered by the English club (which I have been serving as advisor). Remarkably good student talent shows—some with ribald skits and all with sentimental songs—are also common.

I was struck also by the absence of political discussions. There is a mandatory class in political philosophy, but I saw no evidence of its influence one way or the other. There is, however, considerable pride in the economic progress China has made and the greatly improved transportation, housing, entertainment and shopping it affords—they love to shop. They are part of a new China, it seems, with a higher standard of living and a justifiable pride in being Chinese. They told me again and again that they admire the United States for the same reasons and hope that Americans will come to know and admire the new China.

The Emperors’ Mountain Retreat: II

2007-11-28T13:00:00.000-08:00

Kangxi was actually only the second Qing emperor to rule China. As a Manchu, he needed to win the loyalty of the Han Chinese, especially those who had supported the Ming dynasty the Qing had deposed. The Mountain Retreat was thoughtfully designed to achieve that end. The arrangements of the emperor’s quarters and the names selected for its structures were traditionally Chinese (the conviction that ‘sincerity’ would create a ‘tranquil heart’ is classically Confucian). And the gardens, as already noted, had been created to incorporate pavilions and geographical features from around China. Moreover, Chinese (as well as Mongol, Uighur and Tibetan) in addition to the Qing’s native Manchu, was used on inscriptions above doorways and on stele in courtyards, acknowledging the multiple languages in use in the empire.

The most stunning evidence of the Qing efforts to unite a diverse people are found in the 8 surviving temples surrounding the Mountain Retreat and the city of Chengde. Notable in this regard is the Putouzongcheng miao or temple of the Potala or Putuo Sect which was built to resemble the Potala Palace of the Dali Lamas in Lhasa, Tibet. It was constructed by the Emperor Qianlong as an appropriate site where his Tibetan Buddhist subjects could pay their respects to him on his 60^th birthday and one year later to his mother, the Dowager Empress, on her 80^th.

The temple complex is found on the side of a steep hill. At the bottom is a stout pavilion containing a stele recording the reasons for the temple’s construction (in five languages). Throughout the grounds are mock structures with false doors and windows designed to provide a suitable ‘stage setting’ for the main buildings. At the top is the replica of the Potola Palace which looms high above as one climbs the hillside. Some visitors take advantage of the sedan chairs for rent and are carried up the hill and the steep flights of stairs without any effort on their part. The rest of us labor up the slope under our own power.

At the top of a long flight of steps is a large terrace where four poles stand. Here the faithful can hang prayer flags purchased from vendors on the terrace. Climbing yet higher, there’s a courtyard within the palace where, during my visit, a young Tibetan with microphone was singing folks songs to a small audience. On the same level, within another courtyard, is a three story temple. After climbing yet more stairs, you emerge onto a terrace high above the city with fine views of the surrounding mountains. Here there is a yet another temple, this one containing a figure of Guanyin.

Impressive as is the Putouzongcheng miao, I was much more taken with the Temple of Universal Peace or Puning Si. Perhaps I liked it more because this temple is once again an active lamasery. As such it attracts many devout Buddhists, as well as tourists like myself.

Like the little Potala palace, this temple is modeled after another Tibetan Buddhist site, the Samye Monastery in Tibet. Like it, it contains many mock buildings. And, like the little Potala palace, it was built by Emperor Qianlong to (re)gain the good will of some of his Tibetan Buddhist subjects, in this case Mongolians whose rebellion he had recently put down. (Force as well as diplomacy was used by the Qing to create their empire.)

One enters the Puning Si through a gate located on a Chengde city street. Within is a courtyard with bell and drum towers and a pavilion containing a stele in Qianlong’s own words describing the construction of this temple (again in the five languages of the empire). In the center of the next courtyard is a large metal container filled with sand into which the devout place incense sticks whose smoke will help to carry their prayers aloft. Beyond it is the Precious Hall of the Great Hero (a reference to the Buddha’s ability to overcome demons) in traditional Chinese temple style.

Here young lamas are at prayer.

Farther up the sloping hill is the main temple building, the five-story Mahayana Hall. On the steps outside eight musicians performed in exchange for contributions from those who came to pay their respects.

Within is an awesome wooden statue of Guanyin, the Buddhist goddess of mercy (often likened to the Virgin Mary). Stretching four stories above the viewer, the statue is the largest sculpture of its kind in the world. The goddess is represented with 48 arms each with an eye in its palm. Below her clasped hands are another pair holding a dorje and a bell—a traditional Tibetan feature.

