Surviving India Only to Perish in China

OR WHY MALARIA IS SCARY, POSITIVE OR NEGATIVE

I think I have malaria. (Well, I thought I had malaria in early March, a few weeks after returning from malarial India.) I keep getting sick. I just had a cold, and three days after getting over it, I get a fever. Malarial symptoms are all symptoms of the common cold. And you get sick in waves – first feverish or chilly, then healthy for two or three days, then feverish or chilly again. This just keeps happening until you 1. get treated, 2. your body completely annihilates the parasite or 3. you die.

I didn’t take malaria medication while traveling. In my defense, taking malaria medication – while perfectly safe if taken for a few weeks – can make you sicker than just getting malaria. Two months is too long to be on it.

I promise I wore mosquito repellent. But the mosquitoes in Madurai (in Tamil Nadu, India) got me bad. They are the most aggressive mosquitoes I have ever had a run-in with. I covered my arms, legs, and midsection with industrial-hazard-level deet bug spray. So they bit my face. And in-between my fingers. I started putting mosquito repellent on my hands, but every time I used the bathroom, the repellent would wash off. And soon thereafter I would get a fresh bite on my hands again. It was a losing battle. By the time I left Madurai, I looked like a chicken pox victim. It was terrible.

So you can understand why, when I magically picked up cold symptoms two weeks after leaving Madurai, I was worried. You’d be worried too.

Unfortunately, northern China is not a malarial zone. No one knows how to diagnosis it. Most clinics don’t have tests for it. If you have malaria (or any tropical disease), it can be much safer to stay in the malarial (tropical) area to get treated. Doctors know the symptoms, and can quickly get you tested and medicated. Even in my non-malarial hometown of Kensington, MD (a suburb of Washington, DC), you would have a hard time finding a malaria test.

So, in a way, I was screwed.

I do, however, have lovely bosses who treasure their relationship with Shansi and Oberlin greatly. They would not, could not, let one of their Oberlin Shansi teachers get sick. So they listened to my pleas about getting a blood test, though I think they thought I was crazy for being so anxious and stubborn about the whole thing.

People from the Foreign Affairs Office (FAO) took me to Taigu’s hospital. “They don’t have the test here,” they explained “but the doctor will take a look and can tell if you’re positive.” I was fuming. Malaria has all the symptoms of a cold. How in the world could a doctor tell if I had it? Just as I suspected, the doctor thought I was crazy for thinking I had malaria. His nurse took my temperature, which was normal. He listened to my heart. “You don’t have malaria. You just have a cold. I’ve seen malaria patients. I would know,” the man from the FAO translated for me. Really? Can you tell just by looking at me? I wondered all this and more to myself. On the way out, they people from the FAO handed me three different medications, told me that I must take them, and only vaguely told me what they were for. Alexandra finally translated them for me. One was an antibiotic (obviously, I didn’t take this), one was to cure sore throats and was a mix of western and eastern medication (took this), and the last one she couldn’t translate (I didn’t take this one either).

Upon my insistence, and my insistence alone, the next day we went to the province capital hospital (Taiyuan People’s Hospital). At this point, I was so worried that I was prepared to take an overnight train to Beijing to get tested at some expensive ex-patriot clinic. But luckily, Taiyuan had what we were looking for. After meeting with another doctor, who once again told me I had a cold yet wrote a script for the test anyway, and wandering through many hallways of the hospital, we found the testing room. It was just a laboratory. I wondered if the equipment would be properly sterilized. I wondered if I’d get sicker by visiting all these hospital than by just staying in bed, dealing with my malaria/cold. “Can I prick your ear?” the man from FAO translated. What?!? Prick my ear? The ungloved lab technician had started coming at my face with a sharp bit of metal (that seemed to have come from a new plastic pointy-bits-of-metal packet and was hopefully sterilized). Like any normal American, I freaked out. “What is he doing!?!?!” I say to my translator. “He needs to get blood. He could poke your finger, but it would hurt more,” he said. After explaining how – trying to regain some face – “we” don’t prick ears for blood in America, I went with the ear prick anyway. I now know how babies feel when they get their first shots. If someone wants to prick my finger or poke my arm, I just relax. But when someone pricks the bottom of my earlobe, it feels strange, unnatural, and a bit sadistic. You want to do WHAT…WHERE?!?! My ears are pierced; it’s not like I haven’t had pointy things near them. But this new medical experience felt so wrong, was so culturally different that I was tense the whole time. (By the way, both the lab technician and the translator think Americans are crazy for not using the painless earlobe method in American blood work.)

