Saying good-bye is never easy
Written by James J. Hudson, 胡杰雄 (University of Texas – Austin)
Intensive Chinese Language in Harbin, Student Correspondent, Fall 2012
Saying good-bye is never easy. Such were my thoughts as my American colleagues and I waved good-bye to our Chinese roommates from the windows of a train leaving Harbin’s train station. This was the end of a great semester, where each of us students and colleagues from different parts of the United States came together for a few short months to learn Chinese and experience cultural immersion. I know for a fact that all of us made enormous progress in our Chinese. But it wasn’t always easy, there were many challenges to be sure, but I think I can speak for all of my classmates when I say that CET Harbin was something special. But what made it so?
One of the first things I noticed about studying in Harbin was that, in contrast to my previous experiences studying Chinese at other schools in programs, the camaraderie among the students, at least in my experience, seemed very strong. For instance, when we first arrived in Harbin I was informed that there was a small problem with my visa, and I was going to have to pay a little extra money to get it resolved. I’ve encountered similar problems before, and they can be quite frustrating, especially if you are alone and are unfamiliar with how bureaucracy works in China. But I immediately discovered that I wasn’t the only one with this problem, that in addition to myself, at least three or four other students from the U.S. had the same problem with their visas. In as much that I didn’t want my colleagues to have problems, it gave me a sense of peace that I wasn’t the only one dealing with this specific situation. I had other people around me who understood my dilemma. We were in it together. Or I think about the three consecutive weekends in a very cold December that Brian Cwiek, Elise Anderson and I tried to go the provincial museum, but were unable to get tickets the first two times because one of us—I won’t say who, Lol!—forgot to bring their passport or student id. I think we were really good natured about it, even the second time, because each time we ended up trudging through Harbin’s icy streets and wind to a nearby McDonald’s to drink some hot coffee and just chat. By the third time we finally made it inside the museum, but the whole process was kind of fun. Another example I can think of is when the weather started to turn quite cold and many of us became sick. For a few weeks in November it seemed that several of us—myself included—were in a perpetual state of sickness the whole time. This often made studying and going to class hard, but we managed to tough it out and pull through.
One other thing that made CET Harbin so great was the relationships many of us were able to develop with our Chinese roommates and teachers. Forming and maintaining such relationships are the reasons one comes to China. My roommate, Chen Hailong, was such a great guy, on more than one occasion my American colleagues told me how much they envied my roommate situation, that they thought Hailong was really cool. I’ll always remember the conversations Hailong and I had about politics in America or China, and each of us expressing our frustrations with our respective countries, and even sharing a few laughs. Once when I was really sick and unable to get out of bed, I discovered that both my internet and cell phone were out of service because I needed to pay fees. Hailong took care of it for me, and I paid him back later.
I can honestly say that each of the relationships I developed with my Chinese teachers were positive, constructive, and edifying. I always loved my chats with the program director, Ren Laoshi. Although direct and firm in her style of leadership, I also found her to be quite warm and personable, especially if I had a complaint or if I was just stopping by to say hi. I think many of my colleagues and I would agree that one of the best teachers to work with was Zou Laoshi. Since the most students in any given CET class is four or five, this allows for a lot of interaction between student and teacher. In a typical Chinese class for foreigners elsewhere, there can be between fifteen and twenty or more students, so there is a tendency for one to lose focus, doze off, or daydream. But in a CET class this is really hard to do, because if you are daydreaming the teacher will immediately notice! Such was the case with Zou Laoshi. When she noticed that I wasn’t paying attention she would immediately tap the table with her hand in front of me, saying 杰雄，杰雄，你在哪里？ (jie xiong, jie xiong, ni zai nali?—James, where are you?) At one time or another I think she did this with other students, and after a time many of us started to imitate Zou Laoshi, so by the end of the term even students who hadn’t taken her class new this mannerism. But all kidding aside, and as fun as Zou Laoshi could be with us, this shows me that she takes her job very seriously and wants her students to learn well and keep making progress. And one can’t say enough about CET’s administrative staff in Harbin, Li Laoshi, Xuan Laoshi, and Yu Laoshi, without whom we all would have been seriously lost.