It is possible to climb a set of stairs within the hall to view the statue ‘eye to eye,’ so to speak. But I decided I preferred to view her from below where she towered above me. Instead, I went back outside and climbed a flight of stairs up the hillside to a terrace behind the Mahayana Hall. Here couples can purchase a lock and have it inscribed with their names. The locks are then hung from a chain where they weather providing rusty testimony to the couple’s shining and eternal love. Yet higher was a rockery with a small pavilion and a stunning view of the city below.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2007-11-20T19:36:00.000-08:00

We’re going to celebrate Thanksgiving with some other foreign teachers. Got a turkey from Beijing (a very small bird with a very large price). We’ll have pumpkin soup (pie’s alittle too complex), baked and mashed potatoes, cranberry jelly, carrots, and cake for dessert. Despite the ingredients, I imagine it’s going to come out rather Chinese!

The Emperors’ Mountain Retreat: I

2007-11-20T12:05:00.001-08:00

On October 1, 1949 Mao Tse Dung proclaimed the creation of the People’s Republic of China from the Gate of Heavenly Peace in Tiananmen Square. Mao and his once puny communist party had succeeded in ending a century of political chaos. The last emperor, Puyi, had abdicated in 1912 as a boy of 5 when efforts to establish a constitutional monarchy failed. Long before then, however, China had been racked by foreign wars and internal rebellions. The fall of the Qing Emperor Puyi, however, did not bring stability; it took another 40 years before the Chinese Communist Party was able to do that. And so, the Chinese celebrate the founding of the People’s Republic with a two day national holiday every October. University students (and faculty too), I discovered, get a full week’s holiday!

I decided to use the long break to visit Chengde in the mountains to the northeast where the Qing emperors had established a summer retreat for themselves. Most people assume that the emperors of China were Chinese. Not so. The last ruling dynasty was actually from Manchuria on the other side of the Great Wall. A summer place in Chengdu appealed to them because it was close to the grasslands in the north where the Manchu had their tribal roots. (It was also cool there, unlike Beijing where the summer heat is often unbearable.)

I had imagined that Chengde would be a small, picturesque town ringed by impressive Chinese mountains. Well, I got part of it right. It was set in mountains just like those portrayed in classical Chinese paintings. But small it was not. Chengdu is now a city of over 3 million people. (That shouldn’t have been a surprise, there are 1.3 billion people in China today and they have to live somewhere.) Despite its size, however, it is still visually dominated by the Qing emperors’ resort, now a World Heritage Site. Against a west hill is the resort itself, an impressive 3 ½ square mile area enclosed by a wall which stretches up and above the city, dominating the skyline. Surrounding the city are 8 colorful temples (once 11), most now restored and again visible on its hillsides.

The resort was begun in 1703 by the Emperor Kangxi and completed 87 years later by his grandson, the Emperor Qianlong. Both were remarkable men. Each had long and successful reigns in which China knew prosperity and peace. Each worked to unite China’s disparate lands and ethnic groups into one people, in one empire. Together they successfully incorporated Manchuria, Inner Mongolia, Tibet, Taiwan, and the northwestern region of Xinjiang, and together they unified the culturally diverse peoples over whom they now ruled. One can understand why the present regime admires their accomplishments and has chosen to restore Kangxi’s and Qianlong’s long-abandoned summer resort.

To enter the retreat, one goes through the rather ordinary, but ambitiously named, Gate of Beauty and Uprightness. Today you can use any of the three entrances; originally, only the emperor and his immediate family used the center passage. Beyond the first gate is a second, followed by a small courtyard leading to another gate (this one named the Gate of the Mountain Village Where You Can Escape the Heat) and a large courtyard. Here the emperor would sit on soft cushions and watch archery contests or receive dignitaries from around the empire. Beyond that courtyard is another (the Courtyard of the Tranquil Heart and Honor to Sincerity) with 42 pine trees. Facing it is a deceptively simple, almost rustic, seven bay hall constructed of cedar transported from western China and set on a low stone pediment. It was here that the emperors held formal receptions.

Within the hall is an imperial throne under a coffered ceiling. On either side are incense burners of cloisonné, storks (symbolizing longevity) and behind the throne peacock feather fans. The carpets and cushions are the imperial yellow only the emperor could use. All this testifying to the power and majesty of the Qing.

In a second courtyard beyond, is the Hall of Refreshing Mists and Waves containing the living quarters of the emperor. It was here that the unfortunate Emperor Xianfeng signed the Treaty of Beijing, ceding yet another defeat to the West, and it was here that he died in 1861. That was enough for his widow, the Dowager Empress Ci Xi ,who summered thereafter in the Summer Palace she restored in a northwest suburb of Beijing.

