Close Encounters with Chinese Exercise

I was chatting with my neighbor at the park.  Nice guy; a Chinese man who has spent ample time in The States.  Our kids go to school together, they ride the bus together, so on and so forth.

He inquired about our recent trips to Mongolia and Xian.  Simple enough idle banter, only it took my entire life force to string together a few intelligent sentences because my neighbor's father was next to us, bent in half and ramming his shoulder repeatedly into a Hawthorn tree.  He then began to grind the back of his neck against the tree, grunting and huffing like a yoked ox.

Me: "Xi'an.  Uh. Yes.  Uh.  Xi'an.  Yes.  Uh.  Xi'an was uh great *pause* yes,  we, um, loved Xi'an." 
Neighbor:  "How long did you stay?"
Father: "Uuuuuuhhhhhhhh."  Bam!  "Uhhhhhhhhhhhh."  Bam. "RRRRRRRRRRRUUUUUUhhhhh."
Me: "Stay?  Uh. Oh, yeah.  Xi'an.  Uh.  Yes we stayed there."

I bumbled away and my neighbor was looking at me strangely.  He must have though I was high or stupid.  Really, I was just trying to be polite and not gawk or point and laugh out loud.  In the US, such behavior is the domain of itchy bears or rutting elk or, say, folks confined to the looney bin.

I've seen many odd exercise rituals in China.  I'm used to them.  Most exercise is done outside in public so an early morning trip to a park or an evening trip to any patch of concrete large to accommodate line dancing is entertaining.  The difference is I have always seen, say, men crawling around in circles in the dirt from a safe distance--far enough to discretely oogle, lift my jaw off the ground, or laugh until I cry or pee my pants.  I've never waded in for a better look fearing it too rude or insensitive.  I really wasn't prepared for a close encounter with elk man.  I was so happy and relieved when my sobbing child extracted me from the scene.  "Oops, gotta run!  Bye!" I said and skipped off.

It's not uncommon to see people holding odd or uncomfortable positions for a long time.  My friend Mark got this great shot of a man standing on his head on concrete.

Man crawling on all fours in the park.  He does this every day at 2:00 pm. 

Another common form of exercise in Beijing is walking backwards.  Already for some--myself included--, walking backwards is a tough task.  Add to it the unevenness of pavement: craters, un-cordoned construction zones, cars driving on sidewalks, sheer ledges into cess-pit canals, and you have a downright dangerous activity!  Extra points go to people who walk backwards while slapping themselves. Gold stars to those traveling in reverse, slapping themselves and singing opera.

This kind man was playing Chinese Yo Yo.  He ran string up to the top of a pine tree and was throwing the yo-yo up the line. 

The first time I saw someone walking backwards slapping himself silly I was on a path that cut below a bridge.  It was dark under there and for once there was not a single person around.  I had the death plunge into stinky canal on my right, the 3rd ring road above my head, concrete pylons to my left and Sergeant Nutter barreling backwards towards me.  I scampered back up the path and hid behind a bush while he spanked himself up the hill.

On my way home that day I saw a man carefully wrap a eucalyptus tree with a golden swath of fabric.  He then stood a few feet from the tree and flung himself forward and up to chest-butt the tree.  He was still heaving his body at the tree when I left the park an hour later.  Trees are common exercise partners, mostly because they are there and they are free.  Come spring you will see apples and peaches and Chinese people hanging from them as they stretch their limbs or do some pull ups.

This Chinese Yo-Yo has grooves in it that make an a sound like a didgeridoo on speed. 

Now let's get this straight I am not making fun of the Chinese and their creative forms of exercise.  I think it is awesome that China is such a healthy and fit nation.  I think it is awesome that exercise is incorporated into daily life.  Nobody schedules and drives to a gym.  Gyms are a bust enterprise here in Beijing.  They come and go faster than a flash flood in the desert.  Oxygym in our complex has gone through bankruptcy several times in the last 6 years.  I'm told it is chronically empty and that most Chinese who hold gym memberships do so for bragging rights.  (Note to all derelict gym members:  your new excuse for not going to gym is you only have the membership for status!)

 You tai chi your way to work, ride your bike to the store, jian (Chinese hackey sack) on break with your buds, you slap yourself while waiting in line, ballroom dance in the plaza after dinner and che ling (Chinese yo-yo) on Saturdays in the park. Analog exercise machines encircle most playgrounds so adults can exercise while watching the kids play--brilliant!  Note to self: I should really use those machines.

This Man attached a dragon kite to his yo -yo for added WOW.

You find public exercise equipment in every park, plaza and square, not matter how small the town.  The equipment is kept clean and in good working condition.

