Wounded Soldier

A few weeks into my Sanda (kickboxing) training, my Sifu (teacher/master) had us sparring.  Sparring, in my experience, has an uncertain level of danger and intensity.  From the outset, the exercise might be called “light sparring,” but the intentions of the combatants and the natural vigor of the activity can escalate things quickly.  In Brazilian jiu-jitsu or wrestling, each grappler can push the pace as hard as they want to, since there are no punches or kicks there’s no normal risk of injury.  And as soon as one grappler secures a submission- which would lead to injury or unconsciousness if the opponent didn’t have a chance to yield- then the action stops and the action is reset.  But the end goal in finishing an opponent in any kind of striking is a knockout, either landing a blow that makes him blackout momentarily, or double over, unable to stand up and fight.  So to simulate this, the chance of injury is obviously real, and even with safety equipment and controlled technique the level of contact is still imprecise.  Besides that, sometimes both sparring partners decide they want to let fly and hurt the other guy.  Maybe at first they just wanted to show they were better, had the edge, but after they got punched too hard in the nose they need to let their partner know who’s boss.  Trainers have different opinions about the intensity level in sparring.  I’ve heard that sparring is learning- which it is- and the point isn’t to take someone’s head off but to practice technique in a live-speed environment, and I’ve also heard that hard sparring is necessary to prepare for a real fight’s contact, speed, and pace.  I think I’m of the opinion that a fighter should be built up in steps.  The only reason I’m able to keep up with the level of sparring partners I am today is because I had the opportunity to practice and refine my technique, after first analyzing its mechanics and logic, in increasingly lesser-controlled settings.  But that’s all just background, so back to the main thread.

I was partnered up with my Sifu’s nephew, a seventeen-year-old who’s far above the rest of the students and a couple levels ahead of me.  I didn’t know how they did things at Wei Sifu’s gym, or in China, but I had a decent level of experience sparring so I took to it and went back and forth with Sifu’s nephew for a few minutes.  I tried settling into my game, my usual habits, and seeing how well those would succeed, but I wasn’t able to catch my rhythm and establish myself because he was getting the better of me.  It was a rough start, and I became a little frustrated after trying to sidestep and falling on my back when he came forward with a leg kick that caught me sideways.  After I got up, I wasn’t angry, wasn’t vengeful, but I was definitely more loose.  I dropped the tension I was holding by trying to establish myself and dazzle with perfect technique.  So, not long sparring in my newly relaxed state, I let go with a left-leg head kick.  It was quick and effortless, without concentrating on it beforehand, and unexpectedly, and as it turned out, unfortunately, it found its mark.

His pupils rattled into place as everyone watching either gasped or grew silent.  We both stopped, and a trickle of blood came down over his lip.  He went into the bathroom to check and clean out his mouth.  Some of the older students, around my age, who knew English were excited and said, “Wow!  You are strong!”  I felt terrible.  I was trying to express my apology, afraid that he’d come back twice as hard at me, but Wei Sifu said it was nothing, not to worry.  There would be no grudges, it was understood as part of training.  Sheepishly, I went aside and checked my own wound.  I had a small gash on my foot, at the head of my second toe.  It had been cut open, I don’t know whether by the force of the impact or by his teeth.  I had felt terrible about hitting my training partner so hard, but I was soon to feel even worse.