So despite having to say good-bye to my friends and teachers in Harbin I can honestly say that I feel tremendously fortunate to be around such a talented group. And I can’t say enough about my American colleagues, many of whom were fellow Fulbrighters like myself, or still in college. What an amazing bunch of people! I owe them a great deal of thanks for keeping me on task and holding me accountable to the language pledge, which wasn’t always easy to adhere to, but I think we all did a really great job abiding by it. All of this made for a really awesome experience in Harbin.
Cold Weather and Chinese Medicine
Written by Dare Norman (Western Kentucky University)
Intensive Chinese Language in Harbin, Student Correspondent, Fall 2012
Happy last day of November, everyone! Christmas is upon us and the thought of soon returning home is hovering overhead in a cloud of mixed feelings. There are real clouds in the sky, too: the greyish snow-filled kind.
See? Here is the weekend weather forecast:
Yes. It’s cold.
And this isn’t even the “Feels Like…” temperature!
This is post-snowball battle, maybe the most intense of my life. My hometown doesn’t have terribly cold weather; my with-snow experiences are few and muddy.
Left to right: Austin, Yale-student choir friend and the greatest whistler on the face of the Earth; Zhongzheng, Mongolian-Chinese but honorary 美籍华人; two snow-bunnies and a snow-soccer ball that we found someone had made; myself; and Ethan who goes to church with me on Sundays, really loves Sigur Ros, and has a magnificent fur hat.
(Photo by Colleen O’Connor)
Besides bundling up against the frigid weather and making sure to leave our socks on the radiator overnight, we have been very busy with extracurricular activities! There is always lots of studying Chinese, but here are some of the more interesting events of the last two weeks:
Thanksgiving dinner at a fancy Chinese seafood buffet! Crab meat, pumpkin soup, and all the angel food cake, pudding, and tea that I could possibly hope for. It was so great to share dinner with my friends!
Five friends and I also participated in Harbin Institute of Technology’s International Student Performance Night! My friends and I represented America through wwing dancing to classic rock-and-roll (Bill Haley’s “Rock Around the Clock”).
Two nights ago Zilu, Emily, Colleen and I went to a get a massage – about 10USD for an hour and a half. This was my first experience with Chinese medicine.
After changing clothes and shoes we did 泡脚 pàojiăo, a hot tea foot-soak. This was my favorite part because most of the massage was sort of painful. I don’t know about in the US, but here the massage was a lot of pushing pressure points and noisily slapping and rubbing muscles. It made me laugh. The man kept having to tell me, “放松! fàngsōng! Relax!”
At one point, the massuese took a small round object from his medicine kit. He lit the ball on fire, placed it in a glass jar, and proceeded to approach my exposed foot.
“哦？在干吗?! ó? zài gàn ma?! Ah! What are you doing?” I asked, alarmed.
“别动。 bíe dòng. Don’t move.”
That was the brusque reply as he popped the jar on my sole. The flame suffocated, taking all the oxygen with it and vaccuum-sealing the jar to the sensitive skin of my foot.
拔罐 báguàn Cupping, he explained, was a traditional Chinese medicinal practice to relieve tension. “Wind” gets into your skin, and the suction of cupping removes the “wind” and stops any aching – that’s according to my drills professor, who I asked later. I still don’t fully understand what that means, but it was certainly an experience!
Train Travel in China
Written by James J. Hudson, 胡杰雄 (University of Texas – Austin)
Intensive Chinese Language in Harbin, Student Correspondent, Fall 2012
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There’s always been something special about being on a train in China. It affords one a glimpse of Chinese culture that could not be seen in any other part of the country. When one flies on an airplane back in the states or elsewhere it always seems that everyone is in such a hurry to get to their destination. On trains I’ve always had the sense as if I was really going somewhere, a definite sense of movement, not like in a plane separated from the earth where you are 30,000 plus feet above it all, and then hours later you arrive in a totally different place. It’s not the same kind of feeling. Maybe by seeing the world go by through the windows on a train we perceive time and space differently, as up close and personal. The scenery, be it countryside, urban spaces, or sunlight and clouds in the sky, flickers past us all at once. We take it in. We become part of it all.
