Reflections on baijio (among other things)

What precipitated the love and joy from yesterday's post? Well let me expound.

I was dancing around a fire last night...

It all originated with baijio. I hate it with a passion. Baijio is the official (ok the only) hard liqour of China which has ruined every decent meal in this country for the last two thousand years. It taste like (yes I've had some) the run-off from all the sorrows of a teenage depression, like the secretion of a foot-mashed worm on a rainy day, like the holocaust in liquid form, like the first time you get rejected by a girl. The smell of baijio makes me want to hurl. My stomach churns every time I see a Chinese waitress bring in a bottle of the stuff, because I know what is about to happen next.

As I stated earlier in this blog, the Chinese men love baijio more than reproduction. It makes an appearance at every decent meal. They crack open a bottle, pour it in their cups, and toast each other until too drunk to continue. Now I understand wanting to get drunk every time you eat a meal, but really, a civilization that is six billion years old could have invented something that tastes better.

The Chinese keep drinking it, keep pouring it, and keep toasting each other for the rest of the meal. They really love the toasting part. I don't understand why, it's more or less a game where everyone wins. Everyone toasts everyone and everyone has a good time. The Chinese look forward to this whole toasting thing from the moment they wake up in the morning with a hangover. They live for dinner’s and toasting.

But the main problem is Chinese men consider baijio a sign of machismo. The real men drink a lot. The real men pretend they enjoy it. In fact, besides cigarettes, I'm pretty sure baijio is the only sign of machismo in China. Men in America assert their manhood in many way: hunting, drinking beer, lifting weights, eating spicy food, having a beard, driving a motorcycle, sports, womanizing, business, etc. Men in China have two choices: one hundred proof fire-water and cancer sticks. That is why every man in this country does both. I am a man. I am an American. I’m expected to put the stuff away.

Now you know the foundation of my troubles, I will tell you the story.

I have a Chinese businessman named David. He appears often in this blog--see the mountain park post and the one where I ranted--and David has a friend who is a student at the University across the street. His name is Bevin. Bevin and David have a symbiotic relationship: Bevin does David's translating, teaches David English, and gets David hooked up with the Americans he knows at the University. Why all this ingratiating? Because Bevin hopes by getting on David's good side, David will pay back Bevin's kindness with a job. Do you see where I fit into all this? Yes it's the part where I am an American.

David yearns to be friends with an American. Why? I don't know. It plays into the whole dream of one day making it to America. This whole thing is just a grand production of Fevil: An Amerian Tale. Americans are not humans over here, we’re demi-god status symbols. This is why David wants to be friends with me. He wants everyone to see that he has a friend from America. He wants everyone to know that the Americans like him. He’ll do almost anything to get that.

However, David has forgot the keystone of superficial friendships: I’m the one with the power, and because of this, you better be making me happy. He tries hard—expensive dinners, exotic places—but I really don’t enjoy his company. The sad thing is he doesn’t know that. Why? He is that obtuse. He has driven me to mountain parks, and he has taken me to fancy restaurants, but I hate it. He has such narcissitic confidence. He reminds me of the person that buys a Christmas gift on the sole factor that they want someone to give it to them. He thinks that if he is having a good time showing me around, then I must be having a good time. In his mind I am having the time of my life every time I am around him. There is no way I’m not right? Because spending time with him is a privilege. Something I should be thankful for. He is lowering himself to my level. And I should get down on my knees every night and be thankful that I met a guy that shows me the countryside and buys me dinner. I want to crush his little world. Really. I want to scream “Americans DON’T LIKE YOU!” But he probably wouldn’t pick up on that. Don’t be that person readers.

So I hear you asking: “But Jonathan why do you keep doing stuff with this man?” One word: persistence. Bevin and David are the most persistent people I have met. Bevin will call three times a week and inform me of an invitation to dinner. I will decline the invitation. Bevin will beg for ten minutes. I will still decline. Bevin will call the next day; I will decline again. Eventually I wear down and agree. JC was right: persistence works. They are why I refused to pick up my phone for a whole month. They don’t take no for an answer. One time I yelled into the phone “I WON’T GO.” Bevin and David knocked on my door the next day.

Well, I wore down this week and agreed to go to dinner with David last night. He blew his last chance.

At five thirty David took me to one of the 4,000 minority restaurants in the city. David also took Ms. Lucy (a Sister).

Ms. Lucy has been one of the bright spots of my trip to China. For one, Ms. Lucy studied three years in Jersey (she’s got friends in High places up in Rome), so she understands what it’s like to be a foreigner. Ms. Lucy has empathy for me because she’s been there. Plus, she has the best English of anyone I have met in the last four months. Above all, she’s a Sister. So you know, we have a lot in common.

So, as I was saying, David treated Ms. Lucy and me to dinner at a minority restaurant last night. Dinner was going fine—I wanted to leave, everyone was speaking Chinese, pretty normal circumstances—when the waitress breaked out the baijio. Of course, everyone started drinking.

At this point, the waitresses of the establishment began dancing around a bonfire in the middle of the restaurant (it had a courtyard feel). I feigned interest and left the table. Seeing that I might be interested, Lucy decided that I might enjoy learning how to dance Chinese style and guided me to the fire. Last night I was dancing around a fire with eight Chinese waitresses, the sole reason I came to China.