My Chinese “aunt” and “uncle” told me not to wash my cut.  I didn’t understand at first and I was insisting, but then they communicated that the water was not clean.  That’s right, I agreed, the tap water here isn’t the same as in America.  So, instead, my uncle swabbed my foot with alcohol-soaked cotton swabs.  I requested a band-aid, but either they thought that was unwise, unavailable, or they didn’t understand.  The next day the wound had hardened over and my sock had a large rusty blotch.  Also, it was surprisingly hard to walk and painful to move my toes.  I felt like a baby not training the next day, but my aunt made the call and I really couldn’t have even if I had tried.  Besides, there was a three-day trip to Shanghai beginning the next morning.  Yes, it was the week of the National Day holiday, the day when China marks its modern founding in 1911 and the week when most people have time off from work or school.  We had planned a trip to Shanghai, to see the city and visit Aunt Fang and Uncle Jiang’s son (their surnames are different because the women in China keep their father’s name even after they marry).  The morning of our trip, Aunt Fang had to pull out to go meet someone, so it was just Uncle Jiang and I headed off to meet his son, his sister, and his niece in Shanghai.  I hobbled along as best as I could, trying not to wince and thankful when I could rest and elevate my foot.  Throughout the trip, we swabbed my increasingly sore, red and yellow wound, and applied generous amounts of ointment to it.  I had a gauze bandage held on by tape (given to me by Aunt Fang’s sister- a nurse- when we made a brief visit into what I thought was the scariest hospital I’d ever been in; it wouldn’t be much longer until I experienced the scariest) and that was completely soaked and had mostly stiffened.  (I’m not trying to be unpleasant, so to make the point cleanly: my foot was swelling, sore to the touch, and the wound was festering.  I was sucking air in through my clenched teeth as I slipped on my shoe and pulled it off; I couldn’t even bear to tie the laces.)  Well, I spent most of the vacation in the hotel room, which wasn’t all bad in itself, but I felt disappointed that I wasn’t able to tour the city more.  I was hoping that Uncle Jiang would allow us to go out and see the city- despite my foot I thought I could endure it- but he insisted I rest and so either he or the whole group kept me company most of the time.  We did go out for one evening to see the river (gorgeous night scene with lights all up and down the river) and a shopping area, and we spent most of one day touring the city center and taking pictures of the famous skyscrapers (check my Facebook page if you’re interested in those).

When we came back to Bengbu, where Uncle Jiang and Aunt Fang live, we went out for dinner with some old colleagues of Uncle Jiang’s from when he used to work with Aunt Fang at Bengbu Medical College.  They all had a great time catching up as I enjoyed the lively atmosphere, removed from the table by some distance due to culture and language.  Afterwards, instead of going back home, Aunt Fang had Uncle Jiang drop her, their doctor friend, and me, off at the hospital affiliated with the college.  My foot was still bad, no, it was worse, and after having several nurses and doctors look at it and say it was fine- nothing broken that is- she wanted to have her close friend look at it and fix the problem.  Note: before I came to China, I was concerned about the health care here.  What were the hospitals like?  Will I be able to access what I need?  Could I afford it?  I found out that if you know someone, you just walk right in.  I’ve been to a few hospitals for more than five visits, and I’ve never filled out any paper work, sat and waited, or paid any money for the services (this includes quick checks, new bandages applied, and x-rays).  With Aunt Fang, I walk past the crowded lobby full of people with morbidly miserable faces, up the stairs, or in the case of the second hospital up the overly-crowded elevator, past the patients lying on beds in the hallways with their family members massing around, and right up to the doctor in his office.  So, in the doctors’ office behind the nurses’ desk, Aunt Fang pulled up a chair for me to sit down and wait until the physician she knew could come and see me.  As Aunt Fang and her friend (also a doctor, I think) talked, other doctors and nurses shuffled by, returning supplies and gathering medicine to take on their rounds.

By this time I was already scared, praying and trying to focus past the panic.  You see, my foot was in bad pain at that point, the surroundings were crowded, busy, dingy, and poor.  All the meager surroundings you’d picture in a third-world hospital: large, cold rooms populated by scant wooden furniture that was worn and usually in need of paint or repair.  Inside the wooden cabinets, there would be a few supplies, but nothing like at an American clinic, a collection of glass bottles, thin cardboard boxes with gauze and bandages inside, and simple instruments you’d be just as likely to find in your neighbor’s medicine cabinet.  All of this is dimly lit by fluorescent bulbs, so the atmosphere is getting to me, but I hate hospitals to begin with.  If you know me well you know I hate needles and I can’t even have a conversation about blood without getting faint.  Going into a hospital, my mind races and I have to fight my rationalizations that the worst will happen and I’m going to have to have my foot amputated.  I know, it’s dramatic, but sitting in that terrifying hospital, I almost would have signed a confession of guilt for a made-up crime if meant they’d release me.

