Stepping Stones Across the River

Temples in Taiwan are as common as bus stops. They can take up entire city blocks, or the corner of a thin alley. They all radiate cathode light, an incense of burnt wishes and the hope that questions will have acceptable answers; that problems will have familiar solutions or that one’s dreams and hopes are not too far out of line with the vision of the gods.
Unlike the solemn and whisper of western religious sanctuaries, Taiwanese temples are unfettered, flip-flop casual and without holy pretense. Still lives of fruit, flowers, boxed snacks and cans of liquid refreshment adorn tables that offer to the Chinese pantheon of gods a snack while they consider the mortal requests of those who are still learning how to craft our own destiny.
Taiwanese temples offer DIY fortune telling.
 We all have questions, spoken or not. We all have answers, touched upon or not.

It works like this:

Fire up the incense; face out toward the world and feel the invitation of divine intervention. Let it creep up your spine and wiggle into the interstitial spaces between the flesh; drop three sticks of incense into the cauldron outside the temple.
Then face inward, to the pantheon of gods, deities and local heroes, recognize they are all in you in the first place. Drop another three sticks of incense in the alter cauldron; reach inward and ask the proper question. Then pull one black patina’ed bamboo stick from amongst the tribe of bamboo slivers in the unpolished brass can. Chose an intention, a path, a belief, choose a commitment to unfold life on a path of our own creation. We all walk into the temple looking for a little guidance, a wink, a nudge; we want a nod from the future that we are choosing wisely.

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We all know that fooling ourselves is fiendishly easy. 
But, fooling the gods is another matter.

There are no fortune cookies in Taiwan, but in every temple, next to the brass canister of inscribed bamboo are a pair of wooden crescent moons that easily cup in the hand. They look like petrified fortune cookies, but they are the oracle’s way of confirming the honesty of your inquiry. Should they fall one face up and the other face down, the chosen stick will give an insight into your question. Otherwise, try another question.

There is a book that holds the explanations of all the sticks. No one really understands old Chinese. It actually gives me an odd sense of satisfaction that most people in Taiwan, like me, need to read the explanatory text to understand how to dream more deeply into the path at hand.
Really though, in Taiwan, if you read English there are oracles all around that whisper and remind, point and nudge, to the path held in one’s heart.

Brilliant and inspiring!

Often touted as a cure for the common cold in China, it is indeed a cure for cold.
I’m not taking about the sneezing, body aches, sore throat, run down cold (although it would not hurt). What I’m talking about is winter in southern China where it is colder inside than outside. Where the damp slides into your bones as the cold pulls the heat from your flesh. Cold as in shivering. Cold as in two pairs of long underwear, three shirts, a fleece coat, hat and there is still the desire to crawl under a thick quilt. Or two.

Southern China has no heat. But, it does have ginger and dates.

Old Mother Ginger tea is a popular winter drink in Taiwan as well. Spicy like over fizzy cola, it is made from the root of winter harvested ginger, combined with red dates, brown sugar and slow cooked into a thick syrupy delight. It has an incredible ability to chase cold out of one’s body, as it improves the circulation, warms the internal fire and will burn that damp from the bones.

Here in Guangzhou at the beginning of the Chinese new year, with a dampness like that of Taipei and a temperature just 20 degrees above Beijing’s high for the day, a warm bowl of ginger, red date and brown sugar soup makes all the difference in the world.

As for the “common cold,” taking this at the very first sign of the shivers, and then bundling up to get a light sweat can save one a few miserable days in bed.

In the west we celebrate the ticking of the year in the deep dark. Here in the middle kingdom the hope and dreams for the new year are celebrated in the deepest cold of winter. Both are a kind of leap of faith.
New year is not so different here; family, food, and a festive feeling of lightness. Everywhere is the color red. The red characters of Abundance and Spring, poem written red waterfalls of paper frame doorways, and new red clothes are worn to welcome the first day of the year.
Like in the west, time stands still for a few days.

In Beijing it is against the rules to play with fireworks, but it is not against the law. For the past week explosions have echoed down the canyon of apartment complexes setting off dogs and car alarms. The subway is crowded with luggage totting “not-Beijinger’s” on their journey’s home. In between the flash and blast of fireworks the city takes on a quieter feel as cars thin from the streets and the city quiets into the arrival of the new year.