Did I mention it was the scariest experience I have had in a long time?

Guess what? I’m negative. Isn’t that great? We don’t have sick leave here in Taigu, so even though I was in and out of hospitals for 2 days, I had to make up all four of the classes I missed. (I made them up over the weekend.) And did not have time to stay in bed getting better from my cold. It was a frustrating few days to say the least.

This story, I’m sure, illustrates some interesting cultural points about China and America, the East and the West, but I have yet to figure out what those enlightening points are. All I know is that getting sick abroad is terrifying, and something everyone should avoid at all costs. But perhaps, we can learn the most from our new environments when we are the most stressed, the most vulnerable, and the most in need of friends, family, and a community.

The translator and I have become good friends. And now I know where the nearest malaria test is. Splendid.

The Map of Malarial Areas is from http://www.smeds.org/7th%20Malaria/Peterson/default.html.

Chinese Tourism (Pictures)

OR WHERE IS MY TOUR GUIDE?!?!

On my recent trip to Zhangjiajie National Park, in Hunan Province, I noticed something odd. Chinese tourist spots are not like their American counterparts. Being one with nature in China is not like being one with nature in America. And Chinese tourists do not behave like any tourists I've seen before. Which means that most things you'd take for granted while traveling just did not exist or happen. Like easy-to-understand maps. Or having a hotel in the park that did not require you to lug your luggage up a mountain to sleep at. However, if you wanted to stay seated while two men carried you around in a chair, you could do that. Let me show you some of the travel differences I noticed while visiting the karst peaks in Zhangjiajie. May my photos enlighten, inspire, and perhaps cause some culturally-insensitive giggles.

First off, everyone wants to travel with a tour guide and a group in tow.

They even have schools to train the guides, perhaps on how to keep to the Party line.

Since few travel without a guide, we couldn't find a useful map. These people all speak Chinese, and don't they look confused? When in China, not going to a major tourist attraction, either go with confusion and angst or go with a guide.

We wanted to go hiking, but there aren't any trails. Just paved walkways and stone steps.

If steps aren't your thing, you could take an elevator up one of the main mountains.

Or take a sightseeing trolley.

Or, for the right price, be carried.

We noticed that Chinese people love having their pictures taken at all of the famous scenic spots.

Especially for money by someone else.

They also love taking pictures with Caucasian strangers. This man just came up and posed next to me without asking first. Deciding to capitalize on the situation, I had someone take a photo of us on my camera, too.

And if beautiful karst mountains don't thrill you, visiting the inspiration for the Hallelujah Mountains from Avatar would, right?

Except that these are not the mountains that James Cameron based Avatar's floating mountains on. The Yellow Moutain (in Anhui Province, China) is.

But that doesn't stop Zhangjiajie from capitalizing on their apparent likeness.

What can I say folks? Culture makes us do some weird things. I'll admit this post makes me giggle a lot. But how funny am I when I'm just acting "normal"? How funny are you?

My New Banner

OR AN EXPLANATION OF LOVE AND LOCKS

In many countries, lovers lock padlocks to railings or fences, usually over bridges, and then throw down the key, to show the eternal locking of their two souls together. I saw hundreds of these love locks, on the railings and trees on a natural bridge two karst mountains had created in Zhangjiajie (Hunan province). I saw love locks for eternal love, good fortune, long life, and good wishes for one's family.

I guess you can lock anything away, and somehow save it. Somehow. But I doubt it.

On Pilgrimage in China (Pictures)

OR HOW MAO'S HOMETOWN MAY BE THE CLOSEST THING TO JERUSALEM/ MECCA FOR CHINESE PEOPLE

China is not a religious place. Yes, people here practice religion. And maybe, long ago, people embraced group spirituality openly. But in this self-proclaimed secular country, nothing is as religious as Mao Zedong. (At least, for predominantly Han party members.) The official party line says that he was 70% right, and 30% wrong. But that doesn't stop thousands of Chinese nationals from visiting Shaoshan, Mao's hometown.