When Aunt Fang’s physician friend came in, he took out some cotton swabs, a bowl, and some very large metal tweezers, just like the doctors who’d looked at my foot before.  But this time, Aunt Fang and her friend looked at me sympathetically, clutched my shoulder and gripped my hand, and covered my eyes.  The doctor went to work, and I did my best to hold on.  As he plucked and tore out the infected tissue, the pain came in intense shots.  I was repeating the same psalm in my head, or when the pain was too much that it distracted me, I switched and tried focusing on something else, like the sensation of another body part, to try and ignore the pain in my foot.  It was bad enough that I started to feel flush and get hot; I knew what was coming.  My posture slowly collapsed in the chair as I vainly struggled to take in fresh air.  I was going out, and I knew if it continued for a moment longer I would either faint in my chair or fall on the floor.  Blindly, I waved the doctor off with my hand, motioning for him to stop.  He was already done though, and so as he stepped away Aunt Fang and her friend tried pulling me up by my arms and reviving me.  It just wasn’t going to happen, and I ducked my head between my knees to try and allow blood back into my brain.  After a couple minutes watching me bent over, Aunt Fang and her friend helped me up and carried me with my arms, one over each of their shoulders.  I protested, or at least tried, barely able to mouth words and so drained that I couldn’t open my eyes or find the strength to move.  I didn’t know where they were taking me; I thought they meant to take me outside when I was in no condition to attempt to walk home, even if it was only three blocks away.  Of course, they had my best wishes in mind, and they took me around the corner, into an empty exam room to lie down on the bed.  Slowly, as Aunt Fang held my hand and wiped the sweat off my forehead, my breathing began to return to normal.  It was quite a while, I’m not sure exactly how long since in my trance the time didn’t register to me as it normally would, before I was able to sit up.  And when I did, they all watched intently, bracing themselves with the worry that I might topple over.  But I managed to make it out and down the elevator, aided of course by her and her friend.

We weren’t quite done; we scheduled a stop by the radiology department and found two doctors standing in the hallway, on smoke break, to take some x-rays.  Yes, smoking in the hospital hallway, and yes, holding the cigarette in his off hand while he adjusted the camera with his right.  Even though I’d just been through trauma, I had a small smile.  A radiologist working with a lit cigarette- that’s just too funny an experience, too out-of-the-American-world not to enjoy.  Nothing was broken or fractured, so with that I hobbled home.

The next day we went back, my aunt and I, and had another doctor (this one spoke decent English) examine my foot.  He took out the tweezers, and the bowl, but this time he only pulled off the gauze, cleaned the wound, and replaced the bandage.  It took hardly more than a minute, and when I walked out all the nurses were smiling and joking with my aunt.  I guess, even compared to the craziness they’re used to, I made quite a scene the day before.

As we left, Aunt Fang tried translating a Chinese expression or some apt words she thought of to describe the situation.  I helped her sound it out and she meant to say “wounded.”  She called me a “wounded soldier.”  I told her, as best as I could in simple English, that when I was about seven, in a similar situation, that time walking home from the hospital upset because I had to go through the nightmare of getting a shot, my mother told me I was her “brave little soldier,” but I told her, “No, I’m not!  I’m a sad little boy!”  And I pouted the rest of the way home.  I don’t know how my young mind came up with that so quickly.  But now, after the nearly three-week layoff and several more doctor’s visits, once I returned to Sanda training, whenever I come back bruised or sore, Aunt Fang always tells me, “You are wounded soldier.”

Traffic

Traffic in China doesn’t follow the laws or conventions of American roadways, as you might expect.  You see, China is a collectivist society, which means drivers from opposing traffic will share your lane with you.

Driving and walking are dangerous prospects in China (not that driving is especially safe anyplace else).  Sidewalk and street blend into one here, and cars split the street with bicycles, dogs, buses, motorcycles and motorbikes, and plenty of pedestrians.  I often wonder why so many people walk in the street- without seeming to care for their safety- and set out to use the sidewalk, but after weaving through too many food carts, tables, chicken cages, broken concrete and other construction leftovers, and parked bicycles and motorbikes, I end up taking to the street myself.