Often times exercise equipment encircles a playground.  The adults can get exercise while the children play!  Brilliant!  I should actually try it sometime.

Rampant

Jaws is on my balcony.  Mandibulous Maximus.  And it won't leave.  It is a cricket, a giant Chinese cricket.  I hate crickets.  For some reason we have three.

Giant Chinese Cricket.  This one the boys named BIG BOY.  He is indeed large but not man-eating like Jaws.

Eli calls the main cricket in question Chomper.  Finn calls him Muncher.  I call him Kujo.  I want it dead.  It wants me dead. 

Jaws/Chomper/Muncher/Kujo is sitting on the balcony ready to pounce and kill me I just know it.  You might think this is an irrational fear, but it's not.  Kujo has dagger sharp jaws.  You come near his cage and this horrible death bug pounces to the bamboo bars like a creature out of the movie Alien.  It's not natural.

We got Jaws/Chomper /Muncher/Kujo--we'll call the beast JCMK--at the She Li He pet market in South Beijing.  She Li He is larger than a Super Walmart and sells birds and fish and turtles and chinchilla and emperor scorpions and crickets.  Lots of crickets.  There were stalls that sold nothing but crickets.  Walking by a cricket stall is like walking by Dodger stadium after a winning run is scored.  Only louder.  A winning cricket can make a sound louder than a gas-powered lawn mower. 

I say winning because cricket sports are popular in China.  Yes, you read that correctly:  cricket sports.  There are regular cricket "singing" contests.  I wondered how anyone can call the incessantly loud and annoying chirp-buzz loop singing.  Then I heard Beijing Opera. (Author looks over shoulder once again for mobile execution van.)

Cricket fighting is also popular on both legally and an extra-legally.  Legal fights are broadcast onto giant TV screens.  Illegal fights occur in back alleys.  Potential cricket champs are fed diets of duck and liver and high-quality meats.  Potential champs are trained and sometimes given cricket steroids.  Potential champs will sell for thousands of dollars, for a creature that lives at most 100 days.

JCMK is clearly a fighting cricket.  He was a gift to Eli from a man who owns a cricket stall in She Li He.  I thought at first the man gave us the cricket because he liked us.  Now I know he wants us dead. 

Cricket Stall at She Li Yuan.  Each one of those cages and balls inside and outside of the store has one large, loud cricket.  The owner has to drink beer on the job to survive it.

Well, that explains how we got one cricket.  How did we fall down the rabbit hole and end up with three?  Mea culpa, I fell in love with the little cricket cages.  They make great decorations/Christmas ornaments.  So I bought two more empty cages.  I guess my traveler's Mandarin (see blog post 10 Years) did not adequately convey that I wanted only the cages because they came complete with two more horrible, jaw-clacking buzzing demons, the first "Big Boy" the size of my hand and his compatriot "Thornback" who has a huge sword-thingy poking out of its rear-end.

They boys grabbed the cages and happily skipped away before I could even return the wicked beasts.  The thought of having these creatures in my house gave me a nervous tick.  I felt like I was licking a thousand wooden spoons at once.  My pulse quickened and my mouth started to blur with pre-vomit salivation.

Ok.  Calm down, I thought.  If you can't beat them, join them.  Okay.  I can do this.  I can embrace the cricket.  I can.  Yes I can.  I have embraced countless other bugs and mud and weapons (sort of) and boys hurling themselves off too-tall things and boys beating each other and fart contests.  Crickets should be no problem, right?

So there I sat holding BIG BOY while bouncing though Beijing in a motorcycle sidecar.  I stared at him trying to appreciate his extraordinarily delicate limbs and curious antennae and cute eyeballs.  I can do this I thought.  Yes I can. 

We brought them home and fed them lychee and cucumber and smelly melon (that's a direct translation) and carrots.  JCMK ripped the food from our hands and tore through it like a starved hyena rips at a carcass.  Then he jumped on the bars and began hissing for more.  I felt faint just being near JCMK.

The boys insisted that the crickets sleep in their room, apparently unaware that crickets don't sleep, rather they buzz loudly and furiously for mates that--in JCMK, Big Boy, and Thorn Back's cases--will never come.  The night began quiet enough.  The boys were sound asleep when we heard what we thought was a broken washing machine.  You know, the thump, thump, thump when your machine is off-balance, coupled with the squeak of a breaking fan belt.  I actually ran in to check the washing machine.  Not it.  Eli then padded out of his room: "Mom, what's that noise?"  We realized not only did we have a fighting cricket, we had a rock star. 