Beyond the emperor’s compound lies a landscaped garden. It was carefully fashioned to create a picturesque lake, steep hills, and a large grassy plain where tame deer wander freely. Throughout are pavilions where the emperor and his guests could admire a view, converse, paint, listen to music or read. Barge-like boats moved Qing aristocrats leisurely from shore to shore.

Among the more interesting structures, is the Pavilion of Literary Delights (what a great name for a library) built to contain Qianlong’s immense Si ku quan shu, a complete anthology of all the classics, philosophy, history and literature of China (all, that is, that met with the Emperor’s approval).

Each area contains references to regions of the empire. There’s a pagoda from Hangzhou in the south, the lake is modeled after the West Lake, also in Hangzhou, and the hills and grassy plain are intended to evoke Qing memories of Manchuria.

It is easy to understand how even powerful emperors would find release and relief in such a setting. Here are Kangxi’s own words describing the delight he felt there:

It is when one is beyond the Great Wall that the air and soil refresh the spirit; … the mountains are densely packed with woods ‘green and thick as standing corn.’ As one moves further north the views open up…instead of feeling hemmed in, there is a sense of freedom….

Before leaving, my tour included a trip north into inner Mongolia. Despite my better judgment I mounted a horse (some would say, pony) and set out onto the grasslands where Kangxi and has court had gone to hunt and compete with one another in archery and horsemanship. The vast expanse of steppe was exhilarating. Kiangxi was right; there was an undeniable sense of freedom!

Peter Gets Married

2007-11-15T11:16:00.000-08:00

Peter is the young faculty member who has been given the responsibility of working with me and the other foreign teachers in the English department. Shortly after we met, he invited me to his wedding, along with my fellow foreign teachers, Barbara Burton, Tom Olala and Jim and Kay Tichenor. I was a little hesitant to accept his offer; after all, I’d only met him two weeks before. ‘Come’ he said. ‘Weddings are a most happy event and the more people, the more joy.’ (I also later learned that the Chinese still reckon the relative important of the bride’s and groom’s families by the number of guests each brings to the wedding.)

Unfortunately, I had not packed a suit, nor did I think a Marywood t-shirt would make it as a wedding present (especially because the t-shirts I brought were white, the color of funerals and death). I was quickly reassured by Kay that the guests would dress informally, and a gift of 100 Yuan in a red envelope was all I need provide.

So, about 4:30 pm on Saturday, September 15^th—a most auspicious day—I found myself at a restaurant in the nearby Nankai district of Tianjin. Picking a date is still important in China, and many weddings, as was true of Peter’s, take place near the Harvest Festival in early Fall when the moon is full. The pillars on the restaurant displayed the ‘double happiness’ symbol, virtually always on view at weddings. (There are several explanations of the origins of this symbol, at least one of which involves a diligent scholar who married a village girl—diligent scholars are popular heroes in traditional Chinese culture—as they should be.) Beside the door was an enormous photograph of the bride and groom in their Western wedding clothes taken several months before. A heart shaped string of firecrackers had been laid out on the ground before the front steps. Shortly after we arrived, they were set off to a deafening roar. No demons, we could be assured, would survive such noise.

The bride arrived next in a cavalcade of red cars. Red traditionally represents good luck and is still very common at weddings. (Earlier I had noticed that women guests were provided with a red barrette to put in their hair.)

Peter went to greet his bride, only to be forced by laughing friends to bow deeply to her three times before carrying her into the restaurant. The guests followed and were seated on the left, if members of the groom’s party, and on the right, if the bride’s.

Seemed to me that Peter had done well; the left side was very full. Next restaurant waiters brought candy, several types of seeds, and peanuts (representing the birth of boys and girls). While I struggled to crack sunflower seeds between my teeth, the guests milled about. Various people posed with the bride—her mother-in-law

(once an object of terror to Chinese brides whose household they would soon join), Peter’s foreign colleagues, and young bachelors who believe proximity to the bride will bring them success in their search for brides of their own.

Apparently, we were waiting for the ‘Master of Ceremonies.’ These are often TV or entertainment personalities—the more famous the better. Once he arrived, the bride and groom with ‘bridesmaid’ and ‘best man’ walked up the aisle to stand before him.

The actual marriage had already taken place in a government office when the couple filed their marriage papers with a clerk. The ceremony we were attending would include the exchange of vows, complimentary speeches from family, friends and supervisors and much kidding of the couple. Personal, embarrassing questions are the order of the day—‘when did you first kiss?’ generally produces some titters in the audience and a blush from the young couple. In Peter’s case, a vestige of the traditional tea ceremony was also included as the bride served tea to her parents-in-law.