We were already in the area, staying in Changsha, the capital of Hunan province. With this pilgrimage site just 90 minutes away, we couldn't resist not going.

When we first arrived in Shaoshan, we were starving. So we found a kitschy Mao gift shop/restaurant combo to eat in.

Naturally, we ordered Mao's favorite dish: Hong Shao Rou (red braised pork). Or, as I like to think of it, insti-heart attack.

We found plenty of creepy Mao gift shops.

But decided not to buy anything.

First, we saw a big bronze Mao in a huge park. Wanting to fit in, we decided to take a group portrait in front.

Next, we went to the Mao Zedong Memorial Museum, where we learned lots of things.

For example, that Mao gets all the girls.

.   .   .

Here's a picture of what we were led to believe are Mao's chopsticks. DNA testing, anyone?

Finally, we went to see Mao's parents' house. It was free, along with the museum and the park. The transportation...was not.

Look! Mao is poor like us! This hole in the roof, covered by plastic, shows us how poor the Chairman was. But when I noticed that every room's roof had a hole in the same spot, we started to get skeptical.

Mao's bed. This is where he must have dreamt communist dreams, on pillows of a traditional bed.

The grounds near his house, the museum, and the square were immaculately taken care of...for rural China standards.

Me and David in a rapeseed field.

Dan, following my posing advice, in a field. Notice, Alexandra is not taking my tips to heart.

On the way back to Changsha, I made a friend. Yes, he is punching you.

So our trip was beautiful, idyllic, full of fatty food, and rather cheap (if you don't include the car we hired who, after we gave him hundreds of kwai to drive us to Shaoshan, drove us to the nearest bus depot, bought us each 15 kwai tickets, and left us to take the slow, local bus all the way there). But don't worry. It will take more than a pilgrimage to make me hail Chairman Mao.

Thank you to Alexandra Sterman for donating pictures to this post.

India (Pictures)

Please enjoy my photos from...

Delhi, Agra & Rishikesh

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2088126&id=1230660239&l=b3da2e9df6

Delhi, Dharamsala, Mcleod Ganj, Khajuraho & Orcha

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2087993&id=1230660239&l=531bfbd11d

Fort Kochi, Varkala, Amritapuri, Madurai, Trivandrum, the Dubai airport & my return to China

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2087986&id=1230660239&l=387efdfce5

How Eating French Fries Is Like Starring in a Peep Show

OR WHY DATING IN ASIA SUCKS

All I wanted was some fries with mayonnaise. Every so often, I get tired of Chinese food. We have hundreds of restaurants in Bai Yuanr, the part of campus with street stalls, knock-off 7-11's, and sit-down restaurants...but all they sell is one of four types of food: hot pot, noodles (soup usually, sometimes dry), street food (dumplings, steamed buns, or some sort of bread or sandwich knockoff) or dishes (anything remotely eatable, stir-fried). Don't want one of these four types? Too bad!

Dico's is a fifth type rarely found in rural China: non-Chinese food. Dico's is a Chinese knockoff of KFC. If given a choice, Chinese friends always choose KFC over Dico's. But we don't have a KFC.

This day was no different than any other eating experience at Dico's. I had my mulling session over whether to buy the "fried chicken sandwich" meal or the "Japanese fried chicken curry with rice" meal. Don't worry, they both come with a nice helping of fries and a medium-sized Coke. I order the curry, and completely confuse the waitress in the process. I don't know how to say "meal", so I have to wait until they ring up my "nine" (this number is what I say over and over until I'm sure that they know I want curry), and check the price. If it's terribly low, I start saying "Don't want! Don't want!" until she realizes I want the meal, not just the curry. Then I ask her to "add mayonnaise". (You can use "add" when you ask the waitress to fill your water bowl. "Add water.") First she cocks her head. See, Chinese folks understand ketchup. They put it on their fries. But mayo is a nightmare to order. Sometimes she brings me frozen yogurt. Eventually she points to the kitchen, and emphatically asks (this is what I imagine her Chinese means) "Do you really want more of that shit we put on the sandwiches? Really?" She is even more confused when I ask this of her without having ordered a sandwich in the first place. She eventually comes back with the bizarre white stuff contained in a small cup.

Now I can eat happily.