The next morning our Ayi (that's maid/nanny in Chinese.  Everyone has an Ayi in China.   It's, like, compulsory.) was clutching her finger and warned us that (JCMK) bites.  I decide I had to get rid of him.  The problem was how?  Austin was opposed to JCMK's disposal:  "But the boys like him!"  I reminded my dear husband that he wants to dispose of our dog, Ruby, and they like her much more than the death cricket.  I could not possibly squash the thing because I die just thinking about the crunching sound it would make.  And the guts I would have to clean.  (Blurry salivation begins.)

It turns out that our dog Ruby forced the hand. Ruby is our eight-pound wiener dog who thinks she is eighty pounds.  Or 800 pounds.  On two occasions she tried to attack a bear, a GRIZZLY bear.  JCMK was no match for Super Ruby.  She swatted down his cage and chewed it to pieces.  The only problem was that JCMK escaped.  Admist much ear-piercing screams (who knew I could scream like a girl!!!!!!!???????) Austin managed to hurl JCMK out onto the balcony and slam shut the glass sliding doors.

Ruby:  Pest or Pest Control?

Ok.  Problem solved.  Only we can never use our balcony again, at least until the death cricket leaves.  Only he won't leave.  He was happily snacking on Ruby turds--we have a doggy pee/poo pad since we live 28 floors up and can't fathom taking her for 10 walks a day.  Now I have even more reason to dislike crickets and, is that fucking cricket staring at me?

Things only got worse because I had to sleep on the couch that night.  The couch that sits in front of the glass curtain that gives way to the balcony.  That same balcony where JCMK was perched, ready to kill me.   I couldn't sleep knowing that thing was out there, but there was nowhere else to sleep.  My in-laws had the guest bedroom and Austin was running to the john every 20 minutes for a round of toilet Olympics--what's worse death by cricket or THE VAN INCIDENT**** revisited?  Close call.

Again, I had to calm myself.  Bring in the forces of reason.  Who knew fear could be so irrational?  I mantra:  "I AM BIGGER THAN THE CRICKET. I AM MORE POWERFUL THAN THE CRICKET. THE CRICKET CAN'T HURT ME."  I said this a million times until I finally dropped into sleep.

The next morning the boys were peering out onto the balcony.  They bravely stepped out to survey all the corners and confirmed that JCMK was gone.  We had released the scourge of the insect world to run rampant in Beijing.  Good riddance.

***For those of you who have never heard a Sheppard barf, it is traumatizing.  Austin had a particularly violent bout of the vomits in Myanmar in a van.  Nobody within one square mile of that van will ever forget that day.

10 Years

I come to realize it's gonna take me ten years to do anything worthwhile in this town.  I thought I would come to Beijing, learn Chinese, learn Tai Ji and Gong Fu, learn to tie fortune knots, learn to cook Chinese food, learn to play Mahjong.  And while at it, I fancied learning photography and TCM (Traditional Chinese Medicine).  Hey, I'm a quick learner so why not?  I'll tell you why not: because it is impossible!  What illusions I had!  Chinese! Did I really think I was going to learn Chinese in just two years? 

On NOT Learning Chinese
We've been in Beijing 8 months.  I finished a semester at a Chinese Public University where I took an intensive Mandarin course.  I spent four hours a day in class and countless hours outside of class doing homework.  Just to keep up required 2 hours practice a night.  To excel, probably 4.  (I did not excel.)  I cried in frustration more than once.  I thought about quitting 100 times.  This from a Phi Beta Kappa honor grad who is supposed to be good in languages and, uh, other things.

Austin and I blew through a notebook per week and several pens per week.  When is the last time you actually used up all a pen's ink?

I studied harder for Intensive Mandarin 221 than I remember studying for my entire class load in college.  And for what?  I can tenuously say I have a command of traveler's Chinese.  Nothing more, and I am totally being generous with the word "command."  What or whom can I actually command if half the country doesn't even speak Mandarin?  Hell, I'm convinced half of Beijing doesn't even speak Mandarin without shoving 40 marbles in their mouths first.  So I can only travel to those hamlets where Party leaders took the edict to speak Putonghua--"The Common Language"-- very seriously.  Or, I can stay in Beijing and be content with 1) asking directions 2) ordering food and 3) telling a taxi where to go.  If I dare attempt more sophisticated conversation, I must seek out and  speak exclusively to University Professors who by law must take Correct Mandarin Speech Classes (Spit out the Marbles!!! Tone down the Pirate for the land-lubbers!) before they can teach. 