But the most important part of this celebration was to be the wedding feast. This is traditionally paid for by the groom’s family. It is an important occasion on which they repay their friends and kin for their kindness in the past, and celebrate their son’s future happiness. Many Chinese parents of couples marrying today had to forgo any celebration when they married during the reactionary times of the Cultural Revolution or risk being denounced as counter-revolutionaries. Now they can make up for their hardship with an elaborate celebration for their son and daughter-in-law. (Earlier I had noticed on the restaurant wall a now ironic photograph of Chairman Mao greeting a worker in this restaurant years before—giving the restaurant some continuing prestige in Tianjin.)

While we were assembling in private dining rooms on the second floor, the bride was changing into a second dress (she would later don a third in which she would say farewell to the guests at the end of the meal). We were seated with the Chairman of the English Department and a Chinese member of the departmental faculty. I soon lost track of the number of dishes. They came one after another, in rapid succession. Traditionally, there should be 8 or 12, but I think we had more, perhaps 16.

Duck is commonly served, because ducks mate for life, and indeed we had a fine duck dish. But there was also fried soft-shelled crab, very tender squid, baked fish, pork, jellied meat, corn, deep fried hot peppers with sesame seeds, steamed bread filled with noodles, and, at the end of the meal, soup and fruit. Before we were through, the bride appeared and served 7-Up to each of the guests. (7-Up it turns out is thought to be a lucky drink, because the ‘uh’ in ‘up’ sounds like the Chinese word for luck.) She was now dressed in a more traditional Chinese dress, but not the Qin pao her mother-in-law was wearing. Before leaving, we thanked Peter’s father for his hospitality.

I left well fed and impressed by the remarkable adaptability of Chinese culture. Very old elements of traditional Chinese weddings had been combined with Mao’s secular socialism, and then overlaid with a veneer of popular western wedding traditions—and it all seemed to work.

Tianjin Normal University

2007-10-31T10:37:00.000-07:00

Tianjin Normal University (TJNU) is remarkably similar in many respects to Marywood.

Both were founded as teacher’s colleges; both enroll many more women than men; both tend to serve first generation college students; and both are now comprehensive universities with many undergraduate and graduate programs besides education. TJNU is younger than Marywood, it was only founded in 1958. It is also much larger; it enrolls nearly three times as many students. And, I had been told, it had just opened a brand new campus.

I had already explored the old campus in the Balitai neighborhood. I liked its older buildings, they reminded me of other universities I had visited in China. I also liked the neighborhood. It was full of good restaurants, close to two of Tianjin’s best universities (Nankai and Tianjin), and near many of Tianjin’s major attractions. But I wanted to see the new campus where I would be teaching.

So on my first Sunday morning, I boarded the Number 8 bus and headed west to Tianjin’s outskirts where the city is establishing a new university district. I had been invited to attend an English department meeting where I presumed I would be ‘oriented’ and given what I needed to begin teaching the following day.

After a 20 minute ride, I arrived in a large parking lot filled with buses from all over the city. The campus was striking. But I wasn’t sure I liked it. The buildings are gray, angular, very modern, and somewhat severe.

They lack the warmth of the brick buildings on the old, Balitai campus. The campus also lacks the trees. Sure there are trees, but they are young, recently planted and barely leafed out. (I would later learn the students had nicknamed their new home, the ‘stick campus.’)

Peter was supposed to meet me at the yard where the bus had stopped. He is the young English Department faculty member who has been assigned to work with the foreign teachers, including me. After waiting 30 minutes, I decided I would have to find the College of Foreign Languages myself. At the first building, that of the College of Chinese Language and Literature, I met a young woman who took me over to the Foreign Language building where the meeting was to be.

On the way, we passed through a large circle, not unlike Marywood’s Commons, where a large, impressive fountain plays in different patterns on different days.

I was soon directed to the English department’s office and introduced to Gloria. Gloria runs the office, speaks excellent English and appears to be indispensable to everyone. I rapidly learned that the best way to get information or supplies was to ‘ask Gloria.’ Sure enough, Gloria supplied me with my class rosters and teaching schedule. I had been asking for both since I arrived the week before. No one, including Peter, had seemed able to help. It turns out that who teaches what and when is all worked out in the last days before the semester begins! It’s almost enough to make one appreciate Marywood’s registration procedures.

Students within a major are assigned to blocks of courses determined by their year at the university (first, second, third or fourth) and their section. Section membership tends to be the same for all four years, so you take the same classes with the same students for most of your four year career. There are few or no electives for undergraduates and few courses outside the major, those there are tend to be mandated (military training and Chinese political thought for two).

I was assigned to teach ‘oral English’ to six sections of second year English majors. I also had a graduate class of students in English Language and Literature and in Linguistics to whom I would be teaching ‘American Cultural Studies.’ For some reason, the graduate class was scheduled to begin four weeks after the undergraduate classes began. Each of my classes would meet for 1½ hours, once a week. I was assigned three classes on Monday and four on Tuesdays—and that was it. The rest of the week was mine to do with as I pleased.

