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.