Austin and I have had many a chuckle over our ignorance.  We fondly recall our dear friend Charles, Austin's freshman-year roommate, and his Herculean efforts to learn Chinese.  Charles would while away the night with a pack of hand-written Mandarin flash cards.  He would sit at his desk for hours flipping through the deck, mumbling to himself.  We would pop in to the room on occasion--mind you, never to study or sleep, usually for Tang, Southern Comfort or Austin's guitar-- and there was Charles, like a statue in the corner:  flip, mumble, flip, mumble, flip.  We actually felt bad for Charles because we just assumed he was no ace of languages.  He worked so hard for meager returns, while we slept through our Spanish classes.  We knew Chinese was difficult, but 3-5 hours a night difficult?  No way.

How wrong we were and how sorry we are for doubting Charles.  Seventeen years later we find ourselves hunched over stacks of flashcards and swearing long into the night.  Eight months of re-sculpting my facial muscles and tying my tongue in knots and my spoken Mandarin sucks.  I can never remember which tone to use.  Tone-flubbed Chinese gets you nowhere.  More depressing is that speaking is undoubtedly the easiest skill in the great Mandarin language triumvirate.  Reading?  Give me five more years.  Writing?  I need at least 10.  

On NOT Learning Tea
Intensive Mandarin is finished I feel like I have been sprung from prison.  I finally have freedom to pursue the other great secrets of the Orient.  Yesterday, I went to Maliandao, one of the largest tea markets in the world.  It was a square mile of nothing but tea and tea accessories.   It's crazy to think of a market that big selling just one commodity.  It would be like the Mall of America selling nothing but socks. 

I love tea.  I was sure I knew a thing or two about tea.  I went with Jessica, a real connoisseur of tea.  She, like, majored in tea.  I'm not kidding. 

Jess took me into the wholesale shops where inside each I was treated to formal tea tastings.  Let me say this: tea is an art.  It is a process.  It is steeped in knowledge and superstition and millenia-old healing processes.  It is part of lifestyle that I say very few Westerners really understand. 

I was furiously taking notes while savoring the complex flavors of tea.  "All tea is green tea.  (UH?  Really?)  This tea type requires this temperature of water.  This tea type is best purchased in Spring.  Always store this type of tea in baskets.  Keep this one in the fridge. You must age this tea.  Drink this tea before Meals.  Drink this tea after meals.  Never drink this tea during your period.  This tea in yin.  That tea is yang.  Steep green tea in glass.  Rolling the tea matters.  When you roll the tea matters.  Watch out for flavored tea, flavoring masks poor-quality leaves.  You cannot call this tea such and such unless it comes from such and such province.  You can re-use these leaves 3 times, those 5, those 7."  And on and on and on.  Get it?  I don't either.  My experience made wine tastings seem simple.  I think of the powdered Crystal Light "tea" that comes in a giant plastic tub.  My boss used to drink it.  I laugh out loud.

Tea I have come to know is much like fine wine: age, provenance and storage matter!

On Not Learning Martial Arts
Perhaps you read my post "Lesley in the Land of Legends" wherein  I got a rare glimpse into the life of Shaolin monks and Gong Fu students?  Martial arts requires a lifetime of discipline.  I can't even comb my hair or make my bed in the morning.  I thought I could add it to my exercise regimen that is currently non-existent thanks to hellacious Chinese class and now serious knee damage.  You can't casually pursue Martial Arts if you want to learn anything.  It's not like football where you cannot play for years but you will always be able to toss around the pigskin on Thanksgiving.  Martial Arts take serious commitment and daily practice.  As my children have learned, once a week is not enough.  You forget everything between classes.


Hey, I Did Learn Something!
All this not learning has left me no time to pursue knots and mahjong and TCM.  My camera User Guide is still shrink-wrapped.  My one triumph has been in the kitchen.  My Chinese cooking skills were weak, by far the weakest of my international fair.  I have taken a few classes here at a wonderful place called The Hutong with flattering results.  The mobile execution vans (yes, they exist here in China) might nab me for saying this: the majority of my dishes have been unmatched in restaurants to date.  I am often underwhelmed with my meals so this is saying a lot. 

The good news is that I don't have to speak Chinese to survive outside China. (Well, so far.)  Western medicine has kept me alive all these years.  Great tea is wonderful, but just plain old good tea warms the heart just fine.  My photos suffice to capture and share the memories.  I can play Mahjong in retirement.  I can always go to the gym.  (Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha).  I don't need fortune knots to know or believe that I am one of the most blessed people on this earth.  But food.  We have ALL got to eat and it ain't gonna be Ramen for dinner!

So far I've excelled at cooking.  The only thing I have done well in China.  Above are my Eggplant and Long Bean and Golden Tofu Stir fries.