As I was getting all this information from Gloria, Peter showed up. It was Peter who had invited me to the meeting. He apologized for not greeting me at the parking lot—the time of the department meeting had been changed; hadn’t anyone told me? And there was really no point for me to attend the meeting—it would be held in Chinese afterall. He showed me the office I would share with him and another foreign teacher and gave me a key to the door. That was my orientation!

As I rode back to the Balitai campus on the Number 8 bus, I reflected on my introduction to academic life at Tianjin Normal.

There seemed to be a heavy reliance on informal channels of communication. (Hadn’t someone told me the time had been changed?) Formal orientations weren’t really necessary. Most people already know the routines. When there is something new, someone they know will fill them in. Complete strangers like myself are very rare. Moreover, the department meeting, I later learned, wasn’t used to disseminate information. Instead, it was devoted to greetings and exhortations to achieve official goals (a little like Marywood’s faculty meetings). Such a meeting wouldn’t have meant much to me, even if I did understand Chinese. And, given the ad hoc , last minute manner in which schedules were put together, formal channels of communication would probably prove too slow and cumbersome to keep people informed.

It was also clear that neither students nor faculty had much choice in the courses they would take or teach. This was still a highly centralized system, despite the presence of a strong reform movement in Chinese higher education. Many Chinese faculty have now been educated in American graduate schools where they were influenced by many of the ideals of American education. As a consequence, more emphasis is now being placed at many Chinese universities on student choice of electives within a broad undergraduate curriculum. Evidently, these reforms have had little impact on Tianjin Normal as yet. Their proponents (at TJNU and elsewhere) hope they will reduce rote learning and foster greater intellectual flexibility and creativity. After more than 30 years experience with American higher education, I can’t help but wonder whether adopting American educational patterns is a very good idea!

Survival Skills

2007-10-25T09:45:00.000-07:00

I had promised myself that I would work on my Chinese while I was here. I bought a text and a CD for aural work thinking that I would have the time and the incentive to develop some rudimentary, everyday Chinese. So far, however, they lie on my desk where I put them when I first arrived.

I tell myself that learning Chinese is too difficult, that I am not good at languages, and that I am too busy at the moment. More importantly, I am able to get by with only a few phrases. Here’s how I do it.

First, most Chinese will greet you with Ni Hao (you good?). To which I respond when I’m alert with Wo hen hao. Ni hao ma (I very good. You good too?) or more simply, Ni Hao. Some Chinese will also simply say Hello, but that tends to be young men on the street who are familiar with this single English word and want to try it out with a waiguoren (outside country person). Another important phrase is Xie Xie (thank you). The Chinese don’t use it as frequently as we do, but I find it helps and use it whenever I want to thank someone. They are likely to respond, Bu Xie (not at all). Duei bu si (I’m sorry) is also a very useful phrase. You will also quickly learn the word, Mao (none or not possible) as someone tries to explain in Chinese that they cannot do something for you. It is also important to be able to count in Chinese. Their system is very simple, but you do have to memorize the words and their tones.

The tones are one of the things that make Chinese so difficult to learn. One word can have four or more meanings, depending on the ‘tone’ with which it is spoken. So Ma can mean mother, or to scold, or horse, or linen and, when placed at the end of the sentence, that you are asking a question. In Mandarin there are only four tones: a high even tone, a rising tone, a tone that first descends and then rises and a descending tone (and sometimes, as in the case of ma, there’s a fifth neutral tone as well). Cantonese has 7 or 8 tones. The result is that a Mandarin speaker may not be able to understand someone who speaks Cantonese and vice versa. When two Chinese speakers cannot understand one another they will sometimes write down the characters; these are the same and so people from different parts of China can understand one another this way. You will occasionally find that someone who realizes you don’t understand their oral Chinese will start writing down the characters—which certainly doesn’t help someone like me a bit.

Second, get to know people who do speak Chinese. I am fortunate to have several veteran English speaking teachers here at Tianjin Normal. I will also soon have students who will be happy to act as interpreters in return for the opportunity to practice their English. When you anticipate trouble communicating, bring a ‘translator’ along.

Third, eat in restaurants where they display the food or have pictures of it or chose a cafeteria. You can then select what you want without knowing what the dish is called in Chinese.

Sometimes this results in a surprise—either pleasant or unpleasant. The dark drink I selected in a Taiwanese restaurant turned out to be plum juice—a nice surprise. Sometimes you can find a menu in Chinese and English. If you can’t find a restaurant with English translations, bring your phrase book or memorize in advance the basic name of the dish you would like. Ju rou is pork, nyou rou is beef, ji rou Is chicken and fan is rice. And most important of all Pi jou is beer!

