Putuoshan
Written by Robert Warneford-Thomson (Washington & Lee University)
Upon arrival at the Zhoushan bus station after dark, I asked a gruff man selling kebabs how to get to the port where I could take a quick ferry over to Putuoshan. He removed the cigarette stub from his mouth long enough to grunt in a thick local accent that the number 27 bus would take me there. I was only barely able to understand him, but still grateful for the tip. On the bus I met a local named Lin Qi, or Kevin, which he told me was his English name. Lin Qi was working for a software company in nearby Ningbo, and was coming home to Zhoushan to visit his family for the weekend. He told me all about where he went to school in Henan, his job ambitions, his summer plans, and by the time he got off at his stop we had exchanged numbers and made vague promises of meeting up. I really love the ease with which you can strike up meaningful conversations with people here in China. I think it’s rather difficult to find yourself truly alone in this country; wherever I’ve been there’s always someone who’s keen to get to know you, generally with something interesting to say as well. A few stops down a first for me happened when the bus driver unceremoniously kicked all the passengers off to pull into a gas station and fill up, while we waited by the roadside to set off again.
Shortly after we made it to the terminal stop at the ferry port. I bought a ticket for the last ferry of the night at 9:50, and sat down to try to read a little until departure. About twenty minutes later one of the ferry company representatives came out and told us that because of something in Japan, the ferry had been canceled, or this was as much as I could gather from my limited Chinese. They refunded our tickets and gave us the boot. With Lin Qi’s help I was able to hail a cab back into Zhoushan, where he treated me to a bowl of noodles with local fresh shrimp and oysters, which all had a sweet, slightly fruity flavor. Lin Qi told me was characteristic of the local food. He then took me to a nearby hotel with the dubious honor of being next to China’s biggest fish processing plant, after which it was only when I got to my room and switched on the TV that I found out what had caused my change in plans. An 8.9 magnitude earthquake had rocked Japan. It had prompted scares of a Haixiao (tsunami) rolling towards the Chinese mainland, grounding me in Zhoushan. Meanwhile Japan was enduring its worst crisis since World War II, with thousands confirmed dead, possibly tens of thousands more, and an unfolding nuclear catastrophe. Needless to say any impulse I’d had to complain had been effectively silenced; my tourist excursion was marred by the fact that 400 miles across the ocean, people had been torn from their homes by a ten-meter wall of water.
The next day I was able to catch a ferry over to Putuoshan with no trouble. Stepping off the ferry I went directly into a thick fog that blanketed the island and made getting any kind of bearings impossible. I ran into a couple of Chinese girls who were also checking out the island for the weekend. They insisted on helping me find my hotel, and suggested we travel together, since I was by myself. I was reluctant but kept any reservations to myself since I figured I could always branch off later on. At the hotel where I’d previously reserved a room and price, a fierce and confrontational landlady reneged on the price, claiming the demand was too high so she’d had to raise it. I knew my chances of getting her down to a reasonable price were low, even the Chinese girls had no luck pulling the hungry student card. Eventually we agreed to split a room to share the costs, which came out to my original budget. The sleeping arrangements weren’t that bohemian though. I had my own bed and they shared another. After that we set out to explore the island, which is home to Guanyin, the Buddhist Goddess of Mercy, who in Buddhist teachings looks out over the world and shoulders its suffering and grief, and has been compared to the Virgin Mary in Christianity.
In the afternoon we hiked up Foding Mountain in the center of the island. The worn cobblestone steps rose before us and faded up into the mist, punctuated with worshippers come to pay their respects, plodding up the mountain in three step intervals, between which they would kneel and pray. Some of the more impatient figured they could make their way up faster if they took large bounds between the regular prostrations. On the advice from a traveler I’d met in Yunnan, about half way up the mountain we took a detour onto a craggy trail to check out some abandoned Japanese Bunkers from World War II. Seemingly out of place in this tranquil, Buddhist enclave, the bunkers ran along a ridgeline, all wrapped in that ghostly fog. The fog added an eerie air of past battles long since fought, made complete by the chipped and cracking concrete. Everywhere you looked the mountain was slowly reclaiming the fort, as thick vines slowly choked the bunkers entrances and the piling soil from up the mountain was washed by the rain into the derelict offices. Inside the bunkers was a complex that went deep into the mountain. A quick look-over with my flashlight revealed a thick rusting blast door that shrieked upon being pushed back, behind which was a staircase down into the mountain so deep I couldn’t see the bottom. I was spooked enough to turn back, but this was one of the most interesting things I’ve seen in China, a subtle reminder of the turbulent relationship China and Japan have had in the past.
After that we spent the rest of the afternoon walking around the island along the network of footpaths that cross the island. We had started out on the road, but quickly switched to the path because of the mini-bus drivers who I swear must be from the gates of hell itself—drivers whose habits had adapted to an environment devoid of any traffic constrains—that raced around carrying eager tourists to see the sights with the same regard for pedestrians they might grant to an errant squirrel.