Unexpectedly, who expects these things, a group of twenty drunken people yanked me out of the conga line into the midst of their bacchanalian revelry. For about thirty seconds I lost all power. I couldn’t escape. I had about two inches of moving room, and there were random hands grabbing my arm and pulling me every direction. They surrounded me like a pack of blood-shot eyed zombies all moaning one-word “driiiinkkkk”. And then they tried forcing baijio down my throat. When you’re surrounded by a mob there is a second where everything starts ticking faster and you think to yourself “Oh I could die.” Granted it isn’t a realistic fear, but you are at the mercy of twenty drunk Chinese. You don’t think about knocking someone over or pushing your way out. You worry about holding your footing against the weight of twenty individuals. They just keep pressing closer and closer, without any coherent thought to what they are doing. And then occurs to you, you’re in this position because you are a foreigner. No other reason. You may die in this blasted place because a pack of baijio saturated Chinese forced you into a blazing bonfire.

I broke out, somehow, enraged out of my mind and soaked from neck to waist in baijio. I smelled like the wretched drink. I made my way to our table, and for the rest of the night I endured the constant toasting of David’s good friends and coworkers, who were eating at the same restaurant on the same night.

Yes, David took me to that restaurant to show me to his entire workplace. I have no humanity around this guy. David uses me to look cool; Bevin uses me to get on David’s good side, and I get a free three dollar meal. Everyone is too involved with his or her agenda to notice that I hate it. Even Sister Lucy.

After dinner they drove me to the foot of my apartment. I was soaked in baijio, livid, and exhausted. After we parked Ms. Lucy said, at the same time I began thanking the good Father for delivering me from evil, “You are the host, you should invite them up to your apartment.” I lost Ms. Lucy, my one Chinese friend who understands. She saw me hating the entire night. She had to know I wanted nothing more than to change clothes and get away from these people. She had too. Now she was on their side.

I invited them up to my filthy apartment (it’s that way to deter guests) in hopes the visit wouldn’t last long. I’m not sure what part about the night signified I was the host. It must have been my baijio soaked jacket. They sat down in my apartment and stayed for about an hour and a half, but that is not the length of it.
They played the part of “annoying houseguest” perfectly: they open doors that are closed for a reason, they touch things you don’t want touched, they stick around longer than they should. It doesn’t help the situation.

And David, right on cue, begins asking me to accompany him to Lichuan sometime in the next week. Lichuan is a town that is three hours away from Enshi. Its main claim to fame is beautiful scenery and that one cave. Lichuan is an overnight trip, and we will spend the night in a beautiful hotel. All my houseguests—Lucy, David, Bevin, David’s friend—were trying to convince me to do it. It was rather funny actually. They had no incentive except “It’s going to be really pretty.” I sat there in disbelief. How dense can a group of people be? What are they not telling me? “It’s going to be really pretty?” That’s all I get out of it? Oh man, they don’t know Americans. I didn’t want to do it. So I turned him down for Friday. I turned him down for Saturday. I turned him down for Sunday. I turned him down for Monday. BUT TUESDAY! TUESDAY I HAVE FREE!

They caught me in a lie. Apparently, New Years Day is a holiday in China and the student’s don’t go to class on that day:
“What do you mean you teach on Tuesday? It is a holiday, students don’t go to class.” Ms. Lucy said.
“What? Wait a second. You celebrate New Years twice in this country?” “Yes.”
“Well I’ll be.”

In extreme frustration I agreed.

Sitting there on that couch, hating everything about the last few months, I had an epiphany: if I could just leave the city by Monday and not tell anyone, I wouldn’t go on Tuesday, I wouldn’t have to talk to Bevin or David ever again, and I wouldn’t have to worry about calling them up and telling them I hate their guts (it has come to that point). Yes that’s right, and I could take my four thousand yuan and I could see the country! I could tell my friends at home I saw the Great Wall. I wouldn’t be cursed to a lifetime of “You went to China for four and half months and you didn’t see the Great Wall?” (or Shanghai, or Hong Kong, or pandas, etc.). Yes that’s right! It’s possible. I’m done with classes; I don’t have anything holding me here. All I need is to find a place to stay, pack my apartment and buy my plane ticket. It would work. I would be out of the city in three days! I had it; I had the ultimate plan. I would travel solo and see the country before I left forever. I became excited. I never become excited about anything. It lasted until three o’clock today.

The money. I lost my bankcard a couple of weeks ago and I have no money, and will have no money for a week. For some reason, I had some wild notion that you could walk into a bank, show your I.D. and clean out your account. I was wrong. My waiban and I went to the bank, and I have to wait seven days before the bank will give me a red cent. I’m stuck in this town for one more week. I probably won’t see Beijing.

Of all the soul-crushing experiences I’ve had in the last few months, this one tops them all. I don’t feel excited about something often, and I don’t know why I became excited about this. It’s not my style to want to see something. It’s not my style to get excited. But I wanted to do something alone. I wanted to overcome my lack of adventure. I wanted to go to a big city in a foreign country and survive on my own. I didn’t want a life cursed by “You didn’t see the Great Wall?” exclamations (and believe me they will happen).

I don’t know what happened to that cursed piece of plastic. I’m pretty sure it was stolen. I’ve looked everywhere in my small apartment and can’t find it. And now I have to wait a week for $500 cash. I guess I shouldn’t have lost it, I should have foreseen this coming and cleaned out my bank account when I had a card. I guess I should say it’s my fault, the whole fact that this China experience has been a disaster. I could have done so much couldn’t I? I should have traveled alone in October holiday when I had the chance. I should have made closer friends with my students. I should have cleaned my apartment, or read more. I should have bought into the culture and ingratiated myself with every person I knew. I should have fought the loneliness instead of letting it beat me. I should have invited my students over instead of surfing the internet. I should have done a myriad number of things that I didn’t do.

I planned on writing an optimistic blog post earlier in the day. It had something to do with overcoming obstacles. Hogwash I know. Is there a home after living in this place? Is there? The hits never stop coming. Something about this place just wants to keep you down. Take me home. Take me home and don’t ever let me leave. That’s all I want. You know that by now.

“I’ll see you in the morning if nothing happens.”