(Don’t be surprised if the waitress brings you a warm bottle of beer—most Chinese beers are better drunk warm. The exceptions are beers that have been influenced by the German tradition of beer making—Tsingtao and Tianjin beers, for example, should be drunk cold and will be served that way.)

Fourth, if you are in a city, get a good map in English and Pin Yin and get your bearings as soon as you can. Walk around your neighborhood and then take longer walks. When you travel by bus or taxi, try to keep track of the route and memorize major landmarks. Have a Chinese friend write down your address in Chinese characters and memorize it in Pin Yin. If you are lost, show the map to someone and they may be able to point you in the right direction. (You may also find that a cluster of smiling and nodding people will gather around you each one of whom helpfully points you in a different direction.) If you are trying to get home, hail a cab and show your address to the cabbie. (Most cabdrivers in China are honest, but you do have to be careful around train stations and other places where tourists are common.) Be prepared to find that your cab driver doesn’t read Chinese; that’s why it’s a good idea to memorize your address in Pin Yin. Finally, carry a cell phone and call a Chinese speaking friend, if you’re really in trouble. They can act as a remote translator.

Fifth, don’t try to do too much. It takes much longer to do things in China, even when you are an ‘old China hand’ and speak fluent Chinese. The pace of life is much slower here. If you get one major thing accomplished in the day, you are doing well. Slow down and enjoy yourself. When you get back to the states you’ll find you miss the leisurely life you enjoyed in China.

Finally, never lose your temper or make a scene—only children or ‘bad’ people do that. It is always a good idea to smile. If you disagree strongly or wish to insist on something look very stern and serious—but don’t raise your voice or threaten. More times than not, your Chinese host or opponent will attempt to find a compromise or to placate you in some way. There is a very old and deep seated Chinese belief that people who are moral and good will always enjoy calm emotions and an even temper. I have watched American tourists get into deeper and deeper doodah because they raised their voices and grew visibly upset about something.

Oh yes, and it’s a good idea to learn Chinese. You’ll get a lot more out of your visit and your Chinese hosts will appreciate your efforts. I think I’ll start tomorrow!

Looking for Home

2007-10-04T12:08:00.000-07:00

It was much too early to be homesick—and I wasn’t yet—but I was curious to see what Western influences I could find. I set out for the center of the city where the Concessions had been.

In the middle of the 19^th century the Chinese had engaged in several wars, primarily with the British, in their efforts to end the Opium trade. Opium was illegal in China, but the Portuguese and the British had been importing the drug from India in very profitable trade. The first war from 1840-1842 ended with the Treaty of Nanking in which the defeated Chinese ceded Hong Kong to the British in ‘perpetuity.’ The second war between 1856 and 1860 ended in the Treaty of Tianjin (yes, it’s named after the city where I am). This time the Chinese were forced to ‘concede’ substantial areas in a number of ‘treaty ports,’ among them Tianjin on the Hai He or Sea River. These ‘concessions’ were autonomous zones in which western businessmen and their families lived as if in their own nations. Because Tianjin long had been an important port for northern China, including Beijing, it soon attracted many westerners and developed large German, Italian, French and English communities.

With the communications tower at my back I headed northeast toward the center of the city. Several blocks from the university I found a McDonalds and a foreign language bookstore.
I headed for the bookstore! It had a surprisingly good selection of English language books, particularly the ‘classics’ of literature—Jane Austen, Shakespeare, Dickens, Hardy—the kind of thing that’s assigned in high school and college literature courses. But there were also popular novels by Ian Fleming, Mary Higgins Clark, Danielle Stone, and others. In fact, there had been a large display of the latest Harry Potter novel at the entrance I hadn’t even noticed when I entered. I bought a novel and a map of Tianjin in Pinyin and English.

I passed up the McDonald’s to get a quick lunch at a Taiwanese restaurant across the street. I’d been told they had a menu with English translations. They did and it made ordering food much easier. (I’m going to save McDonald’s until I am homesick.)

I started walking along Machang dao (Racecourse Street) which had once gone to a racetrack built by the British. The street was lined with large homes which could have been in England.

As I walked in the English concession area I passed a large rose garden where a photographer was doing a shoot of a young couple in western wedding clothes (they were white, not the traditional Chinese red for weddings). A little farther down Tai’an dao I passed an abandoned Anglican church, once All Saints, to come to Victoria Park. Here the Chinese amahs or nursemaids would bring the English children they cared for to play.

There were still plenty of children—all Chinese—and three ping pong tables where several furious games were in progress.