China is a big country, and people often have to traverse long distances to do business, travel for the holidays, or if you are a student returning home for a winter or summer break—going to visit family. So if you expect to go anywhere on the cheap in China you better get used to spending a good amount of time on trains. My longest train ride ever was probably a 30+ hour ride from Hunan Province to the city of Kunming, where I was lucky enough to have a “hard sleeper,” which is a relatively comfortable bed in a six bed open sleeping berth. For those who want to pay more for better comfort and more privacy, they also offer four bed closed compartments, or “soft sleepers.” If you buy tickets too late, or if all the sleeping berths are taken, then you have a choice of a “hard” or “soft” seat, which is no problem if you are merely travelling from one nearby city to another, but could be quite uncomfortable if you have a long trip ahead of you.
What can one expect to experience on a train in China? For starters, Chinese people. Lots and lots. And never an open seat/bed. On some of the more crowded trains I’ve ever been on, no seats were available and people had to stand up for the whole trip, or until a seat became available. So if you are one of those people who cherish their personal space and hate crowds, then train travel in China is probably not for you. On hard sleepers you typically share a berth with five other people, and being a foreigner, you are often inundated with questions. Where are you from? What are you doing in China? What do I think about U.S. foreign policy or China’s amazing economic growth in the last 20 years? A great opportunity to practice your Chinese if you are a student! It’s not always comfortable. Why do I always get the berth with the snoring beast or screaming infant? Being able to hear everyone’s conversations and noise can try one’s patience. And the smells. Foot and body odor, the constant smell of instant noodles, or the foul smell from the bathroom. Being on a train also puts you as a foreigner on full display for Chinese people to gawk at in curiosity as if you are some kind of exhibit in a museum. After spending so much time in China I’ve never grown comfortable with how Chinese refer to anyone who is from outside their country: 外国人 (wai guo ren), which literally means “outsider.”
But even if you are an outsider Chinese people can be the most gracious hosts of any people I’ve ever been around. My most recent trip on a train serves as a classic example. I was on an overnight coming back from Tianjin to Harbin, and luckily I had a hard sleeper. For dinner I purchased some junk food at a local McDonald’s before boarding (no instant noodles please!), and shortly after we left Tianjin I sat down at the small table near the window to eat my Big Mac and fries. The man sitting across from me was also eating his dinner and noticed that I was almost finished with my drink. He pulled a beverage out of his own bag and promptly set it down in front of me and encouraged me to help myself. We ended up getting to know each other and had a great conversation. Awesome! I love this country. Such is the flavor of being in China, meeting new people, and taking in such a fascinating culture. What better way than on a train?
The Inner Mongolia (Fall Break) Adventure
Written by Dare Norman (Western Kentucky University)
Intensive Chinese Language in Harbin, Student Correspondent, Fall 2012
“July is the best time to travel Inner Mongolia, not October,” he wheezed out a laugh, scratching the stubble on his chin. On his head was a beanie like a black knit gourd, and his brown eyes were framed with heavy lids and smile lines. Our driver, Mr. Zhang.
It was not the first nor the last time we were criticized about our timing. Inner Mongolia is known for its grasslands and rolling hills: riding horses across green pastures, sleeping outside by a bonfire and eating hand-roasted meat…you know, Genghis Khan. In the autumn, they said, the plains are only brown and cold. How could that be exciting?
Our train had arrived in Hailaer early Saturday, and my first, waking awareness was of glittering white on the window: snow. I bolted awake. The sun had just risen and was tickling pink across the soft mountains in the distance, reducing me to awe until a friend dragged me to disembark. Outside, the hiss of steam from the engine was a thick white cloud, and breathing equaled brain-freeze. I slid my pack over my arm and happily snuggled into the crowd of travellers, customers, and merchants haggling in the street.
