In order to maintain the integrity of my blog and share the full realm of my experiences in China, I must also include an account of my miserable trip home from the CWLA Training. (Life isn't always peaches and cream, so it wouldn't be fair for my blog to paint such a picture).
Because I had Chinese class on Monday morning, I had to return to Kunming as soon as the workshop was over on Sunday. My coworker still had meetings to attend at the school on Monday morning, so I had to return to Kunming solo. No problem, I thought. The easiest/cheapest way to travel between Kunming and this rural town is to “buy” a seat in a car that drives back and forth. Basically, someone runs a caravan business and you pay for a ride in their car. Great.
As I packed up to head back to Kunming, I readied myself with all the necessary items to ensure a safe, comfortable ride home: my ipod, a book, dove chocolate, a People magazine my parents sent me, and my adorable travel pillow Grandma made me. I was armed and loaded, ready to go.
The car pulls up, a small four-door VolksWagon Passat with super dark tinted windows (dark enough to be illegal at home). The car comes to a hault in front of me and as the back door opens, a billow of smoke leaks from the interior. A fifty year-old Chinese man with greasy hair and an old, wrinkled suit saunters out of the back seat. He waves his cigarette at me, motioning to climb in the backseat.
As luck would have it, I was blessed to get the middle seat in the small sedan. You know, the seat where you have to put one leg on either side of the center consul. Miserable. (Friends, I am the oldest and bossiest child in the Heins Family. I never sit in the middle. In fact, on our family road trips to Niagara Falls, the Grand Canyon, and everywhere else in the Continental U.S., I always got the entire backseat of the van to myself. I could lay down with my feet up and read the whole journey, while my sisters suffered in the middle bench seat. Well, I guess what goes around comes around. Kel & Dev – I have officially been paid back. And- I apologize for all the years I made you suffer, haha. Forgive me?)
So, as I tried to get situated in the backseat, I surveyed the surroundings. It was ridiculously dark in the car because the windows were so tinted and there was a dense haze due to all of the cigarette smoke. The guy on my left looked about college-aged. He had his headphones in and seemed to be a good travel buddy – quiet and not taking up too much space. There was a woman in the passenger seat who was already sleeping. Great, two-for-two with good car mates.
Unfortunately, it goes WAY downhill from here… the drive started getting phone calls every two minutes, and each time he would start yelling into the phone. It wasn’t an angry yell, but he was talking so loudly you would have thought he was shouting to someone in another car. (Chinese people are really funny on the phone anyways because they literally spend the first minute of each phone conversation making sure the other person can hear them. No kidding – this is true across the board. They’re like – hello? Hello, can you hear me? Hi, are you there? Yeah, can you hear me? Okay, what about now? Are you there? Oh my goodness, it’s ridiculous). So driver man is sitting in the front seat, every two minutes shouting into his cell phone trying to be sure the other person can hear him; then they talk for 30 seconds and hang up; then two minutes later, the phone rings again. Repeat.
The driver seems like a saint compared to the dude on my right though. Mr. Chain Smoker felt it necessary to subject the whole car to second-hand smoke inhalation for the entire 5-hour car ride home. And why crack the window? I mean, it’s cold outside so maybe just crack the widow for every other cig you light. And like most Chinese people, his idea of personal space is much different than mine. His left elbow seemed to continuously jam my side anytime he moved. Not only that, but he was clearly mesmerized by the celebrity pictures in People, so he kept creepily peering over my shoulder every time I turned the page. This is too much, I thought. So I buried my head in my book, turned up my music, and breathed into my pillow in order to escape from the situation.
Perfect. My book was really good, and my ipod seemed to read my mind as it was shuffling through songs.
Things were looking up… UNTIL we stopped at a “gas station” about halfway through the trip. Everyone else got out of the car to use the “bathroom” – aka the public trough that has no stalls or doors. I have learned that only in dire emergencies will I use most of the public restrooms in China. So I happily stayed in the car. Luckily, all the doors were opened so the car had a chance to air out. And I got some peace and quiet.
Everyone piled back into the car, and Mr. Ciggs was holding nothing else but a fifth of Baijiu (the Chinese equivalent to vodka or everclear). I stared at him in disbelief; my naïve little mind thought, oh well maybe he is going to a party in Kunming and doesn’t want to buy any booze when he gets there. Haha, how silly of me… The car wasn’t even in Drive before he broke the seal and started taking swigs of his hard alcohol. The smell wafted through the entire car, burning my nostrils. Every five miles he would unscrew the cap and take another pull of biajiu. I was simultaneously disgusted and slightly impressed by his tenacious drinking. (I think he could have given some fraternity boys a run for their money. That’s saying something, lol).
Within thirty minutes, Joe Camel was obliterated and decided to start talking to me. Of course, not only was he slurring his words, but he was speaking in Chinese. All I could understand for the entire forty minutes he was talking to me was something about foreigners in Kunming. I think he talked about the weather for a few minutes, and he possibly told me how long he had lived in Kunming. The rest of the time I just stared at him, expressionless, confused as to how to respond to the crazy man beside me. Luckily, he passed out shortly after our conversation ended so I could return to my book.
About an hour later, I finally arrived at my doorstop – safe and sound, if not slightly traumatized.
As you can see, the ride home was awful. This story provides a small glimpse into Chinese culture and how much men here drink and smoke. It is one of the things that bothers me most living here. Don’t misunderstand me, drinking and smoking is an issue in most countries; however, being a foreigner here, I feel especially vulnerable and uncomfortable. The men I encounter that are drunk are usually in authoritative roles, and they get sloppy drunk. In Chinese culture it is accepted, if not expected in most cases. And to be honest, when out to dinner, most men don’t have a choice because it would be rude and disrespectful to not accept a drink of alcohol, and it is unthinkable to not toast every person at the table individually. Whether it was the person’s intent to get drunk or not, it is often a product of societal rules and social norms. Perhaps you could argue that this isn't so different than American culture. But regardless, it isn't pleasant to encounter or observe.