Across the street is the very early Astor Hotel (Lishun Fandian or Profit & Success Hotel in Chinese). It was built just 3 years after the Treaty of Tianjin.

The Chinese have preserved the original building and added a large, very modern structure behind. Inside, the original lobby, dining room and some of the bedrooms are still in use. Herbert Hoover stayed here, as did the last emperor of China, Pu Yi (with his wife and mistress), Sun Yatsen and his wife Song Qinging, and Zhou Enlai. It seems like most important figures in 20^th century Chinese history have slept here. Farther up the Jiefang lu (Liberation Avenue, formerly Victoria Road) I found the building once occupied by the firm of Jardine & Matheson which engaged in the opium trade.

There are still many foreigners in Tainjin. Many are students. Martin, the young man I have been working with in the university’s Foreign Affairs Office, thought there might be as many as 40,000. Jim Tichenor, a former New Zealand high school teacher with 10 years of teaching experience in Tianjin, indicated the number was more likely 14-15,000. Still a lot. Most of them are Japanese and Korean, but you see some young Americans on the streets and I expect I will meet many before I leave. And there are Americans and other westerners working in the new, rapidly developing commercial/industrial zone of Binhai where the Hai river enters the sea. They tend to meet in western hotels, like the Sheraton not far from Tianjin Normal’s old campus where I am living, and in clubs and bars catering to westerners.

As I neared the university—with the communications tower dead ahead—I passed a Starbucks. I’ve been drinking green tea to get me going in the morning. A cup of genuine American coffee was too good to pass up. So after loading up on cash at an adjacent ATM, I went in and ordered a small cup of coffee. It was 12 Yuan. That’s about $1.80; an awful lot in China—and I thought the price at the First Stop was steep! But it was good American java.

Breakfast the First Day

2007-10-04T11:26:00.000-07:00

I don’t know whether it was jetlag or not, but I woke up at 6:30 am Tianjin time (6:30 pm Scranton time). It was a beautiful, sunny day with clear skies and already the streets were full of bicycles, buses and cars. I showered, unpacked and set out to explore the area around the old campus. I left by the campus south gate (where the young guard was still half asleep) and set out down Pingshan dao or road.
At the end of the block there was a branch of the China Construction Bank. I could see a ‘money machine’ inside. I hadn’t changed any U.S. dollars at the airport last night—getting to the University had been my priority. How tough could it be, I wondered; ATMs are ATMs. The instructions for this ATM, however, were in Chinese characters. I had visions of losing my bank card in the bowels of the thing as it flashed angry warnings in Chinese. Fortunately, the woman waiting behind me spoke a little English. She got me through the initial screens until we reached one that had instructions in English as well as Chinese. Then the machine got in touch with my bank in Dunmore, half way around the world, and before I knew it was grinding out five 100 Yuan bills. Chinese currency is officially known as Renmimbi (the people’s money) since the Communist Revolution. Sure enough, the pink bank notes I was clutching had a picture of Mao on one side and the Great Hall of the People on the other. Five hundred, I thought, should be enough kuai to keep me going for a week or so.

I decided to cross the street the bank faced and continue down Pingshan dao. I waited for the traffic light to display a green outline of a person and set out to cross the six lanes. Half way across I found myself dodging bicycles and cars making a left hand turn into the main street . I have no idea how little old ladies manage to cross a Tianjin street with or without a Boy Scout (if they have them).

At the end of the next block I found a small restaurant—didn’t look like much of a restaurant, but people were sitting outside beside their bicycles eating bowls of soup and long sticks of deep fried bread dough. I stepped around to the front and found the menu board. Everything was in Chinese characters, but I could read the prices. Looked like the most expensive thing was 3.50 Yuan (about 50 cents). (Five hundred yuan should last a long time at this rate.) I was greeted by a woman who quickly determined this waiguoren (outside country person) couldn’t understand Chinese. But it wasn’t too tough to figure out that I must be hungry. She led me through a small corridor, where another woman was washing bowls, to the narrow room at the back where I had seen people lining up to get their bowl of soup and two sticks of the bread. The cook was boiling wontons (pork dumplings) in chicken broth adding a raw egg toward the end. As soon as the egg and wontons were cooked, he poured them into individual bowls already containing a little fresh cilantro, ginger and chives.

After breaking my 100 Yuan note and giving me my change, the woman led me back to the front of the building and a small table where a young woman and her son (probably her only child) were already seated. The boy was very shy, but he and his mother let me take their picture.