The next day started out with some somber news. We saw more images of the unfolding nuclear crisis in Japan on the news in our hotel room, as well as images of the tsunami’s sheer inexorable destructive power and the ease with which it systematically dismantles our ‘advanced’ infrastructure. I was curious how my roommates would react to the news, since one of my teachers had told me there were a few in China who looked on Japan’s troubles with a bit of schadenfreude; grudges from the past that won’t die. The girls, however, were visibly moved by the destruction, and seemed upset by the crisis and suffering in Japan. I found this encouraging, but I feel like I have an infant-like understanding of the Chinese national psyche, and that there are layers of complexity in regional relationships I simply don’t know a thing about. After my failed sociological study, we headed out to yet more bad news. The fog, which was a permanent fixture this time of year, had docked all the ferries, and essentially detained us on the island, giving a whole new meaning to the term tourist trap. I just imagined the look of veiled smugness in our landlady’s eyes when she, feigning her best sympathetic tone, tells us that—sadly—demand is just too great with the ferry down and that she simply must charge us more for the night.
Figuring there was nothing at the moment to be done we decided to make the most of the time we had on the island. We first went down to see the impressive Nanhai Guanyin, a towering 33m-high golden image of the goddess that looks out over the ocean. Underneath the stature is a room filled with smaller Guanyins sent in from all over China, of which I saw several were from Hangzhou. After that we got away from the crowds to go see Baibusha (One Hundred Step Beach), which the fog had given the convincing illusion of infinite size, as you could only see about 40 ft ahead of you. This was my favorite spot of the weekend, as you could walk a few steps and feel completely at peace. Standing next to the lapping waves and spotless sand was a nice place to tune out.
The moment was short-lived as we realized we needed to do something about getting back, since the specter of Monday’s class was looming ever larger over us. We headed back to the port. There we stood in line at the ferry ticket terminal, where people were already queuing up waiting for tickets to become available. About half an hour later, an announcement told us the powers that be had opened up the ferry route back to Zhoushan, and a mob that had been too lazy to queue before now descended on the ticket booths—concerned the safe passage wasn’t for long—while the other prior queue-ees heatedly pushed them to the back of the line. I just stood and watched (camera rolling) as this battle of etiquette took place before me: old Chinese habits face-to-face with the modern custom of waiting-in-line. Eventually the line-cutters were collectively pushed to the back, we got tickets and, after a short wait, were sitting on a ferry watching the fog slowly absorb the island back into its midst.
Southern Hospitality
Written by May Bayer (Colgate University)
CET Intensive Italian Language & Culture Studies in Sicily, Spring ’11
Southern hospitality is not only an American phenomenon. In Sicily, you may be cut in line mercilessly at the post office or pharmacy, but you will also find some of the most open and hospitable people I’ve ever met.
My first night in Catania, I stayed in a hotel before moving into our apartment. I was tired, jet-lagged, and nervous to be in a new place all by myself. Online reviews had said I would have to carry my suitcase up three flights of stairs to get to my room, but I couldn’t even open the front gate of the hotel.
The hotel manager Oscar came to my rescue. He explained that to open the gate, I had to first pull, then push (a method which everyone else seemed to already know. This information would come in handy for other gates I encountered in Catania). He also dragged my huge suitcase up the never-ending flight of stairs.
In my room, I immediately passed out from exhaustion, but when I woke up the next morning, the hospitality continued. Oscar served me a huge breakfast—a crème-filled croissant, an entire loaf of bread with jam or cheese, cappuccino and fruit juice. When it was time for me to go, he gave me directions to find my apartment, carried my suitcase downstairs for me and offered to give me a ride. I thanked him and declined his offer—surely he was just being polite.
But as I lugged my suitcase along the sidewalk, I got confused and wondered if I had missed the correct street. Suddenly I heard someone behind me. “May!” It was Oscar. I had gone the wrong way, and he had run after me to tell me. He insisted that I let him carry my suitcase, and he led me to my new apartment—which turned out to be right next to the hotel! I thanked him again, hardly believing how much he had gone out of his way for me. He told me to come visit the hotel anytime for a coffee.
Again, I assumed this was just a polite formality. But after living in Catania for two months, I now understand that Oscar was not an exception, but an accurate representation of Sicilian hospitality. I really am welcome at his hotel for coffee anytime.
Since that first day, I have witnessed all sorts of kind acts that would be unheard of at home. For class one day, another student, Sam, and I had to interview a person in the street. The person we found insisted on buying us coffee while we asked our questions. We ended up sitting at a café with him for half an hour and he promised to take us on a tour of Catania.
I soon forgot about his promise.
That Friday, though, he called and took all six CET students on a perfect tour of the city—buying us gelato from his favorite gelateria (which is now our favorite gelateria), showing us a historic castle on the sea, and a cool restaurant where you can eat underground in a grotto.
I am still surprised every time someone follows through on an offer like that. It happens all the time—when we accidentally became part of a birthday party that was happening in the Piazza, when our professors insisted on taking us out for coffee in the middle of class, when the doctor gave me a ride home after my appointment. Sicilians may seem tough at first, but they take hospitality to a whole new level, in a way that seems completely natural for them. It’s hard for me to get used to.