Here, the drivers honk non-stop.  It’s to alert other motorists and pedestrians of their approach, but the people here are so jaded and used to it that they won’t step aside unless they have to, and only then at the last possible moment.  One of my taxi drivers almost ran down a university student, and I can’t really fault the driver because he had his headlights on, was driving under 5 miles per hour, and had honked steadily at him several times before the young man finally flinched and stepped aside.  Last week, my uncle Jiang and I set out in his car one morning to drive back to the university from the city of Bengbu, normally a 30-minute drive.  The fog that morning was intense, you would’ve tripped over your toes if you didn’t know your heels were behind them.  Almost as thick as the fog outside was the tension inside the car.  I watched wordlessly as my uncle slowly traversed the maze of the once-familiar city streets and grunted and sighed while trying to determine what streets we were on.  Then, insanely, and I don’t use those italics lightly, pedestrians would appear- on the highway, not on the city streets- would appear in front of us, walking the wrong way, when a perfectly usable pathway- flat, smooth, and clear- lie on the other side of a separating barrier.  We would honk and swerve around them, and after surviving our 80-minute odyssey we eventually arrived home.  I often mutter to myself about Chinese drivers’ lack of courtesy and safety in relation to other drivers and especially to pedestrians, but those people walking on the highway, in the fog, were out of their minds in any culture.

Back to the taxi drivers.  Of course, they show the same temerity as taxi drivers the world over.  But here, no one shows respect to the dashes or lines indicating whose lane is whose.  So, when passing, the taxi drivers will honk several times and go left or right- whichever is most convenient, not necessarily a legal or safe driving space- to overtake whatever’s in front of them.  Once, on a four-lane road, we were in the left lane (note: China, like America, drives on the left- theoretically), blocked in front by a tour bus and on the right by a semi.  So, in his impatience, my driver passed the bus in front by going left (we’re driving the wrong way now), which is fairly common for them, but there was another car in front of us, also in the midst of passing the bus by driving into opposing traffic.  Apparently, this fellow scofflaw was too slow for the taxi driver, so he went left around him- we are into the far lane of reverse-direction traffic now.  I don’t remember how long it took to pass both car and bus, or by how little we missed a head-on collision, but if I counted it in breaths, it would have been zero.

They pile them in here, too, at least on the motorbikes.  Every morning, I can count on seeing husband and wife, or daughter and child, doubled-up on a motorbike, and if it’s raining, wearing a parka made to drape over the handlebars, or if it’s cold, using mittens that are fastened to them.  I’ve seen, more times than I can count, father driving the motorbike, mother holding on in the back, and son or daughter standing in the foot rest.  I’ve seen them carrying dogs and chickens on the back, or so many cases of beer that I don’t think I could fit them in the passenger side of my car.  The funniest, most outrageous, motorbike scene I ever saw was a woman trailing one of their motorbike-trucks (motorcycle front with a truck bed attached), and with her extended right leg she was pressing against a stack of plywood, preventing the sheets from sliding during travel.  I guess the rope and bungee cord are Western conveniences.

It’s scary and sadly funny, but too often tragic.  You’ve probably read the in the news about the two-year-old, Yue Yue, who was struck and left in the street as passersby took no notice of her brain-condition.  Or the over-packed van filled with school children that was in a head-on crash.  I heard that news from my mother and told her that awful as it was, I wasn’t surprised.  It’s sadly sobering to say something like that.

And don’t expect to easily negotiate a crosswalk here.  Take a bold mob with you if you expect traffic to yield.  I’ve seen crippled men pushing themselves on a wheeled cart in the middle of a four-way intersection, cars careening past.  Almost as alarming as this sight was the fact that no one else seemed to regard it.  When my aunt noticed my surprise, she laughed at it and basically communicated to me “That’s China for you.”

"Do you think he's handsome?" "YES!"

It was the first day of class and I was walking up the stairway of the local middle school.  “Handsome!  You are handsome!” screamed one of the boys who passed by.

When I meet people here, a lot of them tell me they think I’m handsome.  Yes, as in the example above, even the males say so.  Once, a college student said it, and my fellow foreign teacher, Sue, said, “Men aren’t supposed to tell other men they’re handsome!  It’s just not done.”  And the student just says, “But it’s true!”

When they say so, I tell them thanks, they’re very kind.  It’s out of the ordinary to hear people comment so much on my appearance, and especially to hear them say they think I’m handsome, or the Chinese word for “cool young man.”

The adults and college students sometimes say so when they meet me, and the college students who watch the American show Prison Break tell me that I look like Michael Scofield (Wentworth Miller).  I don’t know, I have to take their word for it.  A couple times, I passed by a group of girls, (and usually, when people say something to me, they get a kick out of hollering “Hello!”) but on two occasions some giggly students waited until I was past and blurted out, “I think you are handsome!”