Guangzhou is a thousand miles due south of Beijing, and has a winter like that of Taipei, cold and damp. Today’s low in Beijing is 14°F, the high is 42. In Guangzhou it is 50 degrees, but we don’t have the heated interiors of cities north of the Yellow River. The thin pair of long underwear seemed like a good idea as Miss Wang and I were packing for points south, our final destination of this Spring Festival is Thailand. In a word, another wrong choice. The heat of Thailand is still five days away.

There is something distinctively different between the feel of northern cities and those of the south. Perhaps it is the white tile and palm trees, or that the streets tend toward narrow, or that businesses tend to spill their goods out onto the sidewalk. Perhaps it is the rounded sound of southern slurred Mandarin that lacks the rubble of Beijing “hua”. Regardless of reason, spending the new year in a place that reminds me of Taiwan gives me the feeling of having returned home.

Love this Chinese from Micky D’s recent Ronni MacSpicy campaign-

I’m not afraid of spice;
Spice does scare me;
Not hot and spicy, now that’s scary!

熱鬧, in Chinese, it translates as “lively.” To the standardly tuned Western ear it would translate as a riptide of cacophony, chaos and volume. But, in the middle kingdom it means joy and excitement. Especially around Western holidays that generate gifts and gatherings, singing and funny hats, shared meals and an excuse to enjoy the company of those who light your life. Christmas in China, is anything but a silent night.

While it does not turn the wheel of commerce with a feeling of held breath at the end of the year. It does show up here as carols blaring over tired speakers that compete with the rapid-fire barking of instructions by the green army coated attendants that help the Chinese to navigate their cars in a direction completely foreign to Chinese thought and habit; reverse. There are red elf hats on every waiter and waitress, red Christmas cups at Starbucks, and grinning Santa’s hung like a revolutionary Mao next to the Chinese symbols for abundance and renewal.

The old Catholic church at Wangfujing, a relic from before the “liberation” hosts throngs of those born after Deng Xiaoping’s “opening” of China, who know nothing other than increasing material wealth and Christmas as a western import that allows them to gather with friends, light sparklers, eat ice cream and be happy. The original message of a young rabbi who preached a liberation theology; spoke of an inward turning that allowed a glimpse of heaven, is as lost on them as it is on much of our western world with its blind adherence to an outward worship of dogma and faith.

Still, I suspect that young rabbi just might have resonated with the “re nao” light generated in the dark of the year. Connected with the noise and heat that is generated from the connection of humans engaging each other with joy and happiness. Perhaps it is that which brings the sun back from the cold and dark for another spin around the seasons. We all benefit from a season of renewal.

He can be found on the sidewalk in various parts of southern Beijing. Doubtful that more than six or seven turns around the sun have filled his life. Pretzel twisted limbs, he sits in/on a metal frame begging with a change filled kitchen bowl.

I’ve seen him on my way to “the office,” which is an overstuffed chair at the free wi-fi’ed Starbucks on Puhuang Yu Road. An americano buys a seat for the entire day, it is a comfortable place to work while my visa paperwork drifts through the Chinese guanxi system of relationship, regulation and back door winks. It is a system built on thousands of years of culture that on the surface appears modern and as up to date as a CBD skyscraper, but it is wired in a way I doubt my western mind will ever really comprehend. Not unlike running a page of foreign text through the Google translator. You get close enough to realize how far away you really are.

This morning I walk on two good legs to a engage in work that challenges and hones my mind. Work that soothes my spirit in that it adds to a community of knowledge. I can not even begin to imagine what life is like for this child who spends his days on Beijing’s bone chill winter streets. Perhaps his job is to remind the rest of us of the daily uncountable blessings we grumble about. Today he whispered something to me about gratitude.

Should one rely on signs, signals or the logic of rules, China will appear lawless, chaotic, and dangerous. The usual cues and clues that Westerners believe as reality is like the new Olympic glossed paint on Beijing‘s innumerable buildings. Merely a surface treatment which hides leaky pipes, faulty electric outlets and hallways of rotting trash that neighbors are too lazy to carry down a few flights of stairs.

Beijing still lives a rhythm based on hierarchy, peristaltic pressure and a convolution of Rube Goldberg rules. Viewing it from any perspective other than a Chinese-centric point of view is an invitation to red-tinged rage and a constant mantra of “what the…” as Western bred sensibilities constantly abrade against the grindstone of cultural expectations.
I’ve always enjoyed Chinese puzzle boxes. Marvelous works of engineering where first the right side must be raised before you can slide the latch that opens the drawer, which gives access to the switch, that slides the bar which turns the dowel that unlocks the lid.
 Chinese puzzle boxes are fun; but a bit more challenging should you happen to living in one.