What does it say about our culture that I am so shocked every time I witness this kindness? Maybe the rest of the world needs to take a lesson from the Sicilians. As for me, I am going to take Oscar up on his offer of coffee at the hotel.
Service-Learning and Meeting New Friends in Beijing
CET Intensive Chinese Language in Beijing program, Fall’10
Wow! What a day. You know, it’s a good thing that I’m keeping notes as I go to jog my memory about what happened a few days ago because I am pretty far behind in updating you all on my escapades!
((Let us talk a walk down memory lane)) I am learning about all my classes and meeting my teachers. Today, I met my Service-Learning teacher and he told us about the course. I chose my new program because I could 1) speak English and 2) do Service-Learning. I never knew it would be as cool as this, though. Some previous students were able to work in a women’s empowerment group, work with autistic children, and even work with a historical society! After learning about the course, my professor treated us to lunch and told us about his time in Beijing. He has been here for about 15 years and was even here during 1989 Tiananmen Square incident. He told us that people came up to him and his wife shaking in anger and asked if they could talk to the foreigners. He said that people just started to crowd around them and tell them all that the government had done to them because they couldn’t tell anyone else, anyone Chinese, for fear of being arrested!
I also met my Chinese teacher! I am in a class of two, myself and a girl from UPenn named Meghan. She’s really nice, and we just had a debate in class about whether we should believe or not believe the media. That debate goes with the essay we read in our textbook about this woman who is a follower of diet fads and things that will make you healthy. What was even weirder were our vocabulary words, I mean 乳腺病 or mammary gland disease??
After a break between meeting teachers we gathered to take a trip to a hutong/lane called Nanluoguxiang, which is a tourist spot. I might have told you all about this place before, but it is a lane that once was purely residential and now has been converted into upscale shops and coffee bars. While we were approaching the entrance to the neighborhood, there was a group of people gathered around a shop. I was curious, and approached. My roommate came with me, and I asked her what was going on. I found that many shops were going to be torn down, many used-to-be hutong/courtyard homes were going to be destroyed (again!), all for the sake of a new subway line. Apparently, the inhabitants of said shop were protesting the government by not vacating their place of business. This situation made me sad, but also, made me feel happy that the people were “sticking it to the man” as it were.
As Tingting and I were wandering around, we walked down a lane away from the “main thoroughfare”. As we walked down the lane, maybe 100 feet or so, all the sound from the neighboring lane (very very noisy by the way) just seemed to get swallowed up. It was so cool, to come from such a busy street, with cars going through it, to a whole new world. I even took a video of it to show the difference in noise levels. Kinda made me wonder if the lanes were constructed in such a way as to muffle the sound. Not sure if you all remember, but last semester I talked about another experience about going down a lane and finding it very quiet as well. I also want to tell you all that I spoke Chinese all day!
After Nanluoguxiang, Tingting and I were invited to visit my old campus and go eat dinner with my friend Nick and Li Tao, his roommate. I had met Li Tao last semester as well, and we have been great friends since! Dinner was nice, just the four of us, laughing and talking.
Before dinner, the highlight of the evening, I went to see my little friend. My mom tells me that I have not blogged about my four year old friend, but I think I have, at least mentioned her. I still don’t know what her name is, but this is how the story goes. Everyone who know me, knows I can’t stop petting animals, right? So, in the beginning of last semester there was a family who owned a store not far from the campus gate. We probably all went there every day to buy various things. In front the store, they kept an orange kitten in a cage. Can we see where the story is heading? So, perhaps each time I went to the store, I would give the cat some jerky or some attention, even if he was a little dirty and I probably shouldn’t have been touching him anyway. One day, a little girl with a scruff of brown hair and big brown eyes came up to me as I was petting the cat. She just stared at me for a moment then told me in quite a grown-up voice, that that cat was hers. Once, a few days later, she even grabbed the cat away from me to show me that he was hers. After a while, she seemed to get used to me a let me pet the cat. I remember that she once just put the cat in my lap. She is quite a cute girl.
They had to give up the cat to a family friend, but our friendship lasted beyond fuzzy animals. Just about every week we would have little “competitions” or “races”. I once saw her running around on her heels, and seemed like she wanted someone to pay attention to her. So, I mimicked her, and she gave a great giggle to see how silly I looked following her around. Thus began the infamous race, a race I would never win (of course 
) As the semester ended, I told her I’d be back in two months, and that I’d hope she’d remember me. In the States, I decided to get her a little pink kitty toy with some candy hearts (from Valentine’s Day). So, when I went to visit Nick and Li Tao, I gave her the toy.
As I was so attached to her, it made me a little sad to see that she didn’t really remember me that well. I know, four-year-olds have a tough time with memory. After I gave her the toy, though, and bounced on my heels, her face perked up! We ran outside together and raced around to the soundtrack of her giggles and my huffs and puffs.
(Un)Easy Rider
Seems like everyone in Italy has a bike except for me (and this guy).
Seems like everyone in Italy has a bike except for me (and this guy).
My new ride
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