The entrance's wall of Dico's is made of glass and it's a sunny day in my polluted city, so I decide to sit at a table next to the window and people-watch. Little did I know that I was to be the one watched. The one to be put under glass, examined, prodded, poked, and gawked at like a zoo animal. By this rough-looking guy, who looked a bit like a bum, perhaps just unwashed from his job in the fields, who knows. He comes up to the glass. He presses himself against the glass immediately in front of me. He starts petting the glass. He is staring at me.

In America, I was stared at or not stared at. The former was awkward; the later, preferred. Since moving to Asia, I am always stared at. However, some stares are easier to take than others. I prefer the way Chinese people stare at me: in passing, eventually looking away of their own accord (though they stare longer than Americans), and if they see me staring back, they either look away or ask me what country I am from. Indian men's stares (you hardly see women or children in public spaces in India) are far worse: they don't stop when they catch you looking, if they try to talk to you, it's a sales pitch (the men not trying to sell you something kindly leave you alone), and they yell guilt-trips at you when you ignore them -- "This American is very mean!" or "Why don't you ever stop and talk to me?!" In Northern India's touristy areas, you may get this treatment from every shop stall you pass. And you will pass hundreds.

But this random Chinese dude took the cake. And then some. He stared at me. His body language screamed that he was only focused on me. He was standing way too close to me; even the glass didn't make me feel safe. And the look on his face was a mixture of desires -- wanting to worship and wanting to possess. In short, he looked at me as if he had an erection. And no one in the restaurant or out in the parking lot seemed to notice.

It was terrible. I didn't know what to do. No one has ever been so forward, so crass with me in my entire life. I was alone. I suddenly I realized I didn't know the Chinese words for "Stop!" or "Go away!". I started giving him a "what the fuck is your problem!" look, stopping mid-way upon realizing that it would probably make no sense to a non-American, and then just hid my face behind my palms, like the celebrities do when they see paparazzi. He went away. And came back. And came back a third time. And still, even though there were plenty of people inside and out, no one seemed to notice or take offense but me.

Outraged and scared, I gathered my things and bolted to the upstairs eating area. I was shaking and freaked out, and am still not sure how I could have handled the situation better. I haven't seen the guy since.

*   *   *

If you want to know what the dating life of Shansi fellow is like, this is it. A creepy guy visually assaulting me. Or one of our Chinese friends, while drunk, trying to make out with me while his girlfriend was sitting next to him. (I had to spend the whole night holding him off me. And later, when confronted about it, he didn't even remember it happening. He did, however, apologize profusely. Though perhaps it's his girlfriend who he should be apologizing so heartfeltly to.) Or having a Kashmiri stalker in India. Or being broken up with by an American. I miss dating. I miss flirting, having crushes, going on dates, having casual or serious boyfriends or girlfriends. But living abroad combined with my position as a teacher have taken away my ability, and the ability of most people in situations like me, to date. Pretty much no one's inter-continental long distance relationships last. And unless you're lucky enough to be attracted to someone in the expat or traveler community (aka another foreigner like yourself), you're out of luck. I work on campus and it would be throwing my reputation as a teacher and as a respectable woman away to date a student. But the only people I meet are students -- who do their best to treat me like some 40-year-old married lady. Not as someone who is just a year younger than them (or a few years older, depending on my students). Also, looks-wise, I make no sense to Chinese people. I am white (plus), blond (bizarre), with curly hair (huge plus in a land where many gets perms), with short hair (bizarre because only males and some teenage girls do that), who is not all that feminine (very bizarre), who does not own high heels (extremely bizarre) and who, as a rule, does not want rhinestones anywhere near her clothing or shoes (absurdly bizarre).

I am tired of being treated as weird, old, and ugly. The style of my short hair is worn by at least 80% of the Oberlin female-bodied population. I would blend there. But here, I stick out. Beautiful, ugly, and confusing eye-candy for the world at large.

This, I would say, is what the Shansi experience is all about.



Dico's photo is from http://chinabites.com/kunming/restaurants/dicos/178/.

Spring Cleaning at No. 13 Foreign Expert House (Pictures)

We're ready to clean!

"I've just discovered this 2-million-year-old artifact that leading experts believe will change the face of science." Ray, the sexy archaeologist.

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Success!

Nap time.