After awhile, it could become easy to believe.  Really, I knew coming in that people would notice me in a crowd and many Americans had already seen their stock rise after coming to Asia.  For most of these people, I’m the only foreigner they’ve ever met.  In an area of a couple million people, I’m one of a handful of white faces.  The only other white people I’ve seen are the Australian couple, Grant and Sue, who live across from me and also teach English at the university.

And even if they say I’m handsome, it’s more like I’m a curiosity- something to look at.  At the middle school, the students like to shout “Hello!” to me, or say my Chinese name “Li Da-Sen!”  At the university, they’ll sometimes do a double-take, and if they’re with a group of friends, they’ll probably say, “Hello” too.  Everything I do is conspicuous here, so occasionally I’ll hear from one of my students that her friend saw me eating noodles in the cafeteria.  Once, a student (not from one of my classes, someone I met on campus) said, “I heard someone say that Dustin has two kids.”  That was the only rumor I’d ever heard, and if they’re all that wild, then hopefully there aren't any more.

Fireworks- Every Day

Driving in from the airport, we transitioned from the highway to the local country road, and almost as immediately, next to my window were bright orange flashes and the loud drum roll of firecrackers.

I asked the obvious.  "Are those firecrackers?"

"Yes, don't you have those in America?" responded Miss Liu, an English teacher at the local middle school who had come with my friend, Fang Zhu, or "Aunt" Fang, to pick me up from the airport.

"Yes, but we don't set them off on the side of the road...in the middle of the afternoon."

I've heard fireworks of firecrackers every single day since I've been here.  I'm not exaggerating, so I don't mean most of the time.  I mean, every morning, before the construction workers begin their work, they supposedly chase the evil spirits away by lighting off a string in front of the work site, when people celebrate anything (wedding, birthday, acceptance to a good school) they set off firecrackers outside the restaurant, and when people feel like being entertained, I suppose, they light off firecrackers wherever or whenever they please.

Someone who was born in China explained the country this way: "There's no freedom of speech, but you can start a fire in the street."  I'm witness to the truth of that statement.  America has written and unwritten rules about certain spaces.  Streets are for cars, sidewalks are for people, you don't spit in a restaurant, you don't smoke in most places anymore, you need a permit to do any activity that would "disturb the peace."  I've never seen these boundaries in China.

When they light their firecrackers in the street, it's not just a packet of Black Cats, either.  It's the pinky-finger-sized red firecrackers that are on a string, and the whole roll covers about two parking spaces.  Then they let loose, and the strangest thing is that no one seems to really notice.  Chinese people take it for granted; firecrackers in the street are as mundane as seeing the mail truck in America.

Once, in my "Aunt's" apartment, she handed me a long stick with a long, thick tip.
"Is this incense?" I asked. No reply.
"In-cense?" I said, louder and slower.  She grabbed a lighter.
"Wait, is this a sparkler?" I asked exasperated.  She flicked the lighter a few times.
"Is this a sparkler- in the house?"  She finally got a flame.  "Is this a sparkler?" I asked again.
The paper fuse took some time, but eventually it caught and she laughed as I twirled the sparkler around a few times before it died.  A few weeks later, I think it was, she pulled a roll of firecrackers out of a drawer and we went out at night and lit them, in the street, just for fun.

Stranger in a Strange Land

Before I came to China, I promised people, maybe casually, half-heartedly, that I'd try to keep up with them by e-mail.  Rather than create an e-mail list, I think this Blog format will be more convenient.  It's easier reading and can be referred to quickly and shared by anyone interested.  Facebook no longer allows blogs to be imported, so I suppose I'll try to copy and paste there for as long as my will holds out.

I'm hesitant to start this, I think blogs can be self-important and vain, and it's one more task calling for my attention every day.  And yet, I've compiled enough stories and small observations that I think it can provide entertainment, insight, connection, and maybe even brighten someone's day, or life.  So, going forward, I'll be mindful not to overindulge and flatter myself or gush about trivial details ("You people in America haven't lived until you've tried the noodles in Anhui province!  You wish you were here!")  Instead, I'll offer brief stories to chronicle my time here and let you know what it's like, if you're interested.

The reasons for my coming here are deep and vast, so I won't try and list them.  You'll pick them up as you read along.  Hopefully, I'll start to understand them as well.