I sat down to breakfast. It was delicious. I had stumbled on a traditional Chinese breakfast place which specialized in hunton soup and youtiao bread, at least that’s what the food is called in Mandarin Chinese. There are many different dialects—some even say languages—of Chinese. Because most of the first Chinese who came to America were from Canton or Guandong province, the English translations for many Chinese foods reflect the Cantonese pronounciation. So hunton are known to us as wonton. (Mandarin, of course, is the dialect which has always been used by officials—whether those of the emperor when China had an emperor or those of the Communist government today.)
Well fed and feeling very pleased with myself, I continued along Pingshan dao past a small park where young men were practicing martial arts while the day was still cool. The university is in the Hexi district of the city, a growing urban center of almost 10 million people. Fortunately for me, Hexi has a very prominent landmark, an extremely tall communications tower. You can spot it almost anywhere within the district and get your bearings. Turning left down the next street, the tower was behind me. After several blocks, I turned left again and it was on my left. Without any difficulty, I was soon at the University’s main gate where I had entered the night before. This was going to be home for the next five months.

Arrival

2007-09-12T11:17:00.000-07:00

I set out for China on August 21st, a Tuesday. It was raining in Scranton but not too heavily to soak me or my bags as I loaded them into a Honda Accord driven by Mark Davis, a Scranton fireman. Mark runs a shuttle service between Scranton and the NYC and Philly airports. Knows his stuff; we avoided the upper deck of the George Washington where a disabled tractor trailer was tying things up—lower deck is almost always better, he told me—and got to JFK in just a little over 2 hours. It should give me plenty of time to get through TSA’s security before boarding my Air China flight.

I needed the time, because I still didn’t have my passport! I’d given it to a visa service and there’d been a delay getting the one I needed for India. The Chinese ‘Z’ visa (for ‘Foreign Experts’ like myself) had gone through like clockwork. For some reason, however, the Indian Consulate in NYC was taking its own sweet time. That would have been OK, if they’d let me have my passport back without the visa—I could get that later in China—but they wouldn’t. So the visa service had to wait until Monday evening to pick up the passport and then deliver it to me at JFK. I got it (with my Indian visa) at 1:00 pm before boarding at 4:00 pm—too close for my comfort.

If you ever go to China, you want to take a flight like the one I booked. It was Air China which runs a direct flight between JFK and Beijing. I really appreciated the fact that it leaves JFK at 4:30 pm and, after only 13 hours in the air, arrives in Beijing at 6:00 pm the next day (you cross the International Date Line somewhere along the way). So as soon as you arrive in China you can go to bed, sleep 8 hours or more and get onto Chinese time. A flight like this should minimize jetlag I thought.

The Boeing 747-400 they use is a huge double decker. You have to be a wealthy capitalist—Chinese or American—to afford a first class ticket with access to the upper deck, however. The plane was almost full with an interesting mix of Chinese nationals, Chinese Americans and Americans like myself. I sat across the aisle from a recent Ohio State graduate who was going to Wuhan in central China to teach English in a business institute. She spoke good Chinese, having majored in Chinese studies, a fact that was appreciated by the Chinese passengers, especially the men who flirted with her. As we neared Beijing, the plane’s flat panel screen displayed a map showing our progress in Chinese characters and Pinyin (the system for representing them in the Roman alphabet). There was Tianjin just to the southeast of Beijing. I thought that Tian probably meant heaven, but what, I asked, did ‘jin’ mean. After consulting with her Chinese seat mates, she told me they said it meant ‘spit.’ Apparently, I was flying 6,000 miles to spend 5 months in a city called heavenly spit.

A little later the huge plane landed smoothly on Chinese soil. We were in Beijing. The airport is large, modern and very elegant in an industrial style. There was a long line for immigration, but once through I soon grabbed my bags from the carousel and walked toward the exit where I was to be met by Peter from Tianjin Normal University. Sure enough, there was a young man with a sign displaying my name. By now it was 9:30 pm so we walked rapidly toward the parking lot where a university van and driver waited.

Tainjin is about 2 hours drive from Beijing—if you drive the way the Chinese drive; it would probably take a sane and sensible driver at least 3. I had forgotten how command of a vehicle could transform a normally polite and deferential Chinese man or woman into an insane, speed driven demon. We drove fast down well-lit expressways, using the right and left lanes and the road’s shoulder to pass large trucks with only inches separating us (and me) from them. As soon as we were past, the driver cut back into the lane, taking advantage of not much more than one van length’s space between the truck we’d just passed and the truck ahead—which he was already planning to pass with equal daring as soon as the opportunity arose. There were no seatbelts where I was sitting. I began to think I would die in a spectacular crash before I ever saw the city of heavenly spit.

But I didn’t. We reached Tianjin Normal University’s old campus by 1:00 pm and by 1:30 I was settled in my suite of two rooms.