“Car rental!” One shouted in that thick northern-Chinese garble, “600 kuai!”
After some fierce negotiation and multi-lingual discussion (having a foreign language at your disposal – in this case, English – can be rather convenient when bargaining), we reached an agreement. Seven people, six bags, a few water bottles and a dozen beef baozi packed together in a tiny gray van, Chinese club music in an endless cycle, a Mao Zedong pendant dangling from the rear-view mirror. So our adventure began.
I had no last look at Hailaer; with all our belongings, there was little space to turn for a backward glance. It was simply forward, pushing thirty miles an hour over hill after hill of frozen grassland. It was the most breath-taking road trip: hiking snowy mountains, trekking along the Chinese-Russian border, and, of course, experiencing interesting meals. China has all sorts of interesting cuisine, but when it comes to eating sheep Inner Mongolia wins.
After three days of bitter cold wind, pink sunsets over icy ravines, shooting stars from the Milky Way, greasy game lunches, and the smell of cigarette smoke, we arrived in Enhe, a small tourism town near the Russian border. I had been sleeping, snuggled between the packs on my left and the puffy coat of my friend on the right. Outside were bare trees, empty hostels, a few stray dogs, brown grass and patches of thick snow. A man sidling down the hard dirt path.
“Eiy!” Braking, our driver rolled down the window. The burst of frosty air shocked me awake.
“I have six foreigners here,” he called. “There a place to stay the night?”
The man responded rapidly and slurred his words – I didn’t understand. But when he gestured to a small house nearby, our driver followed.
Our crew clambered clumsily out of the van and was quickly herded into the house by a kind-faced woman.
“Poor things,” I heard her mutter as we shuffled by. “How pitiful!”
I suppose we did look a bit pitiful: hungry and chilled, tired from uncomfortable car-naps and less-than-recommended hours of sleep each night, sore from hiking, oily and rank with no opportunity to shower. But from our faces beamed smiles, and my heart was happy.
That morning, I remember waking up warm inside and out. Our room was stove-heated and stuffy, the memory of a blazing fire in the grate beside the bed. Fog on the outer window, layers of thick quilts, and one of the softer mattresses I’ve encountered in China. I had probably dreamt of dinner from the night before: 火锅 Huŏ guō Hot pot is a typical North-Eastern Chinese method of feeding lots of hungry college students on a chilly autumn evening. There are lots of fresh meats and vegetables involved, and a large bubbling pot of spicy soup and bean oil. Whatever you want to eat – pumpkin slices, parsley, sweet potatoes, duck, baicai (a type of Chinese cabbage), mushrooms – you simply boil on your own right there at the table. There are dipping sauces, too – a sour, red, fermented-tofu sauce or thick sesame paste. This was all served to us with love and care by the hostel-owner’s wife Anna. They were a perfectly interesting Russian-Chinese couple. He loved to talk, to tell stories and explain Chinese colloquialisms in a brusque, difficult-to-understand accent. She would fuss at him quietly in Russian as she, smiling, served us hot milk tea. When I told them that I was studying music at my American university, they asked me to sing a bit. I remember singing a verse from Les Misérables through the stuffy, fragrant warmth of the dining room, laughing through a group rendition of The Lion Sleeps Tonight, and then dinner was over. Anna hugged us goodnight, and I fell asleep brimming with happy. The best was yet to come: breakfast.
Yes, sir. Behind Mr. Zhang’s tea cup (see the picture!): those are pancakes.
Scrambled, peppered eggs with sautéed onions; sweet, soft bread; three or four different fruit jams; Chinese breakfast cabbage. Two buckets – buckets – of fresh, warmed milk and milk tea. That was the perfect highlight of our trip to Inner Mongolia. The days later were filled with riddles and road-trip games, walking on ice-covered creeks, trekking along the Russian-Chinese border. The weather warmed up, and on the last day we boarded a train in Manzhouli bound, once again, for Harbin.
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