One of the first lessons in Chinese is how to respond to praise. In English we say “thank you,” but in Chinese that would be rudely self-aggrandizing; the proper response would be “where where? Not me!”It is humorous for the beginning student of Chinese. However, it is enough to make one consider hari-kari with an ice pick when you are striving to cross culture divides in pursuit of employment.
The Games of the 2008 Summer Olympiad brought sweeping changes to the visa policies of the middle kingdom. Fears of protests and other face losing mischief forced all the foreigners currently working out of the country by requiring new visas which could only be issued from the Chinese embassy in our home countries.

As the post-Olympic hangover abates, the Chinese wheels of political commerce slowly grind out yet another new set of rules. Sadly, no one knows exactly what they are, or where we really can get that coveted Z visa; not even Beijing’s official visa office.

Where I actually need to go to get the required work visa, as they say in Chinese 船到橋頭自然值 “when the boat gets to the piers of the bridge, it naturally will straighten its course“ ‚ In the mean time, there is the Rube Goldberg maze of Chinese Chutes and Ladders to navigate.

At times it is Monty Pythonsque.

The blue haze of tobacco that tints the restaurants with their “no smoking” placards on every table.
The Erguotou drinking bloodshot eyed good-old-boys; smoke wafting from full purple lips into nostrils against the backdrop of a poster pleading “please no smoking in our environment friendly enjoyable restaurant.”
To the untrained eye, there are no rules against smoking in the middle kingdom.

Not all lessons in culture come from speaking Chinese.
Teaching English provides a financial bridge between departing America and settling into a stable Chinese life. Like any immigrant who sells whatever they can, my American accented English goes to the highest bidder. In this case the Haidian district office of the Chinese Centers of Disease Control.

I strive to be a respectful teacher. My lessons are absent of references to Tibet, democracy, the political status of Taiwan, and the racist confusion of how America could have elected a black man. 
But, there are occasions, usually around public health, when potentially face losing issues come up. I figure as we are in the same line of work it is worth bringing up.

“I see these placards on tables in restaurants. On every table. –No Smoking– What’s the point? Anyone can smoke anywhere in China.”
“Oh, of course they should be there. Smoking is against the rules.”

Sometimes when deep-sea fishing you hook into something, but you are not really sure you want to bring it to the surface. There is some monstrous shit down there.
“OK, let me see if I get this. Smoking is against the rules?”  -Yes

“People smoke freely in Chinese restaurants, or anywhere for that matter?”  -Yes

“Even if it is against the rules?”  -Yes


“Help me out here, I’m a foreigner, I’m missing something, smoking in restaurants is against the rules but people do it.”

-Oh, yes, it is against the rules, but it is not against the law.

I suspect we have similar kinds of logic in the USA. Perhaps that is why when middle class people screw up their business they go broke, and when rich privileged people do the same they go to Washington.
Rules and Laws are not the same thing.

When Deng Xiaoping opened China up in the early 80’s, no one was sure how to blend Socialist thought with Capitalist economics. He coined the phrase “Cross that river by finding the stones that create the path.” It is good advice whenever trying to find one’s way through a new territory.
Beijing may not be new territory, during my previous five years in Asia, this northern capital was my home for almost two years. But, as my friend Ronny who I knew in Taiwan, and now is now living here as well so well pointed out “we played the card of the bold move in Taiwan, and it worked. But, here at this time in Beijing; it is a different story.”
Indeed it is. Which might account for why the line from the new popular movie “21″ keeps echoing off the walls of my cranium.
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YOU HAVE TO ACCOUNT FOR VARIABLE CHANGE
I suspect the Buddhists figured that one a while back. “You can not step twice in the river,” they say. It is true. The currents of culture that I used to be able to navigate with a sense of mastery, now have me pounding my head bloody against an invisible ignorance which can only mean that I’m reading the wrong wrong subtitles on this movie.
It is not back to square one, there is no square one. And…it is always square one.

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When I first came to Asia I sent home electronic postcards; travel logs of that time. When Yong Kang Clinic was opened it was an opportunity to publish via a blog Stepping Stones Across the River is a new chronicle of medicine, translation and life China’s northern capital.
歡迎光臨！