GUANGDONG PEIZHENG COLLEGE LIFE

The campus of Guangdong Peizheng College is undergoing some renovations, as is most of China, but despite this it remains strikingly beautiful. Nestled in lush Chinese countryside and bordered by a lake on one side, it feels like an ideal atmosphere for scholarly pursuits. When I arrive it is a ghost campus, deserted by nearly all for the summer, but soon it will be a buzzing hive of social activity. My friend Albert and I enjoy many of the campus facilities during this interval of calm before the coming term. The Olympic size pool offers some escape from the heat as it blasts out techno music as loud as you’ve ever heard into the hot afternoon air, like a rhythmic broadcast throughout the campus that fun is being had here. Pouring rain didn’t stop us from enjoying the tennis courts, although two foreigners so stubbornly ignoring the weather must have been a strange sight to the locals. I did learn how to keep score in Mandarin.

Across from the campus are a series of eateries along with the bus stop, which is the hub of transportation from the campus into the rest of China. The eateries become more crowded as students begin to arrive, and one evening while we dine (on pineapple chicken and rice with soy milk) outside under a large yellow canopy, I notice that groups of students are largely segregated by gender. There are girls tables and guys tables, and the only exceptions I can find are a few couples eating together alone. Another peculiar thing I noticed on campus was that girls are always carrying umbrellas, especially on particularly sunny days. I inquired about this to Albert, who explained that Chinese girls try to avoid sunlight at all costs, because whiter skin is considered more beautiful. Many even use a product called ‘whitening cream’ to cover up any sun exposure. I marvel at how opposite that is from America, where women literally radiate and fry their skin to become darker.

One day, we catch a ride from Huadu back to the campus in what I can only describe as a privately owned and operated taxi-van. Essentially, these are just guys with vans who hang out around bus stops and offer rides for cash (this would never fly in the West, with all of our distrust and regulations and frivolous lawsuits). Usually, if you can get a big enough group together to fill the van and split the cost, it is worth the quicker trip. Today we share a taxi-van with five students and a driver. One is a former student in one of Albert’s English classes, so naturally we all strike up conversation. Honestly, this girl looks like she could be fifteen, but Albert later assures me that she is most likely in her early twenties. They are a bit timid about speaking English, but they seem to enjoy the exchange. One of the girls tells me I have beautiful eyes, and I tell her thank you, and that her English is very good. She says it’s not very good, but I assure her that her English is better than my Chinese. She tells me that she has been learning English since fifth grade. Another student struggles through a conversation in English with Albert, and as laughter fills the air I notice that the mood amidst this motley gang of strangers is undeniably pleasant and warm. I rarely find such amiable openness in America.

CULTURE SHOCK IN CHINI TOWN

One of my first experiences of real Chinese culture came on a short bike excursion to Chini, a town about 20 minutes from the University where I was staying. My first reaction to the traffic in China was abject terror, which quickly developed into acceptance that death was eventually imminent so worrying about it was futile. My companion, a third year English teacher in China and long time friend, gave me sound advice: “Don’t die.” We later enhanced the expression to the universally applicable and more logical recommendation: “Die later”.

The traffic on Chinese roads is not as uniform as I am used to in America. Cars share the road with bikes, scooters, rickshaws, motorcycles, pedestrians, livestock, buses, vans, construction vehicles, and anything other modes of land transport you can imagine. The “right of way” does not exist, and the only factor that keeps roads from becoming death traps is the skill and knack for survival of the locals. When a vehicle approaches an intersection or another vehicle or pedestrian, a common sound you’ll hear is several loud blasts from the horn. I learned that motorists utilize the horn blasts for several purposes: to let others know that they are approaching (i.e. “you’ve been warned”) and to free themselves of any responsibility for whatever happens next (i.e. “I honked, therefore you are without excuse”). What the horn blasts don’t represent is anger or frustration, which is what I see so much of in America, and what we commonly refer to as “road rage.” I did not see one single case of road rage during my time in China. As a comfort, my friend assures me that the drivers would rather not hit me if they can avoid it; mainly because of the damage their vehicle might incur and the trouble that a dead foreigner might cause them.

We arrive at Chini (alive only by the grace of God), and after a delicious Muslim meal of fried egg and noodles (only 4 Yuan, roughly 65 cents), I mention that I want to purchase a few items which I deem necessities. We find a store not unlike Walgreen's and start perusing the aisles for such Western luxuries as deodorant and shaving cream. After asking the clerks (my friend speaks Mandarin) and being directed to the pine scented air fresheners and electronic razors, I begin to realize that my items are not as universally “essential” as my bubble back home had convinced me. They are, in fact, relatively unknown. After much upheaval and most of the store associates along with some shoppers assisting us or watching the show, we locate the items at a specialty beauty counter and I purchase them. One of the clerks speaks a little English and, in choppy Mandarin, I tell her that she speaks it very well, after which she launches into a long discourse of which I catch only a few words.

Walking around in the marketplace, I notice that there can be no blending in for foreigners in Chini. Most people stare at us, and I realize that we are some of the few laowai that these people ever see. I get to experience the thrill of bargaining, common in Chinese markets, and decide that we have it too easy in the West with our set-in-stone prices. In China, a bargain is an accomplishment, not a discovery.

As we duck under power lines hanging across the dirt road and avoid traffic on the way home, I ponder how very different the mindset here is, and I realize that to them, it is we who appear